But he was acutely aware that he was already under interrogation.
His mother raised her cup, took a dainty sip, and finally looked at him over the rim.
“You’ve been noticeably absent from several key events this Season,” she said with all the grace of a viper coiling, ready to strike.
Arthur arched an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch. “Have I?”
She ignored the flippancy, reaching for a sugared biscuit she had no intention of eating. “Lady Tilbury’s musicale. The Countess of Merrow’s spring ball. A luncheon hosted by Viscount Ferris, two invitations from the Marchioness of Winthrop. All declined.”
“I wasn’t aware you were keeping a catalogue of my calendar quite so thoroughly,” Arthur replied, the edges of his tone smooth and sharp as cut crystal.
“It is hardly necessary when society does it for me,” she said briskly, setting the untouched biscuit back on its plate. “One does not need to be a gossip to hear the whispers, Arthur. ‘Where is the Viscount?’ they ask. ‘Still unattached?’ They say it with a smile, of course. But make no mistake—every absence is noted under the watchful eyes of the ton.”
Arthur leaned back slightly, crossing one ankle over the other. “Let them whisper. I grow so tired of the tedium of attending to their every whim in order to please people who would happily embroil me in invented scandal at the first opportunity. Arthur inclined his head. “My calendar has, admittedly, not overflowed with enthusiasm for such things of late.”“
“Nor with appropriate attendance,” she snapped. “And what of the Pevensey soirée? Or Lady Forester’s garden promenade last Thursday? Half of Mayfair was there. Half the eligible women in England, in fact.”
“I find soirées and garden promenades remarkably inefficient places to hold conversation.” Arthur retorted.
“You are not there to hold conversation,” she said crisply. “You are there to be seen. To be available. You are a Viscount, not a philosopher.”
Arthur exhaled slowly and returned his teacup to its saucer with the quiet finality of a closing book.
“So I’m to parade myself like a prize stallion, trotted out for inspection while the matrons of Mayfair assess my pedigree and grooming?”
Lady Gillian’s eyes narrowed, though her tone remained deceptively smooth. “That is precisely what your father did. And he secured an excellent match—on his second Season, no less.”
Arthur gave a short, sardonic laugh. “Indeed. And he loved his second horse more dearly than his wife. Perhaps I ought to take notes from the stables.”
Gillian gave him a withering look. “Whispers are one thing, but there is a difference between an air of mystery and disrepute. I rather fear you are heading towards the latter.”
Arthur stood and crossed to the mantel, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the porcelain figurines arranged in a stately array upon the marble shelf, reminiscent of a disciplined battalion. “And what would you have me do, Mother? Begin courting the first girl who looks tolerably well in pale turquoise blue and doesn’t faint during the classical concerto?”
“I would have you attend Lady Maria Lytton’s musicale tomorrow evening, where no fewer than three unmarried daughters of excellent lineage will be present. I would have you escort one to supper. I would have you smile.”
He turned. “You would have me lie.”
“I would have you behave as a gentleman of your station is expected to behave,” she said sharply. “This is not a question of feeling. It is a question of duty. Of legacy.” Gillian’s eyes narrowed. You carry the Beaumont name. That name demands strength, presence—and most urgently, continuity.”
There it was.
He knew the topic would arrive eventually. It always did.
“Continuity,” he echoed, brushing an invisible fleck from his cuff. “By which, of course, you are reminding me of my societal duty to marry and produce an heir.”
“Precisely. Your continued bachelorhood is a dereliction of your duty.”
Arthur’s lips curled faintly. “You mistake me, Mother. I have every intention of preserving our legacy. I simply prefer to do it without being hunted like some particularly well-bred fox.”
“You are not being hunted,” she snapped, “you are beingoffered.”
He laughed once, without humor. “The difference escapes me.”
A charged silence fell. Only the faint ticking of the clock marked the passage of time.
Lady Gillian set her cup down with measured care. “You may think you have time, Arthur. You may think this game of evasion clever. But the ton is not patient. Your reputation is a currency—one that devalues every year you remain unattached. Soon you will find yourself not desirable, but peculiar.”
“Let them think what they like,” he replied coolly. “I have no interest in dancing attendance on dull-witted heiresses who think Cicero is a brand of cologne.”
