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“Drinking, gambling, womanizing.” The duke shook his head.

“With all the advantages you have been given in life, the rank, privilege, and wealth, you choose instead to live the life of a ne’er-do-well, without purpose, without restraint, without basic morality.

I raised you to be a noble gentleman, a peer of the realm, and this is how I’m repaid for my efforts. ”

He regarded his son shrewdly. Trevor held his ground beneath that razor-sharp gaze. He also wisely held his tongue.

“I expected more from my only child than a son who’s retreated from the world,” the duke concluded. “Who has retreated from me.”

Trevor’s fists clenched, but he forced himself to remain calm. Father and son had already had this discussion many times, and the end result had never changed. Trevor continued to live his life exactly as he pleased, and his father continued to vehemently disapprove.

“You have accused me of being an overly licentious man, yet that is clearly an activity I certainly cannot pursue without venturing forth into the world.” Trevor slowly released his clenched fist. “Please do make up your mind, sir.”

The marquess’s response squarely hit the mark, but his father had no opportunity to vent the anger that visibly rose to the surface, for a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” the duke called out.

The butler appeared, leading a procession of footmen, each carrying a silver tray. He bowed solicitously toward his employer, then gave a polite nod of greeting to Trevor.

“Would you care to eat by the fire, Your Grace, or do you prefer the window overlooking the south garden?”

“The fire.”

The first footman set down his laden silver tray and stepped forward. Under the keen eye of the butler, the servant efficiently moved a round wooden table near the fireplace and positioned it between Trevor and the duke.

The moment it was set properly in place, the next footman moved ahead. His arm muscles bulged under the weight of the tray he carried, which held an assortment of china plates, linen napkins, silver cutlery, and crystal goblets.

The table was quickly laid out with the proper plates, cutlery, and glasses for a five-course meal.

There was even a small cut glass vase filled with fresh flowers to serve as a centerpiece.

Trevor watched in slight amazement as the staff bustled about with deft precision.

He knew his father had a well-trained staff and Harper, the butler, was known to be a hard, yet fair, taskmaster.

Yet the proficiency displayed came not only from good and proper training, but from experience. Obviously the servants had performed this task numerous times before, for no detail was left to chance.

But why would they be serving meals in the drawing room when the house boasted a formal dining room, two smaller dining salons, and a breakfast room?

Did his father dine alone so often that he had begun to forsake the vast, cold formality of the dining room?

Were the even slightly smaller dining salons so unwelcoming a place to partake of a meal on one’s own?

Could his father possibly be lonely? The thought forced a rather distressing observation on Trevor’s conscience.

To distract himself from these unsettling thoughts, the marquess turned his full attention to the servants as they uncovered the various dishes.

A savory soup of fresh vegetables, tender chicken stewed in wine and flavored with thyme, thick slices of cured ham, poached Dover sole, creamed potatoes, peas, marzipan tarts, strawberries, and the requested lemon cake were all displayed with dignified formality.

Trevor attacked his meal. The food was piping hot, perfectly seasoned, and delicious. Though he would never admit it to his father, the marquess realized it had been a long time since he had eaten such fine food. He soon found himself savoring every forkful.

When he joined his male companions for supper, they were far more interested in the quality of the brandy, the quantity of wine, and the availability of the serving wenches for entertainment after the meal than the variety or quality of the food.

Realizing he could not possibly swallow another bite, the marquess at last settled his fork upon his plate.

He looked up and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.

The duke had apparently finished. His plates and cutlery were already cleared from the table.

All that remained before the duke was a half empty goblet of wine.

The footmen removed Trevor’s dishes, but at the duke’s command left a second bottle of wine and the goblets.

As he faced his father across the table, Trevor realized his apprehension as well as his hunger had been appeased.

Partly due to the excellent bottle of wine he and his father had consumed, no doubt.

“I want you to attend Lady Dermond’s ball tomorrow evening,” the duke announced abruptly. “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Trevor blinked. The goblet in his hand began tilting. Catching himself before the red liquid spilled out and stained the linen cloth, he set the crystal to rights. “I have already made plans for tomorrow evening.”

“Break them.”

“I could not possibly on such short notice.”

“If you had answered my summons immediately, as I requested, you would have had ample time to make your excuses.” The duke scowled. “I have told several people, including the hostess and the lady you are to meet, that you will be in attendance. I want you at that ball.”

“Matchmaking, sir?” Trevor arched his brow at an insulting angle. “I thought only desperate maiden aunts and scheming mamas indulged in that distasteful task.”

“Don’t turn your nose up at me, boy,” the duke responded with an indignant sniff. “You were singing a far different tune when I paired you with your first wife.”

His wife! The unexpected mention of Lavinia caught the marquess unawares, igniting once again the tormenting ache in his heart he tried so desperately to control.

A rush of painful memories flooded Trevor’s mind. Her sweet smile, her merry laugh, her loving embrace, the pale, cold stillness of her lifeless body. The endless questions and recriminations that had haunted him for years once again felt fresh and raw.

He drew in a deep breath. Over the years, Trevor had kept well hidden from his stoic father the suffering and heartache, the agonizing guilt he felt every single day.

“I am not interested in acquiring a wife,” Trevor stated forcefully. “Besides, you know well my opinion of these unmarried young women. I have no intention of wasting an evening by furthering the acquaintance of this year’s crop of shrews, ninnies, or milk-and-water misses.”

“The woman I have in mind for you is older, more mature,” the duke countered. “And she is no fool.”

“Ahh, that means she must be formal and cold.” Trevor shuddered visibly. “I repeat, I am not interested. In the least.”

Ignoring the disgruntled expression on his father’s face, Trevor rose to his feet. “I thank you for your hospitality this afternoon, but you must excuse me, sir. I am already late for another appointment. Please extend my compliments to Cook. The meal was delicious.”

The marquess bowed formally, then turned on his heel. As he exited the room, Trevor told himself the expression of hurt and disappointment on his father’s face was merely an act, an attempt at manipulation that was going to fail.

The marquess repeated those words in his mind as he walked through the long picture gallery, while a multitude of ancestors and former dukes stared down disapprovingly at him from their gilded frames.

His feet moved rapidly down the winding staircase, increasing speed with each step.

Upon reaching the cavernous entrance hall, the marquess told himself yet again that his father’s distress was feigned, his lack of protest at Trevor’s refusal to attend the ball merely a ploy to prey on Trevor’s guilt.

It was not until he burst outside into the fading afternoon light and filled his lungs deeply with a breath of cool, fresh air that Trevor was able to admit the truth.

Despite the discord, strain and general imperfection, the relationship he had with his father was something the marquess valued greatly. And though he was loath to admit it, his father’s opinion mattered. Strangely, it mattered very much.

Lady Meredith Barrington sat alone in Lady Der-mond’s ladies’ retiring room, staring doubtfully at her reflection in the mirror.

She adjusted her diamond ear-bobs, then lifted her neck to admire the matching diamond necklace that graced her throat.

The jewels were her mother’s, borrowed for this madcap evening.

Meredith had hoped they would lend an air of sophistication to her evening ensemble.

She realized belatedly what she really needed was a dose of courage.

Her new gown was a deep shade of blue, cut daringly lower than any other she had ever worn. It was gathered beneath the bodice and flowed down the lines of her body with simplicity and grace. Despite the changing fashion, Meredith had insisted the skirt of the gown be left unadorned.

She had always preferred simple styles without the fripperies of lace, bows, embroidery, or beading, but it had taken her years to convince her modistes she was not trying to economize on her outfits by leaving those items off.

Yet tonight Meredith almost wished she had a few rows of lace or a collection of bows to draw attention to the skirt of her gown, for the simple, unadorned style made her look taller and more curvaceous.

With a sigh, she stood up and twisted from side to side, critically observing the sway of material as she moved.

The fabric was sheer, and if viewed in the gleaming candlelight at a particular angle, the distinct shadow of her body could be seen. Meredith let out a nervous giggle. It was most definitely not the type of ensemble worn by a spinster.