A Rogue of One's Own (A League of Extraordinary Women #2)(9)

“I shall go and see Mother after this.” Whatever this was. His father hadn’t yet disclosed the purpose of their meeting.

Rochester steepled his long, pale fingers, as he did when he came to the crux of a matter, and fixed him with a cold stare.

“You must get married.”

Married.

The word turned over and over in his mind, as if it were a complex phrase in Pashtun or Dari and he was scrambling to gather its full meaning.

“Married,” he repeated, his own voice sounding oddly distant.

“Yes, Tristan. You are to take a wife.”

“Right now?”

“Don’t be precious. You have three months. Three months to announce your engagement to an eligible female.”

The first tendrils of cold outrage unfurled. A wife. He was in no position to commit himself to such a thing. Of course, since he had become the heir, matrimony had loomed on the future’s horizon, but it kept melting into the distance as he drew closer. Much as he liked women, their softness, their scent, their wit, a woman in the position of wife was a different animal. There’d be demands and obligations. There’d be . . . little spawns in his own image. There’d be . . . expectations. A shudder raced up his spine.

“Why now?” His tone would have alarmed another man.

Rochester’s gaze narrowed. “I see the military failed to cure your dire lack of attention. I shall lay it out for you: you are seven-and-twenty. You are the heir to the title, and since Marcus left his widow childless, you are the last direct heir in the Ballentine line. Your main duty now is to produce another heir. If you don’t, four hundred years of Ballentine rule over the Rochester title come to an end and the Winterbournes move into our house. And you have been shirking your responsibilities for nearly a year.”

“Then again, I was held up in India, trying to convalesce from potentially fatal bullet wounds.”

Rochester shook his head. “You returned six months ago. And have you diligently courted potential brides? No, you have caused headlines implying the cuckolding of fellow peers and rumors alluding to . . . punishable offenses.”

“I did?” He was genuinely intrigued.

Rochester’s lips thinned. For a blink, he looked like the younger version of himself who used to take his time when selecting an instrument to mete out yet another punishment. For Tristan’s fidgeting. Or for his fondness of poetry and pretty objects, or his “girlish” attachment to his pets. It had to grate on Rochester that his only instrument of control nowadays was the tight financial leash on which he kept his son. It had to lack the element of immediate gratification. And if all went according to plan, Rochester would soon lose his grip on the leash, too. Things had to go to plan because hell, he was not taking a wife now.

“I’m not in the habit of reading the gossip sheets,” he said. “Consider me blissfully ignorant of any rumors pertaining to my person.”

The earl slowly leaned forward in his chair. “You have been seen in an establishment.”

“Entirely possible.”

“With the Marquess of Doncaster’s youngest son.”

That surprised a chuckle from him. “The rumors are about Lord Arthur?”

The casual way he said it made Rochester go pale. Interesting.

Do not worry about Lord Arthur Seymour, Father—I let him watch while I shagged someone, but he hasn’t been on the receiving end of it. The words were on the tip of his tongue.

“Trust society to manufacture something out of nothing,” he said instead. “I doubt they dared to be explicit about it.”

A muscle twitched under his father’s left eye. “Enough for Doncaster to briefly contemplate a libel suit.”

“Against whom? Either way, a patently silly idea. Every person in the British Isles would learn about sweet Arthur’s inclinations.”

“And possibly yours,” Rochester snarled. “Mere whispers about such a thing are an impediment to your standing. An alliance with a lady of impeccable repute can redeem your reputation, but naturally, the fathers of such women are presently disinclined to hand them to someone like you—unless I laid out a fortune.”

Tristan’s jaw set in a hard line. “Keep your money. I’m in no need of a wife.”

There was exactly one woman with whom he’d ever contemplated something beyond a fleeting association, and she was not on the marriage mart.

Rochester was not interested in any of those facts. “Under the circumstances, we need to move fast,” he said.

Tristan shrugged. “Quite frankly, Cousin Winterbourne is welcome to all this.” He gave a careless wave, vague enough to include the entire house of Rochester: a sort of careless vagueness bound to annoy his father.

Rochester’s eyes were dark. “This is not a game, Tristan.”

“Sir, have you considered I might not find a willing, eligible woman in three months’ time, given my devilish reputation? Then again”—and this occurred to him now—“I suspect you have long selected an appropriate bride.”

“Of course, I have. But the potential scandal induced her warden to hold off on signing the contract. You cannot humiliate the lady in question and her family by proposing to her as you are.”

“Right—who is the lucky thing?”

Rochester shook his head. “And tempt you into committing some tomfoolery before matters are settled? No. For now, your task is simply to establish a rapport with relevant society matrons, and to dress and act like a man of your station. Start with taking out this . . . thing.”