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CHAPTERTWO
Fergus stared out the window in his library. From the second floor, he had an excellent view to the east, looking over the mansions, theaters, and gardens of theton. In the dark night, lanterns glowed in the streets and candlelight spilled from the grand windows. His brow knitted together, thinking of the girls laughing as they danced, the men wooing them.
Reminded of his wounds by a pang in his brow, he reached up to touch the scars. Even though his skin healed years ago, occasionally he got caught off guard by inexplicable pains. Dreaming of the smell of gunpowder and smoke, he would wake with his face on fire, the shrapnel still deeply embedded in his face. He would touch the tender skin, find himself whole, then struggle to go back to sleep.
Or, almost whole.
When he returned from France, he thought he would be welcomed back as a hero. Instead, everyone except his mother recoiled in fear after the bandages came off. He attended those glittering parties, but the laughing girls met him with barely concealed shrieks of horror.
Tracing the gouges with his fingers, he laughed, shaking his head. No, no one treated him like a hero. In this mansion in the west, he felt content to live outside of society, away from the laughing and stares, the shrieks, and barely concealed horror.
“Your Grace?” Fergus turned toward Simon, only to realize that he had forgotten his mask. He quickly reached for it.
“Your Grace, do not worry about your mask on my account,” Simon protested.
“You should not have to be subjected to this ugliness,” Fergus said, tying the laces behind his head deftly.
“May I remind you that it was your mother and I that tended to you? Changed your bandages and kept your wounds clean? I have seen you at your worst; you need not worry about me.”
“Still,” Fergus insisted. With his face hidden behind the mask, he nodded to Simon. “What can I do for you, Simon?”
“Nothing, Your Grace. I was just passing by and noticed you brooding again. I thought I would check on you.”
“Brooding,” Fergus laughed, turning back to the window. Simon walked up beside him to look out the window alongside him. “I am not brooding.”
“I see you looking toward Kensington,” he pointed out. “It is a Saturday evening, and surely you received some invitations for any number of parties. It is the height of the season.”
“The last time I attended a social affair, a girl fainted upon seeing me,” Fergus smirked. He turned to the older man, trying to make his smile seem nonchalant. “I think it rather a curtesy to not attend; do you not think?”
“You cannot lock yourself away forever,” Simon countered, giving him a stern look. “You are young yet; you should be enjoying the company of others your age.” Fergus did not reply. He looked down from the glittering manors of Kensington to the gardens below them. His mother’s headstone shone bright white in the moonlight. The stone angels flanking the headstone seemed ethereal, almost alive. Around her grave, the peonies she had planted were in full bloom.
“Your Grace?”
“I need to find a wife,” Fergus said suddenly with determination. “Mother wanted me to find someone and produce an heir. Continue our line. How can I do that when no woman wants to even look at me?”
“Perhaps you could reach out to the fathers of eligible women?” Simon suggested. “I am sure there would be someone looking for an advantageous match with a Duke.”
Fergus shook his head. “Entrap a lady in a marriage with me when she has no say? No, I am not so cold as to do that.”
“It is not uncommon, especially for a man of your station. I believe your grandmother was instrumental in matchmaking your mother and father.”
“I do not want to be married to someone that would be miserable by my side. Mother never admitted it, but she did not love my father,” Fergus insisted. “It could have been worse, though. I could never expect someone to be happy to marry me, but I would at least prefer to be wed of the lady’s own choosing.”
“Perhaps you could find someone of poor eyesight. I heard that the Earl of Dover had a blind daughter,” Simon suggested. Fergus scoffed, trying not to laugh at Simon’s suggestion. He knew that Simon was trying to be helpful, but the absurdity just felt like mockery.
“Oh, even, write to someone in the country, someone not known to come to London for the season. Correspond in private and make her fall in love with you,” Simon continued.
“This is not a game!” Fergus growled, irritably. “This is not some fairytale, Simon! This is my life, and it is a nightmare.”
Simon pressed his lips to a thin line. “I am not sure what you expect, then, Your Grace. If you do not venture out into society, you cannot expect to find some woman who might tolerate you. She will not just knock on your door and ask you to marry her.”
“I am not saying that,” Fergus sighed.
“Have you attended a party since you started wearing a mask?” Simon asked. “Even just a dinner?”
“No.”
Simon sighed, shaking his head at him. “You are in a poor mood this evening.”
