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Matthew slapped a palm on the desk and stood. “Excuse me, Mother, but I will be out for the remainder of the day. Probably the evening as well.”
His mother struggled to her feet. “Where are you going?”
“White’s. Which is one place I know you cannot go.”
Matthew left the study, long strides carrying him to the main staircase of the house and down to the ground floor. In the entrance hall, he found the family butler, Stephens, waiting with his top hat and a light cloak. Matthew stopped, peering at the butler, one eyebrow raised.
Stephens did not flinch. “It has been rather cool in the evenings, my lord.”
“So it has.” Matthew reached for the top hat, placing it on his head, then reached for the cloak, draping it over one arm. “Please tell Fincher I will be late.”
“Of course, sir.”
“So do the servants know everything that is going on in this house?”
“We try to, my lord.”
Matthew had to smile. “I am sure you do.”
Stephens opened the front door for him, and Matthew trotted down the fourteen granite steps that led from Embleton House to the pavement. He paused to take a deep, steadying breath. He knew the walk to White’s would help soothe his temper, but he also wondered if he would ever reacquaint himself with the rhythm of being a duke, of calling for a horse or a carriage whenever he wanted to leave the house. Of having people like Stephens or his valet Fincher taking care of almost every need. Of having them suddenly appear at his elbow if he so much as touched his cravat.
Matthew had been too long the soldier. Too long caring for himself and others. Too long existing on the battlefield, where—as a colonel—he had an aide, but he preferred the camaraderie of his men to the ranks of the other officers. Too long on his own. Mark had been there as well, returning to take part in the investiture. Odd to think of Mark, the rough officer who was known for his humor and courage, his pranks, and his devotion to his men, as now the heir to the duchy.
Hisheir.
Good God.
Matthew let his strides lengthen, stretching his legs, pushing himself a bit, trying to shake off the smothered feelings that had begun to consume him in the past few weeks. A cloying sense of being drowned in the perfume and silk skirts of his mother and sister, the constant questions from his younger brothers, the paperwork and demands of an estate left in chaos by the death of his father. Not that Robert Rydell, Duke of Embleton, had been a bad manager. Far from it. He had hired the best of stewards, solicitors, and agents, and the properties owned by the estate had been handled with skill and care. But Robert had been healthy, a lean and athletic man who sat a horse like a king and had a firm voice well respected in Parliament.
No one, especially not his sons, expected him to die before his dotage. Especially not in a freak accident, cracked on the head by a clay tile that had slipped from the roof of Embleton House. A reminder that war was not the only event that could cut short the life of a good man. Life was, in fact, brief, cruel, and unexpected.
As Matthew turned toward St. James Street, he tried to shrug off such melancholy, this wallow of self-pity so unlike his usual mood. But for years, he had followed his own desires, did what he wished where he wished and with whom he wished. He had known he would one day be duke, but he had planned for that to be a distant future, in his late fifties perhaps. Even sixties, if his father had lived as long as his grandfather.Thatduke had held the reins of the duchy until he was eighty-two, dying in the bed of his latest—and obviously last—mistress.
So Matthew had followed his passion—fighting alongside General Arthur Wellesley, now the Duke of Wellington—and not looked back. Now Napoleon was in exile, Wellington had been made an ambassador, and Matthew was a duke, with all the duties and responsibilities that came with the title. At only thirty-seven. A change made more complicated by his mother’s waging a campaign worthy of Wellington himself to get Matthew to marry. Immediately.
Matthew held no objection to bedding a woman he barely knew—he had done that quite often in the past—but to be strapped to one the rest of his life? Just to sire an heir? The thought filled him with more shivers than the sound of cannon fire.
Matthew passed between the twin pillars at the base of the steps of the club and almost pranced through the entrance. He handed his hat and cloak to one of the White’s butlers, acknowledging with a quick nod the welcome of “Your Grace.”
He still had to get used to that, as well.
This time of day, the club was sparsely occupied, and Matthew sank down in one of the soft leather chairs in the first room he came to. A low fire burned on a nearby hearth, yet another reminder that the year remained cooler than it should have. He settled in, ordering a brandy, a cigar, and a newspaper. The conversations were sparse and civilized, adding to the already serene and masculine ambiance of the club.Ah, to be among the company of men!
The warmth of the brandy mingled with the calming taste of the cigar. Matthew’s stress began to ease, and he disappeared into the news of the day.
Until Mark dropped into the chair next to him and thumped the back of the paper. Matthew lowered it, glowering at his brother. “Why are you here?”
“You left me alone with Mother. It forced me to take drastic action.” Mark grinned. “How do you feel about love?”
Matthew snarled. “It’s an indulgence for the lower classes.” He raised the paper again.
“So you are not expecting to find love in Mother’s little scheme to get you wed?”
“I do not plan to indulge in Mother’s little scheme. Period. Now go away.”
“What about a dowry?”
“Unnecessary. I’ll be glad to show you the books. I do not need to mar—”
