The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

“I said I would marry,” he said carefully. “I don’t believe I spoke a word about duty.”


Her nose twitched and her lips flattened, as if the idea that marriage could be more than a duty made her want to sneeze. Still, she didn’t say anything until the next course had been laid in front of them. Then, she waited until Robert had taken a bite—and couldn’t protest—before speaking.

“If we are to approach the matter properly, it might well take years. Such a thing cannot be taken on cavalierly. There are backgrounds to inquire into, information to obtain.” She picked up her fork. “We must make lists. I’ve started three already.”

Robert swallowed the bite of fish even though his throat had just dried. For all that the woman sitting before him was his mother, she was a stranger. He’d scarcely seen her when he’d been a child. There had been a time when he’d wanted her to care for him. He’d wanted it desperately; he’d made excuse after excuse for her absence. But she’d made it painfully clear that his excuses were just that, and that she wanted nothing to do with him.

“Your pardon,” he said, realizing that the room had been cloaked in silence since she’d spoken. “What do you mean, we must make lists? Who is we?”

“No need for you to worry about it.” She gave an elegant wave of her hand. “I can show you what I have thus far. I’ve organized the names I’ve gathered so far into three categories: peers’ daughters, heiresses, and other.” She sniffed. “With a little work on my part, I should be able to obviate the need to consider any women in the other category.”

Twenty-eight years of near-indifference from the woman, and then this?

“So when you say we,” Robert said slowly, “you are really referring to yourself.”

“Well…” She looked startled at the question. “You needn’t sound so put out, Clermont. Of course your wishes are to be considered.”

“My wishes are to be considered,” he repeated. “Such generosity. And such curious phrasing, absent any actors at all. Might I inquire after the name of the person who so kindly volunteers to consider my wishes? It is only my marriage, after all.”

His mother licked her lips and fell silent. Her gaze fell to her plate, but her fingers curled around her fork.

“Thank you, Duchess,” Robert said. “But your assistance will not be needed in this matter.”

“Clermont.” Now a hint of exasperation touched her voice. “It may be your marriage, but your choice will affect me.” Her head tilted up, wide-eyed. “If your marriage is the subject of gossip, why, everyone connected with you will suffer. I have decades of experience with the ton. It would be foolish of you not to draw on it.”

She had drawn herself up stiffly. Little blooms of pink touched her cheeks. No doubt she’d realized that once he married, she’d become the dowager Duchess of Clermont, and she was loath to give up her place in society to some chit who didn’t respect her as she wanted.

“No offense, Mama,” Robert drawled, “but I do not consider you an expert on marriage. Expertise, I think, would require you to actually stay in one.”

Her lips pinched together. “Insults.” She sniffed. “You become more like your father every day. Do think my offer over, Clermont, and talk to me when you are less emotional. You cannot simply bumble around London until you see a candidate whose looks you like. This is one of the most important decisions of your life. Your wife will share your life for the remainder of your days.”

“She needn’t,” Robert contradicted. “She can always move out.” He looked across the table at her. “In the event that she needs to do so, I’ll point her in your direction. You have some qualifications on that front, I believe.”

Her nostrils flared; he almost thought she might stamp her foot and paw the ground, like an angry bull. But she simply turned her head away and took another bite of her meal.

There was a reason they’d kept their conversations to inane niceties up until this point. There was no way to talk about anything else without bitterness. They had no common past to draw on, almost no shared acquaintances. His mother had spent more time visiting Sebastian’s mother—her husband’s sister—than she had lived in Robert’s household as a child.

And she’d chosen to do it. He might have forgiven her at one time. At one time, he would have forgiven her anything. Knowing what he did of his father, it seemed unfair to hold her to account for leaving the man. But when she’d left her husband, she’d never looked back at her son. No matter how he asked, she’d never looked back.

“At least,” she finally said, a little stiffly, “at least you might make use of my lists.”

“No, Your Grace.” Robert felt as cold as ice as he spoke. “I don’t believe we will be needing your lists.”