To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(2)

Yes, midnight hair would be preferable—

His sister clapped her hands once. “Do attend me.”

Marcus thrust memories of Eleanor to the furthest recesses of his mind. “Forgive me.” He inclined his head. “You were saying?”

Lizzie let out a beleaguered sigh, and continued. “You are in want of a wife. She is in need of a husband.” Ah, so his sister did know of the dismal financial circumstances her friend’s family faced. Lizzie beamed. “Isn’t that how most wonderful, romantic tales begin?”

“I would not know,” he said, droll humor creeping into his tone. “I’m not in the habit of reading your gothic tales of forbidden love.” He’d tried love in real life once and that foray had proven a remarkable disaster.

Lizzie gave a roll of her eyes. “It is not always forbidden love.” She brightened. “Why, more often, it is a wealthy duke and an impoverished young lady coming together and finding love. Why, what is a more romantic match than that?”

“Indeed,” he drawled.

Lizzie swatted his arm.

Pointedly ignoring her daughter, Mother turned her attention to Marcus. She folded her hands primly before her and spoke like all the tutors she’d personally hired for him through the years. “I do not merely want my children to make a suitable match, though I do. I care for you to make a love match.”

His sister was nothing if not tenacious. “Oh, he could very easily love Marianne.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. He’d not disabuse his romantic sister of her na?ve notions. After Eleanor’s betrayal, he’d learned the perils of trusting his heart to a woman. No, when he ultimately married, it would not be because any emotion was involved—which was why Lady Marianne represented the ideal match. Emotionally aloof, she seduced with her eyes, and revealed a jadedness that matched his own. He could easily imagine that temptress in his bed, but there was little risk of his heart being involved.

“Oh, do stop scowling, Marcus,” his mother said patting her mouth with a crisp white napkin, bringing him back to the present. “You’ll hardly catch any young lady with that terrible glower.”

He sat back in his chair and propped his elbows on the arms. “Oh, and are there young ladies expected or hiding even now in this house who I need worry about at this given moment?” he drawled.

His mother promptly choked.

He narrowed his eyes. “Mother?”

“Do not be silly,” she squawked and in an entirely un-viscountess like move, she shoveled a heaping pile of eggs into her mouth.

“She is lying,” his sister said under her breath.

Marcus cast a glance over at his sister.

“But as long as she is parading ladies before you, I needn’t worry of her parading prospective bridegrooms before me.”

Temporarily distracted from his own impending dire situation, he gave Lizzie a wry grin. For the almost twelve years between them, they’d always been remarkably of like thought where their mother was concerned. It appeared those likenesses extended to the realm of marriage. “Never tell me you are the only lady in the kingdom to not want a husband,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

“Very well, then I shan’t tell you.” Lizzie grinned.

“What are you two whispering about?”

Brother and sister spoke in unison. “Nothing.”

His mother muttered something under her breath about the woes of being a poor mama to troublesome children. Fighting a grin, Marcus took another swallow of the contents of his glass. As annoyed as he was with her for sharing his marital plans with the whole of the ton, she was a good mother determined to see him happy. As such, it was hard to—

“All children require a bit of guidance on the path to marital bliss,” the viscountess persisted.

Marcus promptly spit out his brew. At his side, Lizzie’s slender frame shook with mirth and servants rushed forward with cloths to clean the mess. “M-marital bliss?” he sputtered. Good god, is that what she would call it?

“Marcus,” his mother scolded. “Oh, do not look at me like that, Marcus. I daresay I prefer you charming to bitter.”

Scolding, she was always scolding. Since he’d been a boy of three pilfering pastries from the kitchen to a man of thirty. “You know it is my expectation that you’ll find a young woman who makes your heart happy.”

He sighed. Even when he’d stated his intentions to wed. No, one could never please a mother. “I will tell you clearly what would make my heart happy,” he mumbled.

His sister snorted and then at their mother’s pointed stare, promptly buried the sound into her palm. Perhaps she would be suitably distracted by mention of Lizzie’s unwed state.

“Must you be so cynical?” the viscountess scolded. Again.

Marcus swallowed back the bitter rejoinder on his lips. He’d not discuss the reasons for his cynicism before his mother, his sister, or anyone. No. No one knew the foolish mistakes of his past and the reasons he’d no intentions of trusting his heart to a headstrong, passionate lady—not again. “I am a rogue,” he said instead, managing his patented half-grin. Yes, he’d been the rogue for so many years. So many that he no longer knew any other way, nor did he care to.

“You are hopeless,” his mother sighed. “Surely you’ve a desire to know even a dash of the love your father and I knew.”