Authors: Delilah Marvelle
That only irked Roderick into throwing himself all the more into university life, which had become his greatest passion. By nineteen, he had acquired a total of
seven
degrees, astounding university professors into thinking he was a genius. He wasn’t. He merely had the unique ability to remember everything he read.
But his father, damn him, only kept interrupting his studies by nagging Roderick on the hour about his lack of
social
interaction. The man’s definition of
social
meant women. Because Roderick was always out and about
socializing
with scholars, professors, students and book collectors. His father’s nagging stemmed from quips in all the circles that Roderick was not only a virgin, but a bibliomaniac who preferred a good book over a woman.
Which was, in fact, true. He
did
prefer a good book over a woman and was indeed a virgin. Not because he was a queer who didn’t find women attractive, but because the women in his books were far more fascinating than the ones surrounding him. If swiving was about all a
real
woman could offer him outside the pages of a book, he knew he could easily accomplish equal ecstasy from a pornographic novel without the complication of being nagged by yet another person who would
never
understand him. Based on all the grouching of fellow university friends who only complained about their woes regarding sex and women over decanters of port, he simply wasn’t interested in joining in on the grouching.
Despite his unconventional view, he acknowledged his father’s concerns and, like a good son, tried to render the quips. He sought to keep it respectable, however, by methodically planning out how he was going to land the perfect wife by creating a list of all the qualities he sought in a woman. When he arrived in London during the opening Season of 1828, at the age of two and twenty—and yes, still very much a virgin—Roderick announced to his father that he was ready to wade through the marriageable women London had to offer.
His father astounded him by handing him a cigar, even though Roderick didn’t smoke. The man then proceeded to strut around the study like a rooster about to mount his last hen and clucked on and on about all the grandchildren he’d have and how he hoped it was soon, given that Yardley was more interested in bordellos than marriage and duty.
Roderick had at long last found something to make the old man proud. With that newfound pride in his pocket, Roderick donned his finest, ensuring the valet trimmed his hair, which was beginning to hang well past his eyes, and took on the appearance of a true gentleman in honor of the Wentworth name. He vowed to marry the most beautiful, intelligent and respectable woman London had to offer and rode out into the crowds to find her.
Night after night, he endured pointless conversations about food and wine and danced alongside morbidly silent debutantes.
Yardley only annoyed him throughout his hunt for a wife by swooping in on him at gatherings and mouthing excessive encouragement from behind a hand shortly before Roderick was set to dance. “Always dance with the one with the largest tits, Tremayne. They jiggle more. Same rule should apply to the wife you take. After all, you will be looking at the same goddamn tits for the rest of your life.”
Yardley was breathing proof that some men remained children all of their lives.
Needless to say, Roderick was beginning to lose hope that any woman would ever catch his eye. But then it happened…much like a stray arrow piercing his heart on an angle between the fourth and fifth ribs, just as diagrammed in his anatomy book. A certain Lady Margaret, with bright blue eyes and curling blond hair, made her debut and breezed into London’s ballrooms, catching not only
his
eye, but every man’s who’d ever been born with an ambition to love.
Whilst every man of the
ton,
including Yardley himself, went about quietly admiring her with a reserved reverence that was expected from respectable society, Roderick went about shouting out his admiration at every breathing turn.
His father had to repeatedly tell him to calm down.
Those first few times her pretty gaze had fluttered over to his, endless unwritten words floated between them, stirring far more than his mind. He had at long last discovered the savage need to hold more than a book and finally knew why men subjected themselves to a lifetime of grouching.
Lady Margaret was everything known as divine. She danced with him at every ball whenever he asked her to put his name on her dance card. She always seemed to dance with far more enthusiasm whenever it was with him,
especially
if it involved the ever-daring waltz. Her gloved hand would squeeze his in the oddest of moments during their gliding steps, as if she were openly professing her love. He returned each and every squeeze of that small hand, assuring her that he ardently felt the same.
She laughed so beautifully whenever he expounded upon humor that no one else thought was funny, and listened to everything he had to say, no matter how boring. There was one particular night, however, that he’d never forget.
It was the night when he grabbed her hand and placed it over his heart on his chest, whilst they lingered in the alcove during a gathering at his grandparents’ home. Her chaperone had been unusually preoccupied in speaking to his grandmother across the room, so he deviously took advantage of it. Lady Margaret responded by grabbing his own hand and setting it back onto his chest over his heart, whispering, “You must call on me and Mama with an offer. Why do you wait?”
He had waited because he wanted to be sure she felt the same. He had doubted that she had, given all the damned rules of their circle that didn’t allow them to convey what it was they truly felt for each other. He knew it was time to propose before someone else did and approached his father about it. His father not only consented to the match, but was so thrilled that he insisted Roderick call on the woman and her mother at once to ensure a June wedding.
So Roderick decided to send over a footman with a note to the marchioness, requesting he be allowed to call upon her. He was worried that his note would get lost amidst the throngs of bouquets, visitors and calling cards from countless other gentlemen, both titled and gentry alike, who littered his Margaret’s doorstep on the hour like an infestation of locusts out of the Bible. He panicked upon discovering one of those titled men was none other than his own damn brother.
But he outsmarted them all.
Roderick paid every last one of Lady Morrow’s servants to strategically place his note on the marchioness’s dressing table as opposed to the parlor. Within a day, a messenger presented him with an invitation from the marchioness to call upon her and her daughter, Lady Margaret. That was when he knew he was going to be a husband. He and his father merrily toasted and drank port in honor of his success.
Nervous as hell, Roderick arrived with his hat in hand, and waited in a pale blue drawing room that had been fragranced with expensive French perfume. It was a strong lilac scent he would forever associate with the frantic beat of his heart and that glorious moment when his Margaret and her staunch widow of a mother, Lady Morrow, sashayed into the room in unison to formally greet him.
Margaret beamed as she and her mother gracefully seated themselves on the settee across from him and he knew that it was time to toss the dice in the right direction. So he commenced their conversation by stepping away from all things formal and sharing
A Dissertation on the Phaedon of Plato
and its investigation of the nature of the soul. It was cheeky and metaphoric. Margaret stifled a laugh, while the marchioness only tartly stared him down.
Sensing the woman’s humor was similar to that of his father’s, he casually inquired about nothing in particular. The marchioness looked decidedly more pleased and proceeded to discuss the weather, before pausing to inquire about his father’s health and if he was taking care of himself for she was rather worried he wasn’t. Ghastly though it was—for his father took very good care of himself—Roderick sensed she wanted to know when his brother would be inheriting.
Barely twenty minutes into his call, the marchioness visibly grew bored and glanced toward the French clock on the mantelpiece, signaling that his visit was over.
He knew it was now or never.
“Lady Morrow,” he announced in a formal tone. “Before I depart, I humbly wish to claim the honor of your daughter’s hand in matrimony.” Roderick drew in a steadying breath. “I love her.”
The marchioness paused and leveled him with an alarmed stare. “Whilst I am endlessly humbled, Lord Tremayne, I regret to inform you, especially given your unexpected affection for my daughter, that Lord Yardley has already offered on her hand and I have accepted his offer all but two days ago. I invited you to call on me today, not to entertain an offer, but as a means of getting to know you as family.”
Roderick met Margaret’s bewildered gaze, which reflected his own, and felt himself unable to breathe. “What?”
Margaret intently held his gaze, fear and angst noticeably freezing those blue eyes and trembling lips. “I…” She lowered her gaze and after a long moment confided, “I was not aware of the offer, my lord.”
Roderick shifted forward in his seat, trying to rein in his disbelief. He glanced over at Lady Morrow. “How is it that your own daughter is unaware of this offer, given that two days have passed since it was made? Do you find this sort of backdoor business respectable, madam? To be casting aside your daughter’s own happiness without allowing her an opportunity to vie for her own future?”
Lady Morrow rose from her seat, her lavish morning gown cascading into place around her slippered feet. “How dare you insinuate that I seek to invest in my daughter’s misery? To insult me is to insult everything we represent. I ask that you depart at once, my lord, lest my footman toss you and your hat out the door.”
Roderick narrowed his gaze. “Your footman can go to hell. Your daughter loves me, not Yardley. As such, you will inform Yardley that you are retracting your acceptance of his offer and giving her hand to me.”
The marchioness gasped, her face blanching. “Leave.”
“No,” he bit out. “My brother is unworthy of her. He barely treats me with the sort of respect I deserve. What sort of respect do you think he will bestow upon her?
None
. He knew I intended to propose to her. I told him.”
Gathering her gown from around her feet, the marchioness hastened toward the open parlor doors.
“Harvington?”
she called out, her voice panicked and trembling. “Harvington, remove this man and ensure he never calls upon this house again.”
Margaret, whose tears were freely streaming down her anguished face, regally rose from her seat. She set her chin, trying to keep her features stoic. “My lord. I ask that you leave with the dignity you arrived with. My mother knows what is best. Respect that and me.”
His eyes widened. “You intend to blindly accept this slap against my honor and yours?”
She closed her eyes. “My mother is all I have.”
“Margaret—”
“There is nothing more to be said or done, my lord.” She reopened her eyes and stubbornly set her chin. “Please.”
“I see.” He rose from his upholstered seat, still holding her gaze. It was obvious his Margaret wasn’t going to fight for the love he had so stupidly thought was theirs. He refused to degrade himself by loving such a woman. “Given your devotion to your mother and my brother, I formally withdraw my offer. I wish you and Yardley much happiness. Good day.” He strode out of the parlor, trying to appear indifferent as the footman yanked open the entrance door.
Days later, rumors had surfaced all across London about how unrefined and conceited he was to think he could have
any
woman he wanted. It was the first time in his life he had ever felt the true impact of being shipwrecked and deserted upon that desolate island known as the Second Son.