“M ama, what would you think if I married a Briarwood?”
Callum’s mother sat at the breakfast table, sipping her tea in her dressing gown. She lifted her chin, took him in, arched a brow, and drawled, “Must you?”
“I don’t know if I must , Mama,” he returned as he strode in, “but it’s certainly a possibility. I met one last night, and she is quite the fascinating creature.”
“They’re all fascinating creatures, my dear. But the Briarwoods? Really? The family is…well, I suppose better than most and possibly…”
His mother cocked her head to the side, her silvery blonde curls spilling to the side. “Possibly the only ones who might be able to tolerate you.”
He plunked himself down at the breakfast table, stretched his booted feet out, grabbed a slice of toast, slathered it with butter and gooseberry jam, then masticated it ferociously. “Mama, how can you possibly say such a thing about your beloved son?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, my dear, you are my beloved son, which is exactly why I can say such a thing about you. I would never wish to foist you upon a silly young chit, but you must tell me now: Which Briarwood girl is on the market? I haven’t really been paying attention.”
Of course his mother hadn’t. His mother led a rich, wonderful life. He did not have to worry about her much, for which he was very grateful. His mother and his father had raised him to be strong and independent.
She was strong and independent.
And though the years after his father’s death had taxed her greatly, she had at last emerged from the shadows of grief to take on her role as a woman in society with, well, vim and vigor.
She had one of the most successful salons in the city, where intellectuals and philosophers came to talk every day, and she kicked out anyone who was tiresome, boring, or rude.
Still, he was happy that she lived in his house. They both had faced the world alone after his father’s death. And both of them, independent as they were, had needed each other.
They still did.
It was his duty to take care of her.
“Miss Cymbeline Briarwood,” he said. “She is about to have her first Season. That makes me a trifle nervous, but I definitely think she could be a match for me. I thought I’d call upon them this morning and see.”
His mother abruptly put her teacup down, leaned forward, and said, “Miss Cymbeline Briarwood?”
“Yes,” he said.
“My dear, you amuse me. Indeed you do.”
At that, he arched his own brow. “Whatever do you mean, Mama? Don’t you like her? Do you know something?”
“I don’t like her. I am in awe of her. And I’ve certainly heard a great deal about her.
While she has not made her debut, my dear, she has been to many a party in society.
And I can tell you this right now. If you want her, you best claim her because she will have a list of gentlemen to choose from.
She’s a Briarwood, she’s wealthy, she’s beautiful, and she’s intelligent.
She will get another duke or an earl. I guarantee it.
Or perhaps an extremely wealthy American.
One never knows. Those Briarwoods are quite odd. She might prefer that.”
“How could she possibly prefer an American to me?” he protested, buttering another slice of toast, refusing to be daunted.
“Well, my dear, they are quite strange. Many Americans are already in the family.”
He snorted. “If I ask her, she’ll say yes.”
“Why do you think so?” she drawled.
“Because you should have seen the way she looked at me from under her wig.”
“Her wig?” his mother repeated as if she was afraid to ask further questions.
He waggled his brows. “I can’t tell you the details. I promised I wouldn’t get her into any sort of trouble.”
“My dear, you have not ruined a Briarwood.”
“For all my antics, I don’t do such things. You know that.”
She let out a long sigh. “Yes, I am grateful that you are still in tune with my hopes for you.”
“I could never ruin anyone, Mama. If I did, I could never meet you at breakfast because I know you’d poison my tea.”
She gave him an approving smile. “Good. I’m glad that we have firmly established that. I don’t mind you going out there, being wild, and doing whatever you please. But, my dear, you must never be cruel.”
He smiled at her. “I know, Mama, and you have raised me well. As did Papa.”
Her eyes darkened for a moment with deep sorrow at the mention of her husband.
He hated that sorrow. He hated to see her sad, and so he raced, “What do you mean she might choose another duke?”
She blinked her tears away and said, “Well, there is another duke on the market, you know. He might be looking for a wife soon. He’s a widower and—”
“Bloody hell, Mama. He could never possibly compete with me over Miss Cymbeline Briarwood.”
His mother gave him a wry stare and adjusted the ribbons on her dressing gown. “Don’t be surprised, my dear. All I can tell you is that if you want to marry Miss Cymbeline Briarwood, don’t wait. If you like her, marry her.”
“But, Mama,” he said softly, “what if…?”
His mother paused for the first time that morning, letting herself be truly serious in a way she generally did not. “What if what, my dear?”
He put down his toast and wiped his hands on the linen napkin. “What if I’m too much for her? What if she can’t keep up? What if she hates the way I live?”
His mother drew in a long breath. “If anyone is going to keep up with you, and possibly admire the way you live, or at least get on with it, it would be a Briarwood,” she said.
He nodded, relief sliding through him, for he’d feared he might never find a woman to truly love him as he was. “It could be fun to be attached to the Briarwood family, don’t you think?”
She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose so. Sylvia, the dowager duchess, is quite a character, exceptionally interesting, and has raised all her children well, and they have raised their children well too.” His mother pursed her lips.
“Except I fear that if you have children with Cymbeline, one of them could end up on stage as an actor or as an activist or running about the world doing God knows what.” But then she smiled.
A deep, happy smile. “You must do it, my dear. You must ask her.”
“Don’t you think that I should give her a tryout?”
She began to laugh. A rich, rolling, bemused sound.
He frowned. “You find me particularly amusing this morning.”
She wiped at her eyes. This time, they were tears of humor.
“Did you not listen to a word I said? Of course you can give her a trial, my dear, but don’t be surprised when she decides to pick someone else.
A girl like Miss Cymbeline Briarwood? I do hope you did not suggest to her that you were going to put her through her paces to see if she’d make a good duchess. ”
He frowned.
“You did,” she exclaimed. “You did do such a thing.”
“Yes, I suppose I did,” he groaned.
“Well, you’ll be lucky now if she says yes at all.”
“No, Mama, I won’t because she liked me well. She saw that I could be good for her too.”
She leaned forward and took his hand. “Then I don’t see what the dilemma is.
Dukes don’t need to call on ladies for long periods of time, especially with someone who is so close in standing.
Go over at once. Give my regards to Dowager Duchess Sylvia.
Give my regards to the Duke of Westleigh.
Tell them I think it’s simply marvelous that Miss Cymbeline is beautiful and accomplished, and I can’t wait to have her as my daughter-in-law, and I shall retire to being a dowager duchess with good grace.
I have lots and lots of diamonds. She’ll love them all. ”
“Mama,” he said softly, standing and crossing to her, “you are the very best in the whole world.” And he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“I know, my dear,” she said. “But it is rather lovely to hear it.”
“So, you do give your blessing for me finding a wife this Season?”
“I think it’s sweet that you want my blessing at all. You could do whatever you want.”
“Yes, I could,” he said softly, “but I know that you know me better than most and would tell me if I was putting my foot wrong.”
And she would. She had in the past. He didn’t always listen, but she understood him in a way that no one else did, and he was grateful for it.
Most people weren’t close to their mothers.
Most lords he knew were closer to their nannies or their tutors, but not himself.
He’d always been close to his parents. They’d been a merry band against society, living as they pleased.
Now, it was just himself and her, and he’d always been rather afraid that when he did go to find a wife that it wouldn’t go well, that he’d have to pick someone who would never understand him or approve of him or be able to see the world that he saw.
But perhaps, as he’d suggested to Cymbeline, this had been fate. Perhaps he had gone to the theater club on purpose, as if he’d been directed by some unseen hand, to find the woman who would be just right for him.
“Now, my dear, you best go get ready. You don’t wish to keep her waiting.”
“I’m a duke,” he drawled. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to keep anyone waiting?”
“Of course, you’re allowed, my dear, but you must deal with the consequences if you do. If it was me, and I was you, I’d get my hand in before she was even on the market and someone else might have a look.”
“Well, Mama, if that’s what you think, I agree with you. Still, I worry.”
“Don’t worry,” she insisted, her love for him apparent, as was her concern that he did not believe that he could find love. “You are wonderful, and I’m sure she is too. There will be no need to have regrets.”
He drew in a long breath. Then he stepped back and strode out of the room.
It was going to be a very busy day. He started running up the stairs, calling loudly for his man, “Shepard.”
Shepard, his manservant, a fellow of about forty-five years old and incredibly experienced at boxing and sword fighting, came thundering down the hall.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
He was not the typical sort of manservant that most lords had. There was nothing stodgy about him, nothing reverential, and nothing deferential. Callum didn’t have time for such nonsense. He wanted a man who could not only take care of his clothes, but who could be blatantly honest with him.
“We’re getting ready for an important event. Get the best things out. I think I’m going to ask someone to marry me today.”
Shepard gave him a single look and then let out a cheer. “At last, the duke shall have a duchess, and all London shall be in raptures of enjoyment.”
“Shepard, that feels a bit exuberant even for you.”
“As you’ve taught me, Your Grace: What is life without exuberance?”
“Yes, but surely, you should have a little bit of reserve.”
“No, Your Grace. I should not. This is the day I have been waiting on for years.”
“My God, you make me sound as if I’m quite long in the tooth,” Callum said.
“Well, the moment you turned eighteen, most of us have been counting down, waiting for you to find your wife.”
“You needn’t be so blunt about it,” Callum said.
“You always insist I should. And I’m quite pleased. Let’s get you upstairs, get you dressed, turned around, and then off to the young lady’s house.”
Callum let out a laugh. “Right.”
He was glad Shepard was neither reserved nor afraid to be blunt. It’s what he loved about the man.
They charged up the stairs together, headed down the long hall, turned into his dressing room, and Shepard went to work.
Within a few moments, he was turned out in a beautiful set of clothes that Shepard thought the very best. Not too showy, not too colorful, serious but rich.
His breeches clung tightly. His boots were polished as brightly as mirrors.
His burgundy waistcoat was embroidered with gold.
His white cravat was pressed to within an inch of its life and tied with just the right amount of attention.
It was not too fussy. The cravat pin in his cravat gleamed, and his long coat, something he preferred, swirled about his legs like an echo of power from long ago.
“What do you think?” he asked Shepard.
“The lady would be a fool to say no.”
“Don’t say such things,” Callum said. “I always feel such declarations are courting difficulty.”
Shepard looked at him, then suddenly blurted, “Don’t bunk it up.”
“What?” he asked, shocked. That was extremely honest, even for Shepard. “Good God, man, what do you mean? Tell me before I do indeed bunk it up .”
Shepard cleared his throat. “Your Grace, you are one of my favorite people in the entire world.”
“Thank you, Shepard.”
“But you occasionally bunk things up. People don’t always know if you are jesting or serious, so you must be serious with her.”
“I don’t know. She seems to like to be amused.”
“Well then, amuse her, but make her understand that this is what you truly want.”
“But, Shepard,” he said softly, thinking of what he’d said earlier to his mother, “what if she marries me and it all goes terribly wrong?”
Shepard gave him an indulgent look, then said with great gentleness, “Oh, Your Grace, of course it will go wrong. Marriages always go terribly wrong. Life always goes terribly wrong. But then it rights itself again. So, don’t worry about it.”
He gave Shepard a wry look, then headed back down the stairs.
After all, what could a man say to that? Did all marriages and lives go wrong?
He thought about his father. He thought about the way he planned to live.
Yes. Shepard was right. It would all go terribly wrong. It always did. And so, he’d have the very best time until that moment happened.