Page 45 of A Portrait of Love

“What?”

Wyndham’s eyebrows arched. “Don’t you recall? When you were ill—delirious with fever—you signed this.” He tossed it to Simon.

Simon opened the folded piece of paper and read the brief contents. It was like a punch in the face. He had no memory of writing the words on the page, but it was undeniably his handwriting.

He crumpled up the paper and threw it at his brother, who easily caught the projectile. “You bastard,” he said through gritted teeth. “You know I only wrote that because I thought I was going to die.”

Wyndham gave an elegant, ducal shrug. “It is too bad your letter does not say that. It only says all of your worldly possessions are mine.”

“No magistrate would believe that.”

“That might or might not be true. However, the word of a duke will suffice until I have liquidated all your possessions—all your horses, including that lovely new mare you just purchased. By the time you get the issue before a magistrate—provided you can find the money for such a legal action—everything will be gone.”

It took Simon three gulps before he found adequate air. “You fucking bastard.”

Wyndham nodded, untouched by Simon’s venom. “Perhaps, but it still doesn’t alter the fact that you don’t have a penny to your name.” The duke sighed, looking unspeakably weary. “Come home, Simon. Marry a respectable woman of breeding, produce two sons, and then you may do whatever you wish.” He waved a hand, his heavy gold signet glittering on his smallest finger. “You may live above a taproom, cavort with serving wenches, breed horses, set up an entire houseful of mistresses—anything you desire once you have done the one thing I ask. I will not only release your inheritance early; I will put all the wealth of the dukedom at your disposal.”

Simon shook his head. “That really is all that matters to you, isn’t it—the dukedom? An heir. You don’t give a damn about anyone else.”

“I give a damn about hundreds of people, Simon. It is my duty to give many damns—and it will one day be yours, and then your son’s.” His eyes glinted. “I am the Eighth Duke of Plimpton. Our line has been unbroken for hundreds of years.” He leaned slightly forward, his taut posture more telling than his cool expression or tone. “Do you even know how singular that is?” An almost fevered look spread across his cold, emotionless features. “Do you?” He did not wait for an answer. “Because of me and my inability to get an heir this may be the first break in hundreds of years. If the title goes to Raymond—”

He didn’t need to finish his thought; Simon knew what he meant. Raymond had always had a problem when it came to cards. Simon had given him hundreds of pounds over the years and he knew Wyndham would have done the same. Putting the dukedom in the hands of an inveterate gambler was, indeed, a concern.

But it was not Simon’s concern. Besides, he would do his duty during his lifetime and be a responsible steward. But did he have to dance to Wyndham’s tune for the cause?

He knew that Wyndham’s answer would be yes.

His brother’s features shifted subtly, until he looked out at Simon through eyes that would have done some long ago religious zealot or too-enthusiastic member of The Inquisition proud.

For the first time in Simon’s memory, his brother burned with emotionand it scared the hell out of him.

He lost all desire to taunt or mock. “But you are not the break, Wyndham. I will inherit. There is no break. Everything will go on as usual. You know I will not be profligate or reckless or—”

“But that will never happen, Simon.”

Simon squinted. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are intent on killing yourself. I can read it in your face. Every day that passes and your head hits the pillow is a miracle.” Simon opened his mouth to deny it, but Wyndham wasn’t done. “I see it. I feel it, Simon. You are not interested in living. I don’t think you are interested in anything—not even the horses you claim to love.”

An image of himself reaching over the cliff to retrieve Honoria Keyes’s feather flickered into Simon’s brain.

Wyndham nodded as though Simon had admitted to something. “Yes, you don’t want to live. You haven’t wanted to live since before your injuries.”

This time Simon was too shocked to argue—too shocked by his brother’s perception. He was also bitterly envious of other man’s memory. He could no longer recall so much of his past. It was like looking at something through a cracked and filthy window, he could see images, but they were smoky and unrecognizable.

“I don’t know what happened to you during the war to make you the way you are, Simon, but I do understand the result—your lack of desire to go on living.” It was as close as Wyndham had ever come to admitting the unimaginable pain of losing one child after another.

A lump of remorse blocked Simon’s throat and he had to swallow several times to overcome it. He was so bloody tired of fighting with the brother he loved that he opened his mouth to capitulate—to give him what he wanted and marry one of the young women who were probably even now infesting Whitcomb.

But then, out of nowhere, Bella’s tear-stained face rose up like some specter from a Shakespearean play.

I love you, Simon. I will always love you.

He had no recollection of the circumstances surrounding that memory—he didn’t know the day, or even the year—but it left a bone-shaking rage in its wake.

This was the man who had made Simon this way: Wyndham.

His brother had destroyed his chance of marrying the woman he loved and living the life he’d always hoped for.