Damnit.
While he’d done little to encourage Martha’s attention this past Season, he hadn’t activelydiscouragedit. Which meant that he couldn’t merely push her aside without giving her the chance to find a proper replacement, or else thetonin all of its sharp-tongued cruelty would run wild with stories of how the Earl of Hawkridge had thrown over one of their own for an American.
The gossip would be meaningless to him. But he wouldn’t want it to affect Martha, or her future prospects. She’d done nothing wrong, and he’d not let her shoulder the blame for his own indecisiveness.
“Would you like to take tea with me tomorrow in the music room before breakfast?” he asked. “There is something that we should probably discuss.”
Martha’s eyes lit. “Yes, of course. I would like that very much.”
“In the meantime…have you met Mr. Greer?” Snagging Henry’s arm as the poor unsuspecting fellow walked past on his way to the sideboard, Weston all but flung him into Martha’s path. “Lady Martha Smethwick, might I introduce you to Mr. Henry Greer. Mr. Greer is the eldest son of Lord Crawford and a member on the board of Midland Railway Company. His assets are quite numerous and he is one of the smartest people I know. Isn’t that right, Mr. Greer?”
“Ah…” Visibly caught off guard by the unexpected praise, Henry tugged at his collar where a dull flush had begun creeping up his neck. A personable gentleman with a slight bookish quality about him, he’d make as fine a husband as any for a lady of Martha’s standing. Whereas it once would have been unthinkable for the daughter of a viscount to marry down in rank, such a match was now quite common courtesy of a surge in wealth amidst the working class.
The nobility was a dying breed. And those who insisted on clinging to the old ways of tenant farming and inheritance to fund their lavish spending habits were falling ill the quickest.
In three or four decades, mayhap even fewer, Weston doubted that there’d be much of an aristocracy left in England. Or the world over, for that matter. A good thing, in his opinion, as he’d never defined himself by his title…only the obligations that tied him to it.
“I don’t know if I would describe my holdings asnumerous–” Henry began.
“Nonsense,” Weston said firmly. “What don’t you take Lady Martha to get some refreshments, and you can tell her all about them.”
Watching with some amusement as they walked away, their heads bowed together and Martha’s hand lightly resting in the crook of Henry’s elbow, he drained his port and set the empty glass aside on a table. But he’d no sooner caught a glimpse of Evie’s dark hair beside the piano than Brynne approached him wearing a slightly quizzical smile.
“What have you done?” she asked, nodding towards the sideboard.
He followed her gaze to where Martha and Henry were leaning over a platter of coconut macaroons drizzled in chocolate and shrugged. “Matchmaking isn’t as hard as people would lead you to believe.”
“No,” his twin agreed, “it isn’t. All you really need is a common interest and a flicker of attraction. Sometimes not even that much. But why areyoumatchmaking? More importantly, why are you matchmaking for Lady Martha? Did she decline your proposal?”
He needed something stronger than port, Weston decided, if they were going to have this discussion here and now. “Come to my study,” he said. “I’ll explain everything there.”
“You mean abandon my duties as hostess and leave our guests to socialize by themselves?” Brynne asked with a feigned gasp of horror. Her eyes twinkled. “Give me five minutes and I shall be right behind you.”
As he left the parlor, Weston felt…free. As if a great burden had been lifted off him. One that he had carried for such a long time that it had become a part of him, like an arm or a leg. Had he done nothing to escape its weight, it would have continued to sit there. To grow heavier, and heavier, until one day the boy he used to be, the boy who had yearned for love above all else, would have been utterly eclipsed by the man who refused to believe in it.
Pouring himself a glass of his second-best scotch, he stood by the window as he waited for Brynne to join him. He knew that she’d long been hoping that he would listen to his heart instead of his head. Hoping that he would choose Evie instead of Martha. Hoping that he would be the first male in his family to marry for happily-ever-after instead of calculated convenience.
And his sister was right, bugger it.
She’d been right all along.
Not that he was stupid enough to tell her that.
“No need to knock, Brynne. Come right in,” he said brusquely when a quiet fist tapped on the door. Except it wasn’t his twin who entered the study, but rather his butler.
“My lord,” Mr. Stevens said formally.
Weston lowered his scotch. “Is something amiss?”
“It is your father, my lord.”
He stared at the butler in stunned silence for the span of three seconds, and then recovered enough to ask several question in rapid succession. “Has there been an accident? Is my father ill? Does he require the services of a doctor? Has he sent for me?”
“No, my lord. As far as I am aware, the marquess is in excellent health.”
“Then by God, what is it?” Weston demanded.
“Your father…your father ishere.”
