“Afternoon,” his father called, not taking his gaze from the front page of The Times.
Robert waved off a servant who rushed over and pulled out his chair. “Pardon?”
“It is well past morn.”
Ah, this. Again.
Reclining in his chair, Robert layered his palms on the arms and tapped his fingertips. “I was—”
“At your clubs?” His father lowered his paper slightly, peering at him from over the top with a pointed, knowing look.
And perhaps if Robert were most men, and hadn’t been reared from the nursery to perfect that same ducal stare, then that look would inspire . . . something. Alas . . . Robert shrugged. “I daresay we have more to discuss than my visit to White’s?” He motioned over a servant and the liveried footman came forward with a pot of steaming coffee. He accepted the drink from the footman and blew into the hot contents.
“And what would we have to discuss?” his father asked in bored tones that set Robert’s teeth on edge.
Robert took a small sip of the bitter brew. “I don’t know?” From over the rim of his glass, he lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps your sudden and miraculous recovery?” A recovery that followed countless months of the duke’s impending death.
His father at least had the good grace to flush. He glanced at the handful of servants present, and taking that silent cue, the liveried footmen quickly filed from the room. “Dr. Carlson is amazed,” he said as soon as the door closed behind them.
“Oh, I would say he undoubtedly is.” Robert infused a dry edge to that retort, which raised a frown from his father’s lips.
“Regardless, we weren’t discussing my health.”
“Your abruptly restored health,” Robert amended, setting his glass down.
“But rather you.”
Had they? Robert really thought they’d been debating morning versus afternoon greetings. Alas, all conversations with his father inevitably followed the same, familiar trajectory.
“You are three and thirty, Robert,” his father began.
“I am aware of my age, Father. An age that I feel compelled to point out is still quite young.” Robert braced for the impending lecture. His father could spout on about finding his future duchess and doing right by the Somerset line, but Robert was quite content to continue to live the same roguish, carefree, and unmarried life he’d adopted in the past years.
Marriage and securing the family line were all endeavors he would see to. Eventually. When he did, there would be no shortage of prospective brides. Women, of the ton and the serving class, had all demonstrated a remarkable avarice for that vaunted title. For now, however, with his father very much alive, he was quite content living just as he’d lived for the past twelve years.
Twelve years to the date.
Instead of a well-structured argument, his father sat in silence, skimming his paper, and occasionally pausing to sip his coffee.
Robert drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair. He’d never sat down across from his father at a gaming table. His father vehemently disavowed all forms of gaming, often saying that if the current duke did take his pleasures there, the man deserved to lose his ducal shirt. The tight lines at the corner of his sire’s mouth, and the manner in which he leaned forward in his chair, hinted at a person who very much wished to say something.
“Do you know, Robert, the day you first noticed your sister’s nursemaid, I was not displeased.”
Robert stilled as his father’s quietly spoken pronouncement turned the table. He’d not spoken of Lucy in more than ten years, and then, only with his one friend in the world, Richard Jonas. He’d never breathed a word of his romantic affection for the fiery-haired servant, whom he’d intended to elope with, to anyone else.
In fact, mayhap he was the worst of the Denningtons in terms of wagering, for he would have wagered his very life that his father hadn’t even known about the young woman who’d captured his son’s heart. Unlike his commanding grandfather, who’d made it a point in life to control everything remotely concerning the family. A black, still-potent rage for that now long-dead patriarch gripped him.
“And when your grandfather came to me and told me he’d learned of your plans to elope,” he continued on through Robert’s silent tumult, “I was . . . happy.” He grimaced. “Perhaps that is why I’d failed to realize the implications of both his discovery, and my approval, of your relationship with Miss Whitman. The duke would have never supported such a match.”
No. He would have rather dueled the Devil than dare taint the Dennington line. Robert gave his head a disgusted shake. How very naïve his father had been to that late duke’s evil. Then, hadn’t Robert himself been guilty of that same weakness?
The duke looked at him with sad eyes. “You are quiet,” his father needlessly observed.
“I did not realize you required a response,” he drawled, as the young man proceeded to pour him a cup. Time for a discussion about Lucy Whitman, and the late duke’s hand in Robert’s future, had long passed. Not that he cared to discuss that afternoon twelve years ago with this man, or anyone really. Even Jonas had received nothing more than a curt recounting of the lady’s treachery. The shameful details, he’d opted to withhold.
His father continued in too casual tones. “Then I believed this summer you’d chosen Lady Diana Verney.”
Ah, Lady Diana Verney. The Duke of Wilkinson’s cherished daughter. That supposition only proved how oblivious his only living parent had always been about his son. “Gemma Reed.”
The duke angled his head.
“I would have married Gemma Reed.” His sister’s bluestocking friend had, at the very least, been interesting when every other woman inspired tedium. In the end, the lady had married Robert’s best friend, Richard Jonas. Which was all rather fine. Robert’s heart hadn’t been engaged. And his heart had long since been protected—he’d intentionally hidden it away.
“You do not say,” his father said to himself.
Robert tipped back on the legs of his chair. “I’ve not ruled Lady Diana out as a prospective match. I just thought given her tender years, I would wait until she at least made her Come Out before I formally offered for her hand.”
Surprise flared in the older man’s eyes. “You do intend to marry Wilkinson’s daughter, then?” After all the less than discreet attempts at throwing Robert together with that young lady at the summer party, was it a wonder whom he’d ultimately settled on? “I had no idea,” his father said, and his mouth turned down at the corners.
Robert shifted in his seat. “Yes, well, she will do.” The last state he cared to speak on was his marital one. His marriage would be one based on practicality and proper connections; a cold union that offered the only true honesty afforded to the peerage. As such, Lady Diana would do . . . as well as any other well-bred lady. Their marriage would unite two ducal families with a history of friendship that went centuries back. Hearts wouldn’t be involved. Instead the match would be built on structured arrangements of land and money. It was a situation that the current duke thoroughly approved of.
“Robert . . . ?” For a brief moment, pain contorted the older man’s features, twisting them with so much regret and sorrow that Robert had to look away. “I am sorry about Lucy Whitman,” he continued in hushed tones. Most dukes would never offer words of compunction. Certainly not the last man who’d held the Somerset title.
That simple apology softened the edges of Robert’s stoicism. The current duke had never been like any of those other lords. An affectionate father, a loyal and loving husband, a devoted brother, he’d demonstrated an idealistic way life should be lived. Yet, he’d also been weak . . . as had been evidenced by the late duke’s manipulation of Robert. I would have never been so weak. For his someday children, Robert would slay dragons, and certainly never allow a villainous bastard like the late duke mastery over his family.
His father stared intently at him, and Robert shifted under that probing regard. “There is nothing to a
pologize for,” he said tightly. At one time, he’d possessed an equally strong resentment for his father having allowed himself, his son, and all the Denningtons to be so controlled by the late duke. With the passage of time, he’d let go of his anger and considered himself fortunate to have been saved from a mistake he would have regretted the whole of his life. Now his sole living parent would drag up years’ worth of resentment and bitterness?
“There is everything to apologize for.”
Yes, there was.
Inside, he chafed at the pity glinting in his father’s eyes. He didn’t need pity for having given his heart to a woman and having it ripped from him in that very shameful display his grandfather had subjected him to. “It was better I knew her intentions.” And that was the rub of it. Had he not stepped into that office twelve years ago, he’d have married a woman with lies on her lips and ruthless aspirations the only thing in her heart.
“You misunderstand me,” his father amended. He set down his paper, and neatly folded it, then smoothed his palms over the surface. “I was pleased the day you noticed her because it spoke of a gentleman who saw beyond the titles and saw to a person’s worth.”
A cynical chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I showed a remarkable lack of judgment,” he said, wanting to say nothing else, wishing he’d never stepped inside this dining room, wishing his father had left that day long buried. Preferring it when he’d moved through life believing his father knew nothing about any of it.
“Yes, you did,” his father conceded.
It was a mistake Robert would never again make. Not in the name of that fickle, false emotion of love.
“But,” the duke said, lifting a finger. “You also showed remarkable judgment in desiring love and respectability above even rank.”
This time a sharp bark of unexpected laughter exploded from Robert. His father was the only peer in the realm who’d be praising his son for loving beneath his station.
His father frowned, and fixed a stare on him that was very much the late duke’s practiced look. “You have, however, shown an even more remarkable lack of judgment since.”
Ah, at last, the lecture. All dukes inevitably worried after the state of the title, and at three and thirty years of age, Robert had taken many more years for his own pleasures than most noblemen, and no doubt all dukes. “I’m not reckless,” he said through tight lips. “I wager no more than most gentlemen. I keep one mistress and I’m careful to never beget a bastard on those women.” Through his methodical list, his father’s frown deepened. “I visit White’s and Brooke’s, and hardly ever the more scandalous clubs.” Though in truth, he did frequent several of those establishments and always on this particular day.
There was something about intentionally taking a risk on the anniversary of the day that had cost him everything that kept a gentleman grounded.
His father leaned forward further, and his seat groaned in protest of the shifting weight. “What you fail to realize,” he said quietly, settling his elbows on the table, “is that I’m not worried about you being the same as other noblemen.” He paused. “I worry about you setting yourself apart from them.”
Unnerved by the powerful glimmer in those blue eyes nearly identical to his, Robert returned his focus to his coffee, blowing into the already cooling brew. He’d never sought pride or praise from anyone. Rather he’d been content with the person he’d become. He didn’t litter the countryside with his bastards and had considered himself a devoted brother, and respectful son. To have his three and thirty years called into question so abruptly shook him in ways he despised.
“I am not disappointed with you,” his father added when Robert still said nothing.
“Thank you.”
Did his father hear the wry edge to those two words? Or mayhap it was that he didn’t care.
“I am disappointed with your lack of living.”
His lack of living? A rather powerful lecture, on this day of all days. “I’m content with my life,” he said simply. And he was. The hopes he’d once carried, of love and family, had been unrealistic hopes not afforded one of his station. It was the death of a dream he’d made peace with.
The duke waggled his eyebrows. “Ah, but content is not happy.”
Robert paused. Was there truth to that charge? He’d not given it much thought—until now. He moved through life, his company sought after by nearly all, the recipient of attention granted for the future title that would come to him. His life was . . . safe.
“It is time you find purpose.”
Robert kicked back the legs of his chair and flashed another half grin. “And here I believed my whole purpose was to make a respectable match and provide the necessary heir and a spare.”
“Ah, but you’ve not even done that.”
The accusation rung loudly off the walls. Just as it had with the blasted summer party not even three months ago, all matters inevitably came round to mention of a proper bride. Settling the legs of his chair on all fours, he leaned forward, matching his father’s pose. “Is this about me doing my requisite duty? Or is this about me being a man of greater worth and value?”
“It is about both,” his father softly returned.
Robert’s neck went hot. It was not every day that a gentleman’s honor was called into question—by his father, no less. Should he expect anything different from a man sired by the late duke? “I learned every lesson you taught about the estates and properties. I visited properties with you and have made myself current with the profits and the state of affairs for our tenants.” Even with that, it wasn’t enough. Mayhap his father was more like the late duke than he’d ever believed.
In an uncharacteristic break in composure, his father dragged a hand over his face. “This is not about me questioning your capability as the future duke.”
“Then, what is it about?” he shot back. Because somewhere along the way his sire’s words had all become muddled.
For a long while, the duke said nothing. Just passed his piercing, solemn eyes over his son. Robert sat frozen through that silent scrutiny, prepared for another moral diatribe. Then his sire gave another sad shake of his head. “If you do not know or understand, I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Robert. It is for you to find out who you are.”
Weary of lectures and lies at all the Dukes of Somerset’s hands, Robert finished his coffee and then set his cup down. “If you’ll excuse me? I have an appointment I must see to.” Which included attending that scandalous club, as he did every year at this time. On the heel of that was a niggling of guilt. You only prove your father correct, in going. Shoving back his chair, Robert climbed to his feet. “I am pleased to see your health restored.” He turned to go.
“Our pockets are nearly to let, Robert.” Those quietly spoken words managed to thunder around the breakfast room, and brought him slowly around.
“What?” Surely he’d misheard.
In another remarkable break in composure, his father scrubbed a hand down one side of his suddenly haggard face. “We are in quite deep,” he said, confirming that Robert’s ears were not in fact faulty.
He scoffed. “Impossible.” They’d one of the oldest, most landed titles. Then, what would you truly know of it? You’ve been living a roguish, carefree existence for more than ten years, now.
“Oh, I assure you,” his father said, and then in a maddeningly calm manner, sipped his coffee. “Quite possible.”
A knot formed in his chest, and he waited until the pressure eased. Given the Somerset dukes’ longstanding history of manipulating their children, Robert wouldn’t be so much as a fool to fall victim to another scheme. “I do not have time for any more of your games,” he said tightly, and started for the door.
“Why do you think I, who has touted a love match above all else, should arrange a summer party to try and make advantageous matches for my children?”
The words cut Robert in his tracks, words that echoed of truth. He balled his hands reflexively, and when he trusted himself t
o speak, turned back, and tried once more. “If this is merely to see me married, then—”
“It is not that, Robert,” his father neatly interrupted. A flash of something lit his eyes, but was quickly gone so Robert didn’t know if it was merely a turn of the sun’s rays penetrating the floor-length windowpanes.
On wooden legs, he stalked over and reclaimed his vacant chair. “What happened?”
His father cradled his glass of coffee in his hands. “You knew your grandfather.” All too well. “His wealth, power. It was never enough. At the end of . . .” He stared into the contents of his cup. “At the end, he was not lucid. He cut me off of all financial discussions and allowed his man-of-affairs to make large investments.”
Robert dragged his chair closer to the table. “In what?” His mind spun, as with every revelation, his father confirmed the state of their finances.
“Steam.”
“Steam?” he repeated. His always-proper grandfather had dabbled in trade?
“Borrowed against the estates.” He grimaced. “A lot. Too much. As such I’ve been seeing the tenants do not pay for the crimes of my father.”
And the Denningtons were in dun territory for it.
He peered at his father. Mayhap this was as false as that goddamn summer party?
“It is true, Robert,” his father said, unerringly following his thoughts. “It is one of the reasons I wished to see you both married.”
Robert sank back in his chair, flummoxed. “One of the reasons?” A cynical laugh escaped him. “Never tell me, love being the most important?”
His father frowned. “Yes. I had so very much hoped that you and your sister could make respective matches that brought you love and improved our finances.” He coughed into his hand. “Now you know.”
Now I know. A black curse burst from his lips. Guilt . . . at his own self-absorption, at his failing to take an active role in the estate, all of it, assailed him. And annoyance . . . that his father believed the only way Robert could improve their circumstances was through landing a wealthy bride.
The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1) Page 2