Page 18 of A Virgin for the Rakish Marquess

James thought of their banter and how daring it was, borderline improper, but he wasn’t going to disillusion his friend.

“It is a pity she doesn’t wish to marry,” Richard added.

James’s ears perked up. She didn’t want to marry? Interesting. That was what almost all the ladies of the ton were after.

Someone like her, with that fire, destined to be a spinster? No way.

“Ah yes. You called her the jilted wallflower.”

“She is that. You see, there was a man who courted her for a while. A good-looking fellow with good standing. It was common knowledge that he was to propose soon. But at a ball, the man fell on his knees and professed his love for someone else. Before Diana’s eyes.”

“What? He did what?”

“Exactly, my friend. You can only imagine how poor Diana must have felt.”

“And who is that fellow?” James asked, suddenly irritated by the affairs of a lady who was a stranger.

“Who cares? They left London, of course. Since then, Diana renounced marriage, much to her siblings’ dismay. But… after Selina’s stunt—which I still do not approve of—she has started receiving visitors once more. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were to be wed soon.”

That was not the plan. James had made that bid to vex her. To see her flustered. And all the money in the world was worth it just to see her as furious and shocked as she was when he went to claim his prize. To render her speechless as he kissed her hand.

It was a game. A game he won.

And it seemed that his little stunt affected her a little bit more. If she was half the woman she had shown him, she was probably pulling her hair out, having all these annoying callers.

If there was any time to make her patience snap, it was now. Surely, she must be thinking she was rid of him. Oh, he could almost see the look on her face. Priceless.

“Do not worry, my friend.” James stood up. “I will call on her tomorrow.”

“Where are you…?” Richard trailed off as James rushed out.

James climbed into his carriage and went straight back to his estate, still unable to put his emotions in order.

He entered the place he was forced to call home, feeling exhausted. He just wanted to go to sleep and pray that all these weird feelings and thoughts allowed him to do so.

“You are late.”

He froze in the dimly lit hallway. If there was ever a voice he hated to hear, it was the one that came from the small, ground-level study. His father’s voice.

He turned slowly and raised his chin in defiance, his eyes hardening. His father was sitting at his desk, going through years and years’ worth of ledgers. Reports and bills and crop sums, incomes, and expenses.

Those were James’s ledgers. The work he had put in while his father wallowed in depression. And now his father was back, going throughhisestate and dictatinghiscurfew.

“You are late. Again,” his father repeated.

“Quite observant of you,” James uttered. “I could say the same for you.”

The weight of his words filled the space between them, that space filled with unvoiced anger and unresolved issues.

Solomon Bolton, the Duke of Pemberton, shrank a bit under his son’s harsh words. Because they were true. He was late. Late to check the ledgers and late to check him.

James felt a hollow satisfaction at seeing the older man take the sting of his words. The words had hit their mark—he saw it in the slight tightening of his father’s mouth and the stiffening of his shoulders.

Still, when his father got up to stand at the threshold of the study, his back was straight, and his face was cold. James was irked that he looked so much like his father.

“Being late and getting drunk? Is that what will restore your reputation? Your rakish ways may win you some favor with the ladies behind fans, but no respectable family will ever let you near their daughters.”

If James thought he understood what nasty feelings were, hearing his father judging him like that redefined the term swiftly. Blood rushed to his temples, and his heart pounded madly. His lip curled slowly before he took a step forward. Then another. Not rushed, not reckless. Intentional.

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