Page 8 of A Single Obsession

Though he suspected that was not because of the tightness of his cravat, but his nerves at having to face his mother.

After tugging at his neckcloth to give himself a little more room to breathe, he practised a variety of expressions, wondering which one was most likely to win her approval. With a look of contrite submission on his face, he climbed the staircase and walked across the corridor to her ladyship’s rooms.

He took a deep breath, knocked on the door, and waited.

A few moments later, it opened, and his mother’s maid ushered him into the sitting room, where her mistress sat at her desk, writing.

“That will be all, Reed,” Lady Harting said, dismissing her woman without raising her head. She kept scratching away with her quill for another minute or two, while Beau stood there, tugging at his neckcloth, which now felt even tighter than before.

It was not until after she had folded her letter with unrushed precision and sealed it with wax that his mother rose from her chair and faced him. The pained expression on her face did nothing to ease Beau’s anxiety, and he braced himself for the torrent of criticism he knew was coming.

“I’ve tolerated your recklessness for long enough, Beaumont. No more. I won’t stand by and watch you throw your life away. Do you wish to follow your father to an early grave? What were you thinking of, jumping that wall? Certainly not your responsibilities. I’ve tried to instil in you what is expected of a man in your position, but you refuse to listen. Your father would have been grieved indeed if a distant cousin inherited his title because you had died without an heir.”

Beau heard the underlying message only too well. His crime was not that he had endangered his life, but that he’d threatened the succession.

With more than a little resentment bubbling under the surface, he repeated what he had said the night before. “There was no risk, Mother. I knew I could clear that wall.”

“What of young Merry who will inherit this estate one day? You must know I’m hoping he will choose one of your sisters as his bride, realising as he does that they would have inherited if they had been boys. Besides, how would I ever have looked my dear Alicia in the face again if her only son was killed following your example?”

Beau tried not to choke on his mother’s words. Dear Alicia indeed. Her studied politeness toward Mrs Merry contained not an ounce of affection. There was no love lost between the two women, on her side, at least. And he failed to see why it was his fault Merry had copied him.

“He cleared the wall safely,” he said, a touch of sulkiness in his voice.

“You are missing the point. Though you both came away unscathed, it could have been a different story.”

She moved to the window and stood in silence, looking out. Beau waited, wriggling uncomfortably, wishing he had not missed his ride. That would have worked off some of his restless energy.

At length, his mother turned round, walked back across the room, and looked him straight in the eye.

“If you are going to risk your life in this foolish manner, it is high time you took a wife and set up your nursery.”

Beau’s heart sank. He might have known she would use this episode to renew her efforts to coerce him into marriage. It was something she’d done before.

He opened his mouth to utter a light-hearted reply, but his mother must have guessed he was not taking her words seriously, because she glowered at him in such a way he shut it again.

“I thought the matter settled to my satisfaction last season, but your reluctance to come to the point left Georgiana open to other offers. I assumed you could win the hand of a mere rector’s daughter, but perhaps I overestimated your advantages. It is a mother’s weakness, to be prejudiced in favour of her own offspring.”

Beau tried not to let her words get to him. His mother had never shown him any such natural affection. Her so-called partiality stemmed from an unerring belief in his rank and fortune, nothing more. She must believe they outweighed the deficiencies she saw in his person.

As for calling Georgie a mere rector’s daughter, it was laughable. If she hadn’t been an heiress, connected to the Duke of Wessex by her grandmother’s second marriage, his mother would not have countenanced the match for a moment.

It was fortunate he and Georgie had agreed they would not suit. Now she was wed to Lord Castleford, and not even his ambitious parent could expect him to court a married woman.

Which begged the question—who would be his chosen bride this season? He ardently hoped it wouldn’t be Miss Whitlow.

“By your father’s will, I control your fortune until you are twenty-five or married. If you continue this wildness, I will have no choice but to cut off your allowance. I trust I make myself clear?”

Beau heard right enough. It was the tactic she always adopted. He had no income of his own. Without access to his inheritance, he could not afford to feed his horses or pay his staff. For that, he was reliant on his mother—and she knew it.

He would have to lie low for a while and avoid provoking her. Was that even possible? His uncertainty must have shown on his face.

“I see you sense the urgency of the situation. I doubt you can control your rash behaviour. You are too like your father. Obsessed with horses with no care for the future. At least he had the wisdom to provide himself with an heir before he threw his life away on the hunting field. I expect you to do the same.”

Beau pondered her words. Was he like his father? Had he inherited his reckless nature, along with his love of horses? His mother seemed to think so—and she hated him for it.

“Do I make myself clear?” Lady Harting repeated, spitting out every word like a well-aimed dart.

“Yes, madam.”