Not in the traditional sense, of course. He was a grown man of thirty; he had his own home, his own income. She had no authority over him. But Harriet Prewett was his mother still, one with an uncanny gift for guilt and needling and while she could not force him to do anything, Fitz would not have been surprised if she invited him for lunch one day only to haul a bride, vicar, and witnesses from out of a sidebar.

"I have no sights set on marriage," he said by way of answer, "not this year, at least."