Page 8 of A Rogue's Most Sinful Disguise

“It will not happen!”

“But it might,” the Marquess said and stood to his feet. He paced up and down the room for a minute, dragging Marcus’ gaze around the room. He shifted his eyes from the mahogany panelled walls to the paintings he had bought himself for the walls, and the fine settees that adorned the Persian rug across the floor. “We must prepare for the future. It is imperative now that we have a new heir.”

“A new heir?” Marcus repeated, frowning in confusion.

“Not just you.” The Marquess turned back round.

“We have Walter after me,” Marcus said, gesturing to his side. “Then there’s Peter and Laurie too.”

“Yes, fine Marquesses they would make,” his father scoffed.

“Is that not a little harsh?” Walter asked, shifting in his chair.

“No. They have no interest in the position, and we know they would do it a disservice.” The Marquess paced back across the floor again. “What is important now is you, Marcus, producing an heir. You must marry and have children. There will be no Grand Tour for you, not after what happened to James.”

“You have already said this before,” Marcus said and stood to his feet, preparing to leave the room, in need of some peace.

“You have barely commented on it! Since I have mentioned marriage, you have not said a single young lady’s name.”

“I will in time,” Marcus assured as he walked past his father, toward the door.

“Where are you going? Marcus, we have no time! We must discuss this now,” he insisted, his voice echoing back off the mahogany walls.

“Father, at least let us say goodbye to James first.” Marcus stood in the doorway, looking back with anger in his expression. He was startled by the effect his sharp tone had on his father, making him back up a little. Marcus looked toward Walter, who looked equally surprised by it.

“You’re sounding more like me already,” the Marquess said with a small smile. The words made Marcus step further away, until he was out the door.

“We’ll discuss this after the funeral, Father. Not a moment before.” Out the door, Marcus walked toward the staircase and climbed quickly, up toward his chamber in the far wing of the house.

Once he was safely inside, he pulled out the sketchpad he kept hidden and sat in his desk chair, hurrying to sketch something. He wasn’t really aware at first what he was drawing. He was too busy thinking of what had happened and the pressure that was now on his shoulders.

He wanted to do right by his father, and by James’ memory, but the thought of being pushed early into a marriage with a lady that he did not want was particularly irritating. Had James not died, Marcus would have been pursuing his own travels and his art, maybe even living the life of a true artist. Instead, he was forced into preparing to be the Marquess someday, a role he had never wanted and now hung about his shoulders like a cape, ready to drown him.

After a minute, he sat back from the sketchbook, startled to see what he had drawn in his distraction. He had sketched the lady he had met that morning, Lady Violette. She sat at the piano, though her eyes weren’t on the keys, but lifted toward him.

He closed the sketchbook harshly.

---