William gazed between Dorothea and Sebastian. He opened his mouth, finally saying, “Is my sister the lady whom you mentioned earlier?”
“She is indeed.” The warmth of a blush ascended Sebastian’s cheeks, and he shifted awkwardly.
“Oh.” William looked down.
Sebastian sighed, deflated. William did not seem delighted at the prospect of a marriage between himself and Dorothea. Perhaps William had found him tiresome at the tavern and desired somebody else in the family. The captain had seemed eager to leave it.
“How wonderful you should already know each other.” Dorothea smiled tentatively at the two of them, or as much, Sebastian supposed, as a woman could smile when in the presence of her brother and a man whom she might marry.
“Indeed.” William flashed a smile, his lips tight.
“I shall leave you two in peace.”
Sebastian blinked as William sauntered off. His eyes lingered on the man’s form.
He turned to Dorothea, conscious he should be delighted to be in the presence of such a splendid woman knowing a real possibility existed that he would devote the rest of his life to her. He just wondered why the coloring that Dorothea and William shared seemed to suit William so much better. Why the mannerisms they shared seemed to be that much more amusing on William.
Shaking his head, Sebastian forced himself to dismiss thoughts of William from his mind. The man was to be his brother-in-law. Still, after Sebastian returned Dorothea to his relatives, he wandered through the crowd, hoping to catch a further glimpse of William. Perhaps they might continue their conversation. Neither of them was from London, and though he would not describe himself as being comfortable with William, he felt more himself in William’s company, as if the man really saw him.
His search was fruitless. Many officers were scattered about the ball, their crimson uniforms acting as false beacons, but William was not among them. Sebastian’s chest ached at the realization the captain had left, and he felt once again alone amidst the merriment.
*
Hammerstead’s accusation that his relatives may have been murdered worried Sebastian, and the next morning, he sorted through the estate papers. Lewis might be dead, but his mother’s estate would not deteriorate. Sebastian was determined, even if his estate manager’s letters were woefully lacking in detail. Certainly they did not mention that rumors circulated that the former duke and his son had died under mysterious circumstances.
He tapped his fingers against the walnut bureau. He needed to visit soon, or at least meet his solicitor in Brighton. Of all the property he now possessed, Somerset Hall was the finest and most prized. That he had never visited affirmed his unsuitability for the role.
“Your Grace?”
His manservant, Grayson, tottered before him.
“Your Grace, the dowager duchess has arrived.”
“Here?” Sebastian straightened and glanced around the parlor. “Are you certain?”
Grayson nodded, the expression on his etched face blank, though his hand drifted momentarily to his silvery head.
Sebastian might be tidy, but the apartment was in no state to be seen by such a prominent person, even if she was his aunt. Few paintings decorated the walls, and the pine floor remained bare.
“Very well, Grayson. Send her in.” He braced himself for her arrival, and she was quick to appear. Sloane Square apartments were not large, even for young dukes. Especially for young dukes who had not planned on becoming dukes.
“Sebastian, mon cher.” Aunt Beatrice stretched out her arms to him. Happiness soared through him; he adored his aunt.
He hugged her, and her dark crêpe dress crushed against him. “You know French is not an appropriate language to speak here. We are at war.”
“Oh, Sebastian. Such nonsense. A temporary situation. As if the French will be able to resist our forces much longer. And then it will be en vogue again.”
“You are merely at the vanguard,” Sebastian said.
His aunt removed her bonnet. Her hair remained mostly auburn, though an increasing number of gray strands were joining. “Exactement.”
Sebastian smiled, touching her bonnet. “Is that new? How pretty.” He ran his fingertips over the raven petals of a silk blossom. “What type of flower is this?”
“Now, Sebastian. I am not a society mama whom you have to charm to get a dance from a daughter,” she said, “and you know it. Though I have noticed few other men go to the lengths you do to speak with them. One would think you preferred chatting with the mamas over dancing with their daughters.”
Sebastian coughed and waved at the rosewood settee. “Please, do sit.”
Aunt Beatrice shook her head. “I’ll only be here shortly.”
His aunt glanced around the room and paused at a painting of a soldier on a stallion emerging from battle. Her eyebrows rose.
Sebastian had purchased the picture in admiration of the officer’s form and heroic posture. Seeing the portrait anew through his aunt’s eyes, the soldier may have been a bit more muscular than most, his torn shirt displaying his smooth chest in an alluring manner, his face strikingly handsome.
“For the war effort,” he hastened to say. “I have not finished decorating yet.”
“Of course,” his aunt murmured, examining the rest of the room. “It was very honorable of you to give both your new London residences to Dorothea and me.”
Sebastian shook his head, dismissing her praise. He did not understand why the gesture astonished everyone so much. “Lewis would have wanted me to provide for her. And of course, I could not move you from your townhouse.”
“It was very kind.”
“This place will look better eventually.”
“You could find a new residence.”
Sebastian shrugged. The thought of squandering money, even if he was far wealthier now, dismayed him. “I will need to leave London soon anyway to inspect the estates.”
His aunt nodded and resumed her inspection of the painting. She bit her lip and peered around the room. “No pictures of dancing women? In a bachelor’s apartment? How very noble of you.”
He averted his head, doing his best to ignore the sensation of blood rushing to his ears. They were likely tomato colored. He hoped she did not notice.
“I have always applauded your gallantry,” she said.
Sebastian nodded, uncomfortable at how his aunt continued to glance at the painting. “I have indeed resolved to marry. Dorothea was very agreeable.”
“Are you quite determined?”
“Yes.” Sebastian wondered if his answer was given with too much haste. “A duke needs a duchess.”
“You sound like a society mama. Yes, it has been several years since poor Henrietta died. Society expects you to remarry.” His aunt paused, her brow wrinkling. Her voice softened, “Do you think you are quite ready? It’s possible Dorothea would not be too disappointed if you change your mind.”
The sun flickered through the window, casting a glare on him from above the row of Georgian townhouses outside. He blinked in the harsh light, finding the warmth stifling. He stepped to the window, undid a golden tassel, and drew the drape shut, his fingers lingering on the heavy fabric.
Yes, he had to get married. His mind turned to unspeakable things too frequently now. He needed to restore order, not invite speculation. People were already questioning whether his cousin and uncle had been murdered. He could not damage his family’s reputation more.
“I think I best marry very soon. In fact—I think I will call on Dorothea at once.”
His aunt smiled. “You are a gentleman. Now excuse me, but I have a list of people to visit. Everyone likes to go riding in Hyde Park now, and I am eager to call on people before they do.”
Sebastian followed his aunt to the door, conscious his life would change. The knot that had formed the previous night tightened and crushed against his chest.
Chapter Four
William’s head throbbed and his throat burned. The
servants stirred in the other rooms, and he lay still, following the sound of their footsteps on the hardwood floors. He prided himself on his ability to stop drinking at the appropriate moment, as other soldiers on leave toppled around him. Not this time: he had drunk far too much after he left the ball. His stomach trembled, exhausted from alcohol and smoke. The night had ended unpleasantly despite its encouraging start.
William craved Sebastian.
The feeling began the moment Sebastian wandered down the street, his curly blond hair spilling over his eyes, his gaze fixed on the imposing buildings. When Sebastian’s top hat flew off, William had longed to reach out to help him. The feeling remained as he slid out of bed and scrambled to find his clothes, determined not to be one of those men who became paralyzed when things went poorly. At least in England, he was no longer being shot at. That was a consolation.
A fire flickered in the fireplace; he had not even noticed the housemaid enter to light it. The place dazzled, the bright rays of the flames wrenching his head as he followed their leaps up and down. Deep ruby wallpaper lined the room, blending with the drapes and crimson bedcover, the latter now lying wrinkled in the center of the massive four-poster bed.
Everything exuded opulence. How much more luxurious this was than his barracks in Maharashtra. No buzzing mosquitoes carrying the threat of malaria invaded his room, and he had yet to stumble on a cockroach. To think he now lived in one of the Duke of Lansdown’s townhouses, and to think Sebastian, the caring Northerner, was the duke. William was astonished to learn he had been living in his home all along.
He dressed for breakfast. As always, he avoided looking at the scar, not needing to remind himself of the ugly discoloration where the bullet had entered. The surgeon, in his haste to help everyone, had failed to remove all the pieces of the bullet. Not that he could blame the man. Nearly a third of the soldiers had died at the Battle of Assaye. He was lucky to escape with just a bad limb. William rubbed his arm, his fingers massaging the rough, puckered skin—a futile attempt to dull the insistent pain.
He dreaded speaking to his sister, discussing the duke with her. If she were to become engaged again, she might be even more eager to find him a wife. Her return last night had not awakened him: clearly the alcohol had put him firmly to sleep.
He strode to the breakfast room, passing an enormous grandfather clock. Painted above the face of the baroque piece, a farmer and a milkmaid embraced under the rosy glow of a rising sun. The pastoral scene and joyful figures taunted him. The hands showed it was half past eleven. Too late for breakfast, even by the tardy standards of the London ton.
Dorothea sat on one side of the table, already dressed to receive callers in a muslin afternoon gown.
He settled into one of the emerald-and-topaz striped chairs, trying to relax against the soft velvet texture. He eyed the breakfast. His sister had waited for him. The servants had laid out some rolls, seed cake, and turtulongs.
“Elegant as always.”
“Me or the food?” Dorothea smiled. “Or should I not ask? I’m afraid we have only tea now, though Mrs. Holmes can bring you some hot chocolate should you prefer.”
William grimaced. The thought of Mrs. Holmes’s hot chocolate, bursting with sugar, nutmeg, pistachios, and cinnamon, churned his stomach. “I’ll content myself with tea.”
“How Spartan. Most men would choose something sweet.”
He drove his lips up into a smile and reminded himself that she did not mean anything by her comment. And yet the pounding of his heart increased, conscious that the way he desired to live his life bore no similarities to what others expected.
He tapped his fingers against the sumptuous ivory tablecloth. Gold tassels dangled over the sides, and rows of lilies decorated the linen. He examined the room, wondering if Sebastian had chosen any of the furniture, or if his much-talked-about aunt decorated it.
“You rushed out last night,” Dorothea said. “I trust you are well?”
His sister never failed to be polite.
“I met Sir Ambrose at the ball.” Perhaps if he spoke of their former neighbor, Dorothea would blame the baronet for his change of behavior. She must never suspect him of any displeasure over her practical engagement.
“Oh, William, it is far too early to bring up that vile man.”
“He inquired after you.”
“You are hardly improving the conversation.” Dorothea poured him some tea, her brows furrowed as she concentrated on the task.
He sighed. “He does worry me.”
“He almost was one of my neighbors again. He moved into a run-down castle near . . .” she paused, pain surfacing on her face.
“Near Lewis?”
She nodded and lifted a lace napkin to her face.
He cleared his throat. “A castle? How grand. Is he planning on attacking anyone?”
“I do wonder.” Dorothea gave a strained smile as she passed the teacup and saucer to him. “Sir Ambrose displayed great pride at living in a place with a moat. He gave Gregory and me a full tour before Gregory died. I did not have the impression they got on.”
“How curious.” William reached for a roll, eager to distract himself from thoughts of Sebastian. “I wish he had not had to help so much after . . .”
Dorothea nodded, her face grave. They avoided speaking of their parents’ death, but he thought of them often. He imagined his sister did as well. Their father should be here, teasing their mother for reading Gothics, and their mother should be here, teasing her husband for not reading anything at all. Instead, it was just Dorothea and him, straining to make conversation around the oversized breakfast table in a home that was not their own.
“You were fifteen,” Dorothea said gently. “You weren’t even at home. What could you have done?”
Not a thing. William closed his eyes, helpless.
“Sir Ambrose is not so bad,” his sister continued.
“I know,” he replied. “Just his humor.”
His sister smiled. “Not everyone can have your excellent taste. You should be around more often. Why did you leave early last night?”
He tore a piece off the roll and slathered it in butter. “I had a headache.”
“I suppose Sir Ambrose will do that to a man.”
He raised his head, unable to avoid the topic any longer. “I was not aware you planned to get engaged so soon.”
Dorothea’s back straightened. “Nothing has been decided. Gregory’s mother came to tea the other day and seemed convinced the new duke would be a brilliant match. Apparently he desires a wife.”
“He instigated the search?” William felt like somebody had dropped a cannonball on his chest.
“I believe so.” Dorothea frowned. “Why?”
“No reason.” William rested his hands on the table so his sister would not see them shake. “I am certain you will be happy with him. He is a wonderful person.”
“I am pleased you think so. I found him rather reserved.”
“You also tend toward silence, my dear sister.”
“I know. Two people of the type might be excessive.”
William scowled, irritated that she did not immediately praise Sebastian. He bit his lip from retorting that his sister might not be the right match for him.
Sebastian would make her an excellent husband, of that he had no doubt. He epitomized everything good and honorable. Much as he would like it if Sebastian were all wrong for her, he did not think it the case. If her options consisted of Sebastian and a man like Sir Ambrose, he would much rather his sister be with Sebastian.
Dorothea’s eyes darkened. “You seemed well acquainted with His Grace.”
“The duke?” William could not get accustomed to Sebastian’s lofty position. He forced himself to shrug nonchalantly. “We chanced upon each other last night. That’s all.”
He shut his eyes, remembering their evening together. He would cherish that memory. How like Sebastian not to consider it important to mention he was a duke. The man was so
modest. William sighed, his breath catching in his chest. He would have sworn Sebastian seemed interested. His heart had leapt when Sebastian held on to his wrists, and it had almost galloped away when Sebastian leaned against him for rather longer than protocol dictated before turning and blushing so charmingly. But Sebastian had spoken of women, casually destroying William’s longings.
“What about you?” Dorothea’s voice broke his reverie.
“What about me?”
“Will you settle down soon?”
William stiffened. “Do you mean to ask if I intend to marry?”
“Yes, I suppose I meant that.” Dorothea smiled encouragingly.
“I am content as things are.”
“Content? Nonsense. I’ve heard you pacing in your room. Don’t think I haven’t.”
“Merely to stretch my legs, dear sister.”
“Hmph.”
“And why this eagerness for me to marry? I might well die in war. My arm will improve, and I will return to the battlefields.” His arm throbbed, as if to refute him.
“Does it matter?” Dorothea asked, her face a shade paler than when he first entered the breakfast room.
“You know it matters,” he growled. He thrust his good hand through his hair and pulled at the roots. The thought of living off his commission already plagued him.
“Arms aren’t used to having bullets tear through them.”
“I’m not the first man it’s happened to.”
“Of course not. And I’m sure it will heal. You’ll see.”
He nodded, wanting to be calmed by her assurance. He should end the discussion here. But he couldn’t. He had thought about this for too long, used it as an excuse to too many people. “And if I married, might not my wife end up worse than before were I to be killed? Or she might die. Sebastian’s first wife did.”
Dorothea froze. She blinked several times and appeared fascinated with the view outside the window.
“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I did not think.” Sweat formed between William’s shoulder blades. He grabbed hold of a teaspoon, stirring the milk and sugar in his tea with more force than the task demanded. He spilled the tea over the teacup onto the jade-and-gold patterned saucer. His behavior to his sister appalled him, and he wished the pounding in his head would cease.
The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex Book 1) Page 4