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R oland Garner, Marquess of Thorpe and eldest son of the Duke of Mariton, had been in Town for several seasons. Had one gone round from drawing room to drawing room, inquiring into the ton’s impressions of the gentleman, one would have heard the following:

“He is terribly reserved.”

“Keeps things close.”

“Reserved.”

“Aloof.”

“Reserved.”

“Reticent.”

“Very reserved.”

He was well aware of the impression he made, and equally aware that the ton did not know why he made it.

Under his tightlipped mien, he was a morass of conflicting feelings.

He had learned, early on, that a marquess, or any man, should not be ruled by his feelings.

Or, if he was to be ruled by them, they should probably not be so violent in their strength.

When he’d been younger, his brother Charles had informed him of it in a hundred humiliating ways once he’d spotted the weakness.

Perhaps their duke would not have noticed that his eldest son was a rather feeling individual if Charles had not been always hanging about, pointing it out, and showing himself to be entirely the opposite in the temperament department.

How many times had his father counseled him to be more like Charles?

That did not happen these days, but those occasions were burned into his memory.

Of course, his father only saw one side of his second son.

Charles kept his ugly side well-disguised when he was in view of anyone he considered of any import.

To the wider world, Charles was a suave and jocular Corinthian with smooth manners.

Roland knew what he really was, though. He was spiteful.

Charles was endlessly dissatisfied with finding himself the second son.

Roland was certain Charles thought he ought to be the duke’s heir and he was assiduous in trying to point that out to the duke.

There was no particular point to it. It was not as if the duke could simply nod to who he wished to inherit the title.

Rather, Charles satisfied himself with forever attempting to display his superiority. It soothed him somehow.

At least that unpleasant fellow was far away from him just now. Last he’d heard, Charles was carousing on the continent somewhere, likely gambling away vast amounts of the duke’s money.

Havoc, Roland’s rather lazy mastiff, sat at his feet and laid his heavy head on his lap.

He occasionally glanced at the drawing room doors, hoping somebody would come in with a tea tray.

At those moments when a tray did arrive, Havoc would put on a performance worthy of Drury Lane—longing looks, round eyes, and drool dripping to the carpet until he’d secured a biscuit or two.

His butler, Quinn, came in with the brandy.

Of course, naming him the butler was slightly misleading.

Quinn had begun as one of his tutors when he was very young.

Then he’d acted as valet, and now he acted as butler.

Really, though, he was a friend, a mentor of sorts, and the person who knew Roland best.

Pouring out two glasses, Quinn sat down and contemplated him. “You really ought to get married,” he said.

Roland nodded, as it was no surprise he said so. He’d been saying so for the past two years.

“I fully intend on wedding soon,” Roland said, “it is just the past seasons, well, the ladies, I have not found…”

“What is it, exactly, that you look for but have not found?”

That was a very good question. He hardly knew how to articulate it.

He’d made such an effort to present himself as other than what he was.

It had seemed necessary to present a mask of manly disinterest and stern looks, to appear as he imagined a marquess must look.

It had worked all too well—society viewed him as the reserved heir to the duke.

He could see very well that there were certain ladies who admired his reserve.

He did not know what they saw in it, but they saw something.

The problem was, it was not him. It was all a charade.

He was not the emotionless lord he pretended to be.

If he wed one of those ladies, was he to continue the game for the rest of his life?

It would be impossible. As it was, he sometimes rode into a lonely area of the park at dawn to shout at the sky, his pent-up feelings needing to be released.

“You ought to loosen up when you’re out and about,” Quinn said.

“Loosen up? How does one loosen?”

“I was not aware of how you were in society until you held that dinner here last season. That was a head scratcher, I can tell you. I kept thinking, who is this man who does not resemble the man I know?”

“Reserved, you mean.”

“Wound tight.”

“I do not see what else I am to do. I cannot very well go round being myself.”

There was a quick knock on the door and a footman hurried in with a letter on a silver salver. “This just came, my lord. From the duke.”

Roland nodded. His father sent letters monthly to inquire into the same matter Quinn was interested in—when was he getting married? The old soldier would be here in person, haranguing him about it, if he did not despise London so much.

“He’ll want to know if you are getting married,” Quinn said.

“He always wants to know that.”

Roland tore open the letter and perused its contents.

Thorpe—

How do you get on? Have you proposed yet? If not, get on with it. At this point, I’ll welcome any lady with any sort of connection to a title at all. My ideas of shooting high have been knocked down by the ravages of time. I’ll even take a baronet’s daughter.

By the by, Charles has returned to our shores.

He wishes to attend the London season. He writes that he is determined to wed so I have agreed to hand over Marshall Downs, as it is not entailed and he’ll need something to support a family.

Do not let him beat you to the altar, you’ve got the advantage there—you’re to be a duke!

I told him he ought to go to the house, he’s got rooms there, after all. However, he was determined to lease a set at The Albany. I’ve paid for it, so I presume that’s where he’s gone. At least have him for dinner. The two of you may not be fast friends, but he’s your brother, after all.

I look forward to hearing you’ve contacted the archbishop for a special license!

Mariton

Roland laid down the letter. “Charles is here.”

Quinn glanced around as if he might find Roland’s brother hiding behind a sofa.

“Apparently, he wishes to wed and has come to Town to find his bride, so my father has promised him Marshall Downs,” Roland said. “Oh, and he thinks we should have him to dinner.”

Quinn downed his brandy. “If I know your brother, he looks at the marriage mart as some sort of competition between you. He’ll wed the first lady who will have him to be able to say he beat you to it. It will be a pointless victory to everyone and only of relevance to whatever goes on in his mind.”

Roland nodded. It was precisely what he thought himself.

Charles was forever setting up competitions that Roland refused to participate in, and then proudly proclaiming himself the victor.

He understood why Charles did so and he could not say what his own feelings would have been to go through life as the spare.

He sighed. He did not wish his brother ill. But he did not wish him in the same town either.

*

Charles surveyed his set at The Albany. He’d known his father would come through for him. Very predictably, His Grace had at first insisted that he could stay in the Grosvenor Square house—his brother would be happy to see him.

Of course, Thorpe would be anything but glad to see him.

He felt just the same. It would put him in a very bad frame of mind if he were forced to view Thorpe lording it over the household and him being only of second importance.

Thorpe was the marquess and he was only Lord Charles.

To be the second to land on the sheets was a thorn in his side that could not be pulled out.

It would further annoy him to be always in the same house with Quinn.

That butler had been around forever in one capacity or another.

The fellow was fond of handing out his counsel when nobody had asked for it.

Or at least, Charles never asked for it.

Thorpe seemed a willing enough pupil, though he could not see why.

A second son’s burden could not be remedied perhaps, but that did not mean he could not arrange things conveniently as he saw fit.

The Albany would be very comfortable. From there, he could take his shots when the opportunity arose.

He could be a thorn in Thorpe’s side when he chose it.

After all, his brother had all the luck—he ought to feel some heavy winds on occasion.

He found it relieved his feelings to take the marquess down a peg.

He’d written the duke that while the offer to stay in the London house was very generous, he was afraid his presence in Grosvenor Square would make his brother too anxious. He would not like to fray the marquess’ nerves in such a manner, as they were so delicate to begin.

He’d said something like it a hundred times before. He was the bold one and the duke’s heir was…unfortunate.

A hundred ways to say he would have made an excellent duke, but there they all were, stuck with Thorpe.

Thorpe, the boy who would weep for days after his horse had to be put down.

The boy who was so upset over a house maid sent away after she was found to be with child that he’d gone into the duke’s library and stolen fifty pounds and taken it to her.

The boy who, even after he was caught and punished, fretted that he might not have stolen enough for the girl.

The man he’d become was just the same and he was ridiculous.