She withdrew her hand from his. “I am not the lady you think I am if you believe I would need to blacken your character for my peace of mind. Let the gossips say what they will.” She hesitated. “But I do have one request.”
“Anything.” At her cocked brow, he added, “Within reason, and within my power to grant.”
“My mother is . . . keen for me to marry a gentleman of high social standing. A duke is the obvious solution, of course, but she would settle with a marquess or earl.”
At ‘settle’, Charles’s lips twitched. He had long known that his only draw was his title, but it amused him to hear it stated so plainly. “And so you hope I might find you a substitute?”
“Do you know of any young gentlemen who might be amenable to a match?” She did not put an emphasis onyoung, but he heard it nonetheless.
“My cousin, Richard Barrington, is set to become the Marquess of Sunderland,” he said. “I know he is of an age to require a wife—he is thirty now—and while he is not perhaps as young as you might hope—”
She raised a brow. “The Earl of Mallen?”
“Precisely.”
“He would do, if he could be convinced.”
“My lady,” Charles said gallantly, “your charms would be enough to melt the hardest of hearts.”
“Save yours, of course.” A smile slipped free, different from the insipid ones she had given around her mother. Perhaps she was not as bad as he’d imagined—and perhaps his cousin would deal admirably with her, after all.
“Save mine,” he agreed. “I shall speak to my father and see if I can recommend a connection. I expect Mallen will be amenable. He has no existing affections that I know of.”
“Thank you.” Lady Rosamund studied him, curiosity plain on her face. “I have a question, Lord Rotherham. Now you are free to propose to Miss Davenport, will you do so?”
“Yes.”
“And will she accept?”
“That,” he said dryly, “I am yet to discover.”
Chapter Thirteen
Charles waited at home until his father returned, an unusual turn of events. For the most part, he avoided the duke, and only met with him when summoned.
“Enter,” the duke called from within his study.
Charles did so. The study had remained largely unchanged since his childhood, where he had been hauled after various misdemeanours. In a way, he supposed this was another mistake on his part, if of a different nature.
His father sat behind the desk, silver hair cropped short and one hand curled around the silver lion’s head of his cane. “Charles,” he said, cocking a brow. “This is unexpected.”
Charles inclined his head, acknowledging the remark, and rested a hand against the chair before the desk. He didn’t want to sit—the aftermath of his conversation with Lady Rosamund still rampaged through his veins, and he had to fight not to pace the room. “I had something I particularly wanted to speak to you about.”
“Did you indeed. I’m gratified.”
Charles’s eyes narrowed. “Something serious.”
“More intriguing still.” The duke gestured languidly. “Go ahead. The floor is yours.”
“I have two matters I wish to discuss,” Charles said, unable to keep from pacing. “The first is my role within the family. And my marriage. No doubt you’re aware I agreed to marry Lady Rosamund out of duty.”
“An agreeable turn of events, given the way you have shirked your duty thus far.”
“Yes. Yes.” Charles hesitated. It went against his instincts to admit his faults, especially to his father, but this was part of the man he always ought to have been. “I have no excuse for my behaviour.” He strode to the fireplace, then to the books stacked on bookshelves, their spines creased. “When you proposed I marry Lady Rosamund, I could find no excuse to refuse. So I agreed.”
“And now, I take it, you regret such rashness.”
“In a way.” He turned, hands tucked behind his back, and met his father’s steady gaze. “I have spoken to the lady and explained that I will not be proposing—and that the fault lies with me and me alone. I expect you will think less of me for this decision, but that leads me to the second thing I would like to say.”
