Valen studied his father’s hand as it lay flaccid against the bed sheets, bulging veins pulsing erratically under the translucent skin. He looked away, squinting up at the dark corners of the ceiling where death hovered.
Lord Ransley took a deep breath and threaded up more words. “Hear me out. I’ve only one request.” He paused, his chest rising and falling as if he had just run up three flights of stairs. Despite his struggle, he gazed steadily at Valen. “Find a wife. One you can love. Have children. Not just to carry on the wretched title, but to occupy that unruly cavernous heart of yours.”
Valen struggled to remain calm. “That, my lord, is more than one request. Indeed, it sounds as if it is a lifetime of requests.”
“Nevertheless—”
“Very well then, if you insist. I’ll take the milkmaid, shall I? Oh, but no, we know how that old story goes, don’t we? Rather sadly. What then? The London season? All the finest little peahens ready to strut past and lay down the goods for money and a title?” He stood and raked his fingers through his hair, scraping the wild mess back from his forehead. “I don’t know how you can possibly expect—”
“Nevertheless, I do expect it.” His father waved his hand, dismissing any arguments. “It is my dying wish.”
Valen tempered his voice. “You’re tired. We will discuss it tomorrow.” He turned to go, but Lord Ransley grabbed his arm with surprising strength.
“There may be no tomorrow.” He wheezed. “If God permits me into heaven, I shall hold your mother’s hand, and we’ll look down on you with joy. Try to understand. You’re the best part of our lives. Find a wife, son. Make a child who can fill your heart with hope.” He glanced up at Valen, let go, and fell back against his pillows. “And dread.”
In the silence Valen’s heart turned into a runaway cannon ball, crashing into his lungs, thudding down on his stomach. “Damn,” he whispered, flexing his jaw. Too much. It was all too much. He’d come home. That should be enough.
He backed toward the door. “If this great peal you are ringing over my head is any indication of your health, I don’t expect to hang crepe this age. You should be resting instead of sermonizing me. I bid you goodnight, Father. I’ll come to you in the morning to see if you have any more grand requests to make before I ride out.”
He strode out of the room feeling like a great awkward giant. In the hallway, he thumped his forehead against the wall. His fists tightened into useless hammers. Every muscle in his body tried to pull itself inward. What good is it to have a man’s body, a man’s mind? And yet, crumple like a child. He cursed again.
Through the open door he overheard Aunt Honore’s voice. “Drink this.”
“Did you hear him?” His father’s breathy excitement whistled through his congested throat. “Did you?”
“I’m not deaf. I heard a great deal.”
“He forgot himself. Called me—” He chuckled softly, falling into another coughing spasm. “Father.”
Valen frowned. So, he had. And it had not been nearly as painful as he had anticipated.
One month later, Valen stood at the bottom of Lady Alameda’s, his Aunt Honore’s, marble staircase in Mayfair, waiting for her to descend. He relished her expression when, at last, she joined him in the entry hall.
The nearer she came, the wider her eyes opened. “Surely, you jest?”
Valen adjusted the lace at his sleeve. “I never jest.”
“Then check the mirror. You look a right buffoon.” Honore planted her hands on her hips. “A rather large buffoon, at that.”
“Really?” He glanced down in mock confusion at his trousers. “I was quite pleased with the effect.”
“Rubbish! I’ve never seen an ensemble more at odds with itself and its wearer. Ghastly. I vow, I never even noticed you had freckles before seeing you in this awful shade of—” She tweaked the sleeve of his coat. “What is it? Dull gold or dung green? And these lapels, Valen. They’re large enough a goose might use them to flap around with. It’s an atrocity. Where is that valet of yours? He ought to be drawn and quartered. I’ll sack him straightway.”
“Don’t have a valet.”
“You do. I distinctly remember hiring one.”
“Had to send the poor fellow packing. Kept crying like a babe every time I disagreed with his choice of coat. Or for that matter, the choosing of any garment. Stumbled across a fellow from my regiment the other day. Hired him as batman. He’ll be along tomorrow.”
“A soldier! Now see here, Valen. This is London, not some muddy battlefield. You need someone who—” She stopped and narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, I see. Having a bit of fun, are we? Poking your finger in society’s eye? Throwing down a challenge for Brummel and his ilk, eh? Silly me. Here I thought you were in London to find a wife.”
“So I am.” His voice held a sharper edge to it than he had intended.
She tilted her head. “Precisely what sort of gel did you intend to attract? A lisping little dodo bird?”
“Perhaps someone who is not blinded by ridiculous fashions.”
She sneered. “More likely, a young lady who is blind altogether?”
“You have your stratagems, Aunt. I have mine. Shall we arrive even later at Lady Sefton’s? Or would you care to be on our way?” He held out his arm.
Honore crossed hers stubbornly and refused to budge. “What? With you looking like such an outlandish fribble? I’m not at all certain I wish to introduce you.” She tilted her nose upward. “Goes against my sensibilities.”
Valen gauged her mood and launched his counter maneuver. “Ah, but your sensibilities will stand aside, I think, for your brother’s sake.”
“Not fair.”