THIRTY-SIX
MUCH SOONER than he would have liked, Rand found his carriage turning away from the Thames and rolling up the wide drive to Hawkridge Hall.
His gaze swept over the three-story redbrick building. Although its symmetrical H shape was typical of houses built this century, the house was atypical in size and appointments. And the marquess spared no expense to keep it that way. The windows had been replaced since Rand moved away, now the new sash style with double-glazed glass. The mansion was the height of contemporary fashion.
But it sickened him. He had few happy memories of this place.
He was climbing out of the carriage when the mansion’s arched front door swung open to admit a maid and a footman. With a bow and a murmured “milord,” the footman took charge of Rand’s luggage.
“Welcome back, Lord Randal.” The maid curtseyed and touched a hand to the white cap that covered her gray curls.
“Nurse Etta?” Rand blinked in shock. His old nurse had been demoted to a housemaid.
“You’d best follow me.” Though her voice was kind, her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. “Lord Hawkridge awaits you in his study.”
Of course the marquess wouldn’t come out to greet him.
“I know the way,” Rand said quietly, knowing any trace of pity in his voice would shame the old woman. He couldn’t quite manage to smile, but left her with a polite nod and made for the house.
Inside, he was surprised to discover he still recognized most of the servants bustling about Hawkridge’s imposing great hall. Friendly faces turned to him as he passed, and he acknowledged them with as much cheer as he could muster—which unfortunately wasn’t much. Pausing at the entrance to the study, he steeled his nerves and entered.
The man behind the desk looked up. His body stiffened beneath his jet-black velvet suit, and his mouth thinned into a hard line. “What took you so long? Your brother is already buried.”
Just hearing that tone of voice, Rand felt, for a moment, like the small boy who’d always quavered in the face of his father’s disfavor. The frosty gray eyes missed nothing, assessing him as they used to—and with no more approval. If Rand had harbored a foolish hope that the loss of the marquess’s elder son would make him look anew at his younger one, those dreams were dead.
Never mind how carefully he’d dressed this morning; Rand felt slovenly under that gaze. For that moment he was ten again, thirsting for the man’s love, willing to do almost anything to gain his acceptance. But whatever he’d tried had always been for naught, and today was no different.
And he wasn’t that small boy anymore.
“I was unavoidably detained,” he said evenly, and offered no other explanation. While the desk sat on a raised dais toward the back of the study, the only other chairs were on the lower level. Rand took one, though he hadn’t been invited. Looking up at his father this way used to make him feel contrite and insignificant, but he’d come too far to fall for the man’s tricks.
The old goat harrumphed, his face shadowed beneath his luxuriant periwig. He was one of the few men Rand knew who wore a periwig every waking hour of every day, even tucked away out here in the countryside. Rand crossed his arms, bracing for his father to make mention of his uncovered, chopped-off hair. Then he chided himself. They’d been apart too long for the man to recognize the difference. Or he hadn’t noticed. Or he simply no longer cared.
Or all of the above.
The marquess wasted no time on preliminaries. “Your brother, as you know, had been betrothed since childhood to Margery. I swore to her father they would marry the day she turned one-and-twenty. That happens to be next week. I intend for you to fulfill that pledge.”
Rand felt as though the air had been knocked out of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open, a failing attempt to appear unruffled.
Margery. How could he have forgotten how these developments would impact Margery?
“Where is Margery?”
“In London. I sent her to obtain a proper wardrobe for mourning. She returns tomorrow.” The marquess lifted a quill, pristine white lace falling back from his wrist. “I expect you to greet her as befits a husband-to-be.”
“I cannot.” Rand had washed his hands of the marquess long ago. He wasn’t responsible for the man’s twenty-year-old agreement. “I’m sorry for Margery, but—”
“My honor is on the line,” the marquess continued as if Rand hadn’t spoken. “And the family wealth is at stake.”
Looking toward the heavens for patience, Rand waved an arm, the gesture encompassing the grandiose opulence that was Hawkridge Hall. “I cannot imagine how the family wealth could be in jeopardy.”
For once, his father looked almost uncomfortable. “I’ve never had any reason to discuss family finances with the likes of you. But you may as well know that I mortgaged the Hawkridge lands to raise funds for Charles.”
Rand knew he meant Charles I, not the current King Charles, and that the funds had gone to support the king’s side in the Civil War. The money would have been lost along with the battles, but William Nesbitt had been and still was a loyal Royalist. That he’d done such a thing was hardly surprising.
But his next words were.
“We were on the verge of ruin when Margery came into our lives.”
Margery. Rand pictured her young upturned face, her delicate features framed by the palest blond curls. Between her sporadic letters, he hadn’t thought of Margery often—he’d avoided thinking of anything at Hawkridge for years—but when he had, they’d been fond thoughts. He thought of her much like a sister.
Never, ever as a potential wife.
The marquess dipped the quill and began signing papers while he talked. “As Margery’s guardian and eventual father-in-law, I’ve managed her extensive lands along with Hawkridge’s for twenty years. The loss of those lands and income would be devastating, leading to eventual bankruptcy.”
One of Rand’s hands reached
