Free The Courtship by Grace Burrowes

sit?”
    “Of course. Shall I ring for tea?”
    God’s holy, everlasting balls… Their dinner conversation was the same. A parody of dialogue.
    His Grace flipped out the tails of his coat and appropriated the middle of the sofa while Pembroke subsided into his reading chair. “Tea won’t be necessary. Her Grace would like us to attend the last week of the Morrisette house party. The children needn’t come, of course, though I’m sure Lady Morrisette will make accommodation if you insist.”
    He rather hoped the children would come, for both of his granddaughters were delightful young ladies who liked for their grandpapa to read to them and tell them tales of life at court.
    Pembroke took off his glasses and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, no doubt mentally fashioning a response while polishing spotless lenses.
    “You never refer to her as my mother, as our mother. Did you know that?” Pembroke’s tone was not accusing, it was merely curious, perhaps carefully curious.
    From parody to farce—or tragedy? “The duchess is rather attached to the privileges of her station. Is there a point you would make, Pembroke?”
    “I love my wife.” Pembroke’s chin came up a bit as he said this.
    “Your sentiments do you credit.” The duke’s answer was swift and sincere.
    Also, apparently, surprising to them both.
    Pembroke rose and stood facing the window, which looked out over the stables and nearer paddocks. “I have wondered how my parents contrived to have four children, given what I know of my progenitors now. She’s set the dogs on Percy and Tony.”
    She being Her Grace, of course, and the implied criticism being that His Grace had done nothing to stop her matchmaking—which he had not.
    “Percival and Anthony are of an age to be taking spouses. You were younger, and your union has been blessed.”
    Pembroke shot a look over his shoulder. “I believe you mean that.”
    “I most assuredly do, and with your brothers married, perhaps you and your marchioness will finally have some peace. Ten years is long enough to bear the entire brunt of ducal expectations.”
    Blond brows rose, as if Pembroke’s circumstances could not possibly have figured into the duke’s thinking where Percival and Tony were concerned.
    “I’ll tell Bella we’re to join the house party.”
    A change of subject, but in Pembroke’s tone, the duke divined the truth: Pembroke would ask Arabella if she would mind very much spending just a few days placating Her Grace with a social outing. Bella would turn up stubborn, convinced if she agreed and they attended, then Pembroke would be even more miserable than she. Much fuming and many portentous looks would be served up with dinner for the remainder of the week.
    And in the end, they’d both go, and both hate it. Perhaps they’d even slide a hair closer to hating Her Grace.
    Managing a large and prosperous duchy was simple compared to dealing with one small, relatively civil family. His Grace rose to stand beside his son.
    “Anthony is in clandestine pursuit of the Holsopple heiress, who is not trying very hard to elude capture. She’s had several seasons to lark about, and refused any number of offers. Her Grace is making overtures to the girl’s mother, and thus the entire idea will be Her— your mother’s invention, provided Anthony and his love do not elope first, and provided I can manage to communicate as much to your baby brother.”
    Pembroke folded his glasses and stuffed them into a pocket. “And Percy?”
    “Percival is acquitting himself cordially to all and sundry. I predict that when he falls, he’ll fall hard and without respect to where Her—your mother would like him to fall. Do I take it you are not inclined to join the house party?”
    “Bella despises those gatherings.”
    “As do I.”
    This bit of honesty proved too much for Pembroke’s reserve. The marquess aimed a rare, sympathetic smile at his father. “Is it time for your lungs to act