Leaving her to study . . . and plot, I headed to the kitchen to bake. I wished I was as smart as Scarlett. Today had proved me to be an impulsive version of Katherine.
I needed to do better and figure how to survive singing in public as the new fiancée of Lord Mark Sebastian. For everyone’s sake, I needed to be bolder and brave and inspired by music and truth.
Chapter 15
MARK—WHATHADHAPPENED
Iclimbed into the carriage of the Earl of Livingston after a Sunday morning with my mother. I escorted her to church at Saint George’s, and then retired to a wonderful brunch at Prahmn’s in-town home, a lovely house on Grosvenor Street, not too far from the duke’s Anya House.
“You always look a little miserable when you come from your mother’s. Did she foist upon you more marriage candidates? Doesn’t she know a man in his twenties is not to be tied down? Marriage is overrated.”
“Livingston,” I said, losing the will to talk, “Mother was the same as always. Over toast and her favorite jam and biscuits, I was told of the many women she and her war council of friends thought would make a proper wife.”
My mother did seem extra animated or even fretful. Had the gossipmongers begun saying they’d seen her youngest son attempt to ruin a woman at Anya House down the road?
“Yes, Livingston. She wants me to have a proper wife. That means a woman of certain breeding with a large dowry.”
“A third son’s lot. It’s not like your elder brothers will share their fortunes.”
Gerald was heir to all of Prahmn’s assets. Christopher came back from his naval career at sea and did as Lady Prahmn wanted and married one of her handpicked, wealthy, proper women.
“I’m just glad you offered me a way of escape, Livingston. Lady Prahmn can be a bit much to take. I’m not partial to her innate belief that she’s always right.”
“Mothers are women too.”
Though the earl was the kind of friend who’d risk his soul to rescue you or lend aid, he wasn’t the type to be reasonable when it came to women or marriage.
Turning down busy streets, I half listened to my friend talking about his current research. He seemed animated, discussing something about inoculations and blood. Something excited him about Carew’s presentation at Anya House.
“Yes, they put blood from one dog to another through a duck’s quill. A duck’s quill. Both lived. The physician didn’t exaggerate. And having too much blood didn’t kill the pup.”
“What about the duck?”
“No. The dogs. Blood is a necessity for life. We need to learn more.”
“To be sure.” That was my common response to one of Livingston’s monologues.
He glanced at me over his spectacles. “You’re not paying attention.”
“ ’Course I am . . . sort of. There’s a lot on my mind.”
Livingston knocked my shoulder. “Sebastian, I know your mind is elsewhere. You’re not humming. You have no paper or quill.”
“Perhaps they are all being used for experiments—the paper, quills, my head.”
“Sebastian.”
“Please, go on. I’ll try to stop dwelling on Brooks’s rib roast. Hopefully, they’ll have the claret we had last week. It will be a delicious combination.”
My friend began talking or, more so, lecturing again.
Windblown brown hair bobbing as he recounted more of his research, the earl seemed very pleased. If he were a layman, not a peer, he’d be a renowned physician.
“Sebastian, are you in there? You don’t look right. Let me guess. The mad Duke of Torrance forced you into some scheme after I left. What did he bet you?”
Torrance betting? “What are you talking about?”
“It was a long time ago, but he has a history of outlandish betting. I’ve been waiting for when he’d start again. What did he get you to do?”
