0764213504 (23 page)

No, he shouldn’t have come at all.

His valet grasped the black leather too tightly, obviously as shaken as he and Cayton had been. “He told you to go, Your Grace. It was what he wanted.”

Your Grace
. “Don’t. Not yet, please. Please, just . . . let me be me until we get home.”

Peters turned away, toward his boot brushes. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Justin had, though. God had tried to warn him, and he had listened to the duke instead. Yet not, because he hadn’t come with any intention of proposing to Brook.

And he’d been rewarded by seeing her laughing with who could only be Lord Worthing, her hand on his arm. Then
this
, moments later. It had been all he could do to escape the lawn before he fell to pieces, in front of her and the man he had no doubt would become her new beau.

“You were going to change, my lord.”

“Right.” Here he was standing in the middle of his room, shirtless, wasting precious time. He charged behind the screen and made quick work of peeling off mud-caked breeches. His trousers and shirt and waistcoat were already waiting, and the moment he stepped out in them, Peters was there, boots abandoned, to knot his tie.

I shouldn’t have left. Shouldn’t have
come.

“Your aunts were there. He wasn’t alone.”

Not like Father had been. And his aunts had each other—not like him. Still. “We should leave the car here and take the train. It’ll be faster.”

To that, Peters nodded. “I can arrange it. You should find Lady Berkeley and your cousin to let them know.”

“Yes. Thank you.” He spun for the door, yanked it open, and nearly collided with the fist Cayton had poised to knock.

His cousin’s face was pale, and he was still in his mud-spattered riding clothes. But at least he didn’t knock on Justin’s head in lieu of the door. “I was making arrangements,” he said by way of greeting. “Your car will be taken to Azerley Hall, and we’ll take the train. It’ll be faster.”

Justin nodded and stepped into the hall. “I was thinking the same. When does the next one leave for Gloucestershire?”

“Perhaps Whitby knows.”

They strode together down the bachelor wing, their strides matching. “Where is he?”

“Library, I think.”

They traveled the distance in silence. Would likely travel all the way home in silence, and that was fine. He needed to think.

Within a month, he had lost them both. Father and grandfather.

Voices came from the library, soft and familiar. The moment he stepped inside, Brook was there. Her arms around him, her
face pressed to his shoulder. Her aunt’s lips thinned in obvious disapproval, but Justin closed his eyes against it and held Brook tight. When she was flying his way across the lawn, he only wanted escape. Maybe because he knew how much he needed her, needed this.

He could crumble—she would piece him together again. He could refuse to let go, ask her to come with him—she would, despite the consequences. Which was why he knew he had to release her, though he couldn’t convince his arms of it quite yet. He needed her, needed her warmth to chase away the chill inside.

Her arms tightened around him. “I’m coming with you.”

“Elizabeth Brook! Ambrose, did you hear her?”

“Easy, Mary. She meant
we
.”

Justin opened his eyes to find that Whitby had drawn near. He set a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “I will bring her. We can be ready within the hour.”

He had a feeling the offer was spontaneous, and for Brook’s sake. Clearing his throat, he set her a step away. Their gazes tangled. “Not today. Come tomorrow, or Wednesday.”

Temper snapped to life in her eyes. “
Non
.”

“You have guests.”

Whitby snorted. “Mary has guests. No one will even notice we have gone.”

Lady Ramsey huffed her disagreement. “Don’t be absurd. We will end the party early, but we can hardly close the house on a minute’s notice.”

Brook didn’t glance at her aunt, just held Justin’s gaze. “I want to come with you.” Of course she would. Because he was her dearest friend, the closest thing she had to a brother.

Swallowing did nothing to banish the lump in his throat. “I know. But this is what I need you to do.”

Confusion swirled through her eyes. “Why?”

Because having her as a sister, a friend wasn’t enough—and
he couldn’t ask her for more, not when she might grant it out of pity.

He leaned down and kissed her left cheek, her right. “
S’il vous
plaît, mon amie. Crois-moi
.”
Trust me.

“Justin.” She caught his hand and held it for a long moment, obviously debating whether to argue more. Then she let his fingers go.

It was what he’d wanted—it shouldn’t have broken him all the more.

She nodded. “Tomorrow then. We’ll be on the first train.”

Not more than a day behind him, which would give him precious little time to get hold of himself. He looked to Whitby. “And when is the next one, my lord? Do you know?”

“Three o’clock.”

Then they had no time to waste. He lifted his hand, wanting to settle it on her cheek or in her hair or at her waist. To hold fast to hers, as he had a month ago.

He let it drop back to his side. “I have to go. Thank you, my lord, for your hospitality. And you, Lady Ramsey.”

Animosity apparently forgotten, she dropped into a curtsy. “The pleasure is ours, Duke.”

A hand pressed upon him, heavy and unrelenting. Unable to utter another word, he turned and left, his silent cousin at his side. He wouldn’t, apparently, have the journey home to come to grips with anything.

He was the duke. And his every step had to take that into account from now on.

Their voices a din in her ears, Brook stared at the empty doorway. He had left, just like that. Wrapped up in his own misery and unwilling to let her share it. He had deliberately pushed her away.

He needed her—Worthing was right about that—but he wouldn’t let her help this time.

Her aunt’s words came back into focus. “No, we
must
have the conversation, Ambrose.” Aunt Mary grasped her wrist and tugged Brook around to face her. “A young lady of breeding does
not
offer to travel with a man. Surely you know that. You were raised in a palace, not a . . . a . . .”

Words must have, thankfully, failed her. Brook sighed. “You don’t understand, Aunt Mary. He has always been a brother to me, my dearest friend, and he is hurting.” How could she not be with him when he was hurting?

“I
do
understand, my dear.”

Her father snorted. “And well you show it.”

Aunt Mary shot him a glare. “But you are not children anymore, Brook. You must take your reputation into account.”

“Leave her alone, Mary.” Whitby settled his hand on Brook’s shoulder, his arm about her back. It was the closest thing to an embrace he had given her. “There is nothing wrong with traveling with one’s father to a funeral.”

Lifting her hands in exasperation, Aunt Mary spun away. “You could not
possibly
have discussed it before she—”

“We didn’t need to.” He squeezed her shoulder. “These things are understood.”

Not to all, apparently. “Ambrose—”

“She is
my
daughter, Mary. Let me worry with her. You, I believe, have a wedding to plan.”

Brook leaned into him, savored the feel of his arm as it slid around her. Even so, it couldn’t ease the place gone taut inside. First Justin had left her here, after promising to stay. Now he was pushing her away when he needed her most. She could fight him, fight for him, fight for what she had assumed would always be there between them.

But what good would it do if he didn’t fight alongside her?

Justin stood at the window of his study, high in one of the turrets of Ralin Castle. His thumb kept rubbing at the heavy gold of the signet ring Aunt Caro had given him that morning. The seal of Stafford—the same ring that Wildon dukes had been using with their signature since the first of them, hundreds of years before.

It didn’t fit. Grandfather’s knuckles had swollen with age, and he’d had the thing enlarged. Now it moved all about Justin’s finger, up and down, round and round. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Unsuited.

What he wouldn’t give to be outside on a ride through the familiar hills and dales. Instead, he stood in a somber black suit, trying to ignore the sea of people milling about below, all waiting to offer their condolences. In a matter of minutes, he would have to climb into the sedate coach, leading the procession to the chapel in town. Then another procession to the family cemetery on the far edge of the property, where they would all gather round him again.

He turned the signet around.

“Justin.” Aunt Caro’s voice came from the doorway, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see her draped in black. “We’ve only a few more minutes.”

His nod felt stiff, his body brittle. Like if he moved too much, he could snap in two. He turned, intending to move, to slip past her. But he made the mistake of looking up and saw her in her mourning, and it made a fist form in his gut. “What was it he wouldn’t let you tell me two weeks ago? About Father?”

Torment flickered over her face, the face so much like his mother’s. “Now isn’t the time, Justin.”

She’d said then he should know, he should know how much Father had loved him—something he could use right now, when
the world felt so empty. But what did it really matter? He was gone, Grandfather was gone, everyone was gone . . . or maybe it was just Justin who was. Broken. Hollow.

“Wait.” Aunt Caro held up her hand, palm out. Face twisted. “I think now
is
the time, actually. I can’t watch you do this, Justin. I can’t let you turn into him.”

His brow furrowed as he shoved his hand into his trouser pocket. “Into Father? You needn’t worry about that. I’m nothing like him.”

But Aunt Caro only looked all the sadder as she lowered her hands. “That’s my fear. That you’ll focus only on William’s bad habits and not see his strengths. That you’ll try to model Edward or your grandfather when . . . when you
shouldn’t
. When you don’t know what their single-mindedness did to this family.”

Justin lowered himself to the edge of his desk, not taking his gaze off his aunt’s face. He’d long known her and Uncle Edward’s marriage had been rocky at best. They’d married for love, she had said once, but when she failed to produce an heir, it had soured. But aside from the mistresses he then kept, his uncle had been a decent man. Always working for the good of Stafford—that’s what he remembered of him.

Aunt Caro sighed. “William . . . William wasn’t your father.”

She might as well have taken the medieval sword from the wall and run him through. Justin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Couldn’t believe it. If he wasn’t his father’s son, then it meant he had no Wildon blood in his veins, that he wasn’t the rightful heir to the duchy. Well, he
was
—it was a matter of legal name at birth and little else—but he
shouldn’t
be. He was only . . .

Aunt Caro’s eyes slid shut. “Edward was.”

The sword pulled out, but it left a gaping wound in its place. Wildon blood then . . . but suddenly that didn’t matter as his mind ground into gear. “Wait. You’re telling me that my mother . . . No. She wouldn’t have. She was—”

“
She
was not to blame.” A cynical laugh snorted from his aunt’s lips, and she pressed a hand to her temple. “She was only seventeen, she had no idea, no defense—it was Edward. I knew then it was Edward, but still I was so furious, so hurt I couldn’t see her pain. I couldn’t see what it meant for my baby sister when she discovered she carried you. I . . .”

She shook her head. Her lips quavered. “They wanted to keep her here through her term. Deliver the child and, if it was a boy, give him—you—to me to raise. Edward’s heir. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t, not then.”

He felt as heavy as the stone walls around him. “Of course you couldn’t. But Mother—”

“Sweet Georgiana.” Now the pain faded, and her eyes went soft. “It is just as well that I was too weak to save my sister—she never would have given you up. But my refusal forced the duke’s hand. He ordered William to marry her. That way, you would be legitimate, a Wildon by name as well as blood. And assuming I never produced a son, the title would fall to your father and you after Edward. The line would be preserved.”