Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(2)

“You’ve not been to any events in nearly a fortnight. A fortnight.” She spoke as though Geoffrey hadn’t attended a single ton function all Season. “All the most marriageable misses have already received offers. Why, I heard from Lady Tisdale, who learned from one of her maid’s, that Miss Anna Adams is to receive an offer from the Marquess of Edgebury any day.”

Well, it was a good thing he’d not settled on Miss Anna Adams as his future viscountess. He silently inked her name permanently off his list. “I visit my clubs,” he groused under his breath.

Her eyes widened. “Your clubs? You will not find a marriageable lady at your clubs, Geoffrey,” she bemoaned. “It is time you fulfill your responsibilities as viscount.”

Geoffrey’s gut tightened as the familiar guilt licked at him, more painful than the biting sting of a lash. He knew well what his obligations were…to wed and propagate the Redbrooke line with male issues. His father, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father had done a rather deplorable job of producing sufficient spares to the heir.

Mother let out a little huff. “Do you know what will happen if you fail to marry and produce an heir?”

“I’ve not an inkling what should happen if I fail to wed.”

She continued on, ignoring the sardonic twist to his words. “The line will pass to a distant Scottish relation,” she said, as though he hadn’t spoken. She wrinkled her nose as though nauseated by the mere prospect of a Scott inheriting the title.

Yes, in the event Geoffrey failed to produce an heir, his solicitor had informed Geoffrey that he’d traced the next in line to great-great grandfather’s second cousin, once removed.

Mother paused, forcing Geoffrey to stop and look back at her. “Scottish.” The one word came out as slowly as if she were speaking to a simpleton.

Geoffrey widened his eyes. “Egads, never tell me a Scot?”

His mother narrowed her gaze on him. “This is not a matter to be taken lightly, Geoffrey. Can you imagine a man with the name of…?” She wrinkled her brow. “McTavish assuming the title?”

“McMorris,” he corrected, automatically.

She continued marching forward with a beat to rival a drum; as she walked she slashed the air with her hand. “McTavish. McMorris. It is all the same. The gentleman possesses Scottish roots. You must wed. Immediately.”

“I concur.” He forced the words out past gritted teeth.

His mother froze in her steps, and looked to Geoffrey. Her blue eyes wide like saucers. “You concur?”

A muscle at the corner of his eye twitched. “I do.” He’d spent nearly five years trying to atone for his past sins, and yet, it would appear his mother still didn’t trust that he’d reformed. “I know well my responsibilities, Mother.” He resumed walking.

She hurried along, and fell into step beside him. “I never imagined…” Her words trailed off.

Geoffrey waited. All the while, knowing she dangled that unfinished sentence before him in a paltry attempt at intrigue.

She tapped him on the arm with one of the white gloves she carried. “You are supposed to ask me what I’d never imagined.” A frown marred her lips.

The steady tick-tock-tick-tock of the long-case clock at the center of the hallway filled the stretch of silence until his mother glowered up at him.

He sighed. “As you wish. What have you never imagined?”

“That you would acquiesce and find a suitable bride without my prodding. After all, most gentlemen are forced kicking and screaming to the proverbial altar. Your father and I despaired of you doing right by the Redbrooke line. Especially after that…that…Emma Marsh woman.”

Geoffrey’s gut clenched in pained remembrance of that great mistake she could never forgive. How could she forgive him, when he would never be able to forgive himself?

His mother seemed oblivious to the inner turmoil raging through Geoffrey. She tugged on her gloves as they reached the expansive marble foyer, and dusted them against one another. "I should have known better to question your intentions. Not when you’ve become so very committed, so very dedicated to the title of Viscount Redbrooke.”

Mother prattled on with her high-praise even as the butler, Ralston, hurried to open the door.

As Geoffrey and his mother exited the house and entered the carriage, he ruminated over his selection in Lady Beatrice. Modest, demure, and lovely with flaxen curls, she would make him a lovely wife. He had it upon good authority that the young lady would be in attendance at Lord and Lady Hughes’s ball this evening.

The groom closed the carriage door, and a few moments later, the conveyance rocked to motion. Geoffrey consulted his timepiece. Tonight would mark the perfect time to launch his courtship. If he were to maintain his very rigid timeline and wed, three Sundays past his thirtieth birthday, he couldn’t afford to tarry.

“Have you settled on a young lady?” His mother interrupted his ponderings. “Oh, surely with your rigid expectations and insistence on propriety, you must have.”

He frowned, not particularly caring for that unflattering description from the woman who’d given him life—even if it was a fair assessment of his character.

“Do tell?” his mother pressed.

It mattered not that she’d discover soon enough, his mother was as tenacious as a dog with a bone.