Chapter Seventeen
Arriving in London, Angus Westland wasted no time. As soon as he had bathed and changed, seeing no reason in prolonging the inevitable, he called upon Lord Mason. To his mind, the sooner it was out of the way, the better.
His arrival was met with muffled giggles of girlish excitement from above as the younger Miss Masons peered through the balustrade, watching as the tall stranger was being led to their father’s study.
Having met Mason on many occasions, he had formed a favourable opinion of the gentleman, though found himself hesitating at the threshold of the man’s study.
It was one thing to be acquainted with a gentleman, but quite another to be relieving him of his first-born daughter — especially under such circumstances — regardless of his elevated rank.
“Lord Westland,” came the even voice from within, “do come in.”
Never once thinking he would find himself in such a position, he was ill-prepared and found his mouth instantly drying when he was met by Lord Mason’s level gaze. The older man’s expression was calm, though his eyes told a different story.
“Do you love her, my Sylvie?” Mason asked without preamble.
The bluntness hit him like a musket shot, and it took a monumental effort to regain command of himself. “No,” he replied at last, “ I do not, though you have my word, she will be well taken care of.”
“I see,” snapped Mason, his tone uncharacteristically sharp. Clearly, the poor man was wrestling with his own emotions, and Angus took pity.
“I can assure you, Mason, every consideration will be given to ensure all her needs, and, um, comforts are met.”
“Well, I suppose I should be thankful that, after such behaviour, you are not just going to discard her.”
“Behaviour?” echoed Westland, as a strange protectiveness towards Sylvie rose. “Lord Mason, your daughter was merely dancing in the meadow and tripped over me. Neither she nor I, did anything untoward, save being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The older man’s eyes hardened. “Then tell me, Westland… if nothing happened, why would you so quickly offer for her hand? I know her dowry will mean nothing to a man like you. Nor, I understand, does a young woman’s virtue these days.”
Westland straightened, cold steel entering his voice. “And to whose virtue do you refer, sir?”
“I don’t,” Mason snapped, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “But I know men like you.”
“Do you?” Westland’s tone was now dangerously calm as he took a slow step forward. “Then tell me, since I am informed your little flock of hens keeps you well abreast of all the scandals, which young lady, or ladies’ virtue am I reputed to have violated, Mason?”
The older man glared at him for several tense moments before his features softened and he exhaled heavily. “Forgive me, Westland. That was totally uncalled for and… and totally undeserved. I do not know what came over me. I am so sorry. This business has come as a bit of a shock, I’m afraid.”
“For you and me both, I can assure you.”
Mason, shaking his head slightly, crossed to a cabinet and poured two generous cognacs. “My wife informs me in her letter that it was Lady Smyth who… ”
“Mm, and Seymore,” Westland interrupted dryly. “The gossipy old buzzards.”
Turning abruptly, Mason studied Angus for a moment before a trace of a smile played upon his lips. “Well, you may not be in love with my daughter, Westland, but if I am not mistaken, it appears she has had some effect on you. Here, drink this, you look like you need it as much as I do.”
“Affect?” murmured Westland, accepting the drink, then, before taking a sip, he nodded slowly. “Aye, your daughter certainly has a way with words.”
“Shall we?” Mason gestured toward the two armchairs by the fire.
As much as he would have liked to escape, Westland nodded.
Grudgingly, he took a seat, and for the first time since entering, he allowed his gaze to sweep the room.
Masculine in its initial appearance — with the wall of books, mahogany desk, and scent of leather and smoke — its purpose as the domain of the gentleman of the house, upon first glance, was obvious.
Yet the discarded pink hair ribbon lying on the window seat alongside a picture book, the assortment of painted pine cones haphazardly placed on the fireplace mantle, a needlepoint cushion childlike in its execution, along with a myriad of other objects scattered about, gave the room a lived-in, surprisingly comfortable feel, and spoke volumes of the man it belonged to.
“Tell me,” Mason said at length, “why not a lengthy engagement and after some time, once the dust has settled, allow Sylvie to break it off?”
He considered for a moment before focusing his attention back on Mason.
“Because I gave my word. You know as well as I, the stain is already cast. Your daughter could never hope to make a good match after such a scandal… and as it is my name fuelling their appetite, I do not believe your daughter deserves to be punished for my sins against society.”
Mason’s brow raised. “Your sins?”
“I didn’t earn the title of The Morose Marquee by being one of society’s darlings.”
Mason smiled as he studied the younger man, reminiscent of another he had once known and liked immensely. “I knew your father, Charles. He, also, was a good man.”
Westland visibly bristled. “I would not know.”
“No… no, of course. Forgive me. Such a tragedy.”
“The man blew his own head off,” Westland said flatly. “It was no tragedy.”
Mason’s mouth opened to reply, then shut again, deciding to leave the matter alone until he had considered it further.
After a long silence, Mason cleared his throat. “So,” he continued lightly, “you will join us for supper tomorrow evening? I am expecting the girls back tonight. You may as well get to know your new family.”
Westland’s eyes narrowed. “I agreed to take on a wife, Mason, not a whole family. I’m afraid I have a prior engagement tomorrow evening.” He drained his glass and rose. “I shall call on your daughter tomorrow, with your permission. Good evening, Mason.”
Before Mason could answer, he gave a curt bow and left, the heavy door closing firmly behind him.
* * *
Lord Mason sat nursing his cognac later that evening as his thoughts wandered back to Angus Westland.
He had often wondered at the Marquess’s unapologetic aversion to society.
Westland was an exceptionally well-educated man of great influence and wealth.
Though reserved to the point of austerity, he was cultured, articulate, and, according to the ladies, cut a dashing figure.
He could easily have been the darling of the ton; every hostess would have gladly cut off her pinkie finger to have him at the top of her guest list. Yet, he had rebuffed all attempts to woo him into their glittering circle.
After witnessing the man’s reaction at the mere mention of his father, Mason found himself beginning to understand more of the man.
Troubling, yes, a little — but certainly illuminating.
Still, what lingered with him most was not Westland’s aversion to society, but his defence of Sylvie, and for that he was thankful.
Under different circumstances, the Marquess might never have chosen his daughter, but it seemed the man had picked the wrong tree to take a nap under if he thought to deny himself a loving wife and meddlesome family.
A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took another sip.
His little flock of hens would see to that, and so, in his own way, would he.
For Charles’s sake.