to disturb him when the bed curtains were drawn tightly shut.
Carter had thrown the unopened letter at his servant’s head, rolled over, and pulled the covers to his chin. But his sleep had been effectively disrupted and he had been unable to restore it. Rousing himself two hours later, he bathed, allowed himself to be shaved and dressed, then ate a hearty meal. Deciding he could put it off no longer, the marquess reluctantly ordered his horse to be brought around.
The sunshine of the day had initially boosted his mood, but those good spirits diminished as he drew closer to his father’s residence. Grimacing, Carter steered his mount around a tipped vegetable cart, secretly hoping his horse would stop to nibble on the greenery strewn about the street. But the animal kept his head lifted proudly in the air, disdaining the bounty beneath his hooves.
All too soon he reached the doors of his father’s stately London mansion. It was the largest, and the oldest, residence in the square, a testament to his family’s aristocratic ancestry, position, and wealth. Three reminders Carter did not need at the moment.
The same stoic butler who had never failed to intimidate Carter when he was a boy answered the door a split second after the brass knocker fell.
“Lord Atwood.” The butler bowed respectfully. “May I take your hat and coat?”
Carter could not contain the smile that broke through as he divested himself of his outwear. His father’s servants always managed to seem surprised when he appeared on the doorstep, as if he had journeyed from a great distance instead of from across Town.
Then again, most days he felt as though he lived a world away from this place and all it represented.
“Please inform my father that I have arrived,” he said, brushing away an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of his blue superfine jacket.
“The duke asks that you await him in his private study,” the butler replied.
Carter nodded, then held up his hand to refuse the footman’s escort. Honestly, sometimes the formality of his father’s home was not to be believed. He had grown up in this house, well, this house and several other estates. He certainly did not require assistance in finding his way to the duke’s private study.
When he arrived, the room was predictably empty. And ominously quiet. Even the ormolu clock on the mantel barely made a sound as it ticked off the minutes. Restless, Carter remained on his feet, resisting the urge to pace.
Yet the longer he waited, the longer he was forced to review the events of last night in his mind. Dancing with Miss Dorothea Ellingham had been a mistake. She was a newly engaged female; he had no right to be flirting with her, no right to enjoy her company so very much; no right to use her as a way to avoid an introduction to the woman his father had expressly said he wanted Carter to meet.
And not dancing with Lady Audrey Parson last night had been an even graver error. It was that action that brought him to the predicament he faced this afternoon.
Finally, the duke entered the study. He spared a brief glance at his son, then perched himself regally on an ornate chair behind an enormous mahogany desk. Carter settled himself against the very uncomfortable straight-back chair opposite that desk.
“I thought to ask you for an explanation for your behavior last night, but have decided it would be a waste of your breath and an even greater waste of my time. There is simply no acceptable excuse.”
Carter strove to elicit an appearance of calm. Yet all the while, his stomach churned and his jaw ached with the effort it took to keep it firmly shut. Arguments with the Duke of Hansborough were seldom won. Especially when the duke was in such a high temper.
“I was humiliated!” the duke roared at his son. “Made to look like a complete ass in front of half the ton. By my own son, no less.”
“It was not my intention to insult you or show any disrespect, sir.”
The duke’s face darkened. “Intention or not, it was the result.”
“True, I was aware that you wanted me to meet Lady Audrey. Yet there was a crush of people at the ball. It was easy to become lost in the crowd,” Carter said.
“You did it deliberately,” the duke accused, his voice dripping in irritation.
It was the truth and they both knew it. Carter had no ready reply, no adequate defense. He turned the conundrum over in his mind and wisely decided it would be foolish to try and talk his way around his father’s ire. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
The duke hesitated and then apparently saw the sincere apology in his son’s face. Nevertheless, a lecture ensued. Carter barely listened. It had all been said before, countless times. He will run out of breath, Carter told himself. Eventually. Carter waited, soundlessly adjusting the angle of his leg, trying to remain as serene as possible.
Finally, the duke paused. The color on his face was no longer a stark, bright red; it had dulled to a healthy-looking glow. “You shall marry by the end of the Season. I have made a list of females I find acceptable, women who will be able to admirably fill the role of future duchess. Certainly there must be at least one among them that will strike your fancy.”
A list. Hell. Carter reluctantly reached for the piece of paper his father held out to him. With effort, he resisted the urge to crumple it and toss it in the unlit fireplace. Instead, he pretended to carefully study it, though his eyes blurred over the names.
“Is there a particular reason why you feel it necessary to play the matchmaker for me, sir? Do you think me incapable of finding a woman on my own?”
“I am very aware that you have no difficulty finding women. All sorts of women. All sorts of improper women.” His father’s eyes narrowed. “I have left the task of finding a bride to you for several years and you are no closer to matrimony than you were when you first reached your maturity. You will be thirty years old in a few months. ’Tis time, Carter. Past time.”
The marquess squirmed in his chair. It bothered him greatly to disappoint the duke. Far more than he would have liked to admit. Far more than his father would likely believe. He was tempted to reveal that he had reached the same conclusion and would indeed marry by the end of the Season, but that would be a grave tactical error and encourage even more of the duke’s unwanted interference.
“These sorts of things cannot be rushed, sir. Surely you agree this is a most important decision?”
The duke sighed. “I am not a heartless monster. I understand your reluctance. Truly. But I would be a poor father indeed and an even worse aristocrat if I allowed you to become an idle, thoughtless man, one who will never do anything meaningful or important with his life.”
The comment rankled. He wasn’t all that bad. A bit of idleness, perhaps. A bit of gambling, a bit of drinking, a bit of whoring now and then. There were others, many others, far worse. “Forgive me, sir, but I fail to see how a wife will change anything.”
“A proper wife, a family, will give you purpose, stability,” the duke said.
Carter’s brow lifted. He saw no logic in that argument. Some of the wildest, most hedonistic noblemen he knew were married men.
“Yes, yes, I know,” the duke bristled, as though he read his son’s mind. “There are far too many in society who marry for pedigree or fortune and then dally with others. But that is not our way. The Hansborough dukes are honorable men, faithful to their duty, their country, and their wives.”
Carter leaned forward. “Precisely. Which is why I cannot rush the choice of a bride. I need to somehow discover a woman who values me for more than my title or fortune.”
“Then you must seek her out! She isn’t going to just fall into your lap like a ripe plum, my boy,” the duke insisted.
A ripe plum, indeed. More like a rotten apple. Carter sighed. “With all due respect, sir, I have made an effort with the women you have thrust so unceremoniously at me for the last few years. It has all been for naught.”