“Thank you, Grandfather.”
Taking a turn on the stone path, Riordan frowned. They were heading to the private family cemetery. The men rarely came here, as it was a place of unspeakable tragedy. He hadn’t been to this dreary place since his grandfather brought him and Aidan here when they were thirteen. Thankfully, they stopped well short of the gated entrance.
“This is as good a time as any to discuss the curse once again,” the earl stated.
Oh, God. Riordan struggled not to react, but with one glance at his grandfather, at the obvious pain and grief on his face, he decided to keep his opinion to himself. Through the years, he dismissed the fable. Time often lessened the impact of frightful episodes, and his grandfather telling him of the curse was one of them. But here lay the proof. Row after row of graves. It was enough to give him pause. Generations of women. His own mother and grandmother. An aunt who died in infancy.
While his father, uncle, and grandfather had certainly indulged in a few brief affairs through the years, the different generations of men allowed no women close. In truth, many ladies of society were wary of any long-lasting romantic ties to such a storied and tragic clan. The curse followed the men like a hovering black cloud. It was one of the reasons Riordan had hidden his name when applying for the teaching assignment: he did not want the scrutiny or the attention.
“You are about to go out into the world. Make your own way. You will meet young ladies,” the earl said.
“Grandfather, I am hardly a monk. I’ve been in the company of ladies before.” A couple of dalliances. Nothing significant, and he certainly didn’t have the carnal experience Aidan possessed. His twin had cut a wide swath through London society and beyond in the past six years.
“You would be wise to follow your Uncle Garrett and remain free of any romantic entanglements. Build a wall about your heart, lock it away, and let no one in. I know I told you all this years ago, but a reminder is warranted.”
The earl laid his hands on Riordan’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I have come to learn it is better not to feel anything at all in order to avoid heartbreak. You turned twenty-six last month; you are young and impressionable. Remain aloof, even remote, in your dealings with women. I would not see you hurt for the world.”
His grandfather spoke with great emotion, and Riordan took the warning to heart. He would be wise to follow the advice. Remember the curse. Though he did not believe it as intensely as other members of his family, it would be prudent to keep it at the forefront of his mind.
There was much he wished to accomplish in this world, and love was a diversion he neither wanted nor needed.
Chapter 2
As she watched her father slice his morning kippers, Sabrina Durning Lakeside, Lady Pepperdon and widow to the late, ancient, and not-the-least-bit-missed Charles Lakeside, Earl of Pepperdon, visibly shuddered. Not because of the kippers, though she’d never liked them. It was more to do with her loathsome father than his choice of breakfast food.
Snapping his newspaper as he chewed noisily, he grunted as he read, his cruel mouth twisting in distaste.
Biting into her toast, Sabrina waved to George the footman and pointed to her empty teacup. The young man moved to her side and filled it, stepping away silently when he’d completed his task.
“It has been nearly a year,” her father loudly stated, which caused her to start. “A year since that earl of yours had the bad taste to up and die.”
Not only die, but leave her in financial straits, with no choice but to return to her recently widowed father. They both looked ridiculous, sitting at the table in mourning clothes when neither of them truly grieved for those who’d passed. Sabrina had spent the past eleven years in a cold and loveless marriage with a man thirty-eight years her senior, a marriage her father had insisted upon when she turned eighteen. About the same time the old earl expired, her father buried his second wife, a frail creature who died in childbirth.
“What is your point?” she sniffed as she spread blackberry jam on her toast.
“The point is you cannot stay here any longer. The required period of mourning has come and gone. You must marry again.” He laid the paper on the table and cut into his kippers again. “And so must I. Any woman I bring into this house will not want my widowed, aging daughter skulking about in the corner like a spider.”
Aging? She’d turned thirty last month, not old in her book. “It is not my fault my thoughtless husband did not provide for me in his will. Or that his heir, his slimy nephew, would turn me out without a cent. When you negotiated my dowry, there should have been lawful assurances I would receive something out of this disaster.” Sabrina sipped her tea. “A small house, a stipend.” Happiness. Love. But why would she expect in her marriage what she never had growing up in this bleak house?
“Blame me, will you? I do not care much for your tone.” His eyes narrowed. “When a baron marries his daughter to an earl, it is expected that the blasted man will do the honorable thing. Well, I shall not make the same mistake again. I will aim higher and take all legal steps necessary to ensure I will not be responsible for your upkeep. You still have your looks, although the fact that you’re barren means you will have to settle for a peer who already has a grown family and no desire for another.”
Sabrina’s blood froze in her veins. Not again. She would not allow her wretched father to marry her off to an old reprobate. Death would be preferable. A bit extreme, but she would rather die than be used and tossed aside by another man old enough to be her grandfather. “No.”
His fist slammed against the table, rattling the dishes. He turned toward the footman. “Leave us, and see we are not disturbed.”
George bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He scurried from the room.
Slowly and with purpose, she closed her hand over the knife and pulled it to her lap while her father was distracted. It had been many years since he’d struck her, but she would not give him the chance to lay a hand on her ever again. It always started the same way: dismissing the servants. No doubt his second wife endured his temper, as did Sabrina’s mother, from what she could recall. Though her mother died many years ago, Sabrina remembered the pleas, and the sound of an open hand making contact with skin.
“Listen to me, you ungrateful slattern. By Tuesday next, you will present yourself in the parlor, wearing a gown showing your décolletage, and will greet the Marquess of Sutherhorne with a smile on your face and a gracious tone in your voice.”
Marquess of Sutherhorne? Her mind raced as if flipping through the pages of Debrett’s The New Peerage. Her heart sank. Another wizened, elderly man. Seventy if he was a day. She’d met him once, during a rare occasion in which her late husband had escorted her to a ball. If memory served, he had missing teeth and clumps of hair in his ears. And smelled of horse. “Why would he want to marry again?” she whispered.
“Why does any man marry? At his age, he no doubt wants you as a bed warmer. I have it on good authority that he has a weakened heart; he will not live long. I will ensure you are left with the means to live a comfortable life when he meets his maker.”
The urge to rage and scream nearly overcame her. Instead, she tried to keep her voice steady. “Father, do not marry me off to an old man. Not again.”
“You will obey me in this. I’ve waited long enough. I must marry, as I will be fifty-two in four months. I need to find a young woman and breed an heir. You will only be in the way.” He crossed his arms. “In fact, I have a young woman in mind and will have to act swiftly, before she is snapped up by a young buck.”
Sabrina stared at her father incredulously. Granted, for a man of his age, he was still handsome, in his cold, cruel way, and she suddenly felt sorry for any young, impressionable woman who would be taken in by his