A Rake's Ruin (Devilish Lords #1)(52)

No, the matter could not be put off any longer. He perused the list of handwritten names, which were neatly categorized by status, wealth, and influence. Their positive traits were clearly labeled in a separate column, followed by a column for disagreeable attributes. His mother had taken her task seriously, and now he was left with a list of candidates who were discussed in such a manner that he found it difficult to remember that he was choosing a wife and not a broodmare.

Lady Regina Phelpott, one entry read. Daughter of Albert Phelpott, Earl of Everley, and his wife, Lady Margaret Phelpott, née Humberton, daughter of the Marquess of such and such…and so on and so on. He skimmed over the remainder of the woman’s lineage, which read like a chapter from the Old Testament. And Pharez begot Hezron, and Hezron begot Aram…

He turned to the next page. There were many pages. Too many. He sighed as he flipped through them. Far, far too many. His mother had outdone herself.

Were he the sort to analyze such things, he might have noted that his mother’s new, nearly pathological interest in his choice of wife was a means of focusing her attention on something—anything—other than the fact that she had lost her husband of thirty-six years.

Were he the sort, he might discuss this fact with her.

But a conversation like that required a depth of emotion he did not possess—and neither did his mother, for that matter. His brother, Nicholas, was emotional one, the one who broke protocol and spoke about matters like sentiment and feelings.

Perhaps Nicholas could have a word with their mother when he arrived. Yes, he would have Nicholas see to the matter.

In the meantime, his mother’s hard work was not in vain. He did indeed require an heir and for that he required a duchess. There was no time to waste, and because of that he was grateful for his mother’s list—tedious as the act of reviewing it might be.

Incessant interruptions only hindered the already monotonous task. First his butler, Hargrove, interrupted to inform him that Nicholas and his wife, Claire, had arrived, along with her younger sister, Georgie.

“Yes, yes, very good,” he’d said. And it was good that they would be staying at the family home this season. Ostensibly they were staying with him and his mother because Nicholas and Claire were looking for a London townhouse of their own, but they’d all agreed that Mother could use the company. She hadn’t been herself since Father passed, and she seemed to enjoy Claire’s company as much as Nicholas’s.

Nicholas might have been the family’s wayward son, up until he’d married Claire, at least, but he’d always been diverting. Charming. Loveable. All of the things that Rhys was not.

He heard the distant cacophony of people moving about, of luggage being brought in, of female voices. He heard it all from his study but did his very best to ignore it.

But then Hargrove was back, hovering in the doorway once more.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “What is it now?”

“Lord and Lady Nicholas would like to know if you will be joining them for luncheon.”

He frowned. He hardly ever ate in the afternoon, and never with company, his brother knew that. “Tell him to go ahead and eat without me. I will see them later for dinner.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“Hargrove.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“My mother did plan the menu for this evening, did she not?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

It should have gone without question. His mother had been running this household for ages without so much as a falter in her stride. She could do it with her eyes closed, and often had when she suffered from a debilitating headache and was bedbound.

But for the past year since his father’s passing, his mother had been acting strangely. Almost as though she was not certain of her role in this household any longer. Try as he might to convince her that she was still necessary—more than ever, in fact, as he was still adjusting to his new role—she continued to make vaguely depressing comments about how she would not be around for much longer or how she was no longer the mistress of this home.

She was still the mistress, of course, though she would not be for much longer. He glared down at the tedious document his mother had put together. As long as he could finish with this research without further distraction.

Some time passed during which the chaotic sounds of his guests’ arrival died off. He assumed they were finding their rooms and getting situated. He was free to study the document and read each entry with fixed attention. A few more hours of this sort of quiet and he might make it through the first half—

Just then the thought was interrupted by the sound of laughter. High-pitched and musical, it jarred him from his reading.

What on earth?

But just as quickly, he remembered. His guests. Nicholas was a bother, but he was his brother. He didn’t mind having him here. And Claire…well, Claire was a delight. Quiet and sweet. Unassuming, even.

He was still uncertain what Claire saw in his brother.

But that was a mystery for another day. Because they’d brought a third member in their party, and he knew without having to look that it was her laughter that had distracted him. Miss Georgette Cleveland loved to laugh.

Claire had told him this after their wedding as they’d stood on the sidelines talking while her new husband whirled Georgie around the dancefloor in a waltz. Georgie loves to laugh, she’d said, as if that were a good thing. She’d said it with pride, but Rhys had accepted it as an apology. That’s quite all right, he’d said.