“I would like to see them wed out of doors,” the Duchess was saying. “But I cannot be certain that the weather will cooperate with my wishes.”

“Certainly, Your Grace, there is room enough inside Nightingale for such an event.” Tabitha Oliver breathed, looking about the manor house with awe, which infuriated Ewan.

“Does it much matter where you hold this farce?” he spat angrily, sauntering past them. “The result is the same, is it not?”

The ladies stopped speaking, startled by his abrupt arrival.

“Lord Peterborough,” Tabitha murmured, curtseying. “I did not realize you were here.”

“This is my home.” He had no cause to speak so harshly with his future mother-in-law, but Ewan’s anger was displaced. Phineas was conveniently unavailable following the announcement of the engagement. Even Prudence made herself as scarce as possible, but it was decidedly more difficult for the Duchess when there was a wedding to be planned.

“Miss Oliver sends her regards,” Tabitha offered, flushing uncomfortably at his brusque response.

He didn’t face her. “Lovely.”

“It is a shame that she will be unable to join us before the nuptials,” the Duchess sighed, eying her son warily. She did not know what was likely to spring from his mouth, and for his part, Ewan was unsure why he remained in the salon, glowering at them.

It had been three weeks of restlessness, the decision to honor the engagement gnawing at his gut with vigor. After his initial fury had somewhat diminished, Ewan knew that his choice in the matter had been effectively removed. He was betrothed and resigned to accept the inevitable.

That does not mean I need be content with the situation, he decided.

“Ewan, is there a matter on your mind?” The Marquess remained rooted in place.

“A drink, Mother.” He grumbled. He nodded toward the corner and did not immediately recognize the man. There had been an influx of new staff since the marriage banns had been read.

“Who are you?” His voice was harsh.

“Gerome Buffond, Lord Peterborough. At your service.”

“Fetch me a scotch.”

“At once, My Lord.”

He moved to the ladies and raised an eyebrow.

“So, I am expected to wait until the wedding before I lay eyes upon my blushing bride, am I?” Tabitha visibly swallowed and forced a smile.

“I daresay there is an air of romance to that concept, do you not agree, Mrs. Oliver?” the Duchess intercepted before Tabitha could respond. “It fared well for the Duke and me.”

“I agree,” Tabitha appeared relieved to have an ally in the matter. “My daughter would have liked nothing more than to have been received by your House before the wedding, Your Grace, but I fear her travels will not permit her return on time.”

“Where is it she has gone precisely before our union?” That Henrietta Oliver was on a journey so close to such an important day did not bode well with him.

“She visits a sick relative,” Ewan saw through the lies Tabitha was offering.

“It is no matter.” The Duchess cast her son a withering gaze. “Miss Oliver will be here for the wedding.”

“Of course, she will!” Tabitha replied.

“Of course, she will,” Ewan mimicked, accepting the drink Gerome offered. Henrietta is being purposely kept from me, but why?

I wager she is plain or insipid. Possibly both. They are concerned I will run from Nightingale screaming in rejection. I imagine her face will be heavily veiled until it is far too late to recant my offer, even though the offer of marriage was not made by me.

“Would you care to offer your opinion on any of the matters pertaining to the wedding?” Tabitha was already wincing as she anticipated the resounding “NO!” apt to fall from Ewan’s mouth. He snorted in contempt.

“I am certain the Duchess will suffice in planning the event impeccably. She has a knack for plotting, after all.”

He moved toward the doorway with drink in hand, but he did not miss the look of devastation on his mother’s face. Ewan stepped into the hall, but he did not venture far.

“You must forgive Ewan.” The Duchess sighed. “The death of his first wife and their child has taken a rather destabilizing toll upon him. He is quite charming beneath that harsh façade.”

“I find him quite charming as he is,” Tabitha replied and Ewan grimaced.

She lies as easily as I drink this scotch. She seems to be well-versed in deception. I wonder if her daughter is the same.

“Ewan will warm when he sees Miss Oliver, I am certain. I hear she is a comely girl.”

“She is!” Ewan could hear the pride in Tabitha’s voice.

Still, I already have gleaned she is a liar. How can I be certain she speaks the truth about my betrothed?

He idly wondered if Henrietta was unhappy about the impending union, then this is the reason she had not materialized for a proper introduction.

I should insist on an engagement party to make matters more complicated. He jested but dared not act on it. Ewan was upset, yes, but he was not ill tempered, nor did he desire to make the marriage any tenser than already destined to be.

“Is something amiss, My Lord?” Gerome was surprised to see the Marquess lurking by the wall.

“No.”

Embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping, Ewan hurried away from the foyer, his head down. He’d never admit it aloud, but he had purposely made his presence known in the parlor where the ladies were gathered, hoping to glean more knowledge on the woman he was to marry. It was a natural quest for a betrothed to want, even if he was vehemently opposed to the idea of getting married again.

He moved toward the study. His father was in London on business that morning, and so, he retreated inside to sit behind the massive desk. In his youth, Ewan felt a surge of power when he claimed his father’s chair but that day, it made him feel helplessly inept. His life had been occurring around him as he mourned, and he had been too shadowed by grief to notice.

One day, when I am Duke, I will not force my child to marry anyone he does not choose. Even though his marriage to Patricia had also been arranged, they had known each other prior to the union. He had fallen in love with her sweetness, her kind heart, and her desire to please him. Ewan vowed he could never feel the same about another in his lifetime.

I still must be married. What might Patricia say if she were alive? She would have me marry again, I am certain.

The belief in his dead wife’s approval didn’t alleviate the guilt and sadness in his heart. Ewan had already learned it was bound to remain forever.

He pressed the glass to his lips and stared blankly at the wall, permitting the alcohol to warm him. The skies had turned grey again, and temperatures dropped substantially in the past week. Holding the ceremony out of doors was out of the question, regardless of what his mother wanted. October was drawing to a close, and November was upon them. Before he blinked, he would be married, and it would be time to erect a Yule tree.

It will be but two Christmases since I lost Patricia. How can it be that long when it is all still so fresh?

The gentle rap on the door provided a welcome distraction to thoughts threatening to engulf him. Ewan could not succumb again to the darkness.

“Enter.”

Gerome, the new butler appeared.

“May I fetch you another drink, My Lord?” he asked, bowing his head properly.

“Yes.” Ewan watched the man move forward with elegant strides. “Do you hail from France, Gerome? You have the slightest indication of an accent.”

The butler paused, looked at him, and raised his brow in surprise.

“Indeed, Lord Peterborough, I was born in France. You have quite a sound ear—if you will pardon the pun.”

Ewan chuckled.

“I find languages fascinating,” he explained. “Or else I likely would not have detected it. I would not have guessed that English was not your mother tongue.”

“You are most kind, My Lord.”

Gerome moved to pour another scotch, and Ewan sat back against the chair. Inexplicably Ewan felt the urge to converse with the butler. Being the newcomer to the household, he didn’t know the history of Ewan’s melancholy. He was close enough to Ewan’s age of thirty years for the Marquess to feel a level of familiarity, even if they were not from the same avenue of life.

It has been so long since I have had a friend with whom to speak, Ewan regretted. His peers had grown weary of his endless despair, and soon invitations to hunt and play cards dissipated. It was not so much that Ewan regarded the man as a companion but a willing ear.

“Are you married, Gerome?”

Gerome’s lean face twisted in more surprise as he realized he was being spoken to with some familiarity.

“I am not, My Lord. I have yet to find a woman who would have me, I am afraid.”

“You seem able enough,” Ewan commented. “You should have no issue finding a wife.”

Gerome smiled.

“It is not the highest of my concerns at the moment, My Lord. I understand you are to be wed in a fortnight.”

“I am,” Ewan sighed.

“You are not looking forward to your nuptials, My Lord?”

“I have no idea what I am, Gerome.”

The butler did not comment but remained at the foot of the desk, waiting.

“Listen to me, blathering on,” Ewan chuckled. “You may leave if you wish.”

“I am here to serve you, My Lord.”

It was not the answer that Ewan wished to hear, but what could he expect when he forced the man to listen?

“Consider your duties complete. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Gerome did give him one final glance before departing, and the unmistakable glint of pity in his blue eyes made Ewan bristle.

He should save his sympathy for someone else. I am not an object to be pitied.

Ewan decided in that moment that he would not allow the household to see weakness in him again—including Henrietta Oliver. Straightening his spine, he inhaled and downed his drink in one swallow.

No, he said firmly to himself. I do not require his sympathy. He should save that for Henrietta Oliver. Her arrival to Nightingale will not be well-received.