that a successful petition for divorce would include evidence of marital harmony prior to the adultery. It could also be said that my own inconstancy drove her to hers.”
His mother flinched. “To wed a mistress. For heaven’s sake, could you not have wounded me alone, and not the title as well? Your father would be so ashamed.”
Gerard hid the way that statement cut him with an impassive face. “Regardless of my reasons for choosing Lady Grayson, it is a choice I am quite content with. I hope you can learn to live with it, but I am not overly concerned if you do not.”
“She has never once honored her vows to you,” the dowager said bitterly. “You are a cuckold.”
His breath was harshly drawn, his pride stung. “Am I not culpable for that? I have not been a husband to her in anything but a fiduciary capacity.”
“Thank God for that. Can you imagine what kind of mother that woman would be?”
“No worse than you.”
“Touche.”
Her quiet pride made him feel guilty. “Come now, Mother.” He sighed. “We are so close to ending this lovely visit without bloodshed.”
But as always, she could not quit while they were ahead.
“Your father has been dead for decades, and yet I have been true to his memory.”
“Is that what he would have wanted?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I am certain he would not have wanted the mother of his sons to fornicate indiscriminately.”
“No, but a genuine companion, a man who could offer the comforts women long for-”
“I knew what I promised when I said my vows-to do honor to his name and title, to give him and raise fine sons who would make him proud.”
“And yet we never do,” Gerard said dryly. “As you so often point out to us, we are constantly shaming him.”
Her brows drew together in a glower. “It was my responsibility to be both a mother and father to you all, to teach you how to be like him. I realize you think I have failed, but I did the best I could.”
Gerard held his retort, his mind filling with memories of whippings with leather straps and hurtful words. Suddenly eager to be alone, he said, “I am more than willing to take Spencer in hand, but I will do so here, in my house. I have my own affairs to attend to.”
“‘Affairs’ is an apt description,” she muttered.
He put his hand to his heart, deflecting her sarcasm with his own. “You disparage me unjustly. I am a married man.”
Her gaze narrowed as she assessed him. “You have changed, Grayson. Whether that is a good thing or not remains to be seen.”
With a wry smile, he rose. “I have a few arrangements to make in anticipation of Spencer’s arrival, so if we are done…?”
“Yes, of course.” His mother fluffed out her skirts as she stood. “I have my doubts about this, but I will present your solution to Spencer and if he agrees, so will I.” Her voice hardened. “Keep that woman away from him.”
His brow arched. “My wife does not have the pox, you know.”
“That is debatable,” she snapped, departing the room in a flounce of dark skirts and chilly hauteur.
Gerard was left with both relief and a sudden longing for the comfort of his wife.
“I warned you.”
Rhys looked down at the top of his sister’s head. Standing beneath a tree on the Marley rear lawn, they were alone and apart from the other milling guests. “She is perfect.”
“Too perfect, if you ask me.”
“Which I did not,” he said dryly, but silently he agreed with Isabel’s assessment. Lady Susannah was poised and collected. She was a beauty, and yet when he had spoken to her, she reminded him of a moving statue. There was very little life in her.
“Rhys.” Isabel turned to face him, her dark red brows drawn together beneath her straw hat. “Can you see yourself being a friend to her?”
“A friend?”
“Yes, a friend. You will have to live with your future wife, sleep with her on occasion, discuss issues relating to your children and household. All of these things are much easier to accomplish when you are friends with your spouse.”
“Is that what you have with Grayson?”
“Well…” The line between her brows deepened. “In the past, we were close acquaintances.”
“Acquaintances?” She was blushing, something he had rarely seen her do.
“Yes.” Her gaze drifted, and she suddenly seemed very far away. “Actually,” she said softly. “He was a very dear friend.”
“And now?” Not for the first time, Rhys found himself wondering what the arrangement was between his sister and her second husband. They had always seemed happy enough before, laughing and sharing private looks that said they knew each other well. Whatever their reasons for seeking sex outside of their marriage, it was not because of lack of charity with each other. “The rumors suggest that you may soon have a marriage that is more… traditional.”
“I do not want a traditional marriage,” she grumbled, her arms crossing beneath her bosom, her attention coming back to the present.
He held up his hands in self-defense. “No need to snap at me.”
“I did not snap.”
“You did so. For a woman who just rolled out of bed, you are remarkably testy.”
Isabel growled. He raised his brows.
Her glare lasted a moment longer and then it faded into a sheepish pout. “I am sorry.”
“Is Grayson’s return so trying?” he asked softly. “You are not yourself.”
“I know it.” She released a frustrated sounding breath. “And I have not eaten since supper.”
“That explains a great deal. You were always grumpy when hungry.” He held out his arm. “Shall we brave the throng of dour biddies, and fetch you a plate?”
Isabel covered her face with a gloved hand and laughed.
Moments later she stood opposite him at the long food tables, loading her small plate unfashionably high. He shook his head and looked away, hiding his indulgent smile. Moving a short distance from the others, Rhys pulled out his pocket watch and wondered how much longer he would have to bear this odious affair.
It was only three o’clock. He closed the golden door with a click and groaned.
“It is the height of bad taste to look as if you cannot wait to depart.”
“I beg your pardon?” He spun about, searching for the owner of the lyrical feminine voice. “Where are you?”
There was no reply.
But the hair at his nape was suddenly on end. “I will find you,” he promised, studying the low hedges that lined his left and rear sides.
“To find implies that something is hidden or lost, and I am neither.”
Gads, that voice was sweet as an angel’s and sultry as a siren’s. Without care for his tan-colored breeches, Rhys plunged through the hip-high shrubs, rounded a large elm, and found a small sitting area on the other side. There, on a half-circle-shaped marble bench sat a petite brunette with a book.
“There was a pathway a little further down,” she said without looking up from her reading.
His gaze raked her trim form, noting the worn toes of her slippers, the slightly faded hem of her flowered gown, and the too-tight bodice. He bowed and said, “Lord Trenton, Miss…?”
“Yes, I know who you are.” Snapping the book closed, she lifted her head and studied him with the same thorough perusal he had given her.
Rhys stared. He could not do otherwise. She was no great beauty. In fact, her delicate features were unremarkable. Her nose was pert and covered with freckles, her mouth just as any other female mouth. She was not young or old. Nearing thirty would be his guess. Her eyes, however, were as pleasing as her voice. They were large and round and a startling blue with yellow flecks. They were also filled with keen intelligence, and even more
