Benedict approached slowly, his lower lip trembling, but still, he said nothing.
Kneeling, Edward brushed the damp curls back from his face. "Did you have a nightmare?"
A tiny shake of his head.
Edward hesitated, scanning him more closely. No bruises. No sign of illness. Just—sadness. The same sadness that had lingered since their father had begun to pay him less and less attention.
But Benedict never voiced it. He never spoke of it at all.
Edward cupped his brother's shoulder gently. "Would you like to stay here with me for a bit? I was working on translations. I know you like helping me mark the declensions."
That earned the faintest, wobbly nod.
"Good. Here, sit—"
"Edward!"
The Duke's voice cut through the quiet like a blade, echoing sharply from down the corridor.
Edward flinched. Benedict did too.
"Wait here, Ben. I'll be back soon, all right?" He gave his brother's arm a gentle squeeze.
Benedict nodded again, curling into the corner of Edward’s chair, small and uncertain but trying to be brave.
The Duke’s voice rang out again. "Edward! Now!"
Edward set his jaw. "I'll be back," he repeated quietly and turned toward the door.
The scent of brandy hit him first as he entered his father’s study.
It was worse than usual tonight. Heavy. Clinging.
His father sat behind his great carved desk, the curtains drawn despite the early evening light still lingering outside. A half-finished decanter sat next to a second glass, empty but stained where it had been filled and refilled.
And sprawled on the settee—half-clad, her bodice scandalously loose—was a woman Edward did not recognize. As had become customary ever since his mother’s passing.
The red silk of her gown pooled over her thighs, the neckline barely decent, her lips painted and slightly parted as she gazed at Edward with a lazy, almost taunting smirk.
Revulsion rose thick in his throat.
The Duke exhaled noisily, setting his glass down with an audibleclink. "Close the door."
Edward obeyed, standing stiffly just inside the threshold, hands clasped behind his back. He knew better than to speak first.
The Duke watched him for a long moment, eyes sharp despite the liquor—assessing, as if searching for flaws. Then, he gestured vaguely with his glass.
"You’ll be leaving for Oxford soon. And before you know it, you will be married. It’s time you understand the gravity of your position."
Edward remained silent.
The Duke sat forward, his glass clinking sharply against the desk as he set it down.
"You are the heir. My heir. The sole future of this family. Everything—everything—rests on you. Do you understand?"
Edward nodded stiffly. "Yes, Your Grace."
The Duke's eyes narrowed. "Do you? Or do you merely parrot what you think I want to hear?"
