His aunts each placed a kiss on his cheek. “We will leave you to it,” Louisa said.
“You need not go on my account,” he said quickly.
“But we should. Marjorie has invited us to dine with her at Grosvenor Square, and Hazel is already there, so we shall go,” Cressida explained. “Do not be a stranger.”
With that, they disappeared into the London evening, leaving him alone with his mother.
He made his way into the drawing room, where he found her seated by the fire. She looked old—much older than her fifty years. Was she fifty? No, not quite yet. And yet she looked as though she might be sixty.
He walked up to her and kissed her on each cheek. As he did, he caught sight of her gown. It was an old-fashioned style, something that might have been popular twenty years ago. In an age of wide, puffy dresses made out of simple materials but with elaborate accessories, the gown she wore was the opposite—an empire-line gown, gathered under the bust, made of what might have been muslin, with an assortment of stars etched on it.
“You look different,” he said. “Lovely, but different. Is this a new gown?”
“Faith, no,” she said with a girlish chuckle. “This is one of the gowns your father loved most when we first met.”
“I did not know you still had gowns from when you first met.”
She chuckled. “I did not. Marjorie did. She brought a trunk full of old treasures a few days ago, and I spent hours going through them. Can you believe it still fits?”
She got up and modeled the dress, making him smile.
“It does fit splendidly,” he said, and for a moment, he could imagine what his mother had looked like when she was still a young girl.
She waved a hand. “It does now. Marjorie had her lady make alterations. Anyhow, it makes me feel young.”
“It is not as though you are old,” he said and sat across from her.
“No, perhaps not. Old enough to be a grandmother, I dare say,” she said.
“If you wish for a grandchild, you should bother Hazel and Marjorie. At least they are both married already.”
“You do not think it is time that you got married?” she asked.
She had always wanted him to marry and have children of his own, and of course, he knew that he ought to do that at some point. But he had never been terribly interested in the matter. However, since his father’s death, there had been a relentless stream of demands from his mother that he get on with the business of finding a wife and securing the line.
“You should go to the ball at Stafford House instead of visiting your old mama,” she said. “Stafford House is supposed to be full of ladies looking to make a match.”
“Stafford House again? I think not,” he said and shook his head. “I happen to know that a proposal may take place there this evening, so I doubt there will be much attention paid to anything else.” He paused. “Not that I would want to be paid attention to,” he added.
His mother smiled. Her hair, once flaming red, had grayed over the last few months, but it was still radiant. As was her smile—when she chose to smile. For the moment, however, she kept her lips pressed together tightly.
“And who is getting married? It is such a lovely time—the period before one gets married. Well, as long as one marries by choice.”
His mother liked to remind him that she had not married his father by choice. She had been tricked into it. However, she had ended up adoring her husband, which had made up for the somewhat unorthodox way they had found each other.
“Charity Pembroke. The late Lord Pembroke’s daughter.”
His mother sat up at once. “Pembroke’s daughter is getting married? But they are barely out of?—”
“They are in half-mourning,” he confirmed. “But apparently, there is some clause in his will that states she must marry before she can inherit whatever she stands to inherit. And whatever it is…”
“Oh no.” His mother stood abruptly, walked to the fireplace, and placed one hand on it. “This cannot be. This is dreadful.”
“Mama,” he said, rising. He was worried whenever she acted in such a strange manner.
She turned then, her face pale as she clutched the little cross necklace she sometimes wore. “Who is she marrying?”
“Gabriel Marting, Viscount Markham,” he said.
