Page 21 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“I merely wish you would give the poor girl an opportunity,” she said once she'd recovered. “You cannot insist upon marrying for love if you refuse to meet any eligible ladies.”

William's smile softened. “I do intend to marry, Mama.”

“When?”

“When I fall in love.”

She studied him for a long moment, her fingers lightly steepled beneath her chin. “And if that takes another ten years?”

William's gaze drifted toward the rain-speckled windows overlooking Berkeley Square. “Then I shall hope you remain patient.”

She sighed with theatrical resignation. “I have raised an impossible son.”

William looked back at her, affection warming his smile. “No.” He paused before adding quietly, “You raised a cautious one.”

His mother regarded him for a long moment before reaching across the small table to pat his hand. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “Though I should still prefer a daughter-in-law before I become too old to enjoy her company.”

William laughed softly. “I shall endeavor to accommodate you eventually.”

“An admirably vague promise.”

The chiming of the hall clock interrupted whatever reply he might have offered. Six measured strokes echoed through Aldermere House.

His mother rose first. “I ought to change before dinner.”

William stood with her, offering his arm as he escorted her to the drawing room door. She squeezed his sleeve affectionately before disappearing into the corridor, leaving the brothers alone once more.

The silence that followed settled heavily between them.

Algernon remained where he was before the fire, his posture as immovable as the stone mantel beside him. Whether he was considering the conversation or had dismissed it entirely, William could never tell. His brother possessed a remarkable talent for revealing almost nothing of himself.

William considered saying something more about Lord Eastmere before he thought better of it.

With a brief nod that required no acknowledgment, William left the drawing room and climbed the broad staircase to his apartments.

A servant had already lit the fire against the damp afternoon, and the familiar scent of beeswax, cedar, and burning coal greeted him as he entered.

Ordinarily, the quiet of his rooms offered a welcome retreat from the obligations of the day.

Today, it merely left him alone with thoughts that had pursued him since leaving the club.

He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to his valet, submitting almost absently to the familiar ritual of changing for dinner. Fresh linen. A clean waistcoat. A freshly tied cravat.

He scarcely noticed any of it.

Lady Rosalind's accusation lingered with irritating persistence.

You were the last man to see him alive.

The words had followed him all afternoon, refusing to be dismissed no matter how many times he reminded himself that grief often searched desperately for someone to blame.

He could hardly fault her.

If their positions had been reversed, he suspected he might have done precisely the same.

Still, the more he considered his final conversation with Lord Eastmere, the less sense any of it made.

He remembered the earl laughing over some absurd story involving an overconfident young colt before the conversation had drifted, naturally enough, to the horse sale. Lord Eastmere had spent several minutes debating reserve prices with surprising enthusiasm, complaining—with exaggerated despair—that no horse dealer had ever been born with an honest bone in his body.