“And you really think I can’t find one greedy woman?” Hector scoffed. “In London?”
He was sure that Matthew thought that Hector had been living as a monk, given the damage to his leg that he’d had all his life and the injury he’d taken to his ear that had made his hearing rather more acute on one side than on the other. But Hector had actually never found that he had that much trouble attracting women. They weren't snobbish aristocratic women, but still.
Matthew didn’t look nearly distressed enough for Hector’s comfort.
“Not in two weeks, I don’t.”
Hector was so bloody tired of playing Matthew’s game.
“Speak plainly!” he demanded.
Matthew’s grin widened. “Oh, did I not mention that part? One of the terms of the trust is that Father’s successor must be married to an appropriate woman within a year of his death. And that year will end …” Matthew tapped his chin. Good Lord, Hector wanted to hit him. “In two weeks. Whereupon the control of all the title’s assets—everything except the name—will fall to the next in line. And that would be—” Another theatrical pause. “—me.”
Hector had taken too many blows in his life to flinch at this one, but he did pause for a moment to take it in. This was very likely an insurmountable obstacle, given the whole ridiculous song and dance that went into Society courtships.
The triumphant grin on Matthew’s face said that he knew it.
But hell, Hector had spent his whole life fighting. He didn’t know any other way. He wasn’t about to walk away from this without a fight, either.
“I take it this is why news of Father’s passing was so delayed in reaching me.” It wasn’t a question.
Matthew shrugged. “The post issounreliable, especially when you live in the middle of nowhere as you do. Perhaps my first few letters went awry. Unfortunate, really, but at least you got to live longer without the grief of Father’s passing.”
He pressed a hand to his chest piously.
Hector fumed. Matthew had schemed and planned to steal his inheritance—and Hector couldn’t prove it. And while it might have been easier in some ways to just return to the North, go back to the smith and have a peaceful life. It wouldn't be an easy life—the world washard, if gratifying—but it would be simple. Straightforward.
Except for the fact that he wouldn’t be able to live with letting his brother get away with his treachery.
“This isn’t over,” he told Matthew.
“Of course not,” his brother agreed. “Not yet. But in two weeks, it will be.”
Hector’s gaze was tinged with red at the edges.
“Know this,” he said. “The only reason I am not destroying you is for the sake of your wife and child, who are not to blame for your actions. But be careful when you try to cross me, Matthew. My patience is not infinite.”
Matthew glanced at Hector’s walking stick, amusement in his eyes. He wondered if Matthew would look quite so confident if he had seen how adeptly Hector had used the stick against Gwanton.
“May the best man win,” Matthew murmured, his mien leaving no doubt about who he thought that man would prove to be.
No matter. Hector would prove him wrong.
Matthew left upstairs to plot or rob orphans or whatever vicious, selfish noblemen did in their spare time. God only knew that Matthew wouldn’t be moving his possessions out of the ducal chambers by himself. He’d force someone else to do that for him.
Hector should probably command someone else to takehisthings upstairs if he were going to get into the spirit of being a duke. Still, the idea of dragging someone from their task to carry his one bag when he had two perfectly good arms—and one perfectly good leg—seemed ridiculous.
Besides, Hector had no idea how to be idle.
He was just about to begin heading up the stairs–something that was always slow, with his leg; he was relieved that his brother wouldn’t be here to see, at least this first time–Jonathan the butler called for his attention.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he said politely.
Hector fought a grimace. He was far from accustomed to his new title, and he still half expected to see his father nearby every time he heard it.
But he forced down the reaction.
“Yes, Jonathan,” he said, keeping his tone level.
