S imon settled into the rigid chair in his grandfather’s study, his posture as straight and formal as the severe lines of the desk before him.
The room was a shrine to somber reflection, every inch polished to a meticulous shine.
Portraits of long-dead ancestors glared down at him from their gilded frames, each face etched with disapproval for any deviation from duty.
The weight of expectation hung heavy in the air, thick as the damask drapes that shielded the room from the comforting light of day.
His grandfather’s summons had been a succinct, though non-revealing, note. Since Simon hadn’t exceeded his income in the past three years, and it was even longer since he’d seen the friends with whom he’d pulled several pranks at school, that left only one topic of discussion.
Marriage.
His grandfather’s silhouette loomed large in front of the window, the earl’s back turned toward Simon as he detailed the state of his properties, all of which would one day be Simon’s.
Then he got to the point, turning to face Simon. “It’s time you took a wife.”
Simon’s jaw clenched, a visceral reaction to the words that seemed to echo through the room. “I am scarcely five-and-twenty. There is time yet before such measures need to be taken.”
The earl leaned forward, his gaze piercing as if it could carve the very thoughts from Simon’s mind and lay them out upon the desk between them.
“Time, my boy, is a luxury we do not possess. Your father was but thirty-four when consumption took him. Your uncles fared little better, all with poor health and your siblings... well, you know the sorrow that befell our house.”
Simon didn’t need his grandfather to list everyone in their family who had died tragically young.
He’d lost an older brother and younger sister, both before they’d reached their teens.
His mother succumbed to a fever just before his twentieth birthday, leaving him alone, other than his grandfather, who’d never been a nurturing sort.
“Secure the lineage, Simon,” the earl urged, his voice a blend of command and entreaty. “For the sake of our family, for the future of Staplegrove.”
Simon’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he prepared for the discussion he knew was coming.
They discussed his future from time to time.
He didn’t want the type of marriage his grandfather had.
To marry without love, to bind himself to a stranger for the sole purpose of producing an heir—it was anathema to all he desired.
Yet as he looked into the eyes of the earl, he saw not only the reflection of his own apprehension but also the fear of a legacy extinguished.
The echo of his father’s laughter, the ghostly memories of his uncles’ wisdom, and the fleeting joy of siblings lost too soon swirled around him, a chorus urging his acquiescence.
The earl took a seat behind the desk, resting his elbows on the polished wood, steepling his fingers. “I had initially contemplated a match with Lady Vivian Crestwood?—”
A distant cousin, Simon recalled, whom he had met once at a summer ball, a pretty sort with little conversation to recommend her. His chest tightened at the prospect, the walls of the study seeming to inch closer with each word Grandfather uttered.
“However,” the earl continued, oblivious to Simon’s growing discomfort, “I have since considered a more advantageous match.”
Simon’s breath hitched. This was not the life he enjoyed—bartering his happiness for lineage, his future traded like livestock at market. He fought to keep his expression placid, though internally he raged against the notion of such cold pragmatism dictating his heart’s fate.
“Sir Edward’s daughter, Miss Anne, is to make her debut in the spring. An alliance with their family would be most beneficial. His father lived to be eighty-three.”
The words struck Simon like a winter chill cutting through the heavy velvet drapes.
A young woman—a stranger—whose name was now being etched into the ledger of his destiny without so much as a by-your-leave.
His mind rebelled at the image conjured.
He’d end up standing beside a bride whose eyes held no spark for him, whose touch would never stir the deep well of passion he yearned to explore.
“Her dowry is substantial, and her breeding impeccable,” Grandfather pressed on, as if listing the qualities of a prized mare rather than a wife.
Simon’s hands flexed, the joints hurting from being fisted so tightly.
The very idea of laying claim to a woman he did not know, could not love, felt akin to donning a suit of armor that would suffocate all that lay within.
Yet, he could not let the turmoil show. It would serve no purpose but to deepen the rift between duty and desire.
“Your considerations are most thorough, Grandfather,” Simon managed. He’d been to London during the Season and had met some lovely ladies of the sort the earl sought. They were well-mannered, excellent dancers, and would be proper wives.
They wouldn’t fit into the life he preferred. He envisioned a woman who shared his love for such pastimes as fishing. A woman whose laughter blended with the bubbling of the river, whose delight in the simplicity of country life matched his own.
Xenia’s face came to mind. If this imaginary woman were daring enough to slip from her garments beside the river, her skin kissed by sunlight as he partook of her beauty, all the better.
Her spontaneity would ignite a fire within him, a fire that only grew as she glanced over her shoulder with an impish smile, inviting Owen to join in their secluded revelry.
The thought of Owen being part of that tryst sent a shiver through Simon. The shared pleasure of pleasing her, watching her surrender to the dual sensations they provided—it was a thought both scandalous and intoxicating.
That type of activity was fine now, he admitted, while he was young, but he needed a woman of his own to bear his children.
Xenia’s father being a baker placed her worlds apart from the noble or gentile lineage his grandfather insisted upon.
But her spirit, unconfined by title or wealth, ensnared him far more profoundly than any pedigree could.
How could he tether his life to another when every fiber of his being clamored for Xenia?
Somehow, he needed to find someone he could love as well as Xenia. Although, it wouldn’t be fair to his wife if he imagined the dark-haired beauty each time he bedded her.
A better idea would be to convince his grandfather to accept Xenia.
Simon inhaled deeply, schooling his features into a mask of attentiveness.
The resolve within him coalesced into a silent oath.
He wouldn’t mention her today. Instead, he would craft an argument so compelling that even this bastion of tradition before him would have to concede.
After all, love was a force that even the most rigorous of pedigrees could not ignore.
He absorbed his grandfather’s words, each one a chisel shaping the future he was expected to carve. “I understand the gravity of the situation, Grandfather,” he said.
“Good.” The earl leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the apparent submission. “We must ensure the succession. There is no room for dalliance.”
“Of course,” Simon replied.
“Very well,” the earl concluded, oblivious to the storm he had stirred within his grandson. “I trust you will act accordingly.”
“Indeed, I shall.” Yet his thoughts already drifting to the moments he would steal with Xenia, with or without Owen.
“I shall write after I’ve spoken with Sir Edward.” The earl’s voice cut through Simon’s reverie.
Simon rose, his posture impeccably erect, betraying none of the tumultuous desires that raged within him. With a respectful nod, he left.
Outside, the crisp afternoon beckoned, offering a reprieve as Simon mounted his horse.
He welcomed the familiar creak of leather and the soft snort from the horse beneath him.
With a gentle nudge, they set off toward home, the rhythmic cadence of hooves upon the path a soothing balm to his frayed senses.
As the landscape unfolded, villages nestled between grassy fields, Simon’s anticipation swelled. His thoughts raced ahead to next Sunday by the river, where he hoped to see Xenia again. In his mind, her laughter mingled with the burble of the water, her eyes alight with mischief.
He was surprised by how erotic seeing her nude in the sunlight had been. No blind fumbles after the candle was blown out for her. She’d looked and touched as much as he and Owen had, and not once was she shy or missish, even when the two men had spread her legs, fingering, licking, fucking...
The thought of another Sunday, another stolen moment with her, set his blood afire.
Jealousy, that gnarled root within him, lay dormant at the prospect of sharing her again, but he thought the act of another man being with him in those acts had multiplied his enjoyment.
It made little sense, unless his more prurient side was stronger than he thought.
Also, knowing Owen cared equally for her made a difference.
He wouldn’t want to deprive Owen of pleasure.
With each mile closer to Kinnerton, Simon’s resolve solidified. He’d spend as much time as possible with Xenia, and perhaps she would come to decide she’d rather be with him alone. Owen would still be hurt, but that couldn’t be helped. If it was Xenia’s choice, they’d have to honor it.