But what he wanted most was a wife and an heir. And, though it was possibly a lot to ask, he rather hoped he could hold a child in his arms before he was buried.
He’d tried to be entertaining during balls and soirees, trying to attract lovely young women whom he could marry. But inevitably, he would make one mistake or another that would put them off. Certainly, he couldn’t remember names. And he often spoke whatever thoughts were on his mind, which tended to make women stare at him as if he were a madman. He wasn’t trying to interrupt them. It was just that if he held back the words, he would forget them.
In the corner on a small end table stood an hourglass filled with sand. Cormac stared at it for long moments, as if it held the remaining hours of his life. For a moment, he lost concentration before he blinked and glanced around. He was sitting in his study surrounded by books. Three were open on his desk, while his grandfather’s familiar green diary rested nearby as a reminder of home. He had four cups of tea in various places around the study, which startled him because he didn’t remember having tea. Or were those from yesterday?
A knock sounded at the door. “Lord Dunmeath.” His secretary, John Hawkins, greeted him, sounding out of breath. “You asked me to remind you of the Duke and Duchess of Westerford’s ball this evening.”
“This evening?” Cormac frowned. “But that isn’t until Saturday.”
Hawkins cleared his throat. “TodayisSaturday, my lord.”
Cormac frowned. “That can’t be. It’s Friday, and I’m supposed to be paying a call on Lord Scarsdale.”
“That was yesterday, my lord. He sent a note when you didn’t arrive. Remember, we spoke of it yesterday evening? I sent him an apology on your behalf.”
Cormac paused a moment, wondering how he’d lost track of the days. “Devil take it, Hawkins, why did you not remind me?”
“You weren’t here, my lord. I thought you had kept your appointment, but you went out riding instead and didn’t return until nightfall.”
Cormac had no memory of that. It did seem that his episodes of forgetfulness were growing worse. With a sigh, he admitted, “Ah, you have the right of it, Hawkins. That was unfair, and it’s sorry I am. Will you send for my valet?”
“He is waiting to help you dress, my lord.” His secretary bowed and stepped backward. Then he paused and asked, “Is there anything else you need? Food or...” he paused and eyed the teacups, “something to drink, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
Hawkins appeared uncomfortable, and Cormac waited for the man to speak. Clearly, there was something bothering him. “Is there something else?”
“No, my lord. It’s just—have you eaten anything today?”
He tried to think, but the hours simply blurred together, and he couldn’t remember. With a shrug, he said, “You can ask Cook to prepare something for me while I dress.” He stood from his chair and stretched.
As he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, he tried to concentrate on the task of finding a bride. Somewhere, he had a list of eligible young ladies, though for the life of him, he couldn’t recall where he’d left it. Miss Violet Edwards had been on that list. It had been so very disappointing that she’d married the Earl of Scarsdale. She’d been kind, quiet, and Cormac hadn’t minded her stutter in the least. As for the other unmarried ladies—well, perhaps there were some who might suit him well enough.
He was indeed aware that he’d gained a reputation as the earl who wanted to be married. To his misfortune, he’d never been very good with ladies. They were rarely honest about anything, and he had often wished that they would simply speak whatever was on their minds.
Instead, he’d overheard many young ladies mocking him. They thought he was desperate—which wasn’t entirely true. Eager, yes. But the problem was, he didn’t have the luxury of time to properly court a young woman. And the last thing he wanted was to admit to anyone that he was dying.
His valet helped him to dress, and Cormac held fast to a silent hope that tonight would be different. He would do his best to find an appropriate lady. Though he knew there were women who were... less attractive and had few prospects, he wanted to try again.
A knock sounded at the door, and he called for the servant to enter. Hawkins came inside with a silver tray, and another footman followed with food and tea.
“I’ve brought the post, my lord.”
“Are there any invitations?” he asked.
Hawkins paused a moment. “There is one, I believe.”
“Well, go on and open it. Read it to me, if you will,” he said, holding out his arms so his valet could help him with his coat.
“It’s from Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew,” the secretary said. He frowned, staring at the invitation. Cormac tried to remember what Miss Bartholomew looked like, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall her face. She wasn’t from a noble family, but he thought she had a respectable dowry.
“I’ve no objection if you’re wanting to write a letter accepting their invitation,” he said, while his valet helped with his shoes.
“My lord, this invitation is... most unusual. I don’t know what it is, precisely.”
His secretary held it out, and Cormac stared at it. Was this an auction? He had no interest in acquiring paintings or furnishings. But something made him stop short.
Only unmarried gentlemen may place a bid upon this treasured family heirloom.
