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“What are they?” Violette asked. She felt as though for the first time she was seeing another part of Lord Northrive, perhaps a little of the heart he liked to keep hidden behind his carefree manner. It was like peeking behind the red velvet curtain at the theatre, to see what happened backstage.
“My eldest brother died not too long ago.”
The revelation left Violette feeling as though a dagger had been thrust in her chest.
“My lord, I am so sorry.” She couldn’t help it. She reached out to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. She hoped it came across as a rather manly comforting gesture.
“Thank you,” he said, trying to smile, though it did not last long. “I am now the heir to being the next Marquess of Whithead, and yet it is a position I never coveted. Nor did I want the glory nor the taxing nature of the business, in truth.” He scratched the stubble on his jaw uncomfortably.
“I see what you mean about expectations. They are heavy on your shoulders indeed.”
“I know,” he said with a sigh. “It may not be my natural calling, but I am determined to do right by my father and by James. He was my brother. I will do the job as well as I can, but there are aspects to the position that I do not welcome.”
“Such as what?” she asked.
“Marriage, for one thing,” he said, shaking his head. “The long hours working, for another.”
“What is wrong with marriage?” she asked, frowning a little. “I myself have always had complaints about the idea, but I imagine they are rather different to your own.” She didn’t like it because she would be signing herself over to the power of a man, losing all freedom forever, but for what reason could he have to dread such a thing?
“My father has very particular ideas of what a Marquess’ wife should be,” Lord Northrive said slowly. “Let us say it differs from my own ideas, yet I have no choice. To do my duty, I must marry who my father deems right.”
“Then for that, I am truly sorry, and I feel I can sympathise with it, more than I can say.” She smiled sadly at him, realising for the first time perhaps how wrong she had been.
She had thought before that what limited her freedom in life was being born a woman, born to a position of expectation. Yet before her was a gentleman, the heir to being a Marquess, who was just as trapped as she had been.
In the end, it seemed being born a man or woman did not specify whether you were trapped or not. It was their parents and the expectations that rested on their shoulders.
This realisation made her stand a little straighter as she noted how sad Lord Northrive’s expression had become. She was determined to cheer him up after dwelling for so long on an unhappy subject.
“My lord, look at the horses,” she said, pointing to the animals that were preparing to set off on their race. “I’ll bet you a glass of port this evening that the small chestnut on the far side will throw his jockey before the finishing line.”
“You cannot possibly know that,” Lord Northrive said with a chuckle.
“No? Wish to take that bet?” she said, already noting to herself the way the jockey was struggling to get his feet into the stirrups.
“You have a deal.” Lord Northrive had just shaken her hand when the race started, and the jockey was thrown instantly from his saddle. He laughed heartily, thoroughly cheered up. “Thank god I didn’t bet anything greater than a glass of port!”
