With all the energy of a limpet, Wilmot turned his head but kept his face lowered. “Playing cards with the coachman.”
“How many times must I remind you that you are the son of a Duke, and sons of Dukes donotmingle, orplaycards,with the servants or commoners.”
“But he plays well.”
“Foolish boy,” she spat like an outraged cat. “I do not care if he could beat the Prince Regent himself at cards, you will obey me.You stay away from the servants.Do you understand me?”
Wilmot turned back toward the fire. “Yes, Mother.”
Augusta gazed at his profile, wanting to both smack his face until it turned red and hug him until he squeaked in protest.
“Do you want to marry, Wilmot?” she asked, her annoyance unabated and her temper quivering behind her lips.
“Of course,” he replied, not looking at her. “Someday.”
“I must begin searching for a suitable wife for you,” she mused, sipping her cooling tea. But there was no one available to pour her a fresh cup from the pot, as she had dismissed the servants. “Wilmot, be a dear and pour tea for me.”
He rose sluggishly from the chair and walked stiffly to the tray and pot, moving as though his feet were encased in treacle. Though she did not turn her head, Augusta heard the splash as he spilled the tea on the tray and the jarring rattle of the spout against the cup. It dripped tea down the side as he brought it to her. Augusta eyed it with disillusion.
Wilmot slumped back in his chair, and yet another sharp rebuke rose to her lips. Instead of voicing it, she said, “You are eight and ten, Wilmot. You must cease this fascination with card games and grow up. You have a duty to your family. It is high time you understood this.”
“I suppose you have someone in mind.”
Augusta stiffened at his dismissive tone and grew angry when he still refused to look at her. “I have several candidates in mind. I will begin writing the invitations to the various young ladies and their parents to come to the ball. You will have a chance to meet them, and perhaps begin preliminary talks regarding an engagement.”
“I do not want to get married so quickly, Mother.”
Augusta sniffed and once more returned to her needlework. “What you want does not matter to me, Wilmot. Only what I want matters. And I want to see you married to a girl who will match your high station. I will see to it you get what you deserve.”
“Of course, Mother.”
“Leave me now, and send those wretched servants back in. I need someone with some competence to pour me a simple cup of tea.”
* * *
Maximilian cantered his favorite mare across the moor, his friend Edmund Felton, the Viscount Mallen, at his side. Behind them, a train of servants and grooms followed, along with Maximilian’s falconer with his merlin on his fist. Mallen’s falconer carried his own personal favorite bird, a peregrine falcon. The rainstorm had passed, leaving behind a fresh odor of heather and a brisk wind.
Solid friends since the two had met at court, Mallen often spent time at the Bromenville estate, hawking, hunting, riding across the moors, or sitting in the castle library sipping brandy and talking. He was a short, stocky man of philosophy and humor, and often thought life was simply a huge jest. Under his mop of dark curly hair, his dark grey eyes often appeared more somber than bright, despite the perpetual smile on his lips.
Mallen eyed his companion sidelong. “I feel there is something upsetting you, Bromenville. Care to talk about it?”
Maximilian reined in at the top of a low-lying hill, gazing back at the servants walking through the wet in their wake. “My stepmother is setting me up to get married.”
“Did she say to whom?”
“Lady Helena Reeves.”
Mallen whistled through his teeth. “I have met her. Very beautiful girl, good family. And young. You could do far worse, my friend.”
“I am not ready, Mallen,” he replied, his tone tense. “After Sophia –”
“You must get past that,” Mallen said. “It has been what? Over a year now? That tart was not good enough for you, but you were the only one who could not see it. Lady Helena is a good match.”
“I do not care,” Maximilian snapped. “I will marry when I am ready, and I refuse to permit Augusta to have any say inwhoI marry.”
“From the viewpoint of a married man,” Mallen went on, a small smile playing across his lips, “being married has its perks. But I can also agree on not letting that old biddy tell you what to do. I can tell you, she does not have your best interests at heart. She has her own.”
“That is exactly what worries me,” Maximilian admitted, watching the servants approach. “What does she have to gain by marrying me to Lady Helena? Everything my stepmother does is suspect.”
