James turned; West stood in the doorway, dressed impeccably as always in coat and breeches and cravat, not a single hair out of place. He looked tired, James noted—there were dark circles under his eyes, and his forehead was more deeply etched than usual. West was thirty, but today he looked older.
“West,” he said, finding himself more nervous to confront his brother than his father. Their father might have been a duke, but he was an unpleasant bastard on top of that, and one whose acceptance James no longer desired. West, however, was different.
“I apologize for dropping by unannounced like this,” James added a bit hesitantly, and his brother’s face softened slightly.
“You’re always welcome here, James,” West said, his voice quiet and sincere. He took several unhurried steps into the room. He gave every appearance of the English lord, relaxed and comfortable in his natural habitat, but James could tell he was curious.
“I came to apologize,” James said without preamble.
West raised an eyebrow, then wandered toward the fireplace, where he turned to stare into the flames that flickered there, leaning on his cane a bit. “Is this about . . . her?”
James knew that by her his brother meant Lady Fitzwilliam—whose name West had avoided uttering at all costs over the past six years. His brother’s voice was calm, carefully modulated, and with his face turned toward the flames, James couldn’t read West’s expression.
“In part,” he said. “But I think I’ve much else to apologize for as well.”
At this, West turned, not even bothering to disguise his curiosity anymore. “Had some sort of revelation, have you? A moment of divine inspiration?”
“Don’t be an ass,” James said without heat. “I merely had a rather interesting conversation with my wife this afternoon. She made me realize a few things.”
“Did she?” West murmured.
“I’m giving Audley House back to Father.”
West’s face went blank with surprise for a moment, and James relished the feeling of having caused this, the sight all the more enjoyable for its rarity. “You can’t be serious.”
“As the grave,” James said cheerfully. “I told Father he could have the stables back, and the house along with it. I then informed him I’d be amenable to a future discussion of us working together to run the stables as partners, but that I’d no wish to be solely responsible anymore.”
“What the hell did Violet say to you?” West asked, sounding somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “I must ask her to teach me her tricks.”
“Ha.”
“What did Father say?” James didn’t think he was imagining the note of barely contained eagerness in his brother’s voice.
“Not much of anything,” James said with a shrug. “I imagine he’s still sitting in his chair at White’s, gawking at the spot on the rug where I was standing when I told him. I’m sure he has some choice thoughts about me at the moment—likely thinks I’m an incompetent fool, at best. But I find myself unable to care overmuch. I know what I’m capable of—I’m not much bothered anymore whether Father does.”
“Where will you and Violet live?” West asked, more serious now.
James shrugged again, unbothered. “We still have the house in Curzon Street—and I bought that with my inheritance from Mother. I suppose I shall see if Violet misses the country house—if she does, I expect I can find us a cottage of some sort.”
“You seem remarkably unconcerned about all of this.” West crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his shoulder against the mantel.
James sighed, raking his hands through his hair. “The stables are lucrative, but I’ve no head for withers and which filly breeds winners and all that rot. I accepted the stables as a gift from Father because I was so damned infatuated with Violet that I wanted to lay the world at her feet—I didn’t trust her to continue wanting me otherwise. And I also wanted to prove to Father that I could run them. It felt like a test, one that I had to keep taking over and over again every day of my life. There was little joy in it anymore.”
West was silent for a moment, and James became conscious of the fact that this was the most personal information he had shared with his brother since they were boys. And yet, it didn’t feel odd. It felt . . . right.
“You said you came here to apologize?” West’s voice was quiet, but his gaze—an identical shade of burning green to James’s own—was fixed on James’s face, unblinking.
“I’ve never trusted you.” James paused for a moment, almost regretting his bluntness. West, however, had not offered much of a reaction; he was silent, waiting patiently for James to continue.
So he did.
“I—when we were boys . . .” He paused, took a breath, gathered himself. “Father favored you because you were the firstborn, the heir. I was always left behind.” West opened his mouth, and James raised a hand, forestalling any objection. “I know it wasn’t your fault, that you didn’t ask for it, but it’s what happened. Now I understand that growing up under Father’s constant gaze wasn’t a delight, either—I think I might have even had the better end of the deal. But it’s hard for a boy to comprehend this.
“So, for as long as I can remember, you were Father’s before you were anything else. I never trusted you not to go running to him with my secrets.”
“You never gave me the chance to prove otherwise,” his brother said.
“I know,” James said frankly. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’m just here to say I’d like to try again.”
“Did Violet ask you to apologize to me?” West asked.
“No,” James said, very glad that this was the answer he was able to give. “She told me—well, she told me a number of things—not that that would surprise you, I imagine,” he added with a quick grin, which was matched by one of West’s own. “But I realized that I was being a bloody idiot, and I need to trust people, and that’s why I’m here, telling you that I want to trust you.”
James felt decidedly odd when he had finished with this little speech. He wasn’t used to confiding in West—wasn’t used to confiding in anyone, in truth. Even Jeremy and Penvale, two men in whom he’d have considered his faith to be unshakable, had never been on the receiving end of any confessions of this sort—and for the first time, James wondered if it wasn’t so much that Jeremy and Penvale were more trustworthy than anyone else, but rather that his faith in them had never been tested in the way it had with Violet and West. He wondered what would have happened to his and Jeremy’s friendship had he learned about Jeremy’s role in his meeting with Violet four years ago. He thought it likely that their friendship would have been damaged beyond repair, and he spared a moment to be grateful that he was not that same man—boy, really—of four-and-twenty anymore.
“If you expect me to weep and embrace you, I shall have to tell you right away that I’m not really the sort,” West said. His tone was grave, but James could see the amused look in his eyes.
“I rather think a handshake will do,” James said, equally gravely, and he thrust out his hand. West seized it in his own and gave it a firm shake.