“Yes, I married her,” the duke said. “You would not, so I did. I do not believe I would have been able to see her live through the disgrace even if I had not still loved her at the time. But you did not even have honor enough to stay away. Perhaps I should have insisted that she listen to the truth. She would be better able to guard against you now.”
“Well,” Lord Thomas said, jumping to his feet again, “you did not because you were ever the Sir Galahad, Adam. You would not have ridden off to war if you had not been. Perhaps I can put a son in your nursery before I leave again—if I leave. Perhaps he too will be fortunate enough not to have red hair. You seem somewhat incapable of begetting your own heirs. Or should I keep my eye on the governess’s waistline?”
The duke took two steps forward, and Lord Thomas found himself standing on his toes, his neckcloth and shirtfront in a grasp tight enough to half-choke him.
“I could have you thrown from my property,” his gracesaid. “There would be many who would call me fool and weakling for not doing so. But you are my brother and this is your home. And I have enough feeling left for Sybil that I would not snatch you from her before you can make some peace between the two of you. But remember one thing, Thomas. She is my wife and Pamela is my daughter, and I will defend what is mine from disgrace and unnecessary pain. And it would be as well for you to learn that my servants, including Pamela’s governess, are under my protection, and protect them I will in any manner I deem necessary.”
His brother turned his head from side to side when he was released, to loosen his shirt collar, and brushed at his ruined neckcloth a little shakily.
“I came here because I have been away from both Willoughby and England for more than five years,” he said. “I was homesick. You should remember what that is like, Adam. I thought you would have forgiven and forgotten. It seems that I was wrong. Perhaps I should take myself off without further delay.”
His brother watched him with tight lips and keen eyes.
Lord Thomas laughed. “But I forget,” he said. “I brought Bradshaw with me. It would be rag-mannered to drag him away again less than a day after our arrival, would it not? I shall stay for a short while.” He sketched his brother a careless bow and left the room.
His grace sank into the chair behind the mahogany desk, rested his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
He had known, of course, that talking to Thomas would do no good at all. But he had hoped that he could appeal to some sense of honor. Its absence had not been noticeable when they were boys. They had always been reasonably good friends despite a five-year age difference. And the selfish lack of responsibility that had always been their father’s complaint against his younger son could have been expected to disappear withthe coming of adulthood and maturity. Anyway, it was too late now for his brother to simply turn and leave. Too late for Sybil. She had seen him again, and all the old wounds must be open and raw again.
He was well aware that she had never stopped loving Thomas. She had never had any feelings for her husband or for the occasional lovers she had taken since their marriage. Thomas was the love of her life.
He had not known it or even suspected it during those months when he had returned from Spain and fallen in love with her and become betrothed to her. She had seemed willing enough. More than that, she had seemed eager. She had told him she loved him. She had allowed him to kiss and fondle her.
But he had been the Duke of Ridgeway and had had a reputation as something of a hero. And her parents had been ambitious for her. She had always been intended for him.
He had not suspected, though she had told him later, on one of the many occasions when she had wanted to hurt him, that even then she had loved Thomas and for as far back as she could remember.
He had known it only when he returned the year after Waterloo, when she had been betrothed to Thomas and horrified to see him. She would have married Thomas even though he was no longer the duke or owner of Willoughby. She had loved him totally.
But Thomas, who would have married her as the Duke of Ridgeway, part of the trophies that he had unexpectedly inherited from his slain brother, no longer wished to do so when he was simply Lord Thomas Kent again.
But he had not told her. He had become her lover and sworn undying love to her. He had impregnated her. And he had left her in a great hurry after she had told him.
He had told his brother that he was going and his reason for doing so. He had not told Sybil.
God help him, the duke thought, closing his eyes andresting his forehead against his steepled fingers, he had done everything in his power to persuade Thomas to stay. He had himself loved Sybil so dearly that he had been unable to bear the thought of her grief on being abandoned or of the predicament she would be in.
But Thomas had left.
When Sybil had called with her father two days later, he had told both of them only that Thomas had gone. He had given no reason. And when she had accused him of sending his brother away because there was no room for the two of them at Willoughby, he had only shaken his head and put up no other defense at all. He had felt so desperately sorry for her. And so she had come to believe her own suggestion.
One week later he had called on Sybil and offered for her. He had repeated the call for three days until she accepted him—with ashen face and dead eyes.
She had been three months with child when they married.
And he had known even at the time that he had done things all wrongly, that he should have told her the full truth, made her listen, however painful it would have been to her. She was entitled to know the truth. And only the truth would have given their marriage any chance of success. But he had been too hopelessly in love with her at the time, too full of pity for her. He would have died rather than give her unnecessary pain.
And now he had allowed Thomas to come back—into his home and into Sybil’s life.
Was he insane?
He pushed his chair back roughly from the desk and got to his feet. It must be breakfasttime. There were guests to entertain and a riding lesson to give and a day to be lived through.
Sitting and brooding would accomplish nothing whatsoever.
HIS GRACE WAS LOOKING TIGHT-LIPPED AND impatient, Fleur saw when she led a reluctant Lady Pamela to the stables after breakfast. He was standing with one booted foot on the lower rung of the paddock fence, a riding crop beating rhythmically against his leg. He was bareheaded and looked very dark and forbidding in his black riding coat.
“Ah, there you are at last,” he said, lowering his foot to the ground.
