'Declan, think. If you are to avoid the legacy of your name, you need a wife who is calm, who doesn't invite rages, who is unimpeachable in character and lineage. There are precious few of those around. Indeed, I have inspected every one within a decade of your age.'
He shuddered to think of how that process had gone. 'Mother,' he said dryly, 'you will not be selecting my bride.'
'Well, of course not!' she snapped, her softer tone gone. 'I have just narrowed the field—'
'I will select my own bride. Soon. You will not dictate that. Do not even try.'
She tsked deep in her throat. And then her brows went up and she took on that tone. The one she'd used all through his childhood. The one that told him exactly what she was about to say now.
'You are too mercurial to make this decision. It is the Byrning legacy, you know. High temper, irrational actions. It will destroy you as it destroyed your father.'
It was true. It was the dark spectre that hung over his family. Not just his family tree, but his own flesh and blood.
His father's unbridled rage at a servant had caused his sister's death. His little sister had stepped into the fray to protect her nanny, only to receive a blow herself by accident. It had killed her. His father had become a drunkard that day, choosing to become insensate rather than succumb to the Byrning legacy again.
That had been his father's solution. And it hadn't worked.
The man had had many rages afterwards, but mostly he'd been too drunk to harm anyone. In the end, he'd stumbled into the Thames and drowned, leaving his son in charge of the Dukedom.
'I have not had a rage since my adolescence,' he reminded his mother. 'My faculties are well in hand. I will find a bride of my own choosing.'
He said the words, but in his heart he knew his mother was right. All those qualities she listed were exactly the ones he needed. He must marry someone of even temperament and impeccable manners. She would help him remain calm and soothe over any missteps he might make along the way. And he would need to find her soon because he was an unwed duke who needed an heir.
And now, as he did every morning, he rededicated himself to staying rational, calm, and completely unaffected by emotion. And if he failed in that mission here was his mother, personally invested in keeping him in line.
'Do try to be logical,' his mother pressed. 'You need an heir while I am still young enough to ensure he is raised properly.' She leaned forward. 'So I can be sure the Byrning curse does not take root again.'
'It has not taken root in me!' he snapped.
She pursed her lips, then raised a single brow. That was all it took and once again he was a dirty boy with raised fists and a burning shame that his temper had once again made him go too far. Back then, he'd fight anyone who said a cross word to him. He'd found fights, he'd created fights, and he'd usually won them. Because he was heir to a dukedom and no one—even young boys—wanted to hurt him.
Time and constant admonishments from several people in his life had taught him to control his rage. He now buried his temper beneath logic and constant vigilance. He was not slipping now.
He took a long look at the mantel clock and arched a brow back at his mother. 'Do you want me to meet Cedric's bride or not?'
She clucked her tongue in disgust. She was not subject to the Byrning legacy of rage, but she certainly had her moments of annoyance. Her pinched face, however, did not move him.
'Very well,' she said as she pushed to her feet. 'We will deal with Cedric first.'
As if she would do anything now that she'd set him to the task. 'Then I expect you to choose a bride immediately afterwards.'
'Good day, Mother.'
After a long-suffering sigh, she spun on her heels and departed. Which meant Declan had no excuse to remain seated in the dark as he nursed his sore head.
Damn his father for dying. This really ought to be his problem.
With a sigh, Declan rang for his valet and prepared to meet a 'miserably unsuitable' woman.
