She nodded and hugged him tightly. Sarah let out a long breath. The worst was over. Phoebe’s grief would follow, of course, as the reality of what it was like to not have a father anymore struck her. The girl had never known her mother—Sarah had heard that the woman had given her up to the duke at birth.
But time would heal. And probably heal the little girl faster than it did her grown brother. Children were more resilient that way.
Kit sighed and glanced over his shoulder at her. She caught his gaze and nodded, hoping that little movement would reassure him that he had done well. For a moment, he allowed the kindness she hoped to offer. But then his expression hardened. He returned to the man who had been judging her for years.
She turned away and slipped from the room. It seemed her future was not as set as Phoebe’s. And with the old Duke of Kingsacre gone, everything she had begun to rebuild could be dashed as swiftly as Phoebe’s tower.
Chapter Two
Kit stood at his father’s grave, staring down at the coffin which had just been lowered in. It was littered with flowers, tossed in by the attendees of the funeral. His was the last to go in and then his father would be covered in dirt and he would be gone.
Kit’s stomach turned with the realization, just as it had been turning nonstop since he said his goodbyes and watched his father’s life disappear. Since that afternoon, he had been busying himself with duties. Making decisions for the funeral. Allowing his friends to try to comfort him.
Try. Fail.
Everything in Kit hurt. His body, his heart, his mind…his soul. What would he do without this man, this wonderful, decent, loving man who had served as Kit’s rock for three decades?
He almost buckled, almost threw himself into the grave so that he could be covered in the dirt with his father. Before he could succumb to those desperate impulses, though, one of the men stepped from the small crowd of funeral-goers behind him, and he felt the comforting hand of a friend on his forearm.
He glanced over to see the owner and nodded to the Duke of Abernathe. James was one of his dearest friends, a brother, just like all those in their club of dukes. As leader of their group, of course it fell to James to be his support in this time of need.
“What can I do?” James asked softly.
“Nothing,” Kit whispered, and his voice sounded so far away. He fought to control his emotions, knew he failed at least a little. “He’s just…gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Kit,” James said, his voice low and kind.
Kit nodded, distracted as he looked from the coffin to the rose in his hand and back again. He didn’t want to let it go. He didn’t want to let his father go. And yet he had to. That was his duty. With a shuddering sigh, he held out the flower and at last dropped it with the rest.
“Godspeed, my dear friend,” James said to the coffin, squeezing Kit’s arm harder.
Kit gathered his composure and turned to look back at the crowd. They were mostly his friends. He could have invited the entire shire, of course. Men and women were clamoring to show their respect to his father, to pay tribute to him as they tried to figure out what kind of duke Kit would be. He’d allow it at some point. Perhaps in a week or two he’d want to have a more public memorial. His father would probably tell him he owed their tenants and acquaintances that courtesy.
But for now all Kit wanted was his friends. His closest friends. His brothers. The men James had gathered together what felt like a lifetime ago in a club of future dukes. He was the last to take that title, and now they were all here to support him, to surround Kit with family.
And yet he felt empty. Adrift. Even more so when his gaze fell to Phoebe. Normally children weren’t allowed at a burial, but he refused to keep her from her chance to say a final goodbye. But God, there was nothing so heartbreaking as a five-year-old in black. Despite their conversation in her nursery three days before, she had been very quiet since. She clung to Sarah’s hand now, her expression blank and forlorn.
“She will be all right,” James reassured him. “And she has you and Sarah, all of us, and your staff to support her when she isn’t.”
“Sarah,” Kit repeated with a shake of his head. In truth, he had been thinking a great deal about Sarah since his father’s death. Tangled, jumbled thoughts. “My father said the oddest thing about her on his deathbed.”
James wrinkled his brow. “You discussed Sarah with your father on his deathbed?”
“I asked him why he’d hired her as governess—” he began, and watched as James jerked his gaze back to the crowd. To Isabel, their friend Matthew’s wife. The Duchess of Tyndale had been close friends with Sarah before their circumstances had shifted so vastly.
“And what did he say?” James asked.
“He said I needed her,” Kit said with a small snort. “Ineeded her. Not just Phoebe.”
James was quiet a long time. “Hmmm.”
Kit arched a brow in his friend’s direction. “Hmmm? What does that mean?”
“Well, you have always had an uncommon interest in the woman,” James said softly. “I have never understood why you despise her so much.”
Kit bit his tongue. He’d never told James what Sarah had said to his sister. Meg had asked him not to, so he’d kept his mouth shut for her sake. Only hers.
“I don’t despise her,” he explained carefully, trying to put out of his mind how gentle Sarah had been with his sister. With him. “I just do not think she belongs here.”
