“Once you have an heir you can ignore each other at your pleasure.” His mother smiled. “It’s an age old tradition.”
“One you and my father did with aplomb.” If his father hadn’t died nearly ten years ago he’d probably be harassing Matthew too. “Forgive me if I do not wish to follow in your footsteps. I will not marry some cold society miss because you believe I need an heir.”
His mother gasped. “Please tell me you do not have hopes to marry for love?”
Mathew burst into laughter. God help him. His mother was absolutely too much. “There is an appeal to that if you find it so offensive.” He sipped more brandy. “However I believe in love less than I believe in marriage. It’s a fantasy or for the very lucky.” One of his friends was part of the latter. The Earl of Winchester had somehow miraculously found love over Christmastide. He didn’t quite understand it. Love wasn’t the norm, and as rare as it was, Matthew had no doubts he’d ever find it.
“Well at least you’re not foolish enough to hold out for it.” She brushed imaginary crumbs off her shoulder. “Now about your fiancée…”
“Bloody hell mother,” he shouted at her as he slammed his glass on his desk. Brandy sloshed out and spilled over his hand. “I do not, nor will I ever have a damned fiancée. Stop this constant harping now.”
“I’m not giving up on you marrying.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “But I will give you some time to consider what I’ve said. The dukedom is important and I do hope you’ll want to leave all of this to your son one day.”
He opened his mouth to yell at her again, but then reconsidered and closed it. Arguing with his mother would not help his situation. She believed what she did, and he had his own opinions. It was far better to put some distance between them. “I won’t change my mind.” The muscles in his jaws twitched. “And I am done with this discussion.” Somehow he managed to remain cool and composed.
“A duke doesn’t have the choice to refrain from marriage. If you don’t choose your bride, one will help you choose her. Mark my words.”
A flash of his red haired beauty came to mind again. He wanted her. Perhaps more than when he’d first met her. One taste hadn’t been enough. Maybe he would try to find her again. If he were forced to have one woman as his wife she might do. No. He shook that thought away. He didn’t want any bride…even her.
“You’re wrong,” he disagreed. “No woman will ever control me.” He’d made that mistake once. Matthew learned from his mistakes. Edith Whitcomb had taught him that valuable lesson. When she shredded him with her machinations, and false love. She’d had him wrapped around her finger, and convinced him she’d make a wonderful wife. He’d been ready to run away with her before his father had stepped in. He’d offered her a better prize—an old duke and the title of duchess sooner than if she’d married him. Of course she couldn’t have known Matthew’s father would have a fatal accident a few months later. She could have had a younger husband, and the title too.
She deserved the bed she’d made for herself, and Matthew was free from ever marrying. His father had done him a favor, and he appreciated it, but not enough to finding a different bride. Even one as lovely as his Francesca. She would be far better off finding a gentleman worthy of her. Matthew was rotten through and through, and he accepted that. “I’m happier alone.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” his mother said. “One day you might even believe it.”
He turned toward her. His mother was a lovely woman with hair the same black as his own, but she had light green eyes. There was some gray streaked through her dark locks, but only enough to make her seem even lovelier. She must have been quite the beauty in her day. “I already do believe it.”
With those words he left his unfinished brandy on his desk, then stalked out of the room. He would travel to London immediately. There at least he had his club for entertainments, and perhaps a whore or two to help him forget a woman he couldn’t erase from his mind on his own.