Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Good afternoon, my lord.” The haughty servant had a French accent Marlow suspected was exaggerated, if not altogether fake. Still, he kept him on for he was discreet to a fault and excellent in matters of style and grooming. “The butler has notified me that your parents have arrived to call upon you.”
“Damn it,” Marlow muttered. His butler would have sent any other callers away with delicate excuses, but his mother and father?
“They await your arrival in the parlor,” Pierre continued. Of course they did. “If you should like me to assist in your…”
His voice trailed off as he considered Marlow’s bruised visage and hungover state.
“In making you ready to join them,” he finally finished, “I should be happy to.”
“That’s what I pay you for,” Marlow huffed under his breath.
August took his leave while Pierre laid out clothes and then carefully shaved his mangled face. He could hear his friend exchanging niceties with his parents downstairs on his way out. The Lockridges must have told them about his bungled request to marry Rosalind. Would his humiliation never end?
He presented himself in the parlor a short time later, clean and dressed but still not quite together. His mother gasped when she saw his face. “George, what have you been up to?” She came to him, her distinctive amber eyes widened in dismay.
“Nothing good,” he admitted. He embraced her, looking over her shoulder at his father. He and the Earl of Warren were like enough to twins, people said, except his father was older, and of course, far less of a mess. He sat down with his parents, relieved when his butler appeared with refreshments. At least someone knew how to discharge their duties in a traditional, respectable way.
His mother stirred her tea while his father sat back in his chair, crossing one booted leg over the other. He regarded his son with a speculative tilt of his brows. “The Lockridges called upon us yesterday evening,” he began.
“About that…”
“If you’ve been toying with Rosalind’s affections, you’re less a gentleman than I suspected.”
In his shame, he could not meet his father’s eyes.
“It was not… I was not toying.” He blew out a breath. “If you’re speaking of the kiss, it was entirely innocent. No one saw us.”
“If they had, you’d have ruined a young lady’s reputation,” his father said sternly. “You were careless and, frankly, disrespectful.”
“I apologized to her family.” He bit his tongue. “You know I have the deepest regard for Rosalind, and she for me. It’s grown these past few months and I suppose when we found ourselves alone together, we became…carried away.”
“You must understand how delicate a situation this is,” his mother said, her gaze troubled. “We’ve counted the Lockridges as our friends for thirty years.”
“I know, but they were not friendly to me.” Some of the frustration of the last day came out in his terse tone. “They rebuffed my offer of marriage though Rosalind clearly wished for it. In fact, they forbade me to court her. It was insulting.”
“They were taken aback by your proposal, son. Since when are you of a marrying mind? Do you think you would suit one another?”
All this talk of suitability. He’d heard it until he was sick with it and now his own father threw it in his face. Marlow stood and started to pace, stalking his well-appointed parlor like a wild creature in a cage.
“Darling,” said his mother, addressing his father. “Perhaps there are tender feelings to be considered.”
“Tender feelings?” Marlow made a noise that came a bit too close to a snarl. “What I feel, what Rosalind feels, is not important to anyone but us, apparently. The Lockridges will betrothe her to the highest bidder, the loftiest aristocrat available, which is not me.”
“No decisions have been made about Rosalind’s future,” his father said, his level tone making Marlow feel all the more out of control. “But when she does marry, I expect it will be a steady sort of aristocrat, yes. Someone suited to her sedate temperament.” He looked pointedly at Marlow’s wrecked right eye.
“Well, I have made a decision.” He stopped moving and faced them, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m going to India.”
His mother gave a shocked gasp. “India? Why?”
“To get away from England for a while. I doubt I’ll be missed.”
His mother pressed a hand to her mouth. His father took her other hand, steadying her as he turned back to him. “If you go to India, you’ll be missed by many who love you. Have you thought this through, son, or are you influenced by disappointed feelings? How long will you go?”
Long enough to forget her. Long enough to escape the humiliation of not being good enough. “Five or six years, I warrant. Perhaps I’ll go by way of Egypt, travel those countries and learn more about Eastern cultures. Perhaps I’ll visit the villages of Mama’s youth.”