A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 62 - Sixty Two

Ines sat up straighter. "She has? You have a candidate?"

"Well," Rowan corrected himself, smoothing his trousers. "She will be coming tomorrow. She will stay a few days and leave to prepare for the ball. She is bringing her mother."

Ines frowned. "Staying here? At Hamilton House?"

"Yes," Rowan said. "And her uncle is also coming. Lord Sterling mentioned him. He wishes to discuss business with me regarding the railway expansion. It seemed... efficient to combine the visits. He won’t be staying for long so it’s a win."

Ines’s face dropped.

"Business and courting," she muttered. "How romantic. Who is she, Rowan? Do not make me guess."

Rowan looked at the fire. He pictured the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the gentle conversations.

"Lady Celine Farrington," Rowan said.

Ines blinked.

"Celine Farrington?" she repeated. "The Diamond? The girl who was presented three weeks ago?"

"Yes," Rowan said. "She is... she is the one. Or I think so."

Ines stared at him.

She knew Lady Celine. Everyone knew Lady Celine. She was beautiful, yes. She was rich for her station. She was titled. She was perfectly polite and perfectly accomplished.

She was also, in Ines’s opinion, as interesting as a bowl of lukewarm water.

"You think so?" Ines asked. Her voice was flat.

Rowan looked up. He saw the disappointment in her eyes.

"She checks every box, Ines," Rowan said defensively. "She is beautiful. She is intelligent—she reads political theory. She speaks French. She is kind. She is exactly what the Dukedom needs."

"The Dukedom needs an heir," Ines said. "You need a wife. There is a difference."

"She will be a perfect wife," Rowan insisted. "She is agreeable."

"Agreeable," Ines repeated. "Brother, you argue with the wind if it blows in the wrong direction. You need someone who can stand up to you. Someone who has... fire."

She glanced toward the ceiling, in the direction of the guest rooms.

"Lady Celine is very sweet," Ines said carefully. "But she is a child. She has never had a thought that wasn’t approved by her mother. How are you sure this isn’t her family opinion?"

"She has her own opinions," Rowan argued. "We discussed the Corn Laws."

"Oh, be still my beating heart," Ines deadpanned. "The Corn Laws. Did you sweep her off her feet with a lecture on tariffs?"

Rowan glared at her. "I am trying to be responsible, Ines. I am trying to secure the future. Why can you not just be happy for me?"

Ines softened. She saw the strain in his face. She saw the exhaustion.

"I want to be happy for you," Ines said gently. "I just... I worry. You say ’I think so.’ You do not say ’I love her.’ You do not say ’I cannot live without her.’"

"Love grows," Rowan said. It was a line Delaney had written in her notebook. He recited it like a shield. "Respect comes first. Passion follows."

"Does it?" Ines asked. "Or does boredom follow?"

Rowan didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. Because he was terrified she was right.

He stood up. He walked to the window and looked out at the gray London street.

"She is coming tomorrow," Rowan said firmly. "I intend to propose at the ball. That is the plan. Miss Kingsley has arranged it. You know, it’s not everyone who has the privilege of marrying for love like you."

Ines sighed. She stood up and walked over to him. She placed a hand on his arm.

"Fine. If that is your decision," Ines said. "Then I will support you. I will be the best hostess London has ever seen. I will make sure the flowers are perfect and the music is divine."

"Thank you," Rowan said. He covered her hand with his.

"But," Ines added, squeezing his arm. "If I see you looking miserable... if I see you looking at the door instead of the bride... I will trip you."

Rowan let out a small, dry laugh. "You would?"

"I would," Ines promised.

The tension broke slightly. They stood there, brother and sister, united against the world, even if they disagreed on the method, which they always do.

Rowan stepped back. He needed to change the subject. He couldn’t talk about Celine anymore. It made him feel hollow.

"So," Rowan said, forcing a lighter tone. "How was your journey? Did the carriage hold up? Did Harry sleep?"

Ines looked at him. She knew exactly what he was doing. He was deflecting. He was running away from the uncomfortable truth.

Ines already knew the answer to her own questions—the journey was fine, Harry screamed for ten miles, and Carcel ate all the biscuits—but she didn’t press further.

"The journey was... eventful," Ines said, playing along. "Harry discovered that he can throw his rattle. He threw it at Carcel’s head three times. Carcel claims he has a concussion."

Rowan smiled. It was a real smile this time.

"He is a strong lad," Rowan said. "Good arm."

"He takes after you," Ines said. "Stubborn and destructive."

They moved back to the sofa. Ines poured the tea that Simmons had brought. The ritual of pouring—milk first, then the dark liquid—was soothing. It was normal.

"Tell me about the estate," Ines said, handing him a cup. "How is the wool harvest?"

"Good," Rowan said, taking the cup. "The prices are up. And with the railway deal I signed today... we should be secure."

"And the horses?"

"I have a new team," Rowan said. "Bays. Very fast."

They spoke for twenty minutes. They talked about sheep, about fences, about the leak in the roof of the tenant cottage. They talked about everything except the two women currently residing in the Rowan’s mind.

It was a comfortable truce.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the hallway.

The heavy front knocker banged loudly.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Then, the sound of the door opening. A flurry of voices. A high-pitched bark of a small dog.

"Oh, heavens!" a loud, booming female voice echoed from the foyer. "Simmons! Don’t just stand there like a gargoyle! Help me with this cage! Fifi is hysterical!"

Rowan froze. Ines grinned.

"She is here," Ines whispered.

"Aunt Margery," Rowan groaned. He put his teacup down.

The doors to the drawing room flew open.

A woman swept in, wearing a hat with three ostrich feathers that bobbed as she walked.

She wore a traveling coat of bright purple wool. In her hand, she held a gilded birdcage containing a very small, very angry poodle. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

"Darlings!" Aunt Margery shouted.

She dropped the cage on a priceless rug. The dog yapped.

"I am here!" Margery announced, throwing her arms wide. "The traffic was abominable! The roads were a disgrace! And Fifi has not peed since Surrey!"

She looked at Rowan. She looked at Ines.

"Well?" Margery demanded. "Where is the tea? And where is my genius matchmaker? Tell me we have a wedding to plan, or I shall turn around and go back to Bath immediately!"

Rowan stood up. He looked at his aunt. He looked at his sister.

The quiet, serious conversation was over. The chaos had officially arrived.

"Welcome, Aunt Margery," Rowan said, bracing himself. "We have... much to tell you."

Ines sipped her tea, hiding a smile.

"Yes," Ines murmured into her cup. "We certainly do."