Page 98 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
He swiveled around and headed home, too angry to think. He kept his head down, loath for anyone to recognize him and stop him in the street.
He needed to get out of here. Away. He couldn’t risk seeing Miss Cherrington or Jo again. Parliament wasn’t due to adjourn for another fortnight, but it would plod on without him. He had nothing else to tie him to this place, only things pushing him out.
His mind kept going to Jo and the look on her face, how it was twisted with despair. Those tears streaming down her cheeks. Her words: “I love you.”
A lie. Just as false as her smiles and sighs, and her compassion and curiosity about him. As false as her assertion that she wanted to learn to row—he should have known that was too good to be true. He’d been so damned naive—no woman wanted to learn to row!
He rubbed his forehead miserably, ignoring the busy London traffic that swept by all around him.
God, one would think he would have learned with Fanny Fleming, but no. He’d gone and fallen all over again, like the damned besotted fool he was.
So goddamned stupid.
Last time, he’d felt sorry for himself, miserable, and lonely. This time…he felt like an open wound that had been rubbed vigorously with salt.
He needed to get away.
Forget marrying. He couldn’t do it. Now that he’d convinced himself he should marry Joanna Porter, he couldn’t conceive of marrying anyone else. And he certainly wouldn’t marryher.
Uncle George would continue to be his heir, but George was old. Maybe it wasn’t too late for Matthew to attempt a closer connection to his nephews. Perhaps he could still be a positive influence on them. Probably not—both boys were spoiled, entitled, and devious. Nevertheless, one of them, probably Archibald, the eldest, would become the next Duke of Crestmont. Matthew would have to try. Which would also mean he’d have to spend more time with his uncle George. God forbid. A shackle of its own, but marriage would be a tighter, crueler shackle. Matthew would take the former punishment over the latter, any day.
He’d learned his lesson, once and for all. Marriage was not, and would never be, for him.
He strode into his house, encountering Simms in the corridor as he walked up the stairs. He looked down at the butler from over the banister. “I am leaving London. I will be traveling to Lord Winthrop’s estate in Hertfordshire. Please have the carriage readied. I will be ready to depart within the hour.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Simms said, completely unperturbed by this news. “How long will you be gone?”
“I have no idea,” he said. Then added, “Indefinitely.”
His butler remained unflappable. “And Lord George?”
“My uncle shall remain in residence for as long as he wishes.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
When Matthew reached the top of the stairs, the door to his right swung open, and his chest constricted. Uncle George peered out of his room. There were dark circles under his eyes, and it appeared as if he’d just awakened—his shirt was loose and untucked, and he wasn’t wearing a cravat.
Damn it. Matthew was hoping to leave the man a note. He was the last person Matthew wished to see right now.
“Matty,” Uncle George said with that fake joviality that made Matthew want to roar. “Are you engaged, then? Shall I offer you my sincerest congratulations?”
“No, thank you,” Matthew ground out.
The resident crease between George’s brows deepened. “No, you aren’t engaged, or no, I shouldn’t offer my congratulations?”
“No to both,” Matthew snapped.
George’s mouth dropped open, but his gaze grew sharper before quickly correcting into one of sympathy. “What?Do not tell me she rebuffed you!”
“No, she did not.”
“What then? Did you not ask her?”
“I decided not to ask her, after all.” George wasn’t at all up to date on Matthew’s plans. He would have hated everything about Jo, but Matthew hadn’t cared about that. It hadn’t been up to his uncle.
But none of it mattered now.
“Really?” A gleam appeared in George’s eyes, but he schooled it away. Poorly. The gleam was banked, but still glowing.
