“I’ve no doubt about that.” He offered his arm, and retrieved his hat from the waiting butler.
“You are not getting any younger, you know.”
“I am aware of my advancing years. Therefore, I have made a list of suitable spousal prospects.”
“Yes, Mother told me of your ‘list,’” she said dryly.
“A man must be sensible about choosing a bride.”
Isabel nodded with mock severity. “Of course, feelings should never be considered.”
“Did we not already agree to avoid a discussion of feelings?”
Smothering a laugh, she asked, “And who is at the top of your list, may I ask?”
“Lady Susannah Campion.”
“The Duke of Raleigh’s second daughter?” Isabel blinked.
Lady Susannah was indeed a sensible choice. Her breeding was exceptional, her deportment flawless, and her suitability for the rank of duchess could not be denied. But the delicate blonde girl had no fire, no passion. “She would bore you to tears.”
“Come now,” he demurred. “She cannot be as bad as that.”
Her eyes widened. “You have yet to meet the girl you are considering marrying?”
“I’ve seen her! I would not marry a chit sight unseen.” He cleared his throat. “I simply have not had the pleasure of speaking with her yet.”
Shaking her head, Isabel felt again like she did not quite fit in with her
“Of course.” As they left the house and approached his waiting phaeton, Rhys adjusted his long-legged stride to hers. “This might be just the thing to make dealing with an angry Grayson worthwhile.”
“He will not be angry.”
“Not with you perhaps.”
Her throat tightened. “Not with anyone.”
“The man has always been a trifle touchy where you are concerned,” Rhys drawled.
“He has not!”
“Has, too. And if he has truly decided to exert his husbandly rights, I pity the man who intrudes. Step lightly, Bella.”
Releasing a deep breath, Isabel kept her thoughts to herself, but the butterflies in her stomach took flight again.
Gerard gazed at his reflection, and heaved a frustrated breath. “When is the tailor scheduled to arrive?”
“Tomorrow, my lord,” Edward replied with obvious relief.
Turning to face his longtime valet, Gerard asked, “Are my garments truly that dreadful?”
The servant cleared his throat. “I did not say that, my lord. However, removing dirt clods and repairing torn knees are not exactly a full utilization of my many talents.”
“I know.” He sighed dramatically. “I did consider dismissing you on several occasions.”
“My lord!”
“But since tormenting you was often my only entertainment, I resisted the urge.”
The valet’s snort made Gerard laugh. Leaving the room, he mentally arranged his schedule for the day. His plans started with a discussion with Pel about redecorating his study and ended with her once again sharing his bed. He was content with that schedule until his foot met the marble floor of the foyer.
“My lord.”
He faced the bowing footman. “Yes?”
“The Dowager Marchioness has arrived.”
His hackles rose. He had managed a blessed four years without seeing her, but he would have gone a lifetime if that had been possible. “Where is she?”
“In the parlor, my lord.”
“And Lady Grayson?”
“Her Ladyship departed with Lord Trenton a half hour past.”
Normally, Gerard would take exception with Trenton, as he did with anyone who deprived him of his wife’s company without telling him first, but today he was relieved to spare Isabel his mother’s visit. There could be a hundred excuses for why his mother had come, but the truth was simply that she wished to berate him. She took such pleasure in it, and now she had four years’ worth of bile to vent. It would be unpleasant, no doubt, and he steeled himself inwardly for the trial ahead.
He also took a moment to acknowledge what he’d avoided seeing before, that he had always been slightly jealous of those who stole Pel’s attentions. The feeling of possessiveness was only exacerbated by his deepened interest in her.
But he did not have time to contemplate what that meant at the moment, so Gerard nodded to the servant, took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the parlor. He paused a moment in the open doorway, studying the silver strands that were now weaved liberally through the once dark tresses. Unlike Pel’s mother, whose love for living preserved her beauty well, the dowager marchioness simply looked tired and worn.
Sensing his presence, she turned to face him. Her pale blue gaze raked him from head to toe. Once, that look would have withered him. Now, he knew his own value. “Grayson,” she greeted, her voice tight and clipped.
He bowed, noting that she still wore widow’s weeds even after all these years.
“Your clothes are a disgrace.”
“It is lovely to see you, too, Mother.”
“Do not mock me.” She sighed loudly, and sank onto the sofa. “Why must you vex me so?”
“I vex you just by breathing, and I’m afraid I am not willing to go to the extent of stopping to please you. The best I can do is to give you a wide berth.”
“Sit, Grayson. It is rude of you to stand and force me to strain my neck looking up at you.”
Gerard sank into a nearby wooden-armed chair. Sitting directly across from her, he was able to study her in depth. Her back was ramrod straight, painfully so, her hands clenched in her lap until the knuckles were white. He knew he took after her in coloring-his father’s portrait was of a man with brown hair and eyes-but her bone-deep rigidness was far removed from his own ability to bend when necessary.
“What ails you?” he asked, only superficially concerned. Everything ailed his mother. She was simply a miserable woman.
Her chin lifted. “Your brother Spencer.”
That caught his attention. “Tell me.”
“Completely lacking in any sort of male authority, he has decided to adopt your way of living.” Her thin lips pursed tighter.
“In what way?”
“In every way-whoring, drinking to excess, complete irresponsibility. He sleeps all day and is out all night. He has made little effort to support himself since leaving school.”
Scrubbing his hand across his face, Gerard struggled to reconcile the image she presented with the fresh-faced brother he had known four years ago. It was his fault, he knew. Leaving any child in the care of their mother was bound to lead to a preoccupation with the pursuit of oblivion.
“You must speak with him, Grayson.”
“Talking will accomplish nothing. Send him to me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Gather up his possessions, and send him to me. It will take some time to straighten him out.”
“I will not!” His mother’s spine stiffened further. How that was possible, he could not say, but it did. “I will not have Spencer under the same roof as that harlot you married.”
“Watch your tongue,” he warned with ominous softness, his fingers curling around the carved arms of his chair.
“You have made your point and embarrassed me utterly. End this farce now. Divorce that woman for adultery, and do your duty.”
“
