Hawk and his mother perched on the edge of their squabs as their coach inched along the enormous queue of carriages leading to the Grenville townhouse.

Due to their inability to reciprocate invitations by hosting fêtes or afternoon teas at their own home, he and his mother had long avoided society events. But the Grenville musicale was different. Not only was everyone who was anyone certain to be in attendance, even those in no danger of ever being granted an Almack’s voucher were welcomed inside for the musicale of the Season.

Lord and Lady Grenville were as proper as any member of the aristocracy, and the reason why so many members of the ton had accepted that first invitation to something so trite as a musicale.

Their four Grenville siblings kept very different circles of friends. Dahlia the charity headmistress, Bryony the incorrigible hoyden, Camellia the scandalous opera singer, and Heath the mysterious secret-keeper. One never knew who might receive an invitation to take a seat amongst this crowd for an unforgettable night.

The one thing that was certain, was that anyone who had ever witnessed the musical Grenville siblings perform would do anything in their power to ensure they received a second invitation.

He turned to smile at his mother as the carriage wheels wobbled forward. “Are you looking forward to the performance?”

“I wish it weren’t the only invitation you’ve allowed me to accept all Season,” came her tart reply. Her bright eyes focused on the river of fashionable gentlemen and elegant ladies streaming up the walk to the Grenville front door.

Hawk did not reply. There was no point in mentioning that this had been the only invitation on the mantel. Or that it would likely be their only public outing all Season, before they returned to the country so he could stop paying expensive London rents.

Tonight he was not here to argue, but to be a good son and a respectable marquess. The latter was far more challenging than the former.

Every eye in the receiving salon would quickly note each minute, substandard detail about him and his mother. Although they wore their finest, there was no hiding the faded colors, the outdated fashions, the thin gloves.

Hawk had trimmed his hair just for this event and starched his best cravat within an inch of its life. Mother had spent so many hours curling and pinning her hair, he feared the intricate ringlets would be baked permanently to her head.

They could only hope to take their seats quickly, lest the eyes of passersby have a greater opportunity to travel from the tops of their coiffures to their patched hems.

“Come,” he said when it was finally their turn to alight from their carriage. “Let us enjoy the evening.”

She smiled as she allowed him to hand her down from the coach, and the excitement in her eyes outshone the recent pallor in her cheeks.

For this, Hawk was grateful.

According to the most recent doctor, mother was unwell due to a depression of the mind that sapped her spirit. She was too thin because she was not eating, too pale because she never left her bedchamber. The cure was not medicine but a reason to enjoy life.

The diagnosis was a dagger to Hawk’s heart. If he had the money, he’d escort her to every ball and fireworks display and theater performance London had to offer.

But he didn’t have the money. Not yet.

Not for a long while.

His skin prickled with a cold sweat. Twenty-four hours was almost up. And with Simon investigating the Cloven Hoof…

As far as Hawk knew, Gideon’s ethics might be questionable, but his business dealings were perfectly legal. But what if they weren’t? What if there was some “i” not dotted, some “t” uncrossed, some law shamelessly thwarted, and the “guaranteed” exponential return disappeared in a puff of smoke?

Hawk could not take such a risk. The port was his future.

Rather than tie up his finances for another year, he would have to withdraw from Gideon’s latest scheme and divert the vast majority of his earnings toward completing construction.

The sooner the port opened, the sooner the marquessate could be fully self-sufficient. Hawk would finally be free of debt. Free to court Faith. Free to truly live.

But until then… Hawk bit back a sigh. He would simply have to make do.

Even without investing funds with the Cloven Hoof, his friendship with Gideon was stronger than ever. In fact, as soon as the port opened, the Cloven Hoof would be one of Hawk’s key connections to help spread word about the new opportunity to moneyed gentlemen with shipping interests.

He fervently hoped his brother’s investigation was not trying to bring it down.

Hawk tilted his gaze toward his mother and nodded. He was making the right choice. Along with aiding in the port’s launch, withdrawing the two thousand pounds would ensure he could provide for his mother’s health. Perhaps even purchase her a few small luxuries. A new bonnet. A pot of chocolate.

Mother’s wish was to live the life she had been, if not accustomed to, then at least promised. She could not bear to lose what little she had left. At the very least, she wished to die with the dignity due her station. Head held high until her dying breath.

Hawk was not ready to think of his mother dying, with dignity or otherwise.

Surely Mother had decades left to live. He would pay off the last of the debts, restore the marquessate’s fortune, give her a line of credit on Bond Street to rival any duchess of the time, marry the girl he’d always wanted, and give his mother more grandchildren than she could count.

It was not too late. Plenty of time.

When they reached the door, the butler did not announce their names. This musicale was not the sort of soirée where the invited guests were the main attraction. The Grenville siblings could put on a performance to rival any stage.

When his mother stepped away to chat with a few friends, Hawk did not follow. His focus was not on the sea of famous peers mingling in the vestibule. The only face Hawk longed to see was that of Faith Digby.

He prowled the crowded room. Surely, she would be here. Dahlia was Faith’s best friend. Even though Dahlia was the only non-musical sibling, her lifelong friendship with Faith meant the Grenvilles were practically family.

And yet he could not spy her anywhere.

When the footmen announced the doors would soon be opening, Hawk was forced to give up his search in frustration.

He found his mother amongst a circle of her old friends and proffered his arm. “Shall we take our seats, Madame?”

“Mrs. Merton’s daughter is a diamond of the first water,” Mother informed him in a pointed whisper. “It would be lovely if she could find a match in her very first Season. She and her mother are quite enamored with the idea of nabbing a title.”

Whoever this chit was, she could not have appealed to Hawk less. “Title-hungry” was not a bedrock of a solid relationship, and “First Season” meant the girl in question could be little more than seventeen years of age.

Hawk still remembered how foolish he had been at that age. He had no wish to wait a dozen years for his wife to grow up.

“I suppose she’s rich?” he asked his mother dryly.

“Only in the best way,” Mother assured him. “Her second cousin is a duke and her grandmother is the daughter of an earl.”

No repugnant connections to trade was the unspoken implication. This money came from the accident of being related to other individuals who had also been born to money. No embarrassing ties to factory or the textiles industry.

“Come.” He placed his mother’s hand at his elbow. “There’s no time for introductions if we wish to be assured a seat for the musicale.”

The horrible truth was that if their circumstances didn’t turn about very soon, Hawk would be forced to consider making exactly the sort of match his mother had suggested.

But how could he think of such things when his head was still full of the earth-shattering kiss he and Faith had shared earlier that week?

Despite heading toward the audience chamber moments after the doors had opened, the huge salon was already packed with onlookers and the only pair of vacant seats Hawk could find were in the last row. He waited for his mother to take her chair, then settled himself beside her.

An excited hush rustled amongst the audience.

He tried not to notice how shabby his clothes felt against the richness of his cushioned chair, or how dull their best outfits were compared to the finery of the others.

No matter how out of place he felt amongst what should be a gathering of his peers, he was thrilled to see the liveliness return to his mother’s face.

She was happy again. Perhaps she was finally in a good enough mood to consider his perspective about Faith.

“You must know, that ‘diamond of the first water’ is far too young for me,” he told his mother quietly. “I much prefer a woman closer to my own age.”

“Many girls wed husbands twice or thrice their own age,” Mother pointed out. “Why should you be so particular?”

Hawk could have laughed. “You are the one who thinks the source of the dowry matters more the girl herself. Be honest. Would it truly be so horrific if the money had ties to trade?”

“Worse than horrific,” Mother said with feeling. “When a dowry has ties to trade, then so does the girl. A Hawkridge would never devalue his title or his family in such a fashion. You would not shame me so.”

“A history of trade does not preclude the possibility of being a good woman from a good family,” he said firmly.

“This conversation is starting to remind me of the sort of balderdash you used to spout when you were a green buck. Do not tell me you’ve developed a tendre for another chit unworthy of your name.”

“Not another one. The same woman,” he said between clenched teeth. “Miss Digby is scarcely—”

“Do not speak her name to me,” Mother interrupted with fire in her eyes. “That unfortunate child did not interest me then and she does not interest me now. Your duty is to ensure your title’s lineage, not sully it with commoners. You should wed Mrs. Merton’s daughter and have done.”

Hawk remained cold. “I don’t even know Mrs. Merton’s daughter. I want—”

“That is not what ton marriages are about.” Mother’s lip curled. “Your responsibility is to the Hawkridge estate, not to matters of the heart. Didn’t you learn that lesson long ago?”

He clenched his jaw and faced forward, putting a temporary end to the subject.

It was a moot point anyway. Faith might have kissed him in a moment of weakness, but she was far from being open to entertaining the idea of a marriage proposal. Yet he hated the idea that his mother would never accept the woman he loved, even if Faith were willing to be courted.

“There is more to being a marchioness than mere bloodlines,” he said stiffly. “Faith Digby has more intelligence and integrity than any debutante in this room. Being born to ‘commoners’ does not change that.”

“Pish. I don’t give a button if she—” A sudden wracking cough overtook his mother and she tumbled forward, gasping for air.

Alarmed, Hawk wrapped an arm about his mother in an attempt to calm her.

But the coughing did not cease. Heads swiveled as hundreds of rapt spectators craned their necks to find the cause of the noise.

Hawk ignored them. Mother’s coughing spells never lasted this long. Or were so violent.

“Breathe,” he whispered urgently. “Are you all right? Take a deep breath. Please try to breathe.”

When it became clear that she could not stop, he lifted her into his arms and kicked a space between their chairs in order to carry her from the room.

What sort of the spectacle they made, the likelihood of this moment appearing in Betelgeuse’s next caricature on the morning, were none of Hawk’s concern.

Something was very wrong with his mother. Something far more insidious than a depression of the spirits.

When she finally stopped coughing, a fine mist of blood stained her once-white gloves.

He couldn’t wait a year. He needed money now. A pot of money.

He needed Faith.

Hawk swore under his breath. He had wanted to do this right, but wooing Faith would take more time than he had. Yet what choice did he have? If she believed his motives remotely mercenary, Faith would refuse to give him the time of day, much less her hand in marriage.

And if he couldn’t convince her his love had never waned…

Then he would absolutely have to marry any title-hungry debutante willing to have him.