The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [7]
Quin was already on his feet; now he moved from behind his desk to kiss the hand his mother held out. “Indeed?” he asked politely, while trying to remember what she was talking about.
Fortunately, the duchess did not view responsiveness as an obligatory aspect of conversation. Given a choice, she would prefer to soliloquize, but she had learned to give addresses that could almost be classified as interactive.
“I have selected two young ladies,” she pronounced now. “Both from excellent families, it hardly needs saying. One is from the aristocracy; the other is from the gentry, but recommended by the Duke of Canterwick. I think we both agree that to consider only the aristocracy is to show anxiety about the matter, and the Sconces need have no such emotion.”
She paused, and Tarquin nodded obediently. He had learned as a child that anxiety—like love—was an emotion disdained among the aristocracy.
“Both mothers are aware of my treatise,” his mother continued, “and I have reasonable faith that their daughters will surmount the series of tests I shall put to them, drawn, of course, from The Mirror of Compliments. I have put a great deal of thought into their visit, Tarquin, and it will be a success.”
By now Quin knew exactly what his mother was talking about: his next wife. He approved of both Her Grace’s planning and her expectation of success. His mother organized every aspect of her life—and, often, his as well. The one time he had engaged in spontaneity—a word and an impulse he now regarded with the deepest suspicion—the result had been disastrous.
Thus the need for a next wife. A second wife.
“You shall be married by autumn,” his mother stated.
“I have the utmost confidence that this endeavor, like all those you undertake, will be a success,” he replied, which was no more than the truth.
His mother didn’t flicker an eyelash. Neither of them had time for flattery or frivolous compliments. As his mother had written in her book, The Mirror of Compliments—which rather surprisingly had become a best-selling volume—“A true lady prefers gentle reproof to extravagant compliment.”
It hardly need be said that Her Grace would have been extremely surprised if offered a reproof, gentle or otherwise.
“Once I have found you a wife who is worthy of her position, I shall be happy,” she said now, then added, “What are you working on?”
Quin looked back at his desk. “I am writing a paper on Lagrange’s solution to Bachet’s conjecture regarding the sum of four squares.”
“Didn’t you tell me that Legendre had already improved on Lagrange’s theorem?”
“His proof was incomplete.”
“Ah.” There was a momentary pause, and then the dowager said, “I shall issue an immediate invitation to the chosen young ladies to join us here. After due observation, I shall make a choice. A reasoned choice. There will be no succumbing to light fancy, Tarquin. I think we both agree that your first marriage made patently clear the inadvisability of such behavior.”
Quin inclined his head—but he didn’t entirely agree. His marriage had been inadvisable, surely. Terrible, in some lights (the fact that Evangeline had taken a lover within a few months spoke for itself). Still . . .
“Not in every respect,” he said now, unable to stop himself.
“You are contradicting yourself,” his mother observed.
“My marriage was not a mistake in every respect.” He and his mother lived together quite comfortably, but he was well aware that the household’s serenity was dependent on the fact that he generally took the path of least resistance. When necessary, however, he could be as firm as the dowager.
“Well,” his mother replied, eyeing him. “We must each be the judge of that.”
“I am the judge of my marriage,” Quin stated.
“The question is irrelevant,” she replied, waving her fan as if to brush away an insect. “I shall do my best to steer you in such a way that you shall not fall into the same quagmire. I feel quite exhausted