To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(3)

He’d not so shatter her with the truth. The last thing he desired was love. “I’ve a desire to visit my clubs,” he said with a wink.

Lizzie’s lips twitched. “I do wish I had clubs to visit.” She let out a beleaguered sigh. “Alas, there is no escape for an unwed, eighteen-year-old lady.” From behind her wire-rimmed spectacles, a flash of regret lit her eyes.

A twinge of guilt needled him. He didn’t need to read the gossip columns or attend all the ton functions to know his sister’s Come Out had been a rather dismal showing. For her earlier protestations on marriage, he’d wager all his holdings as viscount that his painfully shy in public sister’s viewpoint was a mere fa?ade; a means to protect.

Then, weren’t they all protecting themselves, one way or another?

“They’re all a bunch of foolish arses,” he said quietly. “You’re better off without most of them.”

Lizzie laughed. “Just most of them?”

“All of them,” he replied with an automaticity born of truth.

Swatting his arm, Lizzie gave another roll of her eyes. “Oh, do not look at me. I would far rather be attending your marital prospects.”

“Yes, Marcus,” their mother called out, tapping the table. “Let us do attend your marital prospects.”

He winced. Bloody infernal perfect hearing. She would have impressed a bat with that heightened sense.

“Sorry,” his sister mouthed once more.

He waved off the apology, finished his drink and then set his cup down with a hard thunk. “I am attending my marital duties,” he said matter-of-factly. “I have stated my intentions to wed and do right by the Wessex line. You will have your nursery of little future heirs and spares running about.”

His sister gave him a pointed frown.

“And troublesome sisters to those heirs and spares,” he added with a half-grin.

Lizzie laughed and shook her head. “No wonder you are the charmer throughout.” Then with an implacable look in her eyes, she settled her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “As for Marianne…”

Oh, bloody hell. The last thing he cared for or required was Lizzie’s interference. “I do not need—”

Their mother banged her fist on the table. “Lizzie, that will be all. Marcus,” she turned to him. “I see you require my further help.”

“Your further help?” Marcus winged an eyebrow up.

Lizzie scooped up the forgotten copy of The Times and waved it about. “I believe she references her sharing of your marital intentions.”

Their mother nodded. “Indeed, Lizzie,” she said with the same pride she might reserve a child who’d solved a complicated riddle. “For which you still haven’t thanked me, Marcus.”

Ah, yes. Of course. “Yes, well, there is no surer way to assure a love match than to bandy about my fifty thousand pound worth,” he said dryly. He inclined his head. “Thank you.” For making every last lady in the realm know I’m in the market for a wife. For single-handedly shifting all the desperate matchmaking mamas’ consideration to me.

She fluffed her hair. “You are quite welcome.”

He consulted his timepiece and gave silent thanks for his previously scheduled meeting with his longtime friend, the Duke of Crawford. Marcus shoved back his chair. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, hopping to his feet.

The viscountess let out a startled shriek. “Wherever are you going?”

He stifled a shudder. Goodness, it was moments such as these that made him long for the bachelor suites at his clubs. “I am going to my clubs,” he reminded her. As though following his unspoken thoughts, Lizzie gave him a don’t-you-dare-abandon-me-with-her look. “I am meeting Crawford at White’s.” Any other moment, a meeting with the illustrious, powerful, and entirely proper Duke of Crawford would have appeased his mother.

“Today?”

Not on this day.

“But…”

Which could only indicate… “Surely not…”

She had prospective future brides assembled and ready for a morning visit.

“Surely,” he said quickly. “Business to discuss. The estates. Investments.” Anything. Everything. As long as it wasn’t Marcus’ impending marriage, to an as of yet unselected young lady.

“Do promise you’ll attend The Duchess’ dinner party next week.”

Those words froze him mid-movement. Blast, damn, and bloody hell. He’d quite forgotten the Duchess of Devonshire’s annual, intimate, dinner party. His mother’s lifelong friend who also happened to be Eleanor Carlyle’s aunt. “Er…”

His mother’s mouth fell agape. “You forgot.” She slapped an indignant hand to her chest.

“I…” Forgot. Put it from my mind, just as he did every year, all things and anything, including anyone connected with Eleanor.

“He forgot,” his sister supplied unhelpfully for him.

Marcus yanked at his cravat. “I had other plans for that evening.” Plans, which included avoiding that blasted garish, pink townhouse. Just as he did. Every year.

He made to go when his mother called out in a panicky voice, staying him.

“Marcus,” she said with a smile he’d learned long ago to be leery of. She clasped her hands in front of her. “Promise me you’ll be there.”