Sweat gathered on Peregrin’s brow. “I could prove myself,” he croaked. “Have me run one of the northern estates for a year . . .”
“Sign it.”
“Brother, please.” The words dropped between them helplessly like birds shot down in flight.
Sebastian stilled.
The fear in his brother’s voice felt like a punch to the chest.
His own brother was afraid of him, as if he were some crazed tyrant, demanding unreasonable things.
Abruptly, he came to his feet. Wariness flashed across Peregrin’s face, and that only irritated him more. He rounded his desk, only just stopping short of grabbing his brother by the scruff of his neck.
“Stand up.”
Peregrin scrambled to his feet, and Sebastian gripped his shoulder and spun him toward the wall.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing at the rows of estate paintings. “This is not just about you. We have ten estates in two countries. Our family is one of the oldest in Britain, we are one of the biggest landholders in England, and if I fell off my horse and broke my neck tomorrow, all of this would be in your hands.” He turned his brother to face him. “Unless you are a capable man, our house would bury you like an avalanche, and you won’t be the only one going down. Do you think the lives of thousands of staff and tenants are a game? Christ, getting Castle Montgomery back is a mission in its own right, and not a day goes by when I don’t detest the fact that our family seat is in the hands of another man.”
Peregrin’s eyes flashed with the wild, reckless look of a man cornered. “But that is it,” he said. “I don’t want this.”
“What was that?”
“I can’t, don’t you see?” His voice was rising, actually rising. “I can’t. I can’t be you.”
“Keep your voice down,” Sebastian said, his own voice having dropped dangerously low.
Peregrin began to squirm in his grip. “You don’t care what happens to me; if I weren’t your heir, you wouldn’t even notice my existence, but I can’t be duke.”
The revelations fell like blows. Suddenly pieces shifted into place, and things that had long seemed senseless began making sense. Icy fury rose in his throat. “Is that what this has been about all along? Your absurd behavior? To demonstrate how unfit you are?”
Peregrin’s eyes were glittering hot, his hand clutching at Sebastian’s restraining arm. “It’s not my place to be duke.”
“Hereditary succession says it is, whether you like it or not,” Sebastian said coldly.
“You could have sons,” Peregrin shot back. “Why don’t you? Why do you make me pay for that?”
Suddenly they were toe to toe, his hand a fist in his brother’s jacket, and Peregrin’s face twisted with fury and disbelief. He still gave like a puppy in his grip.
It halted Sebastian in his tracks like a wall.
God. It shouldn’t even have come this far.
He dropped his hand and stepped back, his pulse thrumming in his neck.
Peregrin sagged into himself.
Well, bloody hell. Sebastian straightened his sleeves. He took another backward step, put more distance between them.
His brother’s cheeks were burning red, but he had pulled himself together, waiting, watching him defiantly and no doubt feeling sorry for himself.
Not that long ago, the boy had barely come up to his elbow, his hair a mop of fluffy blond curls. Not notice his existence? Sebastian shook his head. He would step in the path of a bullet for his brother, as reflexively as he drew breath.
When he spoke next, his voice was implacable. “In February, you will go to Plymouth. And I will forget the things you said today.”
Peregrin’s eyes shuttered. He gave a slow nod. “Yes, sir.” And he kept nodding as he dropped his gaze and stared at his shoes, and Sebastian understood that it was to force back tears.
He turned to look out the window. Against the black of night, he saw only his own distorted reflection.
“I advise you to see it as an opportunity and not as a punishment,” he said. He should probably have said something more, but as usual when tears were involved, no words came to mind. “Sign it. Then you may leave.”
* * *
Somewhere in her diary, his former wife said that he had a lump of ice where others had a heart. He was inclined to agree. He turned cold from the inside out when faced with adversity, a reflex, like another man’s pulse might speed up in the face of danger. If that was being heartless, so be it. It had advantages that a part of his brain kept cool under all circumstances. Except, apparently, when his brother stabbed into his Achilles’ heel with the precision of Paris himself.
You could have sons . . . why don’t you?
The hour was nearing midnight now, the fire crackling low on the grate, but his brother’s voice still echoed through his study, and it had him reaching for his cigarette case.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled smoke.
Watched through the wafting gray tendrils, Castle Montgomery appeared to come alive on the dark office wall across. It was always misty around the castle. It was a place of shadows and echoes. It had never felt like a home; now it had long become a ball and chain. But duty was duty. One did not lose an ancestral seat in a card game.
Why don’t you?
His brother was an idiot. But he had a point.
He bent and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk.
There glinted the frilly yellow silk case of the diary. It used to have an ornate little lock that had offered no resistance.
He flipped it open.
The sight of the loops and swirls of girlish penmanship tightened his grip on the book. He had read it only once; still, all the relevant words were etched into his memory. But nearly two years on, they might sound different.
12th January, 1878
M officially proposed today. I knew this day would come, it has long been arranged, but I’m strangely torn. A young lady could hardly aspire to more than becoming a duchess. I do want to be a duchess. Mama and Papa are thrilled, of course. But I can’t deny that my heart aches for T. He’s so distraught, begged me to elope, even, and swears he shall love me forever . . . it’s terribly romantic. If it were not for his title, I certainly should never choose the duke. He isn’t romantic at all. He’s awfully quiet and severe, and I’ve never seen him dance. He’s by far the least charming gentleman of the ton . . .
Ah well.
Sebastian dumped the diary back into the drawer.
No need to live through it again word by word when the ending was engraved on his mind anyway. Not six months later, she had run away with the young man she thought she loved. And he hadn’t seen it coming. Ironic, how he excelled at reading people for his dealings in politics, and hadn’t noticed that his own wife had grown bored and resentful, or both, and wouldn’t hesitate to set fire to a powder keg. In fairness, understanding a well-bred woman required nothing short of mind-reading. They were, after all, trained to please and endure with a smile.