Page 12

Puzzling his forehead, Ronan cast a longing glance down the corridor toward the dining room. There, he knew, an assortment of delicious foods lay spread upon the sideboard.

And coffee.

Strong and hot. Just the way he preferred. A beverage he desperately needed now if he were to keep his wits finely tuned for the verbal sparring that lay ahead with his sire.

“I’m to meet with Father before I break my fast?”

As Sturges closed the door, still studiously averting his gaze from Ronan’s, he gave one solemn dip of his square chin. “I believe the matter is of some urgency.”

Matter?

“Very well.” Disregarding his aching head and his rumbling stomach, Ronan turned in the study’s direction. “Might I request coffee be brought? I’ve had but three hours of sleep.”

If that.

The servant dipped his silvery head again, a knowing glint in his wise, gray eyes.

Ah, there was the Sturges of old.

“I’ve already requested a breakfast tray and coffee, sir,” the servant said. “With your permission, I shall check on its progress.”

“By all means.” Nodding, Ronan smiled.

He wouldn’t starve after all.

Would it be unacceptable to ask the elderly man to sprint to the kitchens?

Sturges strode briskly down the corridor, leaving Ronan to make his way to the study alone.

Why did he feel like a lad in short pants being called to task over an unknown infraction?

After giving the study door a single rap, he pushed it open and poked his head inside. He came up short upon seeing his mother, brothers, as well as Corrina assembled. Only Marissa was missing, and at sixteen, she must’ve been too young to take part in whatever this was.

Zounds.

Something truly serious must be afoot for almost the entire family to be assembled at this early hour.

“Ah, Ronan.” His father glanced up and, a wide smile wreathing his face, beckoned Ronan inside. As was his wont, only a brightly colored waistcoat—today’s was jade and primrose—interrupted the severe lines of his black suit. “Welcome home, Son.”

Sanford took after their father in that regard, except Sanford would rather chew cow hooves than don anything so bright as green or yellow. Any hue other than a sedate gray and black striped waistcoat or, if he were feeling exceptionally bold and dashing, dark blue paisley.

“Do come in, my boy, and take a seat.” Still smiling, Father gestured to one of the empty wingback chairs before his desk. “It is wonderful to see you.”

“You as well, Father.” He might be overbearing at times, but Ronan loved his father. “My ventures in America were successful,” he added, knowing his father would ask that next.

“Good. Good.” Hands resting on the arms of his chair, the marquess nodded. “Diligence always pays a decent return. You’re amassing a respectable fortune.”

Pride glinted in his sire’s eyes, and Ronan couldn’t help the swell of contentment billowing in his chest at his father’s approval.

“Welcome home, darling.” Resplendent in a lavender and ivory morning gown which accented her hair and eyes to perfection, Mother extended her hands and angled her lightly powdered cheek for a kiss. “I’ve missed you so, Ronan. It’s just not the same when you aren’t in England.”

“I’ve missed you as well, Mother,” Ronan responded automatically.

He had, in truth—quite a lot.

Rachael, Marchioness of Trentholm, was the only mother Benjamin had ever known. She’d been an affectionate and kind stepmother to all three Brockman boys. Only three years of age when his mother died, Benjamin had begun calling Rachael Mama within weeks of Father marrying her.

It had taken Ronan a while longer, but he had called her Mother for many years now as well.