Page 3 of The Duke’s Last Love

He inclined his head. There was no reproach in her voice, which was somehow worse.

He could imagine how the exchange had looked from her side: two mothers observing every glance, a father attentive to every courtesy, and her brothers near enough to notice his cool demeanor. He had scarcely acknowledged her, much less made any effort to put her at ease. His title might excuse discourtesy in the eyes of society, but it did little to ease his conscience.

He could be civil at dinner. His mother would have to make of that what she wished. He excused himself and went down the hall toward Whitmore, who stood examining a list with one of the footmen. Behind him, his mother spoke. “Really, this is why he needs a wife.”

Tristan’s hand closed around his gloves. He continued walking. Whitmore dismissed the footman as he approached. “Your Grace.”

“Have the Pembrokes’ luggage taken up at once. And if my mother objects to any of the arrangements, send her to me.”

Whitmore folded his list. “Very good, Your Grace.” Tristan took the back staircase to his study, avoiding the passage where the Pembrokes were being shown their rooms. Once inside, he closed the door and put down his gloves. The house was quieter here. An open window stirred the papers secured beneath a brass weight. Among the correspondence lay Sebastian’s third letter since his wedding, still unanswered.

Tristan turned it facedown and reached for the estate report Arthur Collins had sent up that morning. Collins had managed Ashcombe for years and rarely wasted ink, which made Tristan’s inability to finish even half a sentence particularly irritating. He was reading the first line for the third time when the door opened. His mother entered and shut it behind her. He put the report down. “I have work.”

“And I have guests wondering whether they have offended you.” She had not taken a chair.

“Have they said so?”

“They have manners.”

“As do I. They will receive every courtesy while they are here.” He reached for a pen he did not need.

“You might begin by speaking to Lydia.”

“I spoke to her.”

“You addressed her mother and sent her to the gardener.”

Tristan looked up at last. “Would you have preferred that I offered her an afternoon alone with me? You would have found a use for that before we reached the greenhouse.”

His mother crossed to the chair opposite his desk. “I hoped you would give her a chance.”

“My objection is to marriage. You know that.”

“She is intelligent. She has work of her own, and she can hold an opinion without using it to beat everyone at dinner.”

“I am sure she will make someone an excellent wife.” He said it to the window.

His mother sat. Tristan remained standing. The estate report lay beneath his palm. He removed his hand before the paper bore the shape of his temper. “Have they been told there is nothing to consider?”

“They have been told that you have agreed to receive them.”

“I learned they were coming when their carriage reached my door.”

She worked at the fastening of her glove without answering. “I know what you are protecting,” she said.

“Being consulted, apparently.”

“Do not be clever with me.”

“Then do not expect me to marry a stranger simply because you believe it will help me forget what happened to my wife.”

His mother raised her head. The open window admitted the sound of wheels on gravel and, somewhere below, a man calling for help with a cart. The report lay square to the desk, the window stood open to the exact degree he preferred, his gloves lay side by side. His mother had chosen the one subject that made all that order look like theater. He had built his life out of duties he could finish. Marriage could never be finished.

His mother lowered her voice. “I have left her name unspoken because you asked me to.”

“Then leave it there.”

“Silence has kept the peace. It has not given you a life.”