But he’d always believed that his father’s poor opinion of him was something kept within their family.
This morning, by non-other than the father of the woman he intended to wed, he’d learned this was not the case.
Lord Brightley had barely allowed Mantis to finish presenting his request before objecting.
“I’m afraid the answer is no.” Lord Brightley had been quite matter-of-fact.
Mantis hadn’t been sure he’d heard rightly. “No?”
Mantis wasn’t misleading himself to believe that he was considered quite respectable, perhaps more so than many of his acquaintances. He not only held a decent title but was in line to inherit an earldom. And truth be told, Mantis was relatively well off. Was the Earl of Brightley repulsed by his scar?
That would be ridiculous.
“Don’t take it personally, my boy,” Brightley’s attempt to console him had sounded slightly apologetic but mostly condescending.
“Might I ask your reason?”
“Your father and I play cards from time to time. Crestwood is a good man. Knew your mother too. A shame about her passing… Nonetheless, your father was good enough to share the nature of your deficiencies with me.” Mantis had sat frozen, all but reeling from what he was hearing. “My daughter, Lady Felicity, is… of the finest lineage. Not only my ancestors but her mother’s. She must marry a man with equal, if not superior, intelligence.”
Earlier that morning, Mantis had taken the time to spar with Blackheart, as he usually did, and he’d gone to meet with Brightley feeling focused and confident. The earl’s rejection sent his mind into a swirling vortex of… outrage and shame.
And betrayal. Mantis should hate his father. Why didn’t he?
He walked unseeing through the genteel streets of Mayfair for what could be minutes or hours, at some point he’d lost track, before arriving at Knight house.
The door opened a fraction of a second after Mantis sounded the knocker.
“It didn’t go well then?” Blackheart cocked one of his slashing brows.
Mantis had told his friend where he was going that morning. He’d felt rather confident, in fact. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and entered. “It did not.”
Blackheart closed the door and gestured for Mantis to step into the small office allocated for Greystone’s butler. Set behind a secret door in the foyer, it was rather cozy, really.
Dropping onto a wooden chair, Mantis momentarily forgot Brightley’s rejection as Blackheart took his place behind the serviceable desk. The duke crossed one leg over the other, entirely at ease in his position. Mantis could almost believe he would be safe from running through the park come the end of the season.
“Your father?” Blackheart asked.
“Yes,” Mantis answered and then glanced sideways to the tight entrance.
“It’s you.” Greystone peaked inside. “I thought I heard the door, Mr. Cockfield.” He glared sternly at Blackheart but with laughter lurking behind his eyes. Both of them were enjoying the results of this wager far more than Mantis would have expected.
To provide Blackheart a real challenge, Greys ought to have required the duke to act as a footman.
“Why so glum?” The marquess stared down at Mantis, folding his arms and leaning casually against the door frame.
“I went to offer for Lady Felicity this morning. Her father refused to allow it.”
“Disappointing,” Blackheart said. “But I’m not all that surprised.”
“Good to see you have so much confidence in me,” Mantis groused.
“Brightley is tight with your father,” the duke explained.
How the hell hadn’t he realized this?
“One would think that would work in a gentleman’s favor,” Greys offered with a frown.
“But not in mine,” Mantis added.
