Page 11 of To Woo and to Wed
He broke off any thoughts that led toher.
He made his way toward a stuffed leather armchair near the fireplace, where a small fire burned, and gestured at the chair opposite in silent invitation.
“Shall I ring for tea?” West asked politely.
“I did not come here to drink tea with you,” his father said, which was precisely what West had expected he would say. “I came because I caught wind of some disturbing gossip that I wish to discuss.”
West had a decent guess what this gossip was about, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell his father that.
“I understand,” the duke continued, “that you are recently returned from Cornwall.”
“Indeed.” West leaned back in his chair, contemplating ringing for tea despite his father’s rejection of his offer—hewas feeling rather thirsty, after that fencing session. “You may have noticed we did not have our weekly dinner at White’s for several weeks running?”
His father flicked an impatient glance at him; he did not approve of anything in West that hinted even slightly at sarcasm, or at any sense of humor at all. It was his opinion that heirs to dukedoms did notneeda sense of humor—one could hire someone to laugh at one’s jokes when appropriate, after all, so one needn’t worry about actually beingamusing.
“I was informed that Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell was also in attendance.”
West went still at the name, though he was at least grateful that his father had got to the point quickly.
“She was,” he said quietly. “And I believe I informed you once in the past that I should not like to hear her name cross your lips again.”
His father regarded him, assessing, for a long moment; West met his gaze directly, something he had always made a point of doing, ever since he was a small boy being called into his father’s study to be reprimanded for some offense or other.
“I played cards with the Duke of Altborough the other night,” his father said at last.
West blinked at this non sequitur. “I was unaware Altborough was in town—I thought he was in poor health.”
“He was, but apparently is feeling improved now that the weather has warmed. Did you know he has three daughters?”
West allowed a beat of silence, and then another. “I do not think I knew the precise number, but yes, I know he has daughters.”
The duke allowed his gaze to wander around the room. “They’re all unmarried—well, one’s a widow. Out of mourning, though. The other two are still unwed—the youngest just made her curtsey to the queen this spring.”
“A bit young for my taste,” West said; for all that he knew plenty of men who thought nothing of taking a wife decades younger than themselves, he found the idea of attempting to woo a naïve eighteen-year-old distasteful.
The duke waved a dismissive hand. “The other two are older, then. Perhaps the widow might be more to your liking?” He allowed one single, precise second of silence before adding, “It seems you’ve a weakness for them.”
West leveled a steady gaze at his father. “Why this sudden fixation upon my marital prospects? I thought you’d despaired of that long ago.”
West had ensured that he had, in fact. Once he’d learned how his father had thwarted his first—and only—attempt at marriage, he had felt little guilt in allowing his father to believe that there was no point in attempting to arrange one for him.
“Yes,” his father said, regarding him thoughtfully in a way that West liked not one bit. “Because of your accident. And its tragic repercussions.” There was a note of wry skepticism to his voice that set West further on edge; all of his conversations with his father felt like high-stakes chess games, and this one seemed to be veering more sharply in that direction than usual.
“Yes,” West said slowly. “As we’ve discussed.”
“Hmmm.” The duke drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I believe it was Dr. Worth who told you that you could never hope to father children, in the wake of your injury?”
“Yes,” West said, a bit tersely.
“How interesting, then, that I recently spoke to Dr. Worth, and he knew nothing of this supposed condition.” His father sat back in his chair and gazed steadily at West, awaiting his next move.
West decided, after a split second of contemplation, to brazen it out. “Perhaps his memory is failing him in his old age.” He spared a silent thought of apology for Dr. Worth, who had been his doctor since he was a boy but whowas, in truth, growing rather elderly.
“Perhaps,” his father allowed. “However, he seemed to think—how did he phrase it?—that there was no reason a broken leg and a scratch should have any effect whatsoever on your ability to produce any number of heirs.”
West pressed his lips together, allowing several satisfying curses to circle inside his head without uttering a single one. “It was a bit more than a scratch,” he said mildly—it had, in fact, been a deep, thoroughly nasty wound that had become infected—but, unfortunately, Dr. Worth was not otherwise incorrect.
“Of course.” His father nodded. “Now, perhapsmymemory is failing me as I age”—his mouth quirked in amusement, as if the mere suggestion that he’d lost even a fraction of his mental faculties was so ludicrous as to be laughable—“but whilst I cannot recall what precise words you used, some years ago, I remember receiving the distinct impression that you would be unable to father any heirs, and so there was little point in worrying about a wife for you.” He waved a hand. “Doubtless, I misunderstood—I cannot imagine that you would deliberately mislead me, after all.”
