Chapter Two
Roland Garner, Marquessof Thorpe and eldest son of the Duke of Mariton, had been in Town for several seasons. Had one gone round from drawing room to drawing room, inquiring into theton’simpressions of the gentleman, one would have heard the following:
“He is terribly reserved.”
“Keeps things close.”
“Reserved.”
“Aloof.”
“Reserved.”
“Reticent.”
“Very reserved.”
He was well aware of the impression he made, and equally aware that thetondid not know why he made it. Under his tightlipped mien, he was a morass of conflicting feelings. He had learned, early on, that a marquess, or any man, should not be ruled by his feelings. Or, if he was to be ruled by them, they should probably not be so violent in their strength.
When he’d been younger, his brother Charles had informed him of it in a hundred humiliating ways once he’d spotted the weakness. Perhaps their duke would not have noticed that his eldest son was a rather feeling individual if Charles had not been always hanging about, pointing it out, and showing himself to be entirely the opposite in the temperament department.
How many times had his father counseled him to be more like Charles? That did not happen these days, but those occasions were burned into his memory. Of course, his father only saw one side of his second son. Charles kept his ugly side well-disguised when he was in view of anyone he considered of any import. To the wider world, Charles was a suave and jocular Corinthian with smooth manners.
Roland knew what he really was, though. He was spiteful. Charles was endlessly dissatisfied with finding himself the second son. Roland was certain Charles thought he ought to be the duke’s heir and he was assiduous in trying to point that out to the duke. There was no particular point to it. It was not as if the duke could simply nod to who he wished to inherit the title. Rather, Charles satisfied himself with forever attempting to display his superiority. It soothed him somehow.
At least that unpleasant fellow was far away from him just now. Last he’d heard, Charles was carousing on the continent somewhere, likely gambling away vast amounts of the duke’s money.
Havoc, Roland’s rather lazy mastiff, sat at his feet and laid his heavy head on his lap. He occasionally glanced at the drawing room doors, hoping somebody would come in with a tea tray. At those moments when a tray did arrive, Havoc would put on a performance worthy of Drury Lane—longing looks, round eyes, and drool dripping to the carpet until he’d secured a biscuit or two.
His butler, Quinn, came in with the brandy. Of course, naming him the butler was slightly misleading. Quinn had begun as one of his tutors when he was very young. Then he’d acted as valet, and now he acted as butler. Really, though, he was a friend, a mentor of sorts, and the person who knew Roland best.
Pouring out two glasses, Quinn sat down and contemplated him. “You really ought to get married,” he said.
Roland nodded, as it was no surprise he said so. He’d been saying so for the past two years.
“I fully intend on wedding soon,” Roland said, “it is just the past seasons, well, the ladies, I have not found…”
“What is it, exactly, that you look for but have not found?”
That was a very good question. He hardly knew how to articulate it. He’d made such an effort to present himself as other than what he was. It had seemed necessary to present a mask of manly disinterest and stern looks, to appear as he imagined a marquess must look. It had worked all too well—society viewed him as the reserved heir to the duke. He could see very well that there were certain ladies who admired his reserve. He did not know what they saw in it, but they saw something.
The problem was, it was not him. It was all a charade. He was not the emotionless lord he pretended to be. If he wed one of those ladies, was he to continue the game for the rest of his life? It would be impossible. As it was, he sometimes rode into a lonely area of the park at dawn to shout at the sky, his pent-up feelings needing to be released.
“You ought to loosen up when you’re out and about,” Quinn said.
“Loosen up? How does one loosen?”
“I was not aware of how you were in society until you held that dinner here last season. That was a head scratcher, I can tell you. I kept thinking, who is this man who does not resemble the man I know?”
“Reserved, you mean.”
“Wound tight.”
“I do not see what else I am to do. I cannot very well go round being myself.”
There was a quick knock on the door and a footman hurried in with a letter on a silver salver. “This just came, my lord. From the duke.”
Roland nodded. His father sent letters monthly to inquire into the same matter Quinn was interested in—when was he getting married? The old soldier would be here in person, haranguing him about it, if he did not despise London so much.
