His father’s love for his mother had been a beautiful thing, by all accounts. The old duke had worshipped his wife. And when she died, that worship had curdled into grief, and the grief had fermented into drink, and the drink had poisoned everything it touched for twelve years until it killed him.
Evander would not worship. Evander would not grieve. Evander would keep the walls standing, find his brother, resolve the scandal, and ensure that Mary and Tommy were provided for in every material way that mattered.
Material ways. As though linen and ledgers could replace what he had felt in that kitchen, with her hands on his skin and her breath mingling with his and the whole world narrowing to the space between their bodies.
Evander picked up his pen, opened the next letter, and began to write. His left arm ached. The stitches pulled with every movement. Twelve neat sutures holding the wound together, the same way discipline and routine held everything else together. As long as the stitches held, the wound would heal.
As long as the walls held, the rest would follow.
Evander worked through the morning, the afternoon, and into the evening. He did not leave his study, and he did not go upstairs, and when Harding knocked to announce dinner, Evander told him to send his apologies to the Duchess and have a tray brought to the study instead.
Avoiding her was cowardice. Evander knew that. Cowardice was also the only strategy he had left.
CHAPTER 12
“How is His Grace this morning, Mrs. Cahill?”
The question came out steadier than Mary felt. She stood in the morning room with a cup of tea growing cold in her hands, and the housekeeper paused in the doorway with an armful of fresh linens.
“The physician has been and gone, Your Grace. Dr. Kreutzer stitched the wound and reports that His Grace is in good health. No sign of infection.” Mrs. Cahill shifted the linens to her other arm. “His Grace is in his study and has asked not to be disturbed.”
Of course he had. Mary took a sip of cold tea and set the cup down. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Cahill turned to leave, and Mary spoke before she could stop herself.
“Mrs. Cahill.”
“Your Grace?”
Mary ran her finger along the rim of the cup. The question had been sitting in her chest since the kitchen, since the brandy bottle, since Evander had spoken about his father with the flat, rehearsed distance of a man reciting something he had long since stopped feeling. Or convinced himself he had.
“His Grace mentioned his father last night,” Mary said. “The late duke. And his fondness for brandy.” She met the housekeeper’s eyes. “I would like to understand this family, Mrs. Cahill. I am part of it now, whether His Grace chooses to include me or not.”
Mrs. Cahill set the linens on the hall table. She folded her hands and stood very still for a long moment before stepping into the morning room and pulling the door half-shut behind her.
“It is not my place to say much, Your Grace. His Grace is a private man, and his reasons are his own.” She paused, choosing her words the way one might choose footing on uncertain ground. “But I will say that this house was not always as you find it. When the late Duchess was alive, it was a different place. A warmer place. But when she passed, the warmth went with her.”
“The drinking began after she died?”
Mrs. Cahill’s hands tightened against each other. “I will only say that the boys were young when they lost their mother, and theyears that followed were not easy ones for either of them.” Her voice dropped. “His Grace grew up faster than any child should have to. That much is plain to anyone with eyes.”
She reached for the linens, and Mary sensed the door closing. She pressed forward with the question that mattered more.
“And Lord Richard? What can you tell me about him?”
Mrs. Cahill’s expression shifted. Something fond crept into it, tempered by sadness. “Lord Richard was a sweet boy, open in the way His Grace never was. He laughed easily, made friends easily, felt everything deeply.” She tucked the linens under her arm. “His Grace shielded him as best he could. Perhaps too well, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. Lord Richard never quite learned to carry his own weight. I do not say that unkindly.”
“Do you think he loved my sister?”
Mrs. Cahill met her eyes. “I’m afraid I do not know the answer to that, Your Grace.” She curtsied. “I have said more than I should. If you wish to know more, His Grace is the one to ask. When he is ready.”
The housekeeper left, and Mary sat alone in the morning room with her cold tea and the edges of a story she could sense but not yet see. Mrs. Cahill had drawn the curtain back an inch, enough to reveal the shape of something large and painful behind it, then pulled it shut again.
Evander had grown up fast. The drinking had been bad. Richard had been shielded, but not saved. These were outlines, not answers, and the full picture belonged to a man who guarded his past the way he guarded everything else.
But in the kitchen last night, with blood on his shirt and brandy on his breath, Evander had let something slip.
The kiss…
