Sutton's Surrender (The Sinful Suttons 3)

CHAPTER5

Filial guilt was little different than a boulder hanging from one’s damned neck. That was why Garrick had agreed to escort Mother to the Rivendale Assembly Rooms this evening instead of paying a call to The Garden of Flora as he so desperately wished. The gathered revelers before them, swirling about in a lively Scotch reel, held no interest to him.

Nor did the overly tart lemonade, buttered bread, or dry cakes being offered in the supper rooms.

Although he was carrying on as if nothing had altered, politely conversing with anyone he deemed worthy of his attention, dutifully fetching Mother fresh lemonade when she complained the crush was rendering her uncomfortably warm, and otherwise behaving like the dutiful son he was, everything had changed. It did not matter that Lady Hester was in attendance, or that she was dressed in a becoming gown that perfectly complemented her golden hair. It did not matter that he had once found the dances at Rivendale’s an utterly enthralling use of his evening.

Because thoughts of one woman were plaguing him with galling persistence.

“I am considering allowing Lady Fern Grant a voucher,” Mother was saying. “What do you think, Lindsey?”

Mother was one of the original patronesses of Rivendale’s, a rival establishment of Almack’s, which she had sponsored after an argument with one of the imperious patronesses of that peculiar institution some years ago. In true Mother fashion, she had worked tirelessly to turn Rivendale’s into the shining gem of polite society it now was. They were more exclusive than Almack’s, their vouchers more costly and sought-after.

Miss Penelope Sutton would never be accepted within these walls, it was certain. But why should the thought occur to him at all? And worse, why should it be accompanied by a pang of regret? There was a reason society had rules, after all, and it was to keep women of her ilk where they belonged.

“Lindsey?”

Mother’s indignant tone reminded him he had yet to offer his opinion on the matter she had presented.

He suppressed a sigh of irritation. “Yes, do allow Lady Felicity Vere a voucher.”

“You were not listening, were you?” his mother demanded, her frown as fierce as her displeasure. “I was speaking of Lady Fern, not Lady Felicity.”

The wrong Lady F. And all because he had been too busy thinking about a woman who was not a lady at all. A woman he never should have touched or kissed. A woman who most certainly ought not to be haunting his every waking—and sleeping—hour. A woman who was his brother’s betrothed.

For now, he reminded himself. As soon as he found Aidan, that would change. He simply had to find the devil. Garrick appreciated the irony that his always predictable, ever-reckless brother appeared to have suddenly become irregularly, unusually, and impossibly circumspect ever since his fateful announcement concerning his unacceptable betrothal.

Naturally, this was the manner in which the world worked. Or perhaps merely the manner in which Aidan worked.

“Forgive me,” he told his mother, tamping down his irritation, “I was distracted.”

“By Lady Hester, no doubt,” his mother said with a raised brow. “She is lovely. You have chosen well, my darling.”

He followed her gaze to where his future wife was executing a flawless reel. Her every movement was sheer elegance; she moved with the practiced grace of a lady who had been carefully and properly schooled in the art of dance. Naturally so. She was the daughter of an incredibly wealthy, well-connected, and highly respected earl. Garrick watched her effortless motions and wished he felt a stirring of…something.

Anything.

But there was nothing within. Not a hint of interest, nary a twitch of awareness. He was not singularly aflame as he was whenever Miss Sutton was within proximity. No indeed, Lady Hester was not his source of distraction. But he would never admit otherwise. He could concede his abject failure to himself alone. It was just as well, for no one else judged Garrick as harshly as he did himself.

“Thank you, Mother,” he offered distractedly, searching the room for a suitable excuse for escape. The glare of the chandeliers overhead was suddenly stifling, his cravat felt as if it were a noose, and he was incredibly aggrieved with himself. The latter, of course, was nothing new. “I am confident Lady Hester will make an excellent viscountess.”

“And one day duchess.”

His mother’s softly spoken words were an unwanted reminder of the tentative health of his father. The duke was weak, it was true. This terrible business with Aidan—first announcing his intention to wed a thoroughly unsuitable bride and then disappearing—could well prove more than his heart was able to bear.

A chill chased down Garrick’s spine, his gut clenching.

No. Father was far too important, far too powerful a man, to go to his eternal reward with such haste. Now was not the time. All Garrick needed to do was find his brother and set this infernal tangle to rights. It could be done, he was sure of it.

It had to be done.

The ramifications, not just for Father, but for Mother as well, were far too dire.

“I prefer not to contemplate that unwanted day,” he told his mother, swallowing a lump of emotion that had risen in his throat.

“It is the natural order of our lives,” Mother said calmly, as if she were not speaking of the death of her husband, Garrick’s father. “None of us shall live forever, and that is why deciding upon a future husband or wife carries such unfathomable importance. You are a credit to the line, my lord.”

A credit to the line.

Always, forever, the line. The duchy, the Weir family name and reputation, their position in society. Why had he never tired of the endless worries before now?

Garrick summoned a smile he did not feel. “It is my duty.”

And it was. Marrying the right woman, begetting an heir and a spare, making certain there would be nary a whisper of scandal and impropriety about his name or that of his future wife’s…these were all the heavy weights which rested upon Garrick’s shoulders. He was the future Duke of Dryden, and he had been reminded of that salient fact from the moment he had been old enough to speak his own cursed name.

Oddly, the yoke had never felt so heavy a burden as it did now. Was Lady Hester truly what he wanted in a wife? A woman he had never been motivated to kiss? Perhaps he ought to at least try before shackling himself to her forever.

“At least two of my sons understand what is expected of them,” Mother said then, making a small huff of dissatisfaction to punctuate her words. “Your youngest brother…I do despair, though I dare not speak of the unfortunate situation in public.”

Aidan again. Blast him, always the source of trouble and discord. And blast Miss Sutton, for never straying far from Garrick’s thoughts or conversations. It seemed that every discussion he entered with his parents referenced her, and she most certainly haunted his thoughts.

“A wise decision not to speak of it,” he agreed, for even the potted plants at Rivendale’s seemed to possess acutely listening ears and correspondingly wagging tongues.

Damn it, he needed to find his brother and put an end to this business with Miss Sutton. Surely it was the incomplete nature of the matter, far more than anything else, which had him feeling distinctly on edge this evening. Rendering him incapable of fully enjoying the social event as he ought.

Surely someone in attendance was a friend of Aidan’s.

They should know where he was hiding himself. Where he had gone. Why.

Garrick cast his gaze about the ballroom, desperately seeking and searching. At last, he spied one of his brother’s ne’er-do-well friends. Relief washed over him, nearly palpable. “Ah, forgive me for the distraction, but I do see Lord Carstairs just across the ballroom. I fear that I must speak with him about a pressing matter of great concern. If you will excuse me, Mother dearest?”

A pressing matter of great concernwas the phrase Garrick always relied upon whenever he wished to excuse himself from his mother’s presence. He had learned it from his father, and he had no doubt Father had been taught the same unique means of escape from an unwanted discussion by Grandfather, and so on, delving back into the annals of family history to the times of William the Conqueror. The women of the Weir family had been carefully selected, born and bred to understand that the complexities of their husbands’ lives were none of their concern.