“I still say it is unnatural to prefer them to all of this,” the duke proclaimed, lifting his hand in a sweeping gesture. “If you lived in a proper establishment, you would be taking better care of yourself. You are far too thin.”
It galled Trevor to realize his father was correct. He had lost weight this past winter after suffering from a nasty cold and had yet to regain it. But he was determined to make light of the situation.
“A man of fashion cannot have a protruding stomach. It totally ruins the smooth line of one’s waistcoat,” Trevor replied airily.
“Prinny’s stomach protrudes noticeably and he fancies himself a real connoisseur of fashion,” the duke said.
Trevor smiled in private amusement. “That is true. However, it is my understanding that the Regent does not button his waistcoat completely unless he is wearing a corset.”
“He is still a fool, no matter how he is dressed,” the duke grumbled.
He took the chair opposite his son and glowered. Trevor wasn’t certain if his father’s annoyance sprang from his dislike of the Regent or his disapproval of his son, yet he realized philosophically it was most likely a combination of both.
A silence settled over the room. Trevor regarded his father patiently, knowing the duke would reveal the true reason for this summons when he was good and ready and not a moment sooner.
Despite his age, the duke was still an impressive, aristocratic presence, possessing towering height and a sharp, authoritative voice that could reduce many a servant, male and female, to trembling tears.
Trevor had feared his father when he was a young boy, held him in awe as an adolescent, and grown to respect and admire him tremendously when he reached adulthood. Yet that, like so many other aspects of Trevor’s life, had changed dramatically at Lavinia’s death.
“I won’t bother to ask what has kept you away from my house for so long,” the duke began. “I am well aware you spend your time and money in all manner of salacious pursuits. I shudder to imagine the depths to which your debauchery has sunk.
“Drinking, gambling, womanizing.” The duke shook his head. “With all the advantages you have been given in life, the rank, privilege, and wealth, you choose instead to live the life of a ne’er-do-well, without purpose, without restraint, without basic morality. I raised you to be a noble gentleman, a peer of the realm, and this is how I’m repaid for my efforts.”
He regarded his son shrewdly. Trevor held his ground beneath that razor-sharp gaze. He also wisely held his tongue.
“I expected more from my only child than a son who’s retreated from the world,” the duke concluded. “Who has retreated from me.”
Trevor’s fists clenched, but he forced himself to remain calm. Father and son had already had this discussion many times, and the end result had never changed. Trevor continued to live his life exactly as he pleased, and his father continued to vehemently disapprove.
“You have accused me of being an overly licentious man, yet that is clearly an activity I certainly cannot pursue without venturing forth into the world.” Trevor slowly released his clenched fist. “Please do make up your mind, sir.”
The marquess’s response squarely hit the mark, but his father had no opportunity to vent the anger that visibly rose to the surface, for a knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” the duke called out.
The butler appeared, leading a procession of footmen, each carrying a silver tray. He bowed solicitously toward his employer, then gave a polite nod of greeting to Trevor.
“Would you care to eat by the fire, Your Grace, or do you prefer the window overlooking the south garden?”
“The fire.”
The first footman set down his laden silver tray and stepped forward. Under the keen eye of the butler, the servant efficiently moved a round wooden table near the fireplace and positioned it between Trevor and the duke.
The moment it was set properly in place, the next footman moved ahead. His arm muscles bulged under the weight of the tray he carried, which held an assortment of china plates, linen napkins, silver cutlery, and crystal goblets.
The table was quickly laid out with the proper plates, cutlery, and glasses for a five-course meal. There was even a small cut glass vase filled with fresh flowers to serve as a centerpiece. Trevor watched in slight amazement as the staff bustled about with deft precision. He knew his father had a well-trained staff and Harper, the butler, was known to be a hard, yet fair, taskmaster.
Yet the proficiency displayed came not only from good and proper training, but from experience. Obviously the servants had performed this task numerous times before, for no detail was left to chance.
But why would they be serving meals in the drawing room when the house boasted a formal dining room, two smaller dining salons, and a breakfast room? Did his father dine alone so often that he had begun to forsake the vast, cold formality of the dining room? Were the even slightly smaller dining salons so unwelcoming a place to partake of a meal on one’s own?
Could his father possibly be lonely? The thought forced a rather distressing observation on Trevor’s conscience.
To distract himself from these unsettling thoughts, the marquess turned his full attention to the servants as they uncovered the various dishes.
A savory soup of fresh vegetables, tender chicken stewed in wine and flavored with thyme, thick slices of cured ham, poached Dover sole, creamed potatoes, peas, marzipan tarts, strawberries, and the requested lemon cake were all displayed with dignified formality.
Trevor attacked his meal. The food was piping hot, perfectly seasoned, and delicious. Though he would never admit it to his father, the marquess realized it had been a long time since he had eaten such fine food. He soon found himself savoring every forkful.
