Page 52 of The Best Marquess

Argh. This discussion had gotten progressively worse, but it certainly wasn’t the right time to tell Evangeline that there might not be babies anytime soon. Not as long as Finn spilled on his wife’s belly, at least. In truth, after witnessing Amanda’s birth she wasn’t in any hurry to get pregnant. But Finn should have talked to her, damn it. They should have made the decision together. It nagged at her that they hadn’t, but there was just too much going on in the household to broach the subject.

“Children will come eventually, I’m sure,” said Pippa.

Evangeline dropped Pippa’s hand. “Why would you delay? Surely you know your duty as Marchioness of Pinehurst. Even I knew my duty, and I was seventeen years old. You are nearly twenty-one. Exactly the right age to have a baby.”

“Ah…”

“My son has such affection for you, and I’m sure he wishes for a family. But I wonder how you truly feel about him, if you would deny him his heart’s desire.”

“Finn has been my best friend for sixteen years,” said Pippa, floundering at the accusatory tone.

“That is not what I asked.”

Good lord. The other woman was sniffling now; such overt emotion made her supremely uncomfortable. “I’m causing you distress. Perhaps I should leave.”

The dowager shook her head. “We have duties to attend.”

Her heart sank. Surely not. “You mean…”

Evangeline smiled grimly. “My late husband’s valet has agreed to bathe and dress his corpse before it is laid out so visitors might pay their last respects. But he cannot perform such a delicate task alone. We will assist him. Come along, Pippa.”

Oh God.

Bad enough she had to wear mourning for the cretin, but now she had to bathe and dress his dead body as well? This was nothing short of vengeance from beyond the grave.

It was hard to imagine a less enticing place to be the family rock than Kingsford House. But here, it was indeed the worst position in the world.

There wasn’t nearly enough talk about how overwhelming it was to inherit a title.

Rubbing a weary hand across his jaw, Finn stood next to the street-facing window in the library, the only spot in the room where he didn’t feel like he would be buried alive in dark paneled walls, crimson trim, stag heads, and paintings of gruesome biblical scenes.

Ugh. He hated the décor, only worsening his current emotional state.

It didn’t matter whether the death was sudden or expected, it was still a lot to work through. And unless you were a soulless ghoul—and society certainly had its share of unscrupulous heirs—it was a time of mind-twisting upheaval. From one minute to the next, he didn’t know whether to cry or hurl breakable objects. And yet they all expected him to be a stoic soldier of the British Stiff Upper Lip Brigade and lock away his feelings in the cellar. It was no wonder the ton gambled and had affairs and drank themselves into a catatonic state. If they had to answer the question ‘how are you’ truthfully, the empire would collapse.

But looking out the window was infinitely preferable to paper or parchment. Everything was blending together now; if he wasn’t careful, he would be thanking someone for a modiste bill instead of a condolence card. Far worse, he missed Pippa terribly; this might be perhaps the longest they had gone without a proper discussion in sixteen years. Yet she had enough to manage on her own, helping to prepare his father’s body for the hordes of visitors they would soon have, answering correspondence related to the wedding and the upcoming funeral, learning to manage a new household, and getting her belongings moved in. He would not cause his rock to shatter.

Finn yawned. He’d not slept since his father’s death, and his body ached like he’d run from London to Bath. God. Twenty-four, and feeling at least twice that. A part of him yearned for the carefree heir days, to just love Pippa and return to his business; concentrating on nothing more taxing than the trim of a demi mask or whether a romance novel was explicit enough to join the Bliss collection. But he couldn’t. He was marquess now, with a boulder’s worth of history and expectations sitting on his shoulders, and bankers, lawyers, stewards, secretaries, and clerks all wanting a slice of him.

At the sound of a delicate throat clearing, he glanced over to see Travers standing in the library doorway. “Yes?”

“Beg pardon, my lord, but ah…you have a visitor.”

“Who?” said Finn impatiently, in no mood whatsoever to see another old man.

“There is…er…a woman at the door. A Mrs. Overton. She has a young child and claims you will see her. That you…er…know each other well. I didn’t think I’d seen her before, and yet she is somewhat familiar, so perhaps I have. What are your instructions?”

Abby.

Joy warred with surprise that she would come here, knowing her loathing of the aristocracy and the name Pinehurst. Yet it wasn’t his place to fully identify her without permission. She might still wish to remain anonymous.

“My instructions,” said Finn pleasantly, “are that Mrs. Overton and her child are welcome in this house at any time. Warmly welcome. I would appreciate a tea tray. Perhaps a few squares of marzipan if there are any sweets in the kitchens.”

Travers blinked and smacked his lips together, no doubt gulping back at least a thousand questions. “Very good, my lord. I shall escort them in here and see about a tray.”

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later, Abby walked into the library, Nessie perched on her hip. Both looked incredibly uneasy; the brown-haired toddler was clinging to her mother and the cloth toy Miss Wabbit like a barnacle.