Fortunately, he’d been trampled by a frisky mare and Father had managed to claw back the monies, instilling in his own son the need for sobriety.
So, an heir. Useful.
A wife would also keep away any marriage-minded misses and their devious mothers. Although he’d always been successful enough on that count.
Any other reasons?
An innate sense of honour? Mayhap. Not that he minded his reputation gaining a dash more heartlessness, but he had been raised with a sense of integrity, and if he reneged on his words it was likely his mother would cause his ears to ring.
Were there any more reasons?
“Oy, watch where yer going, cork brain,” a grubby little urchin yelled as Rakecombe ambled into his bundle of newspapers.
He really didn’t have time for all this dilly-dallying.
Perhaps he ought to mull it over in The Coach and Horses on Burlington, but consulting his fob watch, it was nigh eleven and he wasneverlate.
Putting on some haste, he wandered down Swallow Street and came to the wrong end of Conduit.
Damn.
Of course, what he kept ruthlessly suppressing was this odd…need he felt for Miss Quinlan. That aching want as she’d touched his eye last night. The overwhelming desire to have her beneath him. No doubt lust played a part, but he’d felt that before.
This appeared to be deeper, but he purposefully shied away from probing further.
There was no time.
If he married Aideen Quinlan, she would belong to him. And only him. No woolly crowned Sherburn drooling over her, soft hands pawing.
With mind made up, he strode down the street that the Beckfords inhabited, glad after all that he’d taken the time to remove his grandmother’s ring from the safe this morning.
Aideen sipped the now cold chocolate and willed her heart to stop thumping so stridently.
The duke had arrived well after the appointed hour of eleven, but he’d immediately demanded to speak with Mr Beckford. She knew this was proper but couldn’t help feel a tinge of resentment.
They were discussing her life, her future, and she wasn’t even there. At least she could rely on Mr Beckford not to be cowed, but even so…
“Aideen? The duke has requested to speak with you privately, and I have agreed you may converse on the terrace with the door open. But Edwina or a maid can stay if you so wish?”
Pivoting, she found Mr Beckford with a looming black shadow at his heels. Devil’s minions, the duke resembled the Grim Reaper some days – he need only swap his ubiquitous cane for a scythe.
“That is acceptable, sir.”
“Good. Remember my words this morning, dearest.”
Nodding, she led the duke through the drawing room and onto the small terrace. The birds cheerfully chirped, and an audacious russet-red squirrel ran along the oak tree, all utterly unaware of the life-defining scene about to take place.
Aideen waited for him to speak. For once, she was going to let someone else do the talking.
“I apologise for last night,” he finally said.
“Which bit?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which bit are you apologising for? The kiss? For being discovered? Or for stating that you’ve found a wife in such a pompous way.” Bah. She never could hold her tongue – it was like trying to gag a rooster at dawn.
He stalked closer, and she had to admit to a frisson of excitement. His stride was meant to intimidate, to make a person step back, but as a child she’d loved to be pushed high on the swing, so high she’d squealed in fright and exhilaration. She might fall. She might be hurt.
