@firehcart
Returning to London had not been on Rowan Whitethorns list of musts, and yet. . . His aunt grew impatient with a lack of an heir for his fortune. The duty as a Duke, meant he had obligations…one that had been left empty when his wife had been taken by the plagues nearly five years prior. Now, at the age of 25…the expectation to take a second wife was higher than ever. A duchess to stand at his side, to host the balls he loathed and be apart of the society he had withdrawn from.
Rowan grunted as his footman announced his arrival, not the first ball of the season but the third. The first two he had missed, after hearing some unfavorable gossip about his return; and scar on the side of his face. It was not grotesque, but it reached from the tip of his ear downward to his jaw. A reminder of a battle fought, won but men lost. Most looked upon it unfavorably, and he’d since grown his hair out to at least attempt to hide it. If he was truly to find a wife, she’d grow to accept the mark…but it did him no favors when attempting to begin a conversation. His well muscled frame crept out the carriage, a signature scowl on his face.
Rowan detested the ton, how they spoke of his wife after her passing…of him when he was spotted just a few weeks ago. It coiled something ugly in his stomach, but he could not act so dour. He forced a mask of neutrality, straightening his coats before he entered into the masses.
It was time to find the Duchess of Whitethorn.