It seemed the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life, butthe marquess drew himself up and assumed the grand manner to which he hadbeen so carefully raised. “I understand you, I think, sir. Do you wish meto shoot myself perhaps? Or shall I just flee to the New World under anassumed name? I fail to see how that will gain you a de Vaux heir, though.Or isMaman. . . ?” He broke off in incredulity.
“Of course she’s too old, Arden,” said the duke sharply. “Stop emoting.I do not wish to disinherit you or dispose of you. I just wish to God youwere my son.” The duke stopped on that admission. After a moment he said,“Now, however, I wish you to marry my daughter.”
The marquess gave up and collapsed into his chair. “That idiot lastnight must have hit me harder than I thought,” he muttered. Or perhaps itwas just shock which made his head float apart from his body., histhoughts seem like wisps of mist. One thought could be grasped, however.He had been reprieved, after a fashion. Like a man sentenced to hang whofinds he is merely to be flogged.
The duke rose and poured two glasses of brandy. He thrust one into themarquess’s hand and sat once more. “Drink that and pay attention,Arden.”
The fiery liquid flowed down and drove the mist from his brain. Thepain of reality returned, but the marquess forced his body to come toorder, and prepared to try to make sense of things.
“After your birth, Arden, I was under considerable strain. ... I myselfformed a liaison and, unbeknownst to me, a child resulted. I received newsof the girl’s existence this morning. She has the de Vaux blood, though noone, now her mother is dead, knows of it except us. If you marry her, theline continues.”
Stupidly, the marquess could only think that his father had betrayedhis exquisite mother. “I have a better idea,” he said bitterly. “Makeheryour heir.”
The duke’s voice was as chilly as a dash of cold water. “You are beingnonsensical again. Are you refusing to do this?”
In his pain, with his devastated pride, the marquess longed to do justthat, to throw the whole business in the duke’s face and tell him to go tohell and take his bastard with him. But the pride of the de Vaux was inhim, no matter how little it seemed he deserved it, and he struggled foran icy control to match the duke’s.
“Do we know anything at all of this girl?” he drawled.
“Her age. She is just turned twenty-four, nearly a year younger thanyou.”
“Firmly on the shelf, in other words,” observed the marquess coolly.“She’s doubtless an antidote.”
“Is that your primary consideration?”
“It seems natural enough to wish to share one’s life with a woman onefinds congenial,” remarked the marquess flippantly. “Where does my bridelive?”
“In Cheltenham. She is a teacher at a ladies seminary run by a MissMallory, who is an old friend of the girl’s mother.”
“A blue stocking antidote. Oh well,” said the marquess with anassumption of callous indifference, “we must hope that, unlike Prinny, Ican do my duty.”
“Even the prince begot a daughter,” the duke pointed out.
“But that, as we know, is of no use to us.” The marquess could endurethis discussion no longer. He did not know whether he was likely to strikehis father ? the duke ? or fall weeping at his feet, but neither wasdesirable. He rose to his feet with control but did not meet the otherman’s eyes. “Is there more to be discussed? I have engagements.”
“I am having enquiries made about the girl. I only traveled down withurgency because your mother said you might offer for the Swinnamergirl.”
A pretty china doll who he had begun to think would do as well as anyother for marriage. “I assure you I have given up the notion entirely,”said the marquess carelessly, then realized he was shredding a tassel onthe chair by which he stood.
“Are you claiming a broken heart?” asked the duke. “What then ofMistress Blanche?”
The marquess crushed the tassel in his fist. “Men have thesearrangements,” he said bitterly and looked up to meet the duke’s eyes.“Surely you are aware of it, My Lord Duke.”
With that he turned on his heel and escaped.
The duke sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He had never expectedthe interview to be pleasant. He was sorry, though, for the pain he hadcaused the boy. He had spoken the truth when he said he wished themarquess was his own son. He would have been proud.
He was wild, yes, a touch of St. Briac the duke did not appreciate, butnothing had ever besmirched his honor, and he had a keen brain. The dukehad no qualms about passing the tremendous burdens of the Duchy ofBelcraven over to Lucien one day.
If only, he thought ? and not for the first time ? he had never known.How happy they could all have been.
The dull ache of the long separation from Yolande was a chronic pain,but what else could he have done? He could not risk getting another son,for then the temptation to do just as Lucien had suggested ? get rid ofhim in some way ? would have been overwhelming. Yolande would never havestood for that, but he could never have let his rightful heir take secondplace to a usurper.
He sighed and hoped for the first time that Elizabeth Armitage turnedout to be of a quality to compensate Arden in some way for all ofthis.
* * *
The marquess walked down the wide, curving staircase of his house ? towhich he apparently had no right ? took his cane, his beaver, and hisgloves from a footman, and passed through the doors into the May sunshine.His long-limbed strides took him along the streets, but he really had noidea where to go.
