Grace Gibson Read Online Free PDF

wife, and an uninteresting one at that, will deter your companions from reattaching to a man of such good blood and bad habits as you.”
    Robert took in this speech with a gravity he had not possessed on the first occasion of meeting his uncle. After a moment’s silent reflection, he spoke. “Why do I not relinquish my ducal claim so that you can become the heir? I see all your objections to me in a clear light, for I have drunk nothing but ale and weak claret for nigh on a month. I’ve had nothing to do but reflect on my history.” With a farsighted glint in his eye, he spoke with a calculating finality. “You take Devonshire, Uncle. I am not capable of duty to my family name.”
    Eversham, not much fooled by his nephew’s sudden turn of mind, showed nothing but shrewdness in his gaze. “That is a fine plan — but for the fact I do not want it. I am of too great an age, not married and with no taste for it. You must, I am afraid, be made to do your duty and produce an heir, one who is — God willing — of sounder mind than those before him. My duty is in what I have undertaken: I preserve the fortune, the lands and the respectability of the name. That accomplished, I will die in peace.”
    Denley struggled with a sentiment he could not, or would not, utter. Upon perceiving it, Lord Eversham said, in his business-like way, “You will favour me with your company for a month, Robert. We go south, for I’ve a desire to see my old friend Bromley in Somersetshire. As to these improvements, I write this instant to my man of business to see to them.”
    Denley replied with characteristic lack of graciousness. “May I presume I am to meet an alternative bride to my pert Mary?”
    “As a sign of good faith, Robert, we depart a se’enight.” As an afterthought, Eversham added, “You will allow me to tell Fanley nearer to our departure. He will no doubt feel slighted by our removal.”

Chapter Eight
    Once the Marquis perceived the totality of the requirement of his uncle —marriage and complete retirement from Society to pay for his escape from a term in the hole at Marshalsea for debt, abduction, seduction, duelling and various other misdemeanour charges — he began to adjust to his new circumstances.
    Heretofore he had been somewhat dazed by his Uncle’s tour de force attack on his independence, hazily believing it would, in the end, come to naught and that he would be restored to his former life. Yet, in the medicinal country air and the company of the mild and wholesome Mr. Fanley, removed from the perdition to which he had become inured, he had lately begun to wonder at the attraction of such an existence. No, he was not reformed. It would be safer to say he had no clear idea of who he was or what he was about. He waited for clarity.
    Mary Fanley, however perceiving her guest’s robust colour, vigour, the easing of lines around his eyes and even an occasional genuine smile, could only tease.
    “Oh, my Lord!” she exclaimed the following morning, as he approached the breakfast parlour before the food had gone cold, “am I to call the apothecary?”
    “I beg your pardon?” As always, her manner threw Lord Robert into angry confusion. He had not yet gauged her quickness, for he was still used to languid women with a degree of worldly cynicism, or shy girls who would not speak unless spoken to.
    Mary graced him with a brilliant smile. “But you appear so well!” I am wondering if that means you are feeling poorly?”
    He could not help but feel chagrin. He returned her teasing smile with a frigid bow and a flat look of disdain. “I believe I am perverse enough to feel well and look well, today.”
    “It is a pity you are so complex, my Lord,” she clucked. “I admit I am disappointed.”
    This was outside of enough. “You are no such thing!”
    She started at his flash of temper. “Oh, dear! I believe you are not yourself. I have rarely seen you out of countenance, yet you bloom, sir. You are proven