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“No, only we second sons are obliged to follow the custom.”
“But isn't your father a viscount? Why did he have to follow the custom?”
“My father was actually a second son himself. His older brother died at the age of five. By that time my father was already born and named.”
Caroline grinned. “And what was his name?”
“I'm afraid Father wasn't nearly as lucky as I. My grandmother's maiden name was Petty.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear. Oh, I shouldn't laugh.”
“Yes, you should. We all do.”
“What do you call him?”
“I call him Father. Everyone else simply calls him Darnsby, which is his title.”
“What did he do before he gained the title?”
“I believe he instructed everyone to call him Richard.”
“Is that one of his given names?”
“No,” Blake said with a shrug, “but he much preferred it to Petty.”
“Oh, that is funny,” she said, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. “What happens if a Ravenscroft doesn't have a second son?”
He leaned forward with a decidedly rakish glint in his eye. “We just keep trying and trying until we do.”
Caroline's cheeks flamed. “Do you know,” she said hastily, “but I suddenly feel extensively tired. I believe I shall go inside and have a short rest. You are, of course, welcome to join me.”
She didn't wait for his reply, however, just turned on her heel and limped away—rather quickly, in fact, for one using a cane.
Blake watched her as she disappeared into the house, his cheeks unable to quit the smile that had graced his face for almost their entire interchange. It had been some time since he'd given thought to the family naming custom. Marabelle's surname had been George, and they had always joked that they should marry for this reason alone.
George Ravenscroft. He had almost been a real person in Blake's mind, with his raven curls and Marabelle's pale blue eyes.
But there would be no George Ravenscroft. “I'm sorry, Marabelle,” he whispered. He had failed her in so many ways. He hadn't been able to protect her, and though he had tried to be faithful to her memory, he hadn't always managed that, either.
And today—today his indiscretion had moved beyond the mere needs of his body. He had enjoyed himself with Caroline, truly reveled in the sheer pleasure of her company. Guilt pierced his heart.
“I'm sorry, Marabelle,” he whispered again.
But as he strolled back to the house, he heard himself say, “Trent Ravenscroft.”
He shook his head, but the thought wouldn't go away.
