Page 12 of One Waltz with the Viscount

‘Did you choose a wife?’ Lord Burwell asked once they’d ascended, throwing himself down in an armchair in Henry’s sitting room without being invited.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The Shrewsbury ball last night. I hear it was well attended, despite half of London having retired to the countryside for the summer. The Gough girl was there, and the Tattership daughter. Both are very wealthy and have impeccable bloodlines.’

‘I spoke to Miss Tattership,’ Henry said, recalling the insipid young woman who had struggled to step out of her mother’s shadow.

‘You spoke to her? God’s blood boy, sometimes I despair that you will ever marry. You need to do more than speak to her.’

Henry raised an eyebrow, but did not remind his father he had already been married for four years. Lord Burwell would not acknowledge Henry’s union with Anne, and it was too early in the morning to get into such an argument.

‘I am in no hurry, Father.’

‘You might not be, but my years on this earth are limited. I want to see my bloodline secured before I shuffle off towards the grave.’

Henry knew his father was in excellent health—there was no concern that he was shuffling off towards the grave any time soon. It was just another method the old man employed to manipulate him.

‘I agreed I would start to look for a wife, Father. I have started that process. I attended the Shrewsbury ball last night, and tomorrow I am going to the opera. Ask around, the eligible young women of London are aware of my intentions. I have upheld my end of the bargain, now it is time for you to uphold yours.’

‘You want to see her,’ Lord Burwell said, his voice dropping low.

‘Yes.’

His father curled up his lip and sneered. ‘Present to me a suitable woman who has agreed to marry you, then you can see her.’

‘That wasn’t our agreement.’ Desperately he tried to keep his temper from rising to the surface. His father did not respond well when he was challenged, and over the years Henry had learned it was foolish to make the man angry. He would never deign to see someone else’s point of view, never admit he was wrong. Instead, Henry had learned to find other ways to get what he wanted.

‘You say you went to the Shrewsbury ball to look for a wife, but for all I know you could have spent the whole evening at the card tables.’

‘I did not.’

Lord Burwell shrugged. ‘Bring me a fiancée and you can see your sister. Until then, she will remain shielded from your unsuitable influence.’

Sophia had been nine years old when he had seen her last, a lovely little girl who was inquisitive and kind. Now she was fourteen, and Henry often wondered how much his sister remembered him. During the years his father had refused any contact, it was the loss of a relationship with Sophia that Henry had regretted the most. He’d been all too aware that she was growing up secluded from the world, her only role model their father. As he had slowly emerged from his grief and shock after his late wife’s death, it had been Sophia his thoughts had turned to, and it had been the reason he’d reached out to his father all those months ago. The crafty old fox had seen how much Henry wanted to rekindle a relationship with his sister, using it to cajole and manipulate his son into finally doing what he wanted.

Lord Burwell clapped his hands together and stood, looking around him, taking in the simple dwelling and cheap furnishings.

‘You should return home to One Grosvenor Square,’ Lord Burwell said. ‘It is not fitting for my son to live in lodgings such as these.’

Henry shuddered at the idea of being completely under his father’s control, as he would be if he returned to the family home.

‘People expect the son of an Earl to have his own rooms,’ Henry said, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. He wouldn’t ask for more money, it was hard enough to take the small stipend his father gave him every month, but without any other source of income at the moment his hand was forced.

Lord Burwell grunted. Without another word, he stood and walked to the door.

‘Farewell, Father.’

He watched the older man from his window, allowing his body to sag once the carriage had rolled away, disappearing around the corner.

After a visit from his father he always felt battered and bruised. This time had not been terrible, but he had been reminded of how much he had lost, and how much his father still withheld from him.

Carefully he checked his reflection in the mirror. Later he would refocus his energies on finding a bride his father would deem suitable, who he could tolerate well enough for a lifetime spent together, but right now he had a promise to fulfil.

Sarah had seen the carriage draw up outside and was down the stairs and out the front door before Lord Routledge could approach. She did not want her landlady opening the door to him and appraising him in the suspicious way she looked at anyone of the opposite sex.

‘Good morning, Miss Shepherd, I trust it is not too early for a trip out?’

‘Every second is precious if I am to find Selina before I have to return to Kent,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you for keeping your promise.’