“Of course.” As they left the house and approached his waiting phaeton, Rhys adjusted his long-legged stride to hers. “This might be just the thing to make dealing with an angry Grayson worthwhile.”

“He will not be angry.”

“Not with you perhaps.”

Her throat tightened. “Not with anyone.”

“The man has always been a trifle touchy where you are concerned,” Rhys drawled.

“He has not!”

“Has, too. And if he has truly decided to exert his husbandly rights, I pity the man who intrudes. Step lightly, Bella.”

Releasing a deep breath, Isabel kept her thoughts to herself, but the butterflies in her stomach took flight again.

Gerard gazed at his reflection, and heaved a frustrated breath. “When is the tailor scheduled to arrive?”

“Tomorrow, my lord,” Edward replied with obvious relief.

Turning to face his longtime valet, Gerard asked, “Are my garments truly that dreadful?”

The servant cleared his throat. “I did not say that, my lord. However, removing dirt clods and repairing torn knees are not exactly a full utilization of my many talents.”

“I know.” He sighed dramatically. “I did consider dismissing you on several occasions.”

“My lord!”

“But since tormenting you was often my only entertainment, I resisted the urge.”

The valet’s snort made Gerard laugh. Leaving the room, he mentally arranged his schedule for the day. His plans started with a discussion with Pel about redecorating his study and ended with her once again sharing his bed. He was content with that schedule until his foot met the marble floor of the foyer.

“My lord.”

He faced the bowing footman. “Yes?”

“The Dowager Marchioness has arrived.”

His hackles rose. He had managed a blessed four years without seeing her, but he would have gone a lifetime if that had been possible. “Where is she?”

“In the parlor, my lord.”

“And Lady Grayson?”

“Her Ladyship departed with Lord Trenton a half hour past.”

Normally, Gerard would take exception with Trenton, as he did with anyone who deprived him of his wife’s company without telling him first, but today he was relieved to spare Isabel his mother’s visit. There could be a hundred excuses for why his mother had come, but the truth was simply that she wished to berate him. She took such pleasure in it, and now she had four years’ worth of bile to vent. It would be unpleasant, no doubt, and he steeled himself inwardly for the trial ahead.

He also took a moment to acknowledge what he’d avoided seeing before, that he had always been slightly jealous of those who stole Pel’s attentions. The feeling of possessiveness was only exacerbated by his deepened interest in her.

But he did not have time to contemplate what that meant at the moment, so Gerard nodded to the servant, took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the parlor. He paused a moment in the open doorway, studying the silver strands that were now weaved liberally through the once dark tresses. Unlike Pel’s mother, whose love for living preserved her beauty well, the dowager marchioness simply looked tired and worn.

Sensing his presence, she turned to face him. Her pale blue gaze raked him from head to toe. Once, that look would have withered him. Now, he knew his own value. “Grayson,” she greeted, her voice tight and clipped.

He bowed, noting that she still wore widow’s weeds even after all these years.

“Your clothes are a disgrace.”

“It is lovely to see you, too, Mother.”

“Do not mock me.” She sighed loudly, and sank onto the sofa. “Why must you vex me so?”

“I vex you just by breathing, and I’m afraid I am not willing to go to the extent of stopping to please you. The best I can do is to give you a wide berth.”

“Sit, Grayson. It is rude of you to stand and force me to strain my neck looking up at you.”

Gerard sank into a nearby wooden-armed chair. Sitting directly across from her, he was able to study her in depth. Her back was ramrod straight, painfully so, her hands clenched in her lap until the knuckles were white. He knew he took after her in coloring—his father’s portrait was of a man with brown hair and eyes—but her bone-deep rigidness was far removed from his own ability to bend when necessary.

“What ails you?” he asked, only superficially concerned. Everything ailed his mother. She was simply a miserable woman.

Her chin lifted. “Your brother Spencer.”

That caught his attention. “Tell me.”

“Completely lacking in any sort of male authority, he has decided to adopt your way of living.” Her thin lips pursed tighter.

“In what way?”

“In every way—whoring, drinking to excess, complete irresponsibility. He sleeps all day and is out all night. He has made little effort to support himself since leaving school.”

Scrubbing his hand across his face, Gerard struggled to reconcile the image she presented with the fresh-faced brother he had known four years ago. It was his fault, he knew. Leaving any child in the care of their mother was bound to lead to a preoccupation with the pursuit of oblivion.

“You must speak with him, Grayson.”

“Talking will accomplish nothing. Send him to me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gather up his possessions, and send him to me. It will take some time to straighten him out.”

“I will not!” His mother’s spine stiffened further. How that was possible, he could not say, but it did. “I will not have Spencer under the same roof as that harlot you married.”

“Watch your tongue,” he warned with ominous softness, his fingers curling around the carved arms of his chair.

“You have made your point and embarrassed me utterly. End this farce now. Divorce that woman for adultery, and do your duty.”

“That woman,” he bit out, “is the Marchioness of Grayson. And you know as well as I that a successful petition for divorce would include evidence of marital harmony prior to the adultery. It could also be said that my own inconstancy drove her to hers.”

His mother flinched. “To wed a mistress. For heaven’s sake, could you not have wounded me alone, and not the title as well? Your father would be so ashamed.”

Gerard hid the way that statement cut him with an impassive face. “Regardless of my reasons for choosing Lady Grayson, it is a choice I am quite content with. I hope you can learn to live with it, but I am not overly concerned if you do not.”

“She has never once honored her vows to you,” the dowager said bitterly. “You are a cuckold.”

His breath was harshly drawn, his pride stung. “Am I not culpable for that? I have not been a husband to her in anything but a fiduciary capacity.”

“Thank God for that. Can you imagine what kind of mother that woman would be?”

“No worse than you.”

“Touché.”

Her quiet pride made him feel guilty. “Come now, Mother.” He sighed. “We are so close to ending this lovely visit without bloodshed.”

But as always, she could not quit while they were ahead.

“Your father has been dead for decades, and yet I have been true to his memory.”

“Is that what he would have wanted?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I am certain he would not have wanted the mother of his sons to fornicate indiscriminately.”

“No, but a genuine companion, a man who could offer the comforts women long for—”

“I knew what I promised when I said my vows—to do honor to his name and title, to give him and raise fine sons who would make him proud.”

“And yet we never do,” Gerard said dryly. “As you so often point out to us, we are constantly shaming him.”

Her brows drew together in a glower. “It was my responsibility to be both a mother and father to you all, to teach you how to be like him. I realize you think I have failed, but I did the best I could.”

Gerard held his retort, his mind filling with memories of whippings with leather straps and hurtful words. Suddenly eager to be alone, he said, “I am more than willing to take Spencer in hand, but I will do so here, in my house. I have my own affairs to attend to.”

“‘Affairs’ is an apt description,” she muttered.

He put his hand to his heart, deflecting her sarcasm with his own. “You disparage me unjustly. I am a married man.”

Her gaze narrowed as she assessed him. “You have changed, Grayson. Whether that is a good thing or not remains to be seen.”

With a wry smile, he rose. “I have a few arrangements to make in anticipation of Spencer’s arrival, so if we are done…?”

“Yes, of course.” His mother fluffed out her skirts as she stood. “I have my doubts about this, but I will present your solution to Spencer and if he agrees, so will I.” Her voice hardened. “Keep that woman away from him.”

His brow arched. “My wife does not have the pox, you know.”

“That is debatable,” she snapped, departing the room in a flounce of dark skirts and chilly hauteur.

Gerard was left with both relief and a sudden longing for the comfort of his wife.

“I warned you.”

Rhys looked down at the top of his sister’s head. Standing beneath a tree on the Marley rear lawn, they were alone and apart from the other milling guests. “She is perfect.”

“Too perfect, if you ask me.”

“Which I did not,” he said dryly, but silently he agreed with Isabel’s assessment. Lady Susannah was poised and collected. She was a beauty, and yet when he had spoken to her, she reminded him of a moving statue. There was very little life in her.

“Rhys.” Isabel turned to face him, her dark red brows drawn together beneath her straw hat. “Can you see yourself being a friend to her?”

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend. You will have to live with your future wife, sleep with her on occasion, discuss issues relating to your children and household. All of these things are much easier to accomplish when you are friends with your spouse.”

“Is that what you have with Grayson?”

“Well…” The line between her brows deepened. “In the past, we were close acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances?” She was blushing, something he had rarely seen her do.

“Yes.” Her gaze drifted, and she suddenly seemed very far away. “Actually,” she said softly. “He was a very dear friend.”

“And now?” Not for the first time, Rhys found himself wondering what the arrangement was between his sister and her second husband. They had always seemed happy enough before, laughing and sharing private looks that said they knew each other well. Whatever their reasons for seeking sex outside of their marriage, it was not because of lack of charity with each other. “The rumors suggest that you may soon have a marriage that is more…traditional.”

“I do not want a traditional marriage,” she grumbled, her arms crossing beneath her bosom, her attention coming back to the present.

He held up his hands in self-defense. “No need to snap at me.”

“I did not snap.”

“You did so. For a woman who just rolled out of bed, you are remarkably testy.”

Isabel growled. He raised his brows.

Her glare lasted a moment longer and then it faded into a sheepish pout. “I am sorry.”

“Is Grayson’s return so trying?” he asked softly. “You are not yourself.”

“I know it.” She released a frustrated sounding breath. “And I have not eaten since supper.”

“That explains a great deal. You were always grumpy when hungry.” He held out his arm. “Shall we brave the throng of dour biddies, and fetch you a plate?”

Isabel covered her face with a gloved hand and laughed.

Moments later she stood opposite him at the long food tables, loading her small plate unfashionably high. He shook his head and looked away, hiding his indulgent smile. Moving a short distance from the others, Rhys pulled out his pocket watch and wondered how much longer he would have to bear this odious affair.

It was only three o’clock. He closed the golden door with a click and groaned.

“It is the height of bad taste to look as if you cannot wait to depart.”

“I beg your pardon?” He spun about, searching for the owner of the lyrical feminine voice. “Where are you?”

There was no reply.

But the hair at his nape was suddenly on end. “I will find you,” he promised, studying the low hedges that lined his left and rear sides.

“To find implies that something is hidden or lost, and I am neither.”

Gads, that voice was sweet as an angel’s and sultry as a siren’s. Without care for his tan-colored breeches, Rhys plunged through the hip-high shrubs, rounded a large elm, and found a small sitting area on the other side. There, on a half-circle-shaped marble bench sat a petite brunette with a book.

“There was a pathway a little further down,” she said without looking up from her reading.

His gaze raked her trim form, noting the worn toes of her slippers, the slightly faded hem of her flowered gown, and the too-tight bodice. He bowed and said, “Lord Trenton, Miss…?”

“Yes, I know who you are.” Snapping the book closed, she lifted her head and studied him with the same thorough perusal he had given her.

Rhys stared. He could not do otherwise. She was no great beauty. In fact, her delicate features were unremarkable. Her nose was pert and covered with freckles, her mouth just as any other female mouth. She was not young or old. Nearing thirty would be his guess. Her eyes, however, were as pleasing as her voice. They were large and round and a startling blue with yellow flecks. They were also filled with keen intelligence, and even more intriguing, a mischievous sparkle.