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Mother religiously chastised him at least twice every time she saw him on his reluctance to select a bride and begin to fill his nursery. Reminding her that he had no title to which he owed an obligation since his uncle had three sons, made no impression on her. When things got really desperate, she would drag out her handkerchief and wail about grandchildren.
That was when he reminded her that his sister, Lady Berkshire, was well on her way to producing a babe, said babe also being his mother’s grandchild. Plus, Addie’s husband had come to the marriage with a little boy, Michael, who Mother had fallen in love with and called my grandson. At that reminder, her tears dried up quickly and were replaced with annoyance.
“Mallory. I thought you would be haunting the halls of Parliament trying to wrangle votes for your bill.” Lord Harding, a viscount and active in the House of Lords smiled down at him and took the seat opposite.
A footman appeared with another glass and Harding filled it from the brandy bottle on the table. “Here’s to your success with your bill, although I doubt it will pass this time, either.”
He raised his glass and took a deep swallow. “Will you be gracing Society with your presence tonight at the Atkinsons’ ball? Rumor has it that the man will be announcing the youngest daughter’s betrothal.” Harding said.
Marcus shook his head. “Who’s the poor sap she snared?”
Harding leaned back and propped his ankle on his knee. “Actually, it appears this one is a love match.”
Marcus snorted and downed the brandy in his glass. “No such thing.”
“What about your sister?” Harding grinned. “Wasn’t hers a love match?”
He shrugged. “Who knows. Theirs was a strange beginning and I think at one point she left him because he tried to sell her store out from under her.”
“Ah, not well done, but from when I’ve heard, they are besotted lovebirds and awaiting an addition to the family.”
“Yes.” Marcus stood. The subject of love and marriage made him itchy. “As much as I would love to sit here and wax eloquently about all things romantic, I am off to prepare for the Atkinsons’ ball. I assume you are attending?”
“Yes. In fact, there is a young lady who has caught my eye.”
Marcus’s brows rose. “Do I hear the sound of wedding bells, old friend?”
Harding swirled the liquid in his glass and grinned. “Perhaps.”
Marcus slapped him on the back. “Good luck.” He strode the distance to the door, accepted his coat, hat, and gloves from the man at the door and left the club.
Marcus had developed the reputation of a well-liked and sought-after rake among the ton, vocally uninterested in marriage. He liked it that way. There were plenty of lonely widows to keep his bed warm. Despite his reputation, he did not bed young innocents or unhappily wedded women. As strange as it sounded, he firmly believed in the sanctity of marriage, which was why he eschewed the married state for himself.
Even though the marriage-minded mamas continued to cajole, and even attempt, to trap him, he remained cheerful and well out of their grasp. Recently, however, he’d begun to wonder if his insistence on a lack of desire for a wife was genuine, or merely habit.
Or worse yet, an annoyance to his mother, which sounded quite childish.
He’d ended his arrangement with his latest mistress and found he was not motivated enough to replace her. Perhaps it was time to put this frustrating nonsense with Parliamentary bills and society events aside and visit his sister in Bath and annoy her while she awaited the birth of her child.
He loved his sister, Addie, and was very happy that she’d found someone she loved and who loved her back. However, she was due for a bit of annoyance from her older brother. He grinned at the plan.
Marcus casually leaned against the wall in the Atkinsons’ ballroom and surveyed the crowd. Same people, same gossip, same ratafia to drink. Same unhappy wives, minus their unhappy husbands, clinging to men only too pleased to visit them in their beds while their husbands visited other unhappy women’s boudoirs.
“Why so sour?” James Wilson, an old friend and fellow schoolmate walked up to him, obviously already in his cups.
Even though it was probably not a good idea to attempt a conversation with the man in his present condition, Wilson had hit him at the right time. “Don’t you ever get tired of it all?” He waved his hand around to encompass the ballroom, some of the liquid in his glass splashing onto the floor.
Wilson’s puzzled expression cleared when he finally realized what Marcus asked. “Which part if it? The ladies looking for bedmates, the card games in the next room where one can increase his blunt? Or the sweet little just-out-of-the-schoolroom misses whose mamas pass someone like me by as not good enough for their precious daughters?” He grinned and snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray. “Never.”
Wilson leaned in, his breath reeking from whatever combination of spirits and food he’d consumed. “This is our life, man. I’m just grateful that the pater didn’t piddle away his money so I could live the life of a gentleman.”
If Marcus needed an excuse to leave the ball, Wilson just handed it to him. “I see Harding across the room. I need to speak with him. Excuse me.” Marcus walked off in the general direction of Lord Harding, then took an abrupt turn and left the room.
He tried very hard on the way home to forget what Wilson said. This is our life, man. I’m just grateful that the pater didn’t piddle away his money so I could live the life of a gentleman.
Even though Marcus’s father was a man of substance, he’d always insisted that Marcus contribute to the family businesses. He and his father put in full days managing the various enterprises under their control. In addition to that, Marcus sat in the House of Commons and worked diligently on his bill. He was hardly living the life of a gentleman despite his reputation of devilish rake. That, he supposed, came from the number of women he’d romanced over the years.
The extremely frightening thought grabbed hold of his mind. Was Mother correct? Was it really time for him to settle down? Choose a wife? Certainly not from the gaggle of giggling, flighty schoolgirls who arrived in the ton each year. The few times he partnered one of them his ears grew numb from all the chatter. And never about anything worthwhile.
