Page 3 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess
Cynthia had managed to tamehers,of course, slicking parts of it into a complex pile of knotted braids and twists on top of her hair, the front and sides forced into unnatural little ringlets hanging around her face. Very fashionable, and not, in Neil’s opinion, particularly becoming.
Cynthia narrowed her eyes at him, setting down her cup of tea with aclack.
“What are you staring at, Neil? Are you looking at my hair?”
“Perhaps,” he retorted. “You look like a wild tumbleweed, caught in a gust of wind.”
Cynthia made a movement as if she were going to kick him under the table, then seemed to recall that she was a Proper Young Lady of two and twenty and would not stoop to such nonsense.
“Fine talk from a man whose hair looks as though it has not seen a brush this past week,” Cynthia snapped, once she had regained most of her composure.
“That is enough,” their mother interrupted, quelling them both with a glare. “Neil, do not make fun of your sister’s looks. I think she has been through quite enough without that.”
There was a taut, nervous silence after that, spreading over the table like a thick, uncomfortable blanket. He immediately felt guilty. Cynthia had only returned from Bath that week, and it seemed that she was not quite recovered. The papers had finally stopped talking about her broken betrothal, moving on to the next scandal, butshehad not forgotten. Besides, Society seemed to believe that two-and-twenty was positively ancient.
Only for a woman, of course. Neil was seven-and-twenty, and people tended to tell him that he wasin his prime.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” he murmured, chastised. “I didn’t mean…”
“Enough of that,” Emma interrupted again. “I’m glad you came down, Neil, because I have something important to discuss with you.”
He tilted back his head and closed his eyes. A headache was pounding between his temples. Squeezing the narrow bridge of his nose could provide a heartbeat’s relief, but that was all. He could scarcely remember a time when he didnothave a headache.
“Pray tell me, dear Mother, that this matter does not concern marriage. We have discoursed upon the subject so extensively that my ears are quite weary of it.”
“Of course it is about your marriage,” Emma responded, gesturing for a footman to take away her plate. “And I shall not stop talking about it until you are safely betrothed.”
“I am not well, Mother. I don’t want to talk about…”
“That isexactlywhy we must give the subject our attention,” Emma said at once. “You are not well. If you were to… to die without an heir, awful as it is to consider, the estate would pass to your cousin. And none of us want that.”
There was a brief silence as they all weighed up the realities and consequences of such a thing.
Your cousindid not, of course, refer to Harry. No, it was Lord Clayton Tidemore, jokingly called thehandsomeTidemore, full of charm and wit and blessed with a gentlemanly love of hunting. Nobody said as much, but it was generally considered that he would make an excellent Marquess.
No ladies would baulk at marrying him, especially since…
“He’s not mad,” Neil muttered aloud.
Emma stiffened at once. “And neither are you. Neither was your father. Regardless of what itappearedto be like, I can assure you that he…”
Neil surged to his feet. “He was mad, Mother. He died mad, raving and foaming with no idea who he was or who was aroundhim, and it’s likely that I shall die the same way. Perhaps it is not just our remarkable green eyes that is a family trait.”
“Stop it, Neil!” Cynthia snapped, rising from her chair. “You’re upsetting Mama.”
“You are both mad already if you think that Society doesn’t know about ourcondition,” Neil responded. “I havetriedto find a suitable bride, Mother, truly I have. But nobody will have me, and I cannot blame them. It’s been three years, and unlike Cynthia, I haven’t even hadone betrothal.”
That was cruel, and Neil immediately regretted his words. Cynthia flinched, dropping her gaze, and he could have bitten off the tip of his tongue.
He opened his mouth, intending to apologize, but it seemed that the words simply would not come. He just stood there, jaw agape.
Emma was the one who broke the silence.
“Theseepisodesof yours have only begun over the past year,” she said quietly. “It took your father longer than that to die. You still have time, Neil.”
“It’s not fair, Mother, it’s not…” he began, but then his vision lurched.
Oh dear, not again.
