As children, they had told each other stories, stealing away when their nurse was asleep, seeking solace in each other’s company. Their father had been a harsh, disapproving, heartless bastard. Their mother had often been distracted by society, flitting from one event to the next when she wasn’t preparing for her most recent lying-in. They’d had a string of siblings who had died, some as babes, others born still and silent, and only the two of them were left.
Here they were as adults, still in this bloody library, still lost.
“I suppose that I suspected it,” Verity said, settling into the chair opposite his. “Do you have some whisky for me?”
“Has anyone ever told you that ladies don’t drink whisky?” he asked wryly, but he was already pouring her a dram.
The glass had been waiting.
He couldn’t face Sybil this night.
Not yet.
He was deadly tired and also damnably confused about the whirl of emotion rushing through him. The ferocity of his feelings where she was concerned alarmed him. He’d thought he felt nothing but fury and desire.
Clearly, he had been wrong.
“Has anyone ever told you I’m anything but a lady?” Verity countered, accepting the whisky he offered her.
“If they had, I’d have punched the bastard squarely in the eye.”
“What if it was a woman?” his sister asked slyly.
“Then I would settle the matter via other, less violent means.” He took a sip of his whisky, trying not to think about the gray-eyed woman waiting for him in the bedchamber adjoining his.
The duchess’s suite had been hastily prepared for her. Thankfully,Mamanhad been keeping other quarters, and the entire affair had been discreetly taken care of by his housekeeper, the capable Mrs. Eustace.
“You’re married,” Verity said softly, as if sensing the direction of his meandering thoughts.
“Indeed,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“And the duchess has been at Riverdale Abbey all this time?”
“She has.”
“Did you get her with child, Everett?”
He spat out his whisky, showering it into his lap, and coughed. “Sweet God, Verity. Give a man some warning next time, won’t you?”
His sister was unmoved, lifting an imperious brow. “Well, did you?”
An excellent question. Sybil could, at this moment, be carrying his babe. The notion made something inside him swell, until the pressure in his throat made him swallow in an attempt to contain it, whatever the bloody hell it was.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he muttered.
“Then why did you marry her in such haste, and why did you keep her a secret for so long?”
He sighed, for he had known his always forthright sister would have questions. Questions he didn’t relish answering. Verity was excellent at prying the truth from him, regardless of the circumstances and whether the subject was fit for a lady’s ears.
“I married her because…” he began, only to have his words trail away, because they were confounding.
Terrifying.
Confusing.
He’d married her out of duty. To satisfy their mother’s endless questions about when he would find a wife. Because he required an heir and a spare. Obligation. That was why he had married Sybil.
But he had also chosen her specifically for the task, and that was the truth of it. As King had pointed out in his odd way, it could have been anyone he’d wed. And yet, he’d married Sybil. Because she had been indescribably radiant. Because he had been held captive by her gray eyes. Because her laughter had been sweeter than any music he’d ever heard, and because when he’d looked at her lips, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but kissing them.
