Page 90 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“I don’twanta mistress,” he said, annoyance creeping in despite his attempt to mask it.
At this, George’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Well, for one, I intend to marry within the month.” As soon as the words emerged, Matthew wished he could haul them back. He looked down at his bowl, all appetite vanished.
Of course, George bore down on this like a dog with a rabbit in its maw, and Matthew knew he wouldn’t let it go until he’d wrung every bit of life out of it.
“Marry! Really? I am so happy for you!” His uncle’s voice was warm, but Matthew knew it was an act. George never wanted him to marry or sire an heir and had been quite content as year after year went by with Matthew giving no hint he was interested in marriage. George wanted to become the next Duke of Crestmont, and, failing that, he wanted one of his sons to inherit the title.
“Who will be the lucky bride?” his uncle continued jovially. His eyes, though, never changed. They were dark like Matthew’s own, but small and cold. As much as George tried to convey warmth, that emotion never reached his eyes.
“I haven’t proposed yet.”
“But if it’s to be within the month, surely you intend to propose shortly.”
“I do.”
“Who is she?”
“You don’t know her, Uncle.”Thank God.
A skeptical gray brow rose. “A worthy candidate, I hope.”
“She is.”
“And she is young, pretty, and accomplished, I assume,” George said with a salacious wink. “With good childbearing hips.”
“All of the above, of course.” Matthew’s words were as cold as the lump in his chest.
“Good.” George gave him a hard look. “I do hope you will be levelheaded about it. Unlike last time.” He took another mouthful of food, then he shook his head sadly, no doubt remembering what had happened. How stupid Matthew had been.
The expression on his uncle’s face drove Matthew into memories of clutching hard onto Fanny, believing she was the one and only thing that could draw him out of his grief and loneliness. During the long journey up to Gretna Green, emotion had overwhelmed him. He’d told Fanny he’d make her the happiest girl alive, that he’d bestow riches on her, dresses, jewels, whatever she wanted. He told her he loved her, again and again. He’d knelt at her feet on the carriage floor and proclaimed himself her servant. He’d lavished coin, kisses, and compliments on her.
When Uncle George had interrupted the wedding, he’d dragged Matthew into his own carriage to show him the letter. Fanny had never sent it, likely deeming its contents too damning to share with anyone, even her closest friend.
By the time Matthew finished reading it, he’d been frozen in confusion. He was enclosed in a carriage, with an uncle beside him who was slashing down his dreams of having a loving marriage like his parents’, with the girl who’d manipulated him outside pounding on the locked carriage door and calling his name again and again with increasing shrillness in her tone.
Knowing Fanny was safe, as her father’s carriage had arrived minutes after George’s, Matthew had told his uncle to get him the hell out of there. George had rapped on the ceiling, and Matthew sat, still as a statue as the carriage rumbled farther and farther away from Gretna Green.
Alone in the barren room of an inn that evening, he’d let himself break down. He’d wept—for his parents, for his lost love that had never existed in the first place, and for himself. He’d never felt so utterly alone.
Then, his uncle had barged into the room and seen him there on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, and had finally lost his temper. “You stupid simpleton!” he’d railed. “You weak little fool. You are a dishonor to your title. You will never be as good, nor as smart, nor as beloved as your father was. Do you know why? Because you aren’t half the man he was. You have always been a simpering, pathetic weakling, undeserving of the title of duke. You willneverlive up to his name.”
Matthew’s tears had dried that night, and he had never cried again. Instead, he had returned to Nottinghamshire with his uncle, then gone on to London, where he’d stayed with Winthrop for the better part of a year. Winthrop, Cole, and Jameson had finally helped him climb out of the pit of misery he’d fallen so deeply into.
After that, he’d poured himself into becoming the best Duke of Crestmont he could be.
He had succeeded. His estates were thriving, and the people on them were happy and healthy, their bellies and hearts full.
He had proven his uncle wrong. So why then did he still believe what the man had said to him all those years ago?
Matthew pushed his plate of food away. “I am expected elsewhere. Have a pleasant evening, Uncle.”
He rose and strode out of the room, but he didn’t leave the house. Not yet. Upstairs in the library, he lit the lamp, then opened his desk drawer and unlocked the panel in the back before drawing out an old, crumpled piece of stationery.
It was Fanny’s letter.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
