“You needn’t play matchmaker for me.”
Dorothea twisted a ring on her finger. Once their mother’s ring, the bright topaz gleamed as she slowly spun the band around. “I hope you can consider me a friend.”
“I do.” William didn’t need to hesitate.
His sister smiled. “I realize we spent much time apart . . .”
“The war—”
His sister shook her head. “I know. It wasn’t to be helped. I just hope we can spend more time together from now on.”
He nodded and descended the steps to the ground floor.
His sister followed. “If you did want to tell me something, anything at all, well, I am here.”
A dull sense of dread formed. He swallowed. This would be the time to confess everything. The longings. The thoughts that filled his mind, the ones he refused to deny to himself but could not bear tell to anyone else. How easy it would be to sit her down and tell her everything. And he longed to confess, burdened by his secret. She might be upset if she discovered it otherwise.
And yet.
It was impossible.
Once told, he could not take it back. She would always, always think of him that way. This was not the sort of secret which would ever be forgotten. What if she reviled him?
She might never understand that his longing for men could never be replaced by a longing for women. Men were executed for being sodomites, and William’s very nature put him at risk. He doubted society would be kind to her if his tastes were discovered. Some might consider him lucky if he escaped just with being tarred and feathered, flogged, imprisoned, or castrated.
He forced a smile and strove to dismiss any look of unhappiness from his face. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”
She looked up, her expression startled. “You won’t disturb me.”
“Well, I appreciate that.” He bade her farewell and hurried away.
The oak door slammed behind him, and he winced, conscious his sister would think he was avoiding her.
He plodded down the street, rows of tall ivory townhouses dominating either side. Ornate columns and mythological statues shimmered in the bright morning sunshine, showcasing the architects’ knowledge of culture. William gritted his teeth and ignored the sharp surge of pain from his arm. He would not be welcome here if the inhabitants guessed his desires.
A cloaked figure darted up the street, a hat obscuring much of his head. His shabby clothes stood out from the immaculate splendor around him. William stared at the figure. At least he wasn’t the only person who didn’t belong here.
He might leave the area soon enough. General Hawtrey had invited him to discuss fortifications on the south coast.
He meandered down a series of streets, finally arriving at his destination. Doric columns framed the entrance. The door was painted a vibrant red, the same color as his uniform. An iron door knocker, formed in the shape of a lion’s head, adorned the middle of the door. With some trepidation, he viewed the giant ring hanging from the beast’s mouth and tapped it against the door.
He didn’t need this.
He was reminded again of his conversation with his sister and her distress that he avoided her. His arm would heal eventually, and he would return to war. All that would happen if he went away would be that he had not given himself the chance to know his sister better. This was his chance. In a year, if not sooner, she might be married to Sebastian.
Regret poured through William. He should not have avoided spending time there, knowing Sebastian would call on his sister. He berated himself for his cowardly action and hastened back.
He ascended the steps of the townhouse, this time taking care to shut the door gently behind him. Murmured voices echoed from the parlor. His sister had planned to go shopping with Penelope before Sebastian called; perhaps she was here already. Yet this voice was deeper and more masculine than Penelope’s, and William wavered on the tile floor. Would Sebastian meet with his sister alone? Had they been doing that for weeks and he had not noticed it, too intent to abandon the house whenever the duke planned to call?
And yet . . . the voice’s melodious rumble, though pleasant, was not Sebastian’s. He was certain.
His back arched as realization struck. Dorothea was meeting with a man. By herself.
William lingered, puzzled.
Is it somebody from a bank? But their estate, though meager, was tidy now. Sir Ambrose, for all his difficulties, had seen to that.
He halted near the door. A peal of laughter reverberated from the room. His fists tightened, and he hurtled his gaze around the hall, debating barging in on them.
Of course he trusted Dorothea. But she should not be alone with a man. She could damage her reputation, she could become hurt herself.
He paced the hallway and glared when a maid ventured into the narrow corridor, so that she scampered away, her cheeks flaming.
He ached with guilt, but he could not, absolutely could not, have his sister found in a precarious situation. What had she been thinking?
More laughter wafted through the closed door. He inhaled, fuming, and clutched the crystal handle of the door.
He charged in.
Dorothea sat, perched on one of the sky blue armchairs that complemented the rich navy walls. William’s heart clenched momentarily: he had successfully avoided the room since encountering Sebastian there.
Her cheeks flushed when he rushed into the drawing room, and her eyes sank. “William. You are back so early.”
He nodded and swiveled to the young, well-dressed man sitting near his sister. He inhaled sharply. There was no reason why Geoffrey Hammerstead, Sir Ambrose’s nephew, should be here.
“Captain Carlisle.” The man’s eyes moved nervously to Dorothea, and he rose. “It is a pleasure to see you again after your time at war.”
“I was just keeping Hammerstead company. He came to call on you,” Dorothea said hurriedly.
“Naturally.” Hammerstead had never called on him before. William gritted his teeth and swept his eyes about the room, landing on the tea tray. “How pleasant of you to offer him refreshment when you knew I was out.”
Dorothea’s flush deepened.
“Your sister is quite kind,” Hammerstead said.
William crossed his arms. “Too kind.”
His sister gestured at one of the armchairs. “Do join us, William. Hammerstead and I were just chatting.”
He plopped down, and the chair creaked under the sudden weight. In no way would he allow them to continue their conversation, if indeed it was only conversation, in private. Perhaps this was why his sister seemed oblivious to Sebastian’s charms; she was cavorting with other men.
“Tea, dear?” His sister’s voice quivered.
William gave a curt nod, grimacing as his sister’s trembling hand wobbled the saucer and teacup. Why must he feel guilty for upsetting her? He hadn’t just been caught in an inappropriate situation. To think he had considered confessing everything to her. Perhaps she wanted him to share his secrets so she might divulge hers.
His blood pounded through his veins, upset on Sebastian’s behalf. Sebastian deserved somebody who would adore him. His sister deserved the same. How could she not see she already had somebody who was perfection?
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Hammerstead said.
William pouted. Surely the man did not intend to make conversation with him? Not after being discovered alone with his sister?
Dorothea stretched her hand out, passing him the tea. A frown formed on her face.
William inhaled. He could not bear to see her unhappy. Giving up, William took the tea from his sister, glancing at the cloudy liquid. He directed his gaze at the visitor. “How many years has it been?”
“Ten.”
William nodded. Ten years since his parents died, ten years since he lived at home, ten years since everything changed.
“I did not realize you were so well-acquainted with my sister.”
“Your
sister is a dear friend . . .”
Dorothea coughed and pressed a lace handkerchief to her face.
Hammerstead’s gaze darted to Dorothea, as if finally realizing he might be behaving with impropriety. The man had none of Sebastian’s charm. Dorothea frowned at William, and he struggled to find a more appropriate topic.
“Your uncle tells me that you are enjoying your studies,” William said.
Hammerstead brightened. “Well, yes. Mathematics is fascinating.”
“Not rhetoric, then,” William muttered.
If Hammerstead heard him, he pretended not to, saying, “But there is a chance I might move to Sussex. Near Somerset Hall.”
“I see.”
“I thought Dorothea might provide me with some insight to the people there.”
“Insight?” William arched an eyebrow.
Dorothea glared at him. “I did spend a great deal of time there.”
“A great deal of chaperoned time.”
His sister’s face whitened, and she pulled herself up. And he had thought her posture impeccable before. “You weren’t here all those years.”
“I couldn’t be.”
Hammerstead shoved the teacup on the table and clattered to his feet. “I must go. It has been a pleasure seeing you—both.”
William nodded, daring his sister to see him out.
Instead, she waited until Hammerstead left the room. “What was that about? Must you be so rude?”
“You were alone with him.”
“I thought you found the ton constricting. And yet you quote their rules to me.”
“I must look after you.”
“I’ve been alone all this time.”
“So you’ve—” William swallowed. “You’ve entertained male guests alone before?”
“Like the best courtesan,” Dorothea said.
William swiveled his head round. “Really?”
“Of course not.” His sister crossed her arms.
Perhaps Sir Ambrose was right to call her willful.
“Then why did you invite him?”
Dorothea rolled her eyes. “I told you. He told you. He came to call to ask about Sussex. I believe he wants to start an investigation into some dubious activity there.”
“And you’re the expert?” he scoffed.
Dorothea’s eyes dampened. “My opinion was once respected.”
William’s chest tightened. He was not even good at being a brother. He only sought to protect her, and somehow he behaved with all the acrimony and moral self-righteousness of the ton. He rushed to her side and grabbed her hand. “And it still is.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I behaved poorly.”
His sister smiled, tousling his hair. For a moment, he was fifteen, she was twelve, and everything was all right.
“I actually did want you to speak with him,” she said. “I didn’t expect his visit, but I was hoping you might return. I do think you might have some things in common with him.”
William grunted. Anything he might have in common with Sir Ambrose’s burly nephew was unlikely to be flattering. “Let’s hope not.”
When he regarded his sister again, she was staring at him. She looked away quickly. “Penelope should be here soon.”
“And then the duke,” William muttered.
“Exactly.” Dorothea scrutinized him again. “But you’ll be gone then, won’t you?”
He wasn’t sure if the last was a question or a request. Despite the innocence that Dorothea claimed the meeting had, William remained shaken. Her actions did not resemble that of a woman devoted to her suitor. Perhaps he did not know his sister so well after all.
*
The sun shone through the net curtains of Dorothea’s drawing room, reflecting a dazzling array of perfectly formed fleurs-de-lis on the wooden floor. Sebastian smiled, aware he had grown fond of visiting her. Is this love?
Sebastian called on Dorothea every other day at two o’clock. Sometimes Cousin Penelope joined them and sometimes Aunt Beatrice: she was always well-chaperoned. He liked that Dorothea behaved so sensibly; she would make an excellent duchess.
He had not seen William since the man had dashed from his bedroom to fulfill his engagement in Hyde Park.
Eager to learn about William’s childhood, he had plied Dorothea with questions. Dorothea’s childhood intrigued him as well, of course, but somehow they always returned to William’s. It must be because William and he were both men, and Dorothea’s childhood, surrounded by dolls and a stream of governesses teaching her the intricacies of needlework, did not amuse him as consistently.
In contrast, William’s behavior troubled him, occupying his mind. Even though he had given him permission to marry Dorothea, Sebastian sensed something displeased him.
He did want William to be happy. Sebastian decided he would ask him to be his best man. If Lewis had lived, he would have been Sebastian’s best man. But if Lewis had lived, Dorothea would be married to him, and Sebastian would be living in Yorkshire. He would likely have met William at some dreadful weekend country ball.
Today he had arrived early.
The floorboards creaked, and Sebastian turned his head to the noise. The cream-painted door stood ajar, the laurel-covered cornice framing a tall figure in the hall instead of the paneled entryway.
William. Sebastian swallowed, and his eyes widened at seeing the man he had just been contemplating. The captain stood tall and radiated handsomeness.
Discomfort flickered over the captain’s face, and his jaw appeared more set. “Your Grace.”
“Captain Carlisle.” Sebastian leaped from the armchair and forgot himself, running his eyes over the man in appreciation. A dark green frock coat swung over the captain’s tight leather breeches, accentuating his perfectly formed legs. His polished black boots glistened against the tiled floor, and a riding crop dangled from his long fingers, coarsened from war.
Heat rose to his cheeks, and he hoped William would not see the accompanying blush.
William smirked and strode into the room. His mood seemed to be improved.
“We can revert to calling each other by our first names.” William leaned closer to Sebastian. “There is a rumor we shall be brothers soon.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
The light caught William’s hands, tanned from hot days in the Indian sun. Dark hairs covered his wrists. What would it be like to touch them?
“Will you make my sister a fortunate woman?” William asked.
Sebastian lifted his head. “Do you think she would become unfortunate by tying herself to me?”
William stared at him, his tone serious. “Nobody could be unfortunate in your company.”
For a moment, Sebastian worried he would lose himself in William’s warm, dark eyes, and he shifted his feet.
William frowned. He closed the thick door behind them and motioned for Sebastian to take a seat on the couch.
Sebastian swallowed. Would he sit next to him? He wasn’t sure whether he felt relief or disappointment when William settled in the armchair opposite him.
They were silent. At intervals, William turned to him and opened his mouth before closing it, as if reluctant to say something. Finally, William buried his face in his hands for a moment before gazing up. “I will not be angry with you if you do not marry her. Just so you know.”
His statement startled Sebastian, and the feeling of warmth abandoned him. “You grant me permission not to marry her?”
William nodded solemnly. “You haven’t proposed yet. Please know that I will not be offended if you never do.”
Sebastian set his jaw. William was mocking him. He resembled everyone who expressed surprise at Sebastian fulfilling his societal expectation. Even if Sebastian was just a country squire whose position had risen to inconceivable proportions, he resolved to be a good duke. He could handle the task of being a husband, just as he could handle the task of managing an enormous estate.
“My intent remains unchanged. I see I was fortunate to prev
iously procure your consent.”
“I only meant . . .” William wrinkled his brow. “Forgive me.”
Sebastian doubted William would outright ban Dorothea from marrying him. He would propose to Dorothea immediately. He had considered inviting her to Somerset Hall on the South Downs to make his proposal there. Perhaps he could simply settle things now. “Think nothing of it. I’ve already forgotten.”
William nodded. “Other options exist . . .”
“How kind of you,” he said, doing his best impression of an icy aristocrat. William did not think he was suitable to marry his sister. That choice was Dorothea’s—not his. He had no desire to see William flounder to make conversation. Sebastian gestured at William’s clothes. “Never mind. I believe you are off to ride again?”
A pained expression flickered across William’s face. He tilted his head down and frowned. “Excuse me.” He rose and bowed curtly and left the room.
Sebastian remained on the couch. His vision blurred, the fleurs-de-lis melding together. The main door slammed, indicating William’s departure, and his shoulders dropped.
A few minutes later, a knock sounded on the heavy outside door.
Dorothea.
Sebastian’s heart raced, and he rushed to steady his breathing, still erratic from his encounter with William. He would propose now. He would be a husband. Wasn’t his outrage, his unsteady breath, a sign that he wanted to marry her? That the other suggestion, not marrying her, horrified him? He would gain a family again, and William would cease to fill his thoughts. He inhaled. It wouldn’t do for his future betrothed to find him out of breath. Sitting in a delightfully decorated drawing room was not supposed to be physically challenging. He staggered to his feet.
The outside door creaked open, and the low murmurs of the butler drifted in.
“I must see her in person,” a man shouted outside, his voice carrying.
“Dorothea is not at home.”
“Take me to the drawing room.”
Sebastian leaned forward. The man’s voice sounded coarse, but his accent was more notable. It was French. Why would a Frenchman be trying to get in touch with Dorothea? His rough words made clear he was not a member of the French aristocracy. At least not like any member he had ever met. The ones he knew wandered around London balls with anxious expressions. Subjects of gossip, their status depended on the likelihood of invasion reported by the newspapers. None of them had sounded similar to this man.
The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex Book 1) Page 6