“Touché, dear sister.” He offered her the tumbler. “I didn’t want for it to turn into a great lot of unnecessary nonsense.Maman’s maudlin sentiments are too great a burden for me to bear.”
“You are fortunate indeed that you didn’t include me in that, for I am not maudlin in the slightest. I’d have boxed your ears.”
Everett chuckled. “I’d have liked to see you try.”
She raised her glass at him in a scolding gesture. “I would’ve liked to have been there, maudlin sentiments or not.”
“You were here in London. I thought it best not to disturb you from your efforts with the orphanage.”
That much was also true. Verity was devoted to a foundling hospital that she sponsored. After her beau, Lord Leopold Douglas, had died before they’d been able to wed, she had thrown herself into charitable causes. Along with perfecting the art of generally not giving a damn of what polite society thought of her.
“You know that I always have time for you,” Verity said softly. “You are my brother.”
“I should have sent word,” he admitted.
“Next time you get married in haste, see that you do.”
He grimaced. “I’ll not be getting married again, thank Christ. Once was almost enough to bloody well kill me. Forgive me my vulgar tongue.”
“Of course. You know that you needn’t fret over my tender sensibilities. I have none.” Verity took a sip of her whisky, studying him curiously. “Why did you bring her here to London now? What changed?”
With a sigh, Everett began a cursory explanation of what had occurred, from Sybil’s unexpected appearance at the house party in Wingfield Hall to her confession about her father. He left out the intimate details of his dealings with Sybil. He wasn’t entirely proud of his behavior, particularly now that he knew about Eastlake. Not that it excused his wife’s betrayal on their wedding day; nothing could absolve her of that sin.
“Oh my,” Verity said quietly when he had finished. “That is indeed a complex change of circumstance. You did right in bringing Lady Eastlake here.”
“I know. She is safe from him now, where she belongs.”
“As is your wife.”
His wife.
It still felt strange to think of Sybil thus. He’d done everything in his power over the last three months to banish thoughts of her from his mind. To forget how badly he wanted her. And he had failed abysmally. The moment she had been within his reach, he’d proven just how impossible it was to resist her. He wanted her more with every passing day, the feelings he struggled to deny insurmountable. He was hopeless when it came to Sybil.
“I am not certain she belongs here,” he said stiffly. “But she is my duchess, and I am charged with her protection.”
“You don’t intend to leave London and return to your bawdy house party, do you?” Verity asked, suspicion coloring her tone.
He would admit that he had selfishly considered it, for no reason other than he still wasn’t prepared to face the way Sybil made him feel.
“The house party is coming to an end tomorrow anyway,” he said. “And you needn’t fear I will hide from my obligations.”
“You’re a good man, Everett. If your wife has any common sense at all, she will realize what she has in you.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t been particularly kind to her since our wedding day,” he admitted, thinking of how he had abandoned her and left her at Riverdale Abbey for three months. When she had arrived at Wingfield Hall, he’d been positively beastly.
“Then you shall have ample opportunity to change that now.” Verity finished her whisky and rose from her seat. “The hour grows late, and I really should be abed by now, as should you, brother. It isn’t healthy for a man of your advanced years to get so little sleep.”
There was a sparkle in her pale eyes, so like his.
“A man of my advanced years, indeed,” he drawled wryly, for he was only two-and-thirty to her eight-and-twenty, but she forever reminded him of the four-year age difference separating them. “You’re fortunate I love you as I do, or I’d sneak a frog into your bedroom tonight, just like I used to do when we were children.”
“Ha!” She laughed, setting her empty tumbler on the table at his side. “Then I would have no choice but to retaliate by pouring treacle in your hair whilst you sleep.”
The minx had done so once when they were younger, and his hair had been sticky for weeks.
“I’ve never seen Mother so furious at you,” he recalled, grinning.
They had run wild as children, but he was damned grateful for her.
