Page 1 of The Rules of Matrimony
Chapter 1
London, England—April 1823
Ian met his father’s glarewith a fiery one of his own, showing the man less respect than he had probably ever received in his life, and set his hand down firmly on the black-walnut desk between them. “I repeat: I will not marry.”
With the battle lines drawn between them, Ian’s father leaned forward in an attack position. “Her name is Miss Margaret Foster. Call on her tomorrow and every day for the next fortnight. I want the banns posted and an announcement in the Society papers by the end of the month.”
Ian usually faced his fears, met his challenges head on, and always confronted his foes, but the wordmarriagethoroughly rattled him. Especially when paired with his own name. Regardless, he refused to cower to his father like some vulnerable prey. “I’m already acquainted with Miss Foster. Her father is Lord Halbert, an idiot politician who never took the time to check his silly daughter. She is the last person on earth I will ever tie myself to.”
Red was not his father’s color, but it was better than the purple climbing up his neck and into his cheeks. “Do you question my authority? Ask anyone and they will tell you that I, Lord Kellen, am an earl whose vote in Parliament sways the majority of the House of Lords. Indeed, my decisions affect the state of this nation. I will not have my son’s whims and fancies overriding my position in this family. Youwillmarry Miss Foster. Discussion over.”
Ian straightened and flat-out laughed. Did his father really try throwing the weight of his title at him? As though he could rule his family the way he did his so-called friends? “I do not question your authority, Father, but you must question mine. Ask anyone, and theywill tell you that I, Lord Reynolds, am a viscount whose vote matters the most in respect to his own person. And, might I add, this decision affects the state of my entire life. My whims and fancies, as you call them, may differ from your own, but they areperfectlyvalid.” Finally, the discussion could be over. He turned to leave, took several purposeful strides, and had his hand on the door handle, when his father threw out a warning that stopped him cold.
“You will marry, or the consequences will be great indeed.” The deep, rumbling threat shook the ground under Ian’s conscience. His father had been angry with him before, but this tone superseded them all. “Don’t put anything past me, son.” Fury punctuated each word. “I’ve had enough of your impertinence over the years, and I will not tolerate such insolence any further.”
Ian knew what his father’s derisive words meant.
Disinheritance.
Possibly disowning him altogether.
Ian had pushed his father hard this time, but was this what he had hoped to accomplish? A life without his father, certainly, but not a life without his home in Brookeside or one without his mother and the friends they kept. Right now, Ian would give up a great deal to avoid being a puppet under his father’s control. Money meant little to him, but that his father would use it against him burned. His grip tightened on the door handle. With a hard yank, he threw it open. Biting down every last spiteful word he could think of, he marched away, appreciating the echoing slam of wood behind him.
He didn’t stop his staccato march through the tiled corridors until he’d snatched his favorite D’Orsay hat from the butler’s extended hands and stormed from the house. A liveried groom held Ian’s horse at the ready. He accepted the reins and jammed his hat on his head, not caring if he ruined its shape.
Ride. He needed to ride. He was glad he had the foresight and had planned for it. Like all conversations with his father, this one invariably required fresh air afterward to cool his temper.
His black thoroughbred tossed his head, sensing Ian’s agitation.
“Don’t worry, Moses,” Ian soothed. “You’ll get your exercise.”
An hour later, Ian slowed his bruising pace just outside of London as he neared a small country churchyard. He hadn’t realized this was his destination, his primary thought to put distance between himself and his frustrations, but for better or worse, he was here now. Moss crept up between the cracks of the narrow church building, casting it with a green hue, and a crooked tree in front greeted him with its bent branches. He sighed, releasing some of his pent-up emotions in the elongated breath. It had been some years since he’d been this way, but it hadn’t changed at all.
Tying up his horse, he entered the white picket gate and strolled around the side of the church to the graveyard. His feet moved without thinking until he reached the familiar marker of the late Lord Reynolds, who hadn’t lived long enough to inherit the title of earl, as Ian’s father had.
“Hello, Grandfather,” Ian whispered. Exhaustion hit him like a brick wall, making every inch of him sag with defeat. He wasn’t just tired in spirit; he’d not slept well since his father had begun harassing him day and night to marry. He’d always thought he’d have to fight off his mother, the queen bee of the Matchmaking Mamas, but his father? Ian preferred it when his father was too busy to remember his only child existed.
Without another thought, Ian dropped beside his grandfather’s headstone and sprawled out on the crabgrass. He covered his face with his hat and attempted to forget all about his responsibilities as Lord Reynolds—particularly, his father’s selfish edict.
Utterly infuriating.
Ian would never marry Miss Foster. Garish on the outside and insipid throughout.
He sighed again, this time without a specific cause. He needed a nap. Some nightmares were worse when awake. Fortunately, he’d unknowingly sought out the peace and quiet of a graveyard.
He shifted, the sun not quite warm enough to keep the dampness from soaking through his trousers. The peace was worth thesacrifice. Here he could enjoy the company of those who did not lecture incessantly about his duty and how he was failing the next generation. Only the dead could appreciate the beauty of solitude these days. Grandfather beside him, for example, made an excellentsilentcompanion.
Ian reached over and studied the ground next to him. While he could never overlook the man’s infidelity, he’d heard enough stories to know his grandfather had done good with his life too. He’d rallied investors for a volunteer-run hospital, a center for training physicians, and a needed dispensary for medicine, donating a tidy sum of his own money in the process. And all this was done before his death at five and thirty. Ian hoped to change the world, too, but he would not fall into the same pitfalls as the other men in his family. He would be wise enough to avoid the complication of love or marriage. He forced himself to relax. The faint chirping of birds and the slight breeze were the perfect combination to soothe his nerves.
This. This was what he needed.
“Good morning.” A singsong voice filtered through the silence.
For heaven’s sake, could a man not have three minutes strung together to himself? He lifted the brim of his hat and spotted a woman facing away from him. She was several feet away and speaking to a headstone, not him. He relaxed again, determined to fall asleep if it killed him.
“I know I came yesterday, but as you are the only one who ever misses me, you cannot be surprised that I came again.”
Ian cringed. Did she mean to have an entire conversation out loud? The dead were far more popular than he had anticipated. He prayed she would not stay long. If she was a regular patron, as she claimed, she should respect that someone else had come here first.
