William’s face twisted. “I’m so sorry.”
Sebastian nodded. Memories of his son, his life’s passion, flooded him. Charlie’s death had been sudden, but Sebastian remembered every minute he watched, helpless, as his son struggled for breath, the doctor ultimately defeated.
That was the past. The future lay before Sebastian, one in which he could still do his duty, still be honorable, still seek to make his remaining family content.
“Are you attached?” Sebastian asked.
No doubt William was engaged to one of the debutantes, one of those young women who looked like the barmaid but who possessed all the wealth and social skills which came with being one of the ton. Probably she spent her time drawing pictures of the manor house in which she lived, pressing flowers she gathered from her conservatory and singing songs in her drawing room. Or perhaps William was already married. Perhaps he had five children at home.
“I’m not attached,” William said. “Though,” he paused, gazing into Sebastian’s eyes, “I might like to be.”
William leaned forward, and his booted foot touched Sebastian’s. The table was small and William’s legs were long. The touch must have been accidental, but Sebastian did not move. He pressed his foot back, enjoying the sensation. Warmth rushed through him, and then a very private part of him hardened. He jerked his foot away from the other man.
“Are you searching for a wife, then?” Sebastian fiddled with his napkin, the cloth coarser than that to which he was accustomed. “This is the place to be. Right at the height of the season. Lots of qualified women here.”
William dropped his shoulders before lifting them and offering a weak smile. “I’m just enjoying being back in England. Glorious Britain and all.”
Likely William had women throwing themselves at him and enjoyed it. Or perhaps he was one of those men who had acquired a married woman to be a mistress. Sebastian’s chest tightened. “I imagine you quite enjoy London.”
William tilted his head to the side, observing Sebastian. “It has its advantages, I suppose. Even though the place is swarming with titled people. Unexpected meetings . . .”
“You don’t like people with titles?” A lump formed in Sebastian’s throat, and the words came out hoarser than he desired. Did William know Sebastian was a duke? Was he teasing him?
William leaned back. “I don’t think much good comes out of giving vast amounts of power to certain individuals at birth.”
“Oh.” Sebastian stilled. He stared at the table, running his eyes over the grooves of the wood. “I’m sure they try their best.”
“They’re all pretentious,” William continued. “They wouldn’t have chased after their hat.”
Sebastian coughed. Perhaps now was not the time to disclose his new position to William. His heart raced. He leapt into conversation, endeavoring to keep his voice steady as he struggled for another subject. “My aunt adores the city. She would love nothing more than to reside here the whole year now her husband has passed away.”
“My condolences.”
Sebastian nodded. “I’m confident she’ll return to London in the autumn.”
“And in between?”
“We will see what happens with the French. Hopefully they will not invade.”
“If they do, it will be on the south coast,” said William. “Brighton will be less popular than usual.”
“And my aunt’s home is near Brighton. Well, I suppose it’s my home now.”
“I would like to meet her,” William said. “My sister was once engaged to somebody in the Sussex gentry, though he died.”
“I’m sorry. I would be happy to introduce you to my aunt,” Sebastian said. “I rather think she is conspiring to introduce me to my new bride tonight.”
William stiffened, and he rested his hands on the table. “She is forcing you to marry again? You are a grown man. You do not need to comply with her will.”
“No, no,” Sebastian said. “It’s not like that.”
“You want to marry again?” William sighed and leaned back. The chair creaked beneath him, and the blood vanished from his face. “That is, of course, different. Congratulations.”
If Sebastian did not know better, he would have thought William seemed disappointed.
“I have not met her yet. It might not happen. It is only a thought.” Sebastian regretted his statement. William seemed upset. Sebastian finished his drink, forcing down the bitter bubbles.
“Perhaps we should make our entrance at the ball,” William said, frowning. They hurried out, the regulars staring at them as they exited the tavern.
Sebastian pulled his coat tighter around himself, bracing against the cold night. He darted his eyes to William, who stared straight ahead. Even without their earlier levity, Sebastian found himself taking smaller steps, anxious to prolong their time together.
They headed into the townhouse, leaving their coats at the entrance and zigzagging amongst the clusters of people. All seemed intent on welcoming William back to London. He must have been a popular fixture in London society.
The ballroom lay on the second floor, and they climbed the white marble stairs together. From time to time, Sebastian glanced at William, admiring his strong form, the red uniform accentuated against a sea of cream and pastel gowns. They strolled through large gilded doors, welcomed by the pale pink walls of the ballroom decorated with gold baroque plaster. A relief of the Roman goddess Minerva regarded them from the ceiling, and for a moment, Sebastian felt uncomfortable under her all-knowing gaze.
“Do you not desire to dance with any of the beautiful women here?” Sebastian gestured toward the partygoers bouncing to a cotillion. He had a tendency to babble about beautiful women in the presence of handsome men. If they thought him inarticulate, he would so much rather they considered his reticence to be the result of the women who surrounded them rather than their masculine selves.
William’s body tensed, but his features relaxed. “I’ll find my sister. She told me she may have some news to share with me tonight. Perhaps I’ll see you later.”
Sebastian nodded and watched William disappear into the throng of well-dressed guests, wondering why all the colors seemed to fade in his absence.
Chapter Two
William stepped through the crowded ballroom, brushing past perspiring guests and the herds of women doused in clashing perfumes as he sought out his sister. He did not offer every clumsy man he encountered a drink, and he was regretting that he had followed his impulse to do so with Sebastian.
A stout man with a moustache that curled in a ridiculous flourish interrupted his thoughts. He recognized him at once. Sir Ambrose, society know-it-all and the self-proclaimed savior of him and his sister after their parents died. Sir Ambrose swaggered toward him, and he tensed, bracing himself.
“And how was the war?” Sir Ambrose asked after greeting him.
“It did its name justice,” William said.
The man tilted his head. “Its name?”
“Very warlike. Blood and all that. Dying.” William paused. Surely the man did not mean him to go on? Sir Ambrose’s granite eyes bored into him. “Killing. Everything one expects.”
“Ah ha. You fought in India, didn’t you?”
“Indeed. Under Lord Arthur Wellesley. We defeated six thousand Marathas at Assaye.” William smiled, still marveling at that unexpected triumph.
“Sweltering country,” Sir Ambrose said. “Wouldn’t want to fight there.”
“Yes.” The heat of India did attract the most comments. He surveyed Sir Ambrose’s corpulent body and suspected the aristocrat would not want to fight anywhere.
“We should return to war soon. Otherwise the frogs will come for us! Sailing over in balloons.” The man laughed, his face red under the glow of the eight-hour candles dispersed around the room in formidable candelabras.
William smiled in spite of himself at the man’s joviality. “I think it’s been proved the winds would not allow for that.”
&n
bsp; “They’ll try though. It’s a shame the colonies gave them all that money for Louisiana last year.”
William acquiesced. The fact that a British bank had lent the colonists the money in the first place did nothing to rectify the misfortune.
“But let’s not dwell on miserable topics. How’s your sister?” Sir Ambrose licked his lips.
William stepped back, his boots scraping on the polished floor. His sister’s beauty was renowned, and she received more attention than she desired.
“Her fiancé’s death left a terrible void, of course, but she’s holding up.”
“So deplorable about her fiancé’s untimely passing.” Sir Ambrose thrust up his shoulders and dropped them, his expression overwrought, playacting an emotion William was certain the baronet did not feel. “She’s transformed into such an alluring woman. Do tell me, is she to come out of mourning soon? I imagine she must be most eager to marry. They do say engaged women are ruined if their betrothals fall through.”
William narrowed his eyes and lowered his hand, half expecting to find the hilt of his saber. Perhaps it was for the best he had not brought the weapon with him tonight. Sir Ambrose may have been a friend of his parents, but William had never cared for him. “Do not say you are implying anything improper.”
Sir Ambrose thrust up his hands and lifted his face toward him. “What sort of barbarian do you take me for? You’ve spent too much time around heathens in India. How could you suspect me of damaging your sister’s reputation after all I have done for your family?”
William relaxed his shoulders. Sir Ambrose had been helpful in the months after his parents died, organizing their finances when it proved his parents were not as prosperous as assumed. He mustn’t forget Sir Ambrose’s generosity then. He darted his gaze around the room, relieved nobody seemed to have heard Sir Ambrose’s insinuation about his sister’s chastity, and lowered his voice. “I cannot imagine she intends to marry anytime soon. She and Lewis adored each other.”
He refrained from saying Dorothea was particularly uninterested in unctuous men such as Sir Ambrose.
“Ah, she is willful.” Sir Ambrose smiled. “Do you not find women to be terribly unreasonable creatures?” His gaze clouded for a moment. “At least they are beautiful. Your sister must realize she will need to marry soon. Poor thing. No doubt she thought she was destined to be a duchess, and now that her fiancé is dead, she is left with so little. I heard the new duke inherited everything, and he lets her live in one of his London townhouses. The dowager duchess lives in the other. Most unorthodox. They say the duke is tenderhearted, but really, does any heart need to be so kind? Your father truly should have provided more for you. Your mother never should have married him.”
The conversation paused, and a thick, uncomfortable silence hovered between them. Propriety dictated William should accord the baronet some respect, but he strove to retain his courtesy and restrain himself from insulting the man. And yet—part of him acknowledged Sir Ambrose was correct. His father had died with little money, shocking everyone. Why had his parents hosted so many parties? Why had they not controlled themselves?
Dwelling on their deaths would not restore anything. Changing the subject was the most appropriate course of action. “How is your nephew?”
“Geoffrey is fine. At Oxford now.”
William nodded.
“He cares about enlightening his mind.”
William’s head swung around. Was Sir Ambrose implying he shouldn’t have taken a commission? He couldn’t afford to study, and the prospect of squandering his time in a Cambridge library appalled him. His eyes narrowed.
His former neighbor continued, “His knowledge of classics and debate will serve him well. Soon, he’ll only need a bride.”
William dipped his head politely, conscious he would never permit Sir Ambrose’s nephew to marry his sister. He had no desire to find Sir Ambrose invited to any family gatherings. Encountering him in London was sufficiently unpleasant for him. His younger sister’s life would not be improved by more frequent contact with the baronet either.
A shadow fell over them, and William was grateful to see one of his Harrow classmates join them.
“Captain Carlisle.”
“Reynolds.”
The man’s eyes brightened, and he thumped William on the back. “How is my favorite racquet player?”
“Unable to play racquet, I would imagine.” Sir Ambrose’s nasal voice broke into the conversation.
Reynolds’s eyes widened, and he gazed down at the offending limb. “Of course. Forgive me. Is it painful?”
“Not very,” William lied.
Reynolds frowned, eyeing it with scepticism. The man was married to William’s sister’s closest friend, Penelope. No doubt she had told him of the extent of his injuries.
William laughed. “You needn’t worry. The doctors didn’t believe me either.”
“But it will improve?”
“So they say,” William said, conscious there was nothing so ridiculous as a soldier whose right arm didn’t work effectively.
“I know of a man who had both of his arms blown off,” Sir Ambrose said.
William lifted his eyebrow. “You do add a grim touch to the conversation, don’t you?”
Sir Ambrose looked at him, bemusement evident on his face.
“Never mind,” William said, coughing. “How were his arms blown off?”
Sir Ambrose leered. “Smugglers. Quite dangerous on the south coast. The government is quite incapacitated by them.”
Reynolds turned, his eyes worried. “Is this a new situation?”
“It is.” Sir Ambrose shrugged. “It’s most dangerous down there. I’m surprised the new duke doesn’t want to sell Somerset Hall.”
“Well . . .” Reynolds paused. “It would be quite a shame. So many family heirlooms there.”
“Those family heirlooms won’t be much good once the French invade and smash everything up. For they will be brutal. You saw what they did to their aristocracy. Butchered the whole lot. I doubt they would be any kinder to foreign aristocrats. It’s not like the English and French were ever renowned for their good relations.”
All three men laughed weakly.
“But you have property on the south coast,” Reynolds said, turning to Sir Ambrose.
“My home is rather better equipped for defensive measures. Not as exposed as Somerset Hall. I imagine I could flee in time. Though I might be persuaded to buy the manor . . .”
Reynolds paled and made his excuses. William stared after him, wanting to learn more about the new duke.
Sir Ambrose returned to speaking about his property, and William gazed around the ballroom, seeking to spot his sister amongst the debutantes. He hoped she was coping. Her fiancé’s death had affected her. Marriage could not be further from her mind, and now she was at a ball, surrounded by people who would attempt to marry her.
He would not be surprised if France invaded; Bonaparte did seem keen to display his military prowess. Rumors circulated that Bonaparte planned to attack Kent or Sussex. At least Dorothea no longer spent time there. Sebastian said he would move to Sussex. William’s heart swelled with concern. His arm ached, the now-familiar pain reminding him of why he could not rejoin the troops in India at once.
*
The violins hummed, the women twirled, and Sebastian longed to return home. The dancers fashioned a motley of shapes, the faint clink of jewels accompanying them as they capered over Aunt Beatrice’s black-and-white tiled ballroom. He wished he had spent longer with William when he had the chance. The man had vanished in the crowd, and Sebastian instead found himself hedged in by a viscount on one side and a baron on the other.
This was his new life, whether he missed the north or not. No more ambling about the countryside. His beloved Dales, scattered with mossy rocks and burgeoning blossoms, were now hundreds of miles away. Any flowers here were trapped in porcelain vases or formed of silk.
Perhaps William might like to
go horseback riding? Though Hyde Park didn’t offer the same expanses of land as Yorkshire, some people went regularly, and he often considered it would be pleasurable to have a companion there.
“Beautiful chits.” Lord Burgess waved his glass of brandy, the amber liquid sloshing inside the crystal tumbler.
Gilded mirrors reflected the debutantes, a flurry of pale pink, lavender, and magnolia. The light pastels differed from the coarse ebony fabrics Sebastian had been surrounded with for the past few months while mourning his uncle and cousin. He smiled, interrupted from his thoughts. “Very beautiful.”
Lord Burgess grinned. “Particularly their bosoms.”
Heat rushed to Sebastian’s cheeks, and he took a sip of brandy. He had not eyed that region, but now that the viscount mentioned it, the dresses did seem cut very low. Long, gauzy fabric flowed from the women’s empire waists, but the dressmakers had not thought to put much material on top. He supposed it was all meant to be tantalizing. He frowned, waiting for the moment when he would be captivated.
Lord Reynolds chuckled. “You must ignore Burgess’s commonplace mind. Burgess, the duke will marry soon. We can’t have him admiring other women.”
Sebastian forced a laugh. He avoided the gaze of the tall, dark-haired man who had swept off his cousin Penelope. Clearly he had wandered into the newlywed corner. Why hadn’t he stepped toward the card table, populated by those hiding from mistresses or wives? Not that he should mind their conversation. He would join them soon enough, no doubt trumpeting the admirable qualities of his new bride with the same rigor as the others. Where was Aunt Beatrice?
The violins moved on to a Scottish reel. The tempo quickened, and the room filled with gaiety. Men swirled around the room, towering over the women, their breeches emphasizing their muscular thighs.
“Not to speak of the parties.” The viscount drained his brandy and set it down with a thump. “Women thrive on planning them. You must find someone before the season ends. You’re lucky to have another go at it. I wouldn’t mind going again. Reencountering Rosalind.” The viscount sighed, his body expanding even more from the comfortable shape it had reached since his marriage. “Women’s talents are most varied.”
The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex Book 1) Page 2
