Page 4 of Finding Hope
He no more wanted to be forced into marriage than to marry Vivienne—or allow his mother to have her way. It was difficult to honour thy mother when she was behaving dishonourably.
Max could not even say how long he wandered the streets, but he did eventually find himself back at his town house.
The next morning, he had had time to calm himself, and he dressed whilst mentally preparing for battle. To what lengths would he have to go to see his mother surrender?
He donned his beaver hat and took his walking stick from Baxter, then proceeded across Grosvenor Square to his parents’ house. His future residence. His father stayed buried in the country unless he had to come to London, but would he trouble himself to rein in the Duchess if Max asked? Max shook his head, answering his own question. He was a grown man and had to deal with this himself.
The door opened before he could knock.
“Good morning, my lord,” Evans said and held out his hand for Max’s hat and walking stick.
“Evans.” Max acknowledged the long-time family retainer. “Where is her Grace?”
“I believe she is still in her chambers, my lord. Her maid sent down word that she was abed with the headache.”
“I will show myself up, then,” he said before Evans could protest. Her Grace did not care to be disturbed in her chambers, but Max knew this was one of her tricks to fob him off. She knew full well he would be there this morning, and was trying to disconcert him. It would not work.
He climbed the stairs with deliberate patience, forcing himself to be calm, then knocked on the door to her sitting room—he did not care to find her in dishabille, after all.
“Enter,” she called, very likely expecting a servant.
He opened the door and found her fully dressed, sitting near the window.
“Rotham,” she greeted him coolly.
“Your Grace.” He walked forward and kissed her on the cheek to discompose her. “You are looking well.”
“I have an announcement en route to the papers. Vivienne and her parents have agreed it is for the best to make things formal.”
Max sat down and slowly crossed his legs. He had anticipated something as base as this. He could somewhat relate to Westwood’s fury when Sir Julian had made such an announcement about Westwood’s wife, except now it was his own mother trying to force his hand publicly.
“Have you nothing to say?” she demanded.
“I think it is unfortunate that you felt you had the power to do such a thing. I have already made it clear to the papers that any such announcement, unless delivered personally by me, is not to be printed or such publication will result in serious consequences for them.”
She drew in a gasp with anger.
“I will not be forced into marrying Miss Cunningham, or anyone else, your Grace.”
“You intend to be entrapped by that vulgar Whitford girl!”
“No one will entrap me, including you. I will marry whom I want, when I want.”
“But this has been arranged for years!” she argued.
“There is nothing binding and you know it. Vivienne and I never agreed to such an arrangement. Besides, if that were the case, you would not have invited half a dozen ladies to your house party.”
“A house party that you promised to be at, and rather than honour that obligation, you went hunting instead!”
“I made no promises.”
“How can you be so unfeeling?” His mother’s voice shook with anger.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“You were brought up to be a dutiful son. You cannot marry whomever you wish like your friends do. You must honour your name and title!”
“I have no intention of besmirching the dukedom with a guttersnipe, your Grace.”
