“Promise me to stay away from men like your father. They are nothing but well-dressed cads. Do not let your father’s blood affect your superior intellect. Do not let such men deter you from choosing the right man. Now, let us rejoin the rest of the guests and keep the dignity of the Marlow side.”
Cathy followed the group to the breakfast room, keeping her head high as well as she could muster. However, she could not help noticing that her skin prickled. The whole picture looked pretty, with everyone dressed in their finery, eating delicious food, but there were undercurrents. She knew that their position in society hinged on her grandmother’s and grandfather’s titles, and they might not be enough to keep them steady. Three sisters depended on her to keep their reputations: Madeline, Portia, and Selina.
Oh, how I miss you, Mama, she thought as she settled into a seat in front of a dish of hot rolls, fruit, and lamb.
Her belly would be full, but her heart remained empty.
Chapter 3
“Open this door, Brandon! Right now! If you do not, I have no choice but to break it open!”
Tristan did not care if his voice was echoing down the whole east wing. He merely glared at the frightened housemaid who dropped her bundle of linens after being startled by his voice. The woman ran off quickly. Exhaling with impatience, he pounded his fist against the wooden paneling again when it opened.
“Tristan? Have you lost your mind?”
Finally. Brandon must have been sleeping like the dead.
The door opened, but not as wide as Tristan would want it. Brandon Seffield, Viscount of Farstone, peeped out. His face was pale and sweaty, and his eyes were wide. He appeared to be guarding the rest of his room like a sentinel, with his hands gripping the edge of the door.
“Out here, now!” Tristan ordered, grabbing his friend’s lapel and pulling him out into the hall.
“What is the matter with you today?” Brandon asked, looking completely bewildered.
Tristan did not reply immediately. How could he? He was too occupied by the distraction that was Brandon’s hair. His oldest friend’s hair might not be as impeccable as his own, in his opinion, but today, it was a chaotic nest. It was damp with tendrils sticking to his temples. It was like he had run from Scotland to London the night before. There was a curious twitch in the viscount’s eye, too, one that he had not seen since his friend lost five thousand pounds on a single night at White’s. He looked so jittery, as if his soul might separate from his body.
“What, pray tell, were you doing inside your room?” Tristan demanded. “You look like someone submerged you in the Thames. Are you all right?”
Did he have a woman in bed with him, or was he having a nightmare? The Duke shook his head in disbelief and kicked the door behind his friend shut.
“Why doyoulook like that?” Brandon had the nerve to ask. “You are bellowing in the corridor like a wounded bull. Some of us are still trying to sleep, Tristan. We had a long night.”
“A long night?” Tristan asked, crowding Brandon. He towered over his friend, and it made the other man stiffen. “I woke up in the guest wing of my own wedding party, in a bed that was not mine. The woman I was with looked at me with total disdain, as if I were a thug from the darkest parts of London and not a duke.”
A duke at his own wedding party.
Brandon’s jaw dropped. His eyes darted toward his closed door for a moment before snapping back to his friend.
Brandon was completely stunned, but Tristan studied him more closely. He wanted to see if there was even a flicker of guilt. Was his friend guilty of a prank gone wrong the night before?
Tristan expected Brandon to laugh or rant about his friend’s lack of decorum, but Brandon’s eyes kept darting toward his closed bedroom. The glances were meant to be quick, but Tristan recognized the look of pure horror.
“A woman? You do not mean you slept with your...” Brandon said.
Tristan growled almost inaudibly in his throat. Brandon seemed to be thinking he was with his betrothed, Anne.
“No. I mean... Miss Quinten,” Tristan corrected. “The eldest of the four. I woke up with her hand around my... Imagine me pleased, and then shocked afterward. Care to explain how I ended up compromised during my own wedding party, not with one of theton’sflirts, but with the most horrifyingly proper spinster in London and beyond?”
It was then that Brandon let out a half-laugh, half-gasp. The man had gone from white to red in seconds.
“You? With the Quinten girl? Or rather, the Quinten spinster? That is the one who enjoys spending her nights auditing her father’s ledgers for him while he drinks in gambling hells. Tristan, tell me this is an elaborate lark to escape your impending future? Your wedding is tomorrow. I am afraid there is no more backing down.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes at Brandon.
“Do I look like I am joking, Brandon?” Tristan growled, inching closer. “I do not know what I remember. I remember arguingabout poets, and that does not sound like me. There was a hint of whiskey or bourbon, but then, a dark void.”
“Oh, this is gold. You? With Miss Priggish? Did, uh, you two…?”
Brandon seemed stuck on that detail.