THREE HOURS LATER, at a much more civilized hour, Taviston ignored the food piled high on his plate and stared out the breakfast room window. The sun shone gaily upon the back garden, but he hardly noticed. The image of one petite and extremely trying female clouded his vision.
She had been wearing a sprigged muslin morning gown with a light blue pelisse over it. The color had drawn his attention to her eyes, which were almost the exact same shade of blue, like an early morning sky. Her braided sandy locks had been wound around her head, revealing those charmingly small ears to advantage.
After a while the lack of background noise in the room sunk into his brain. The clink of silver on dishes, the movement of the footmen, the chatter of the others; it had all stopped. He pulled his gaze from the window and found the sapphire blue eyes of both his mother and his younger brother James staring at him.
“What? Have I egg on my face?”
Taviston hurriedly brought his napkin to his face while a small smile washed over his mother’s face. She glanced at James, seated across from her, and then resumed eating.
Tall and lanky, with black hair the same shade as his, James was a younger version of himself. Only the color of their eyes differed. All of twenty years old, he had returned from Oxford the previous year. He was a scholar, an intellectual who never strayed far from his books.
James used his fork to spear a slice of ham. “Am I mistaken or was there a loud commotion early this morning?”
Taviston turned his attention to his plate and muttered, “Commotion? I haven’t a clue.” He began eating as if starved.
“Are you certain you don’t know, Taviston?” He looked up to find himself pinned by his mother’s gaze. “I heard two of the maids whispering about a cat and ‘His Grace’ and I am certain I heard you yelling.”
“I am sure you are mistaken, Mother. They were probably talking about a rat and his face.”
“We have a problem with rats, do we?” she asked in sarcastic disbelief.
“Possibly,” he muttered. “I have work to do.”
He tossed his napkin down and rose.
“Charles William Maximilian Danforth!”
One would think being a grown man of eight and twenty years and a duke of the realm for the past nine years would be reason enough for a man to never hear his full given name spoken in such a commanding manner. One would be wrong, however, given the fact the grown man’s mother, Catherine, the Duchess of Taviston, still resided on this earth. And he, like his brothers and sister, knew not to ignore her. Ever.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Join me in my sitting room, won’t you? I need a few minutes of your time.”
“I would love to. James, good day.” He nodded toward his brother and followed his darling mother upstairs.
She preceded him into the room and settled into a comfortable blue winged chair close to the fire. Though just three and fifty, her hair had already gone completely silver. It contrasted nicely with her vivid blue eyes and lent her an extra air of dignity she certainly didn’t need. She was the epitome of what a duchess should be: regal, intelligent, self-confident, and gracious.
Taviston sank into the matching chair opposite her.
“How lovely of you to join me,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
Taviston couldn’t help but grin, although he found it difficult to relax completely in this room. It was his mother’s domain and she had decorated it in a cheery pattern of light blue and yellow, with flowers and lace much in evidence. He had long ago decided she had intentionally given the room an overly feminine décor, so as to unsettle her sons a wee bit whenever she managed to lure them into her lair. The fact that she had not decorated any other room, even her own bedchamber, in such a cloying way only bolstered his theory.
“You must have rested well, Mother. You look fresh as a daisy.”
“Imitating your sweet-talking brother will get you nowhere, my dear.” She smiled tenderly but then her lips straightened into a more serious line. “You have been avoiding me, and this discussion, for days. I know how much you hate this, but what kind of a mother would I be if I did not remind you of your family duty to marry and beget an heir?”
“You would be a much-appreciated mother.” Her efforts to nudge him toward marriage had only intensified after his sister Harriet had accepted Viscount Dunstan’s proposal six years ago. Too bad Taviston didn’t have any other sisters to occupy his mother’s matrimonial ambitions.
She chuckled. “I thought you might need a little push. The Season is quite under way now.”
“Indeed. That is why I have decided to find a bride,” Taviston said casually, keeping his expression passive.
“If I am not mistaken, you have yet to attend a ball.” The duchess continued lecturing as if she hadn’t heard him.
In his defense Taviston ticked off four fingers. “I have attended two dinner parties and an opera, not to mention the Wallingfords’ rout last night.”
She bit back a smile at his bitterness, but then a look of alarm overtook her face and Taviston knew she had finally remarked his earlier words. “What did you say?”