Page 4 of Kiss the Scoundrel Farewell
“Time, Son. That’s the reason.” Lord Tarlton scrubbed his face with one hand. “It’s my fault. I take full responsibility, but we must refill the coffers and reclaim our good name.”
“My coffers are doing quite well,” he reminded his father. “And yours are on the way to a full recovery.”
“And I thank you for that, Simon. You have no idea how much your help and loyalty mean to me.” The earl shook his head, his faded blue eyes misty. “The blue ruin is well-named.”
“But you’ve overcome and made amends with your family and friends.” Simon softened his tone. “How long has it been since you quit?” He knew, of course, but it was good for his father to say it out loud. Remember how far he’d come.
“Not even a tipple in two years.” His father offered him a crooked smile, the dent in his chin inherited by both his children deepening. “Thanks to my family.”
“Well, then. It’s settled. I’ll begin looking for a wife, but I don’t need to rush into anything.” He stood, ready to meet his friend, William Page, at Boodle’s.
His father also stood, shaking his head. “No, no. It’s your mother pushing this. She believes marrying the marquess’s daughter will help bring us back into society.”
“We are in society, Father. Mama sifts through invitations daily.”
“Not the right invitations. She complains we are still on the cusp, not yet welcomed back. Think of your sister, what it will mean for her when she comes out next Season.”
Simon hated the pathetic look reclaiming his father’s face. It was the expression he’d worn constantly when he drank heavily. “Why do I have to make a decision so quickly? I’m surprised Lord Grestan would even contemplate the match.”
“She’s with child.”
Simon’s heart stopped for a moment. He turned slowly, facing his father, trying to tamp down the rage growing in his chest. “You want me to marry a chit who carries another man’s child?”
“Your mother?—”
“Do not put this on her. Who is the head of this family?” Simon closed his eyes, knowing the answer. Lady Tarlton was a pragmatic and strong-willed woman who had taken the reins when her husband stumbled from drink. She had not married for affection, though she was fond of her husband, but loved her children with a force that was almost frightening. “I won’t do it. I have sacrificed too much for all of you. I will not give in to this… this whim.”
“Find yourself a mistress, a permanent one who will fulfill your… other needs,” pleaded his father.
“Like you did?” Simon threw up his hands. “I have no desire to be a cuckold at home, then pay some harlot to make me feel like a man.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. “I’m sorry?—”
“No,” his father said, hanging his head. “It is true. But it would be different for you. What woman could resist your looks, your charm?”
His sister’s image floated before him, her sweet face, those hopeful eyes. He would do anything for his little Poppit. A loud breath escaped, and he threaded his fingers through his hair.
“I know of a masquerade this week, where you might find someone who…” His father’s words trailed off into oblivion, along with Simon’s hopes.
“If I was courting someone, or even interested in another woman, I would not even contemplate it.” But he was doomed, and he knew it. His family was everything to him, but could he play the martyr one last time? “Where is this den of iniquity? And there is no chance you’ll be tempted to drink?”
His father shook his head. “And it’s not what you’re thinking. These aren’t doxies off the street. Think how happy you will make your mother.”
“This is not an acquiescence. If I find someone who would agree to such an arrangement, and I’m quite satisfied with her, then—and only then—will I consider it.”
He did find a woman. And then she vanished, and he’d searched every ridiculous masque gathering since. Not that there were many. If he only knew her name or the color of her hair, then he’d have more luck finding her once again. It had become a minor obsession over the past few weeks. Those sea-foam eyes laughed at him when he slept. His blood roared through his veins as she came to him in his dreams. There was something familiar yet wildly fresh and exciting about her.
“What’s your name?” he asked, drawn to her like a ship to water. She was full-figured, with a devastating smile and eyes that beckoned him. Of course, wasn’t that why she was here?
“Desiree.”
Ha! As in desire. She was clever. “What brings you here, Desiree?”
“You, it seems,” she whispered.
Her breath tickled his ear, and he caught her around the waist. “Were we destined to meet tonight?”
“Perhaps. What is your name?”
He thought of the marquess and his daughter. Two could play this game. “Marcus.”
