“You can imagine how excited I was when your father suggested a match between you and Elin,” Fyclan continued. “Jenny was elated. I’d given up the prophecy as nonsense. Jenny believed. She was proud our daughter would be a duchess, that Gran’s words would come true. And then, Elin bypassed you to fall in love with your brother.”
“They are truly made for each other.”
“Aye, they are. I also feel Jenny has given them her blessing. I have a sense of peace about it, especially since you were more than decent about the whole situation.”
What choice had he had? Gavin frowned at the now cold beefsteak on the plate in front of him.
“What I’m trying to say, Your Grace, is that love must have its way. My grandchildren may be peers or not. My daughter is happy and that is all that matters to me.”
Fyclan sat forward. “You have asked my advice in the past. You have not asked it now but you will receive it. You need to decide what you can live with. Years from now, when you have your children around you, will you be happy? Or will you think of your actress and have regrets? Don’t live a life with regrets, Baynton. It is not worth it, even if you do have a ducal title.”
Gavin could have told him that he’d been schooled in regrets. His father had burned into him an understanding that the good of the title took precedence before all else.
However, they were interrupted by Lord Naylor and Mr. Dinwiddie, who had spied Gavin at his breakfast, and begged a moment to discuss the difficulties of the Money Bill.
The damn Money Bill.
Fyclan took his leave then. He had no desire to listen to men chew over politics.
Gavin never did eat his breakfast. He heard what they had to say and then returned home to be cared for by his valet. He had a busy schedule set by his new secretary, Andrew Riffey, an eager, experienced gentleman sent over by an agency.
“Your mother asked that you call upon Miss Charnock this afternoon. She intends to join you on the visit.”
Gavin knew what was expected, and then he thought of his conversation with Fyclan.
He had no desire to call on Leonie Charnock, who was a lovely woman. He especially did not want to see her this day, hours before he was to watch Sarah’s triumph on the stage. He did not wish the distraction.
Sarah would be a success this evening. Gavin enjoyed The Fitful Widow and he didn’t like anything on stage. He knew Sarah was an uncommon talent. London would embrace her. Tomorrow he would do his duty and call on Miss Charnock.
Tonight, he was going to celebrate Sarah’s accomplishment.
“Delay the call,” he told Riffey.
“Until when, Your Grace?”
The word “tomorrow” was on the tip of his tongue, but Gavin held back. “When I decide,” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Riffey left Gavin’s study.
Gavin poured a whisky and silently counted, one, two, three—
His mother burst into his office. “What do you mean you will not go with me to call on Miss Charnock?”
“Exactly what you just said. I will not go. Not today.”
“It is because of this actress, isn’t it?” the dowager charged.
“Partially.”
“Can you care for her so much that you would insult one of the leading heiresses in this city? Are you that much of a fool?”
Gavin considered his mother’s question and answered, “Quite possibly.”
The dowager practically stamped her foot in frustration. “This will not do—”
“It must,” Gavin answered. It wasn’t the son who had interrupted her; it was the duke. Fyclan had been right. What was the purpose of being a powerful duke if he couldn’t do exactly as he pleased?
He moved over to his desk and sat down, placing his glass to the side. He expected his mother to stomp out.
