Page 2 of A Scarred Wallflower for the Duke
“Well, it seems things have changed on that front,” said the Dowager. “His own mother came to me with the proposal.”
“And you did not think to discuss it with us first?” asked Marcus. “Should I not have a say in who my sister marries?” He shot Georgina a quick glance, as though to confirm he had not spoken out of place. She gave him a faint nod of approval.
“Oh goodness, children,” the Dowager Viscountess sighed. “Do stop all your nonsense. This is a fine match. A very advantageous one for this family. If the three of you had any sense, you would see that in an instant.”
Georgina bristled.
They stepped into the ballroom. Despite the early hour, it was already crowded; the room was awash with color and filled with the hum of chatter and laughter. In one corner, violins mewled as the string orchestra tuned up for their first performance.
“Please, Grandmother,” begged Lydia. “This is not what I—”
“Ah! There is the Duke’s mother now.” The Dowager’s eyes lit up as she looked across the bustling ballroom. She grabbed Lydia’s hand. “Come on, child. I shall make the introductions. I must warn you, the Dowager Duchess is rather insufferable. Although I am quite sure you will find her son to your liking.”
Lydia looked back over her shoulder and shot her sister the “help me” eyes.
“I am sorry,” Georgina mouthed. She knew that when her grandmother had her heart set on something, there was little point in trying to change it. For her slight figure and fragile appearance, the Dowager Viscountess had a resolve of steel.
In a flurry of colorful silks and feathers, Lydia and the Dowager flew across the ballroom, leaving Georgina standing in the doorway of the ballroom, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
* * *
Vincent Mads, the Duke of Levinton, tossed back another mouthful of brandy. It was fine stuff—Armagnac, he guessed. His favorite. Vincent relished the burn of the liquor down his throat. He had celebrated his birthday two days ago and was confident he could drag the celebrations out a little while longer.
“So, Levinton,” said his close friend Stephen Kent, the Marquess of Greenford, “you are thirty now. Does this mean your days of bachelorhood are finally over?”
Vincent chuckled. “Not if I have any say in the matter!”
The four friends he was surrounded by roared laughter, and Vincent raised his glass as if to emphasize his point. He tossed back another mouthful of brandy. The liquor seared its way down his throat, burning away any nagging thoughts of marriage.
The truth was, there was a part of him that feared his blissful bachelorhood days might be coming to an end. Many years ago, he had made a promise to his mother that he would settle down and find a bride upon his thirtieth birthday. In exchange, she would let him live out his twenties without hounding him about finding a wife and heir.
“Not a word to me about marriage,”he had said to her all those years ago,“and once I turn thirty, you can do as you wish and find me a wife.”
Though he knew there was little chance of his mother having forgotten about the deal they had struck all those years ago, Vincent also knew of the weight his title carried. He was a duke—surely he would not be forced into doing anything he did not wish to do.Would I?
And if there was one thing Vincent Mads did not wish to do, it was to settle down and find himself a wife.
“Do you really imagine it such a terrible thing?” asked Greenford. The Marquess had been married for what had to be close to a decade. Now he had a brood of five—or was it six?—screaming children running around his manor and wiping their noses on the table cloths.
No thank you. Give me a night of pleasure with a beautiful woman—and the bed to myself in the morning.
“The companionship of a wife is a rather lovely thing.”
Vincent chuckled, slapping Greenford on the shoulder. “If I wanted companionship, I would get myself a dog.” He looked up to see his mother approaching and felt his smile falter. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.”
He tossed back the last of his drink to steel himself, then made his way toward the Dowager Duchess. Tonight, Amelia Mads was dressed in vibrant pink; the feathers radiating from her mask reminded Vincent of a flamingo. Dark curls were piled high on her head, a jeweled comb glittering in their midst.
“Mother.” He gave her a short smile. “I trust you are enjoying the evening.”
“Where is your mask?” the Dowager Duchess demanded. “It rather diminishes the intrigue of the masquerade if everyone can see your face.”
Vincent chuckled. “I am not here for the intrigue, Mother. I am here for the Armagnac. It is fabulous stuff.”
His mother glanced down at his empty glass. “I do hope you are not overindulging. You know it is not good for you.”
Vincent gave his mother a teasing smile. “When have you ever known me to overindulge?”
The Dowager Duchess snorted. “I am afraid you have inherited my inability to say no to the finer things in life. But it is important for your health that you exercise a little self-control.”
