“My brother was the duke,” he corrected. There was a single seat in the foyer; a simple wooden bench with decorative spindles and a flat velvet cushion. He sat down heavily and sloughed his hands over his face as all the guilt he’d carried over the years caused his shoulders to slump. Without any whiskey or gin to lighten the burden, the weight was nearly unbearable. “I was never meant to be anything more than the spare. I didn’twantto be anything more. Sebastian was always the more responsible heir. The serious heir. The heir that everyone turned to when they had a question or a problem that needed solving. He was perfect for the role. It’s literally what he was born to be. But then…”
“But then?” Rosemary gently coaxed when Sterling fell silent.
“Then Sebastian died and I inherited a title I never wanted. A title that was never supposed to be mine. Now whenever I walk into Hanover House, all I hear are ghosts. They’re so loud,” he whispered as he stared bleakly at the floor and clenched his fists in his hair. “They’re so bloody loud.”
He closed his eyes and didn’t see Rosemary when she crossed the foyer and sat beside him, but he felt when her thigh pushed lightly against his. Felt her hand come to rest in the middle of his spine. Felt the soft, soothing circles her palm made as she began to rub his back.
“From what I know, your brother was killed in a duel with Lord Aston,” she said quietly. “Why do you blame yourself?”
“Because it was my fault.” His teeth clenched and unclenched. “Because if not for me, he never would have taken up that duel. I goaded him into it. I all but put the damned pistol in his hand. Lord Aston pulled the trigger that discharged the bullet that entered his body, butIwas the one who sent him there to die. Me. Nobody else.”
He waited for Rosemary to dispute his claim. Waited for her to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That he couldn’t have foreseen what his brother would do. That Sebastian’s actions were his own.
It was what Sarah had said, and Kincaid, and Weston.
Over and over again, until he’d grown weary of all the hollow excuses made on his behalf. Because even though somewhere in his head he knew that they were partially right, that hecouldn’thave known Sebastian would take his drunken gibe seriously, in his heart he did not want to be absolved of his guilt.
The guilt was his punishment to carry with him. A daily reminder of what Sebastian had lost and he had gained. It didn’t matter that if he had the chance, he would trade his title for his brother without a second’s hesitation. The only thing that mattered was that Sebastian was dead, and he was alive, and maybe hehadn’tpulled the trigger…but he hadn’t gotten there in time to stop Lord Aston from doing it, had he?
Bloody hell, but he wanted a whiskey.
Just a sip to take the edge off.
Why the fuck had he stopped drinking again?
“Maybe you are to blame,” Rosemary said matter-of-factly.
Sterling’s muscles coiled and stiffened beneath her circling hand. Of all the things he’d imagined she would say, of all the platitudes he thought she would give him, that sure as hell wasn’t on the list. “Excuse me?”
“Maybe youareto blame,” she repeated. “Maybe if you hadn’t said whatever it was that made your brother want to engage in a duel, he wouldn’t have done it and you wouldn’t be the Duke of Hanover.”
Sterling twisted on the bench to stare at his fiancée in disbelief. “Are you trying to make me feel better? Because I have to say, you’re doing a piss poor job of it.”
Her hand stilled. “Is that what you want? To feel better? Is that why you’ve been lost in the bottom of a bottle ever since I met you? Do you evenrememberthe first time we met?”
“Course I do,” he scoffed. “It was at Hawkridge Manor. During the house party. You were…I was…we were…”
“I was searching for food, as I often am.” The corners of her lips lifted in a self-deprecating smile. “I entered the parlor and there you were, stretched out on the sofa. You frightened me half to death, and then you asked for coffee. When I brought it over, you mistook me for Lady Emma Crowley.”
“But you look nothing like her,” he said, mystified. “She’s blonde.”
Rosemary nodded. “Precisely.”
And that, he supposed, was the point she was trying to make. That his brother’s death had driven him to all of his bad habits. That if not for that single tragedy, he’d be a gentleman of fine upstanding moral character. Little did she know he’d been holding a bottle long before he held his brother in his arms as he gasped his final breath.
“I drank before Sebastian died,” he said dismissively. “That hasn’t changed. You want to see the decency in me, to convince yourself that it’s there. Somewhere. Hiding deep inside. But I’ve always been a ne’er-do-well and a rogue and a scoundrel.That’swho I am,” he bit out. “That’swho I am meant to be. Not a duke.”
“We are who we make ourselves to be. A title is what you were given when your brother died, but it doesn’t define you. Only your words and your actions can do that. And maybe youarea scoundrel and a rogue and a ne’er-do-well.” Removing her hand from his back, she cupped the side of his jaw and brought their faces so close together that he could see the nearly invisible flecks of violet amidst the swirls of blue and gray in her irises. “But you’re also a man who loved his brother deeply. You’re a man loyal to his friends and family. And you’re a man who asked a wallflower to marry you so that her reputation wouldn’t be ruined.”
He drew a ragged breath. “Rosemary…”
“Maybe you really are to blame for Sebastian’s death,” she continued. “Or perhaps he would have died the next day walking in front of a carriage. Or the next year in a wave of scarlet fever. We do not know. Wecannotknow. Because when and how those that we love die is not for us to decide. If it were, I’d have my parents with me and Joanna and Evie would have theirs.”
How much he wanted to believe her. To release himself from this guilt. To accept that maybe he had said something to Sebastian he shouldn’t have, but all that happened after was beyond his control. To acknowledge that hehadbeen a good brother. Not perfect. Not anywhere close. But good, and steadfast, and true. To admit that he had punished himself enough. That there was nothing else to gain–and oh so much to lose–by continuing this self-inflected retribution.
“Then whatdowe decide?” he asked.
“How we live,” Rosemary answered simply. “We decide how we live.”
