The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby was a lucky woman indeed, Simon thought wryly. “I shall take that under advisement.”

The marquess nodded once. “Shall we have a brandy? Drink to an excellent match?”

There was little Simon wanted to do less than spend more time with his future father-in-law. But he knew better than to dismiss the request. He could no longer afford to live above this particular fray.

He would never be able to again.

After a pause, he said, “I would enjoy that very much.”

Two hours later, Simon was back at his town house, in his favorite chair, hound at his feet, feeling far less triumphant than he would have expected to be. The meeting could not have gone better. He was to be aligned with a family of high regard and impeccable reputation. He had not seen Lady Penelope—had not wanted to see her, frankly—but all was well, and he imagined it was only a matter of securing the lady’s agreement before they were officially affianced.

“I assume that the outcome of your visit was satisfactory.”

He stiffened at the words, turning to meet his mother’s cold gray eyes. He had not heard her enter. He rose to his feet. “It was.”

She did not move. “The marquess has given his consent.”

He moved to the sideboard. “He has.”

“It is early for drink, Leighton.”

He turned back, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. “Consider it celebratory.”

She did not speak, nor did her gaze leave him. He wondered what she was thinking. Not that he had ever understood what lurked beneath the icy exterior of this woman who had given him life.

“Soon, you will be a mother-in-law,” he paused. “And a dowager.”

She did not rise to his bait. She never had.

Instead, she gave a single curt nod, as though everything were settled. As though everything were simple. “When do you plan on procuring a special license?”

Two weeks.

He closed his eyes against the thought, taking a drink to cover his hesitation. “Don’t you think that I should speak to Lady Penelope first?”

The duchess sniffed once, as though the question insulted several of her senses. “It’s not as though dukes of marriageable age are a common occurrence, Leighton. She’s about to make the best match in years. Just get it done.”

And there it was, in the cool, unmoving tenor of his mother’s words. Get it done. The demand . . . the expectation that a man like Simon would do whatever it took to ensure the safety and honor of his name.

He returned to his chair and deliberately relaxed into it—a feat of strength considering his frustration—taking a minuscule amount of pleasure in his mother’s stiffening at his outward calm. “I needn’t behave like an animal, Mother. I shall court the girl. She deserves some emotion, don’t you think?”

She did not move, her cool gaze showing nothing of her thoughts, and Simon realized that he’d never once been the recipient of his mother’s praise. He wondered, fleetingly, if she had the capacity for praise. Likely not. There was little need for emotion in the aristocracy. Lesser still where their offspring were concerned.

Emotion was for the masses.

He’d never seen her in a state of feeling. Never happy, never sad, never angry, never entertained. He’d once heard her say that amusements were for those with less pedigree than theirs. When Georgiana had been a child, all laughter and good nature, and the duchess had barely been able to suffer her. “Try not to sound so common, child,” she would say, lip just barely curled in the closest approximation to distaste he’d ever seen her display. “Your sire is the Duke of Leighton.”

Georgiana would grow serious then, a sliver of her exuberance gone forever.

He stiffened at the memory, long buried. No wonder his sister had fled when she’d discovered her situation. Their mother showed no sign of maternal love on the best of days.

He had not been much better.

“You are the sister to the Duke of Leighton!”

“Simon . . . it was a mistake.”

He’d barely registered her whisper. “Pearsons do not make mistakes!”

And he had left her there, in the backwoods of Yorkshire.

Alone.

When he had told their mother about the scandal that loomed, she had not moved; her breathing had not changed. Instead, she’d watched him with those cool, all-knowing eyes, and said, “You must marry.”

And they had never spoken of Georgiana again.

Regret flashed.

He ignored it.

“Sooner than later, Leighton,” the duchess said. “Before.”

Someone with less understanding of the duchess would think she had failed to complete the thought. Simon knew better. His mother did not use extraneous words. And he understood perfectly what she meant.

She did not wait for his response, knowing intuitively that her demand would be heeded. Instead, she turned on her heel and left the room, its contents gone from her mind before the door to the library closed behind her.

Trusting that Leighton would do what was needed to be done.

Before.

Before their secrets were discovered.

Before their name was dragged through the mud.

Before their reputation was ruined.

If he’d been told four months ago that he would be rushing toward marriage to shore up the reputation of the family, he would have laughed, long and imperious, and sent the informant packing.

Of course, four months ago, things had been different.

Four months ago, Simon had been the most sought after bachelor in Britain, with no expectations of a change in that stature.

Four months ago, nothing could have touched him.