When he joined his male companions for supper, they were far more interested in the quality of the brandy, the quantity of wine, and the availability of the serving wenches for entertainment after the meal than the variety or quality of the food.
Realizing he could not possibly swallow another bite, the marquess at last settled his fork upon his plate. He looked up and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. The duke had apparently finished. His plates and cutlery were already cleared from the table. All that remained before the duke was a half empty goblet of wine.
The footmen removed Trevor’s dishes, but at the duke’s command left a second bottle of wine and the goblets. As he faced his father across the table, Trevor realized his apprehension as well as his hunger had been appeased. Partly due to the excellent bottle of wine he and his father had consumed, no doubt.
“I want you to attend Lady Dermond’s ball tomorrow evening,” the duke announced abruptly. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”
Trevor blinked. The goblet in his hand began tilting. Catching himself before the red liquid spilled out and stained the linen cloth, he set the crystal to rights. “I have already made plans for tomorrow evening.”
“Break them.”
“I could not possibly on such short notice.”
“If you had answered my summons immediately, as I requested, you would have had ample time to make your excuses.” The duke scowled. “I have told several people, including the hostess and the lady you are to meet, that you will be in attendance. I want you at that ball.”
“Matchmaking, sir?” Trevor arched his brow at an insulting angle. “I thought only desperate maiden aunts and scheming mamas indulged in that distasteful task.”
“Don’t turn your nose up at me, boy,” the duke responded with an indignant sniff. “You were singing a far different tune when I paired you with your first wife.”
His wife! The unexpected mention of Lavinia caught the marquess unawares, igniting once again the tormenting ache in his heart he tried so desperately to control.
A rush of painful memories flooded Trevor’s mind. Her sweet smile, her merry laugh, her loving embrace, the pale, cold stillness of her lifeless body. The endless questions and recriminations that had haunted him for years once again felt fresh and raw.
He drew in a deep breath. Over the years, Trevor had kept well hidden from his stoic father the suffering and heartache, the agonizing guilt he felt every single day.
“I am not interested in acquiring a wife,” Trevor stated forcefully. “Besides, you know well my opinion of these unmarried young women. I have no intention of wasting an evening by furthering the acquaintance of this year’s crop of shrews, ninnies, or milk-and-water misses.”
“The woman I have in mind for you is older, more mature,” the duke countered. “And she is no fool.”
“Ahh, that means she must be formal and cold.” Trevor shuddered visibly. “I repeat, I am not interested. In the least.”
Ignoring the disgruntled expression on his father’s face, Trevor rose to his feet. “I thank you for your hospitality this afternoon, but you must excuse me, sir. I am already late for another appointment. Please extend my compliments to Cook. The meal was delicious.”
The marquess bowed formally, then turned on his heel. As he exited the room, Trevor told himself the expression of hurt and disappointment on his father’s face was merely an act, an attempt at manipulation that was going to fail.
The marquess repeated those words in his mind as he walked through the long picture gallery, while a multitude of ancestors and former dukes stared down disapprovingly at him from their gilded frames.
His feet moved rapidly down the winding staircase, increasing speed with each step. Upon reaching the cavernous entrance hall, the marquess told himself yet again that his father’s distress was feigned, his lack of protest at Trevor’s refusal to attend the ball merely a ploy to prey on Trevor’s guilt.
It was not until he burst outside into the fading afternoon light and filled his lungs deeply with a breath of cool, fresh air that Trevor was able to admit the truth.
Despite the discord, strain and general imperfection, the relationship he had with his father was something the marquess valued greatly. And though he was loath to admit it, his father’s opinion mattered. Strangely, it mattered very much.
Lady Meredith Barrington sat alone in Lady Der-mond’s ladies’ retiring room, staring doubtfully at her reflection in the mirror. She adjusted her diamond ear-bobs, then lifted her neck to admire the matching diamond necklace that graced her throat. The jewels were her mother’s, borrowed for this madcap evening. Meredith had hoped they would lend an air of sophistication to her evening ensemble. She realized belatedly what she really needed was a dose of courage.
Her new gown was a deep shade of blue, cut daringly lower than any other she had ever worn. It was gathered beneath the bodice and flowed down the lines of her body with simplicity and grace. Despite the changing fashion, Meredith had insisted the skirt of the gown be left unadorned.
She had always preferred simple styles without the fripperies of lace, bows, embroidery, or beading, but it had taken her years to convince her modistes she was not trying to economize on her outfits by leaving those items off.
Yet tonight Meredith almost wished she had a few rows of lace or a collection of bows to draw attention to the skirt of her gown, for the simple, unadorned style made her look taller and more curvaceous. With a sigh, she stood up and twisted from side to side, critically observing the sway of material as she moved.
The fabric was sheer, and if viewed in the gleaming candlelight at a particular angle, the distinct shadow of her body could be seen. Meredith let out a nervous giggle. It was most definitely not the type of ensemble worn by a spinster.
Knowing she had stalled long enough, Meredith prepared to leave. She had just begun to tug on her evening gloves when the retiring room door suddenly opened. Meredith spun around in surprise at the interruption.
“Oh, I am sorry. Did we startle you, Lady Meredith?”
“Not at all,” Merry replied breathlessly. She inclined her head politely toward Mrs. Fritzwater and her daughter. Alice? Allyson? Meredith had met the young woman only once and could not recall her name.
