His mother sniffed. “Nevertheless, a marriage is extremely important for a man in your position. It is expected.”
Nathanial, by nature, did not consider himself overly irresponsible. He had, after all, done his duty by his title and his estate, and handled any number of business matters since he was abruptly made Duke. But this was too far.
Penelope held out a hand to him. “Marriage is the most felicitous of states. Mama wants to see you marry so you may have an heir, but I just want to see you happy.”
“Then I shall be sure to marry for love,” he said dryly, taking her hand and squeezing it. There was little to no chance he might do so, but if his family was convinced he was searching for the girl of his dreams, perhaps his mother may let up.
“Have you considered Lady Isabella?” she demanded, fixing him with a glare.
Or perhaps not.
Seeing it would be unprofitable to argue, Nathanial took a seat and listened to his mother list every eligible girl currentlyin London, noting their various accomplishments, beauty, and family name.
“For of course,” his mother added, “her family is important. This is an alliance, Nathanial.”
“I thought you wished me to marry for love?”
“You may do both.”
Nathanial tapped his fingers against his thigh as he cast a glance at his clock. His policy when it came to his family was that visits could not last more than an hour. Five minutes before they were due to exceed this arbitrary time-limit, he rose. “Grateful as I am you have chosen to come all this way to lecture me,” he said, “but I’m afraid this is all the time I have to spare you.”
“I have invited all eligible young ladies to the Norfolk ball next week,” his mother said. “I expect you to consider your position carefully.”
“I presume I am not expected to make a choice by next week?”
His mother’s sternness only deepened at his flippancy. “I would hope you at least make your preference plain.”
Elinor also rose, smoothing down the rose-patterned muslin she wore. “You know it’s the best thing for the family if you marry soon and well.”
Penelope took his hand again. “You must overcome this flippancy, this passivity, if you are to find love,” she urged, looking up into his face. “It does not come looking for you.”
A relief, in Nathanial’s opinion.
“And as the Duke,” Cassandra said, “your obligation is first and foremost to the family.”
“Evenat eight-and-twenty.” With that forbidding statement, his mother surged from the room. His sisters followed, Penelope throwing him a sympathetic glance as she did, and the door closed behind them. Nathanial stretched his long legs before the fire with a groan.
It was inevitable that he would eventually have to choose a wife. His mother was right about one thing: without children, Montague posed a threat. Marriage, perhaps, would be a revenge of kinds, but that could wait, at least until Montague had returned. Until then, he would continue as he had, enjoying the freedoms he was currently at liberty to enjoy.
As the eldest of two daughters, Lady Theodosia Beaumont was expected to marry well. As her father’s estate was heavily encumbered, she was expected to marryrichly. These were two unavoidable truths of her station, and if she secretly dreamt of a handsome gentleman to sweep her off her feet, she did not expect to marry for love. Such was the fate of a poorly dowered lady.
She did not consider it reasonable, however, for the rich and eligible gentleman in question to not possess teeth.
Lord Weston was, she estimated, in his fifties, and he had not aged gracefully; jowls wobbled as he talked and broken veins were scattered across his nose. He also appeared to be missing three teeth. Theodosia had counted them over the course of their conversation thus far. Two silver and one gold. The gold was placed so prominently in his mouth that she suspected it was supposed to attest to his wealth.
As far as she was concerned, it merely attested to his age.Youngmen did not suffer from golden teeth.
He leant forwards, shaking hands clinking the china cup he held. If he toppled over and died in her drawing room, would she be held responsible? And would it, more pertinently, affect her hopes of making a match?
“Do you like to ride?” he asked, and Theodosia was assailed both by the foulness of his breath and the unfortunate image of the Earl attempting to throw himself on a horse.
“No,” she said, and thought she saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. “I mean—yes. I love to ride. Do I not, Annabelle?”
Her sister, sequestered by her mother at the other end of the room, looked alarmed to be addressed in such a way. Especially considering the question at hand was a direct falsehood.
“I, er—” Annabelle flushed. At eighteen, this was her first Season, and she still became tongue-tied before gentlemen, regardless of their physical prowess.
“So you see,” Theodosia said, turning back to the Earl with as insipid a smile as she could muster, “I simplyloveto ride. Any form of exercise, in fact. Walking, riding, walking.” She quickly realised she had run out of exercises. What did gentlemen do? “Hunting.”
