Born to Scandal. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Peter’s grandfather had been the old marquess’s younger brother, making Peter and Brent second cousins. The two of them were all that was left of the Caine family.
Besides Brent’s children, that was.
‘All I am asking of you is to meet her,’ Peter responded.
They were to dine with Lord and Lady Rolfe, and, more importantly, Miss Susan Rolfe, their daughter.
Almost a month had gone by before Peter again broached the topic of Brent marrying again. Peter considered Miss Rolfe the perfect match for Brent.
The Rolfe estate bordered Peter’s property and Peter had known this family his whole life, had practically lived in their pockets since his own parents passed away. Brent was slightly acquainted with Baron Rolfe, but he could not recall if he had ever met the man’s wife or the daughter.
‘You could not find a finer woman,’ Peter insisted.
Yes. Yes. So Peter had said. Many times.
His cousin went on. ‘You need marriage to a respectable woman. It will counteract the unfortunate scandal that surrounds you.’
Brent averted his gaze. This was exactly what Brent had told himself before his first marriage. Eunice, he’d thought, had been the epitome of a good match.
In the end she’d only compounded the scandal.
Peter glanced around, as if a passer-by might overhear him. ‘There are those who still believe your blood is tainted because of your poor Irish mother. Some claim that is why Eunice was unfaithful.’
Brent’s gaze snapped back.
His grandfather had hammered it into him that his blood was tainted by his mother, the daughter of a poor Irish tenant farmer. Brent could still hear Eunice’s diatribe on the subject, which had indeed been her justification for blatant infidelity.
Brent remembered only a smiling face, warm arms encircling him and a sweet voice singing a lullaby. He felt the ache of a loss that was over a quarter-century old.
‘Take care, Peter,’ he shot back, his voice turning dark and dangerous.
His cousin merely returned a sympathetic look. ‘You know I do not credit such things, but your children are bound to hear this same gossip some day, as well as stories of their mother. These will be heavy burdens for them to bear. You need to do something to counter them or they will grow up suffering the same taunts and cuts that you have suffered.’
Peter rarely talked so plainly.
Brent held his cousin’s gaze. ‘My one marriage certainly did nothing to increase my respectability.’
He’d stayed away from Eunice as much as possible for the children’s sake. There was no reason the poor babes should hear them constantly shouting at each other.
He’d been completely besotted by Eunice from their first meeting. She’d been the Diamond of the Season, the daughter of a peer, the perfect match for a new marquess, and she’d accepted his suit.
After marriage, however, Brent learned it was his title and wealth that had value to her. The day he’d held their newborn son in his arms, thinking himself the most fortunate man in the world, Eunice had told him how happy she was that her duty was done. Now they were free to pursue other interests. After that her interests—her infidelities, that is—kept tongues wagging.
At least the war offered him ample opportunity to stay away from her.
Unfortunately, it had also kept him away from his son.
Brent consoled himself that most aristocrats had little to do with their children, instead hiring nurses, governesses and tutors, sending them away to schools and seeing them only at brief intervals until the children were old enough to be civilised, the way the old marquess had reared him. How he had spent his early years was considered strange—suckled by his own mother, cared for by his Irish grandfather in a one-room, windowless mud cabin.
Brent and Peter reached Oxford Street, a lifetime away from the land of Brent’s birth.
He turned his attention back to the present. ‘Peter, what makes you think another marriage would not make matters worse?’
In no way would Brent allow his heart to again become engaged as it had done with Eunice. It had cut to the core that she’d married the title and scorned the man.
Peter responded once they were on the other side of Oxford Street. ‘Marry a woman of high moral character this time. A woman whose own reputation is unblemished and who can be trusted to be a faithful wife and attentive mother.’ He glanced away and back. ‘Miss Rolfe is all these things.’
Brent kept his eyes fixed on the pavement ahead. ‘What makes you think Miss Rolfe will accept me?’
‘Because you are a good man,’ Peter said simply.
Brent rolled his eyes. ‘You may be alone in believing that.’
‘And because you could be such a help to her family.’ The young man’s tone was earnest.
At least it was out in the open this time. Miss Rolfe needed to marry into wealth. Her father was only a hair’s breadth away from the River Tick, and the man had a huge family to support—two sons and two more daughters, all younger than Miss Rolfe. Brent’s money was needed to save Rolfe from complete ruin.
‘Ah, yes.’ Brent nodded. ‘My wealth is greatly desired.’
‘By a worthy man,’ Peter emphasised. ‘The most important thing is Miss Rolfe will make a good mother to your children.’
His children. The only reason he’d consider this idea of marriage. Brent might not see his children frequently. He might not keep them at his side like his Irish grandfather kept him, but he wanted the best for them.
‘Speaking of your children, how is the new governess working out?’ Peter asked.
Brent welcomed the change in subject, although it pricked at his guilt even more. She’d sent him one letter shortly after her arrival at Brentmore, but he’d not written back to enquire further.
‘Fairly well, last I heard.’ Was the passionate Miss Hill making the children happy? He certainly hoped so.
Perhaps he would write to her tomorrow to ask if the children needed anything that he could provide. He had no clue as to what his children might need or desire. He’d tried to keep their lives as quiet and comfortable and unchanged as he could, knowing firsthand how jarring too much change could be. That was why he’d left them at Brentmore Hall, to disrupt their peace as little as possible with his presence.
Who could have guessed their old governess would die? He’d not protected them at all from that trauma. How difficult for them that the woman’s death to come so soon after their mother’s accident.
If a second marriage could accomplish all Peter said, how could Brent refuse? If Miss Rolfe was indeed the paragon Peter vowed she was, perhaps she could give the children a better life.
He and Peter turned on to Somerset Street and knocked upon Lord Rolfe’s door. A footman opened the door and a few minutes later led them to the drawing room and announced them to the Rolfes.
Baron Rolfe immediately crossed the room to greet them. ‘Lord Brentmore, it is a delight to have your company.’ He shook Brent’s hand. ‘Peter, it is always good to see you.’ He turned to two ladies who stood behind him. ‘Allow me to present you to my wife and daughter.’
The wife was a pleasant-looking woman, the sort whose face just naturally smiled. She was soft spoken and gracious.
The daughter had a quiet sort of beauty. Her hair was a nondescript brown, her eyes a pale blue, her features even. There was nothing to object to in her. Brent gave her credit for being remarkably composed in the face of being looked over by a marquess as if she were a bauble in some shop.
‘I