“Is that really necessary?” There were many sounds that West was fond of: The pounding of galloping hooves. A piano playing a complicated concerto. Once—but not at all recently —a woman’s sighs in his ear. His father’s voice, in his own home, before the hour of noon, was not one of them. West pushed up his helmet, offered Hawthorne a grimace, and lowered his foil. “Father,” he said, politely bowing his head as he turned. “West. If you feel up to fencing, then would Angelo’s not suit better than your valet?” Hawthorne was not merely his valet, but one of his closest friends— a fact that his father, as fixated on status as he was, would never acknowledge. “Hawthorne is a better opponent than any I’ve yet found at Angelo’s,” West said, which was not entirely true—Hawthorne was damned handy with a sword, but he’d never had any proper training, and doubtless there were opponents at the fencing academy who could beat him without undue difficulty. West, however, had no interest in fencing at Angelo’s, not when he was slow and clumsy where once he’d been quick-footed, capable of beating most men he knew. Hawthorne, bless him, never gave him the slightest ounce of pity, even as West’s movements were halting, his footwork appalling. He really shouldn’t be fencing at all; he knew there would be hell to pay later, as there always was when he attempted anything that in volved him setting aside his cane for any duration of time. But it made his mind go temporarily, blissfully blank—and, occasionally, this was too powerful a temptation to resist. How kind of his father to appear just in time to ruin all of that blissful blankness. The Duke of Dovington was an imposing man, for all that he was nearing seventy; his hair was entirely gray, but still thick upon his head, and his dark eyes were as sharp and intelligent as ever. West and his brother both took after their father in appearance; staring at the duke was rather like gazing into a mirror showing West what he’d look like decades in the future. He hoped, however, he’d manage to be a bit less of a complete and utter ass. With this bit of warm familial regard in mind, he handed Hawthorne his foil and crossed the room, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg as he walked. His cane was leaning carefully against one wall, and West took the time to shrug back into his waistcoat and jacket before reaching for it, acutely conscious of his father’s eyes on him all the while. His father, being a duke, was accustomed to everyone he deigned to speak to springing into action to meet his every need, and West was not above allowing himself the small pleasure of forcing him to wait.
“Do you have something you wish to discuss?” he asked, his tone blandly polite as he turned to face his father. “Yes. Perhaps we might st ep into your study?” The duke was dressed for riding—he and West’s brother, James, shared a fondness for morning rides in Hyde Park, though West was fairly certain that both of them took some pains to ensure that they rarely encountered each other on these rides—and there was a trace of impatience in his voice, as if he could not believe that he had to take time out of his busy day of wafting around on a cloud of ducal superiority to pay his son a visit. “I think the library will do,” West said pleasantly as they left the ballroom and entered the first-floor hallway, inclining his head at a door to his left. Sparing a brief regret for the hope that, by the time he reached the age of twoand-thirty, he would be above pettily trying to thwart his father in matters of little importance—clearly, this was not going to happen—he opened the door, allowing his father to precede him into the room. The library was one of West’s favorite rooms in his London residence; it was situated toward the back of the house, meaning there was little noise from the street here, and the walls were papered in a dark green that reminded him of a gown— He broke off that thought abruptly, before his mind could even finish formulating it. He broke off any thoughts that led to her. He made his way toward a stuffed leather armchair near the fir eplace, where a small fire burned, and gestured at the chair opposite in silent invitation. “Shall I ring for tea?” West asked politely. “I did not come here to drink tea with you,” his father said, which was precisely what West had expected he would say. “I came because I caught wind of some disturbing gossip that I wish to discuss.” West had a decent guess what this gossip was about, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell his father that. “I understand,” the duke continued, “that you are recently returned from Cornwall.” “Indeed.” West leaned back in his chair, contemplating ringing for tea despite his father’s rejection of his offer—he was feeling rather thirsty, after that fencing session. “You may have noticed we did not have our weekly dinner at White’s for several weeks running?” His father flicked an impatient glance at him; he did not approve of anything in West that hinted even slightly at sarcasm, or at any sense of humor at all. It was his opinion that heirs to dukedoms did not need a sense of humor—one could hire someone to laugh at one’s jokes when appropriate, after all, so one needn’t worry about actually being amusing. “I was informed that Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell was also in attendance.” West went still at the name, though he was at least grateful that his father had got to the point quickly.
“She was,” he said quietly. “And I believe I informed you once in the past that I should not like to hear her name cross your lips again.” His father regarded him, assessing, for a long moment; West met his gaze directly, something he had always made a point of doing, ever since he was a small boy being called into his father’s study to be r eprimanded for some offense or other. “I played cards with the Duke of Altborough the other night,” his father said at last. West blinked at this non sequitur. “I was unaware Altborough was in town— I thought he was in poor health.” “He was, but apparently is feeling improved now that the weather has warmed. Did you know he has three daughters?” West allowed a beat of silence, and then another. “I do not think I knew the precise number, but yes, I know he has daughters.” The duke allowed his gaze to wander around the room. “They’re all unmarried—well, one’s a widow. Out of mourning, though. The other two are still unwed—the youngest just made her curtsey to the queen this spring.” “A bit young for my taste,” West said; for all that he knew plenty of men who thought nothing of taking a wife decades younger than themselves, he found the idea of attempting to woo a naïve eighteen-year-old distasteful. The duke waved a dismissive hand. “The other two are older, then. Perhaps the widow might be more to your liking?” He allowed one single, precise second of silence before adding, “It seems you’ve a weakness for them.” West leveled a steady gaze at his father. “Why this sudden fixation upon my marital prospects? I thought you’d despaired of that long ago.” West had ensured that he had, in fact. Once he’d learned how his father had thwarted his first—and only—attempt at marriage, he had felt little guilt in allowing his father to believe that there was no point in attempting to arrange one for him. “Yes,” his father said, regarding him thoughtfully in a way that West liked not one bit. “Because of your accident. And its tragic r epercussions.” There was a note of wry sk epticism to his voice that set West further on edge; all of his conversations with his father felt like high-stakes chess games, and this one seemed to be veering more sharply in that direction than usual. “Yes,” West said slowly. “As we’ve discussed.” “Hmmm.” The duke drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I believe it was Dr. Worth who told you that you could never hope to father children, in the wake of your injury?” “Yes,” West said, a bit tersely.
“How interesting, then, that I recently spoke to Dr. Worth, and he knew nothing of this supposed condition.” His father sat back in his chair and gazed steadily at West, awaiting his next move. West decided, after a split second of contemplation, to brazen it out. “Perhaps his memory is failing him in his old age.” He spared a silent thought of apology for Dr. Worth, who had been his doctor since he was a boy but who was, in truth, growing rather elderly. “Perhaps,” his father allowed. “However, he seemed to think—how did he phrase it?—that there was no reason a broken leg and a scratch should have any effect whatsoever on your ability to produce any number of heirs.” West pressed his lips together, allowing several satisfying curses to circle inside his head without uttering a single one. “It was a bit more than a scratch,” he said mildly—it had, in fact, been a de ep, thoroughly nasty wound that had become infected—but, unfortunately, Dr. Worth was not otherwise incorrect. “Of course.” His father nodded. “Now, perhaps my memory is failing me as I age”—his mouth quirked in amusement, as if the mere suggestion that he’d lost even a fraction of his mental faculties was so ludicrous as to be laughable—“but whilst I cannot recall what precise words you used, some years ago, I remember receiving the distinct impression that you would be unable to father any heirs, and so there was little point in worrying about a wife for you.” He waved a hand. “Doubtless, I misunderstood—I cannot imagine that you would deliberately mislead me, after all.” The duke smiled a humorless smile, then continued. “Now that I’ve realized my mistake”—he paused again, allowing the emphasis on that word to sink in —“it of course stands to reason that it is high time you were considering marriage.” The words landed like a thrown gauntlet. “Perhaps I am not yet interested in marriage.” This was entirely the incorrect thing to say—this much was immediately obvious to West. He was thirty-one years old and he was first in line to a dukedom; he did not have the luxury of waiting to marry until he at last took an interest in the institution. He was expected to produce an heir, after all, and the fact that his father—thanks to West himself—had not believed this to be a possibility was the only reason he’d been granted a r eprieve these past several years. His father, however, did not argue with him. Instead, he gazed around the room, allowing a taut silence to stretch between them; finally he said, almost idly, “I’ve been thinking of selling Rosemere.” West felt it like a blow to the stomach, as it had no doubt been intended; he pressed his lips together tightly to prevent any pained exhalation of breath. “Oh?” he managed after a moment. “Yes. It’s turned quite a profit these past few years, you know—it would no doubt fetch a handsome price.” West did know—he was directly responsible for its prosperity. Rosemere was one of the few unentailed properties that the dukedom owned, and one that his father had gifted to him, upon his twenty-first birthday. His
mother had brought the property, which belonged to her family, to her marriage as part of her dowry; West had few, vague memories of the mother who had died when he was only four years old, but he remembered with peculiar, vivid clarity how much she had loved Rosemere. He had a memory of her laughing as she cut roses from the garden, the sound bright and free, and he felt the strangest lump in his throat whenever he recalled it. His father, however, had never felt the same—it was a small holding, nothing compared to the grander entailed estates, and he had never paid it much attention. That the duke did not see Rosemere’s value was no small part of the reason that West loved it so much—a sentiment he had endeavored to hide from his father. He had seen, after all, what his father did to things—people—that West loved. But apparently, he had not hidden it well enough. “I know you’ve spent a fair amount of time there over the years,” his father continued, “but it really seems the sort of home that ought to be for a... family.” He shrugged; that shrug, along with every single element of this discussion, was carefully choreographed. “And since you’ve no intention of marrying...” He did not need to make the threat more explicit. West understood perfectly well. His father rubbed his hands together. “I should be off—I’ve a busy day.” Intimidating underlings, making servants cry, et cetera, West thought darkly. “Do let me know if you’d like an introduction to one of Altborough’s daughters,” his father added, rising from his chair. West rose with him, his gaze lantding longingly on the sideboard against the far wall. Was it too early for a drink? The clock chose that moment to chime the eleven o’clock hour. Eleven was only an hour from noon. And noon was not really so very early, after all. Was it? “I look forward to discussing this further with you at dinner this week,” his father called on his way out. No, West decided. Today, noon was not early at all. He was nearly finished with his second brandy when Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell appeared in the library. West blinked at her, then at his butler, Briar, who was bowing himself out of the room wearing an expression of unmistakable curiosity. He glanced at the glass in his hand. This was his second, wasn’t it? He hadn’t lost count at some point, and actually consumed an amount of spirits that would lead to hallucinations? Lady Fitzwilliam’s gaze followed his and her eyes widened slightly. Belatedly, he realized that—hallucination or not—she was still a lady, and he was instantly on his feet, gritting his teeth slightly against a wince as the sudden motion jarred his bad leg, which was still protesting the morning’s exercise. Fortunately, the two (?) glasses of brandy had gone a long way toward silencing its louder objections. “Lady Fitzwilliam.” “West.”
She was always Lady Fitzwilliam to him now, even in his thoughts. He didn’t allow himself the pleasure of thinking of her as anything else. He liked, however —too much, far too much—the fact that, at some point in the past year, she had once again taken to addressing him by his nickname. Everyone called him West, it was true; to do otherwise would have drawn more attention to them in company. But this did not diminish the small jolt of pleasure he got every time he heard her say his name. “You are at my house,” he said. “Alone.” “And you are drinking,” she said. “At...” Her gaze flicked to the clock on the mantel. “Noon.” West resisted the urge to follow her gaze to confirm the time. Was it still only noon? He’d lost track of time at some point while drinking the second (?) brandy, which was a rather more generous pour than the first. “I’ve had a trying morning.” “Ah.” She did not inquire further; they no longer had the sort of relationship that would permit such an intimacy. Although apparently they had the sort of relationship that would permit an unmarried woman to call on an unmarried gentleman at his home, unescorted, and—well, no. There was no sort of relationship that permitted that. “I have been rather distracted this morning. Did I forget an engagement we had?” This was so implausible as to be laughable, and the slight curve at the corner of her mouth confirmed that she knew this as well as he did. That hint of a smile was like a punch to the chest. She was not dressed with particular care— she wore a simple green walking gown, a bonnet in her hand that she had apparently removed upon being admitted to the house. Her golden hair gleamed in the firelight of the library. She was still—was always—the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “No, I—I’m here today with a proposal.” She paused, then seemed to reconsider the wisdom of that particular word, given to whom she spoke, and the seven years of history that stretched between them. “A proposition,” she corrected, and then a hint of color stole into her cheeks—a rarity for a woman who was not prone to blushes. “Apparently there is no word I can use that will not seem ill-advised the moment it leaves my mouth,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked, gesturing at the armchair opposite him, the one that his father had vacated scarcely more than an hour before. She seemed about to refuse, and then her gaze flicked to his leg, and she said, “Yes, of course.” There was no hint of pity in her face or her voice as she crossed the room to sit, and West followed suit with some relief at the feeling of weight being lifted from his protesting leg. He wondered a moment later, however, if this had not been a mistake—if perhaps a bit of pain was worth suffering— because she was suddenly much, much closer to him than she had been a few moments before. And he organized much of his life with the unstated but determined goal of avoiding being in close proximity to her if possible. Lately, unfortunately, it had not been possible—and he had an uneasy feeling that, whatever her reason for calling on him today was, it was going to make that goal even less attainable. She took a breath, as if steeling herself. “My sister has formed an attachment,” she announced, without further preamble. “I presume you mean Mrs. Brown-Montague—otherwise, this seems like not quite the sort of confession I ought to be hearing.” She cast
him a narrow look; he k ept his face carefully blank, but after a moment an amused gleam lit her eyes, and he knew she could tell that he was teasing. Still, after all this time, she could always tell. “Yes, it’s Alexandra,” she said. “She and the Earl of Blackford have fallen in love, it would seem, and she’s refusing to marry him because she’s worried about me.” He frowned. “Why is she worried about you?” he asked. “Is something amiss?” His tone was neutral; he knew all too well that she would not welcome any concern from him. “She fears that if she remarries, she’ll be leaving me all by myself again,” she said, her glance skittering off his as she spoke. She shifted in her seat, and his gaze sharpened on her—Lady Fitzwilliam was one of the most self-assured women he’d ever met, and not prone to fidgeting. “Which is absurd, obviously,” she added hastily. “It’s not as though she and I share a home. I already live alone; nothing would change about my life if she and Blackford were to wed.” There was something defensive in both her tone and her posture as she spoke these words, and he could see how much this conversation was costing her— admitting to him, of all people, that the younger sisters she had always focused so much of her energy on protecting might regard her as someone in need of protection, too. “And you have not been able to convince her of this?” She pressed her lips together. “She is being... difficult, when I have tried to broach the subject with her. I spoke to Blackford, who confirmed my suspicions. He thinks I just need to speak to her again, reassure her, but...” “You’re unconvinced?” “She can be quite stubborn, occasionally,” Lady Fitzwilliam said, and it took considerable effort for West to refrain from pointing out that this was a trait that seemed to run in the Wexham family. “How does this concern me, then?” he asked, ke eping his tone polite enough to soften the bluntness of the question. He and Blackford were friendly, but if she wished for him to speak to Blackford, he thought it might strike the other man as decidedly odd—and he couldn’t imagine what good he could possibly do anyway. Nor, for that matter, why she thought to come to him, of all people, with this worry. Theirs had not been a relationship, of late, that invited the sharing of confidences. Or of anything else. She took a breath, and then looked directly at him. “I was hoping that you might ask me to marry you.”