Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

hosting a ball,” she continued from under a deeply furrowed brow. “Surely, there will be one young lady present who is adequately suited to be your marchioness.”
    Grey turned to the sideboard and the liquor.
    “Highly doubtful,” he said. “There’s not one I wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring abroad.” He turned to her with a sober expression. “I have to go, you know. I have estates, businesses.” Grey poured a short snifter of whisky. It was early, but visits from his mother generally called for some sort of fortification.
    “What nonsense!”
    “Half of them don’t know where Italy is, and the other half would be flabbergasted to hear they don’t speak English there.” He took down the liquid with one gulp then turned to refill it.
    Her bottom lip pouted on a frown. “Are your mother’s wishes no longer any concern to you?”
    “You are getting ahead of yourself,” he said, unaffected. “I have plenty of time for wedlock.”
    “I do not have plenty of time for grandchildren, Grey.” Her voice shook, and Grey fought to ignore it.
    “I am afraid I haven’t the temperament for children,” he returned with the same unaffected tone, though the cloud from the alcohol was not quite strong enough yet to block out the guilt.
    He took a long swallow from the snifter, feeling it burn its way down his throat.
    The matron snorted. “You would make a great father. You are only in want of the right woman to tempt you to it.”
    He laughed wickedly. “I am afraid my mistresses would disagree with you.”
    “Greydon!” she scolded, glaring daggers at him. “At least pretend you are a gentleman for my sake.”
    His forced amusement faded as he set his drink aside and went to her. His muscular form dwarfed her as he gently folded her in his arms. “Forgive me. I shall do my best to find an agreeable female to raise my brats and waste my fortune.”
    “Grey!” she admonished with a reluctant smile. “You will be the death of me.”
    “I am afraid I might,” he muttered. When she pulled back, he added lightly, “Perhaps I ought to take another glance at those Hayward twins.”

    * * *
    T hat evening , Grey sauntered into the Garson’s ballroom with all the weary reluctance due a seasoned rake. There was no pleasure in the glittering chandeliers, cheerful music, or energy buzzing through the rooms. He saw it differently now than he did years ago when he had first joined in the chaos. At first, there was anticipation. Now, he would rather spend the evening in his study. In fact, this was the first bit of society he had seen in weeks, and it showed promise of being especially tedious: watered down punch, barely passable bourbon, and an abundance of desperate tabbies to push their witless daughters at him.
    Marry, his mother said. And spend the rest of his life with a pretty automaton who was as dull as dishwater. Every one of them were born and bred to be exactly like the other, so predictable. Not to mention, any one of them would faint the instant they caught sight of his newly acquired scar, so he couldn’t imagine his wedding night being overly successful.
    He stepped out of the ballroom and into an oversized drawing room of pale yellow bathed in light. It was filled with ten or twelve small tables, but only a few were occupied with games of whist and piquet.
    He stood casually in the open double doors, scanning the tables until he spotted his friend the Earl of Pembridge.
    Pembridge grinned warmly and beckoned him over with a swift flick of his head. Grey smiled back and started deliberately toward his table.
    Nick was about Grey’s height with neat, sandy hair and bright blue eyes, and he had been Grey’s closest friend since boyhood. They had gone to Eton together, fought Boney together, and did the Home Office’s dirty work together. They were also libertines.
    As both had rejected the thought of being bound by the clutches of a singular, money-hungry charlatan, but refused to become—heaven