Heir to the Duke (The Duke's Sons #1) Page 16

  He held out a hand. She took it and rose and went with him, but it felt as if she was hardly there. Nathaniel led her over to the sofa and sat beside her, keeping her hand folded in his. “Shall I ring for some tea?”

  “If you want some,” she replied absently.

  “Did it go badly with your mother?” He squeezed her fingers.

  She turned to him¸ and finally seemed to return from a great distance. Her gray eyes focused on his face. Emotion flickered in them, but he couldn’t interpret it.

  “No,” said Violet. Her chin came up. She sat straighter, cleared her throat. “No, not at all.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “About?”

  Nathaniel supposed it was quite unsettling to force a conversation on one’s mother after years of avoidance. It was nothing he’d experienced, of course, but he could imagine the difficulty. So he suppressed his impatience. “About your grandmother’s conduct. Everything we discussed.”

  Violet blinked. She looked down at their linked hands. Gently, she pulled hers free. “She…she…”

  It was as if his wife had lost her knowledge of words. Nathaniel frowned.

  “She simply doesn’t like me,” Violet said. “She never has. It is one of those…inexplicable aversions. You know. Occasionally you meet someone and dislike them at once, for no apparent reason. You…just do.”

  Something in her voice sounded false. Bewildered, Nathaniel said, “You’re telling me that your grandmother took a dislike to you at birth? Like an annoying stranger encountered at a club?”

  “Stranger,” murmured Violet. “Yes.”

  Nathaniel gazed at her. It was obvious that she was shaken, and impossible for him to accept this explanation. “This is all you have to say?”

  “Why…yes.” Sitting very still, she suddenly looked apprehensive, like a child braced for a thundering scold.

  For the first time in their long acquaintance, she was lying to him. It was plain in her tone and her posture and…in the whole feel of the connection between them. Nathaniel couldn’t comprehend it. “Whatever she said, it is quite safe with me,” he tried. “You must know that.”

  “I…I have told you.” Her voice trembled a little.

  Nathaniel waited, thinking that this quaver might herald true confidences, but she said nothing more. “You actually are not going to tell me?”

  “I did.”

  He was startled by the degree of hurt flooding through him. “Of course you have no obligation to speak. I only wished to help you.”

  “Help,” she muttered. Her hands opened and closed in her lap.

  “Yes.” He didn’t want to be angry with her, or say the reproachful things that crowded to his lips. It was true; she wasn’t required to share what she’d learned. If she didn’t wish to. He waited a minute more, hoping. “As we discussed, diverting your grandmother…”

  A small sound escaped Violet. “Helping. You’re always helping. Sending your letters and speculating about your brothers’ lives. Must you poke into everyone else’s business?”

  Nathaniel felt as if something had struck him square in the chest. “What?”

  “How much is help, and how much sheer interference? Can’t some things just be left alone?”

  Nathaniel found himself on his feet. He couldn’t stay still. Distress and bewilderment surged through him. His thoughts tumbled and clashed. “Are you calling me a…a meddler? You asked for my assistance!”

  “Couldn’t you see that I need some time to think?” Violet cried.

  “Think! Splendid. Think all you like.” He strode out, down the stairs, and into the street, seeing nothing of his surroundings, wholly engaged in an inner debate with his utterly mistaken wife.

  Yes, he liked helping people—his family. Why should he not? What could be wrong with that? Of course he didn’t do it out of a desire to pry into their private affairs. No one thought so. No hint of such a…despicable motive had ever been suggested.

  Nathaniel walked faster, passing one person after another, noticing none. His chest felt tight and hot—with outrage, not fatigue.

  He didn’t help out of obligation, either, or for the thanks that his brothers…mostly…didn’t bother to offer. It wasn’t an exchange. And absolutely it was not a case of—I do this for you and you tell me all your secrets. None of his brothers had told him the specifics of what was going on in their lives. When someone…one of his brothers…made a request, he…simply enjoyed fulfilling it. Didn’t he?

  It was a sort of…pleasure to think of small services he could perform without being asked. And if no one noticed these things had been done…well… Gratitude wasn’t the point.

  Nathaniel turned a corner, moving so fast now that he nearly bowled over a gaggle of chattering young ladies. They shrieked and scrambled out of the way in a flurry of ruffles and dropped parasols. He had to pause and apologize and restore their scattered property while every fiber of him longed to move.

  What was the point? he wondered when he could stride onward.

  In truth, he didn’t understand how someone…his brothers…could walk right by a task that needed to be done and, seemingly, not realize it existed. Such things practically shouted out to him. And they were usually easy to accomplish. A moment’s thought, a word to a servant. His brothers were perfectly admirable men, but they…left it to him.

  Nathaniel stopped so abruptly that a man plowed into him from behind.

  “What the devil? Take some care, will you?” The fellow pushed around him and hurried off.

  Care. He did take care. He was the eldest, the brother who kept his head, who rallied round, who stood fast and fulfilled the request and tidied up without tallying what credit was owed. That was who he’d always been. And his brothers had been glad of it. So why, this time, with Violet, should it be so different?

  Because it was, Nathaniel thought, stock still in the middle of the narrow street. This time he’d wanted some acknowledgment. He’d wanted, yes, admiration. Not that she owed it to him for helping her. Not that. But he’d wanted her to gaze at him with…appreciation, with that beguiling light in her eyes, with…more than he could frame to himself in this moment. He’d wanted the feeling—which he’d experienced with her before—that they were in harmony, working together, understanding each other. Instead, inexplicably, she’d shut him out.

  An odd sort of flutter moved through Nathaniel. He felt…what? Forlorn, some part of his mind supplied. Immediately, another voice rejected the idea as nonsense.

  He ran a hand over his face and looked about him. He was in an unfamiliar part of Brighton, and tired of walking. He didn’t want to return to their lodgings. In London, there were clubs in which to seek refuge. At Langford, he had the whole countryside, or the choice of many empty rooms where he could retreat. Brighton offered none of that. Except…he had joined Raggett’s Club when they arrived, though he almost never visited it. He wasn’t fond enough of gaming. Still, today it might serve.

  Nathaniel moved on until he got his bearings, then turned toward the sea. Entering Raggett’s a little later, he realized he’d come out without a hat, a solecism that disconcerted the servant at the door. He was admitted, however, and he paused before a mirror in the entry to correct any other fault in his attire. Adjusting the folds of his neckcloth, he examined the figure in the glass. He’d been told often enough that he was a handsome man. He didn’t set much store by it. His face and form were gifts of his lineage, not personal achievements.

  Did he look pompous, though? Like a man who would interfere in others’ business? He tried a different expression. He smiled and felt like an utter fool. Soon after their wedding, Violet had said that what she wanted was to have fun. There had certainly been no fun in their recent conversation. Again, Nathaniel remembered Robert’s claim that he had no idea how to have fun. What if he was right, after all?

  An acquaintance came in the front door and nodded as he passed by. “Hightower.”

  Nathaniel abando
ned the mirror and followed the man into the largest clubroom. It was sparsely populated at this hour. Two tables boasted desultory card games. In one corner a solitary young man diced right hand against left. He looked up hopefully when Nathaniel entered, then subsided when Nathaniel showed no interest in joining him.

  One of the games was breaking up. Two of the players departed. Another accepted the dicer’s invitation of a few goes. The fourth paused to observe the play at the other table, and then turned toward the entry.

  It was Thomas Rochford, Nathaniel saw, an old acquaintance. They’d known each other fairly well at Eton, but then their lives had gone in different directions. Nathaniel had devoted himself to estate business, while Rochford employed his considerable wit and charm to become one of the chief ornaments of society. His large fortune had helped, of course, but money alone hadn’t made him one of the most sought after gentlemen in London. His presence was said to make any hostess’s party memorable. And fun? Nathaniel wondered. He was aware that all manner of females swooned over Rochford—misses fresh from the schoolroom, their mothers, the high flyers of the demimonde. And Rochford made the most of it. “Where are you off to?” Nathaniel asked him after they’d greeted each other.

  Rochford raised one blond brow. “The cards are cold. I’m giving them a rest.”

  “May I walk with you?” Nathaniel endured the other man’s surprise.

  “Of course,” Rochford said politely.

  They were of a height. Rochford was rangier and moved with a careless grace that Nathaniel knew he didn’t match. They paused at the door for Rochford’s hat, and a slight quirk of his lips when Nathaniel was found to have none, then moved out into the street.

  “What is it, Hightower?” At Nathaniel’s quick look, he added, “We haven’t had an extended conversation since Eton.”

  “I suppose we haven’t,” Nathaniel replied. “Why is that, I wonder?”

  “You are the worthy and serious heir of a duke, with important matters on your mind. And I fritter away my time in pursuit of pleasure.”

  “I am not ‘worthy,’” said Nathaniel, disgusted at this description.

  Rochford made an airy gesture. “A joke.”

  Had it come to this, that he was unable to see a joke? But he didn’t think it really had been.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” asked the other man.

  One did not ask another fellow about fun. It was too ridiculous. As Nathaniel tried to frame what he wished to say, they strolled down toward the sea.

  “I should warn you that I am known to be odiously selfish.”

  “You say that as if you were quite proud of it.” Nathaniel would have been offended had anyone used the word about him. He would have argued against the accusation.

  “Oh, I am one of the chief proponents of creative selfishness,” replied Rochford.

  “Creative…?”

  “The art of making one’s self-interest so compelling that others delight in indulging it.”

  Nathaniel laughed. “You can do that?”

  “It is my constant study, at least.” Rochford smiled. A pair of young ladies walking arm in arm simpered and preened encouragingly.

  There was no doubt about the man’s charm, Nathaniel thought. But he also seemed to possess an intriguing attitude toward life—and not a shred of pomposity. “I wanted only…to renew an old acquaintance,” Nathaniel said.

  This earned him a speculative look. “My dear fellow. Delighted, of course.”

  * * *

  Violet hadn’t known before that a tea party could be pure misery. The large, ornate room roared with the conversations of a hundred women. It was hot, and the tables were crowded elbow to elbow. Even if she hadn’t been falling to pieces inside, it would have been a trial. With her mind and heart in turmoil, it was unbearable.

  The conversation that she had—foolishly, idiotically—insisted upon having with her mother, played over and over in her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. She felt as if everything she’d known and counted upon about her life had been thrust into a box, violently shaken, and then dumped out before her in a tangled mess. Since then, her heart pounded for no reason; her stomach roiled so she could hardly swallow a crumb of the lavish spread set out before them.

  And she’d made Nathaniel angry. She couldn’t quite remember what she’d said to him on that dreadful day after she’d seen her mother. It must have been bad, from the way he was acting. Violet’s hand closed tight on her teacup, fingers trembling. Her memories of their conversation were overwhelmed by the emotional strain she’d been under. With every word he spoke, her brain had screamed that he mustn’t learn the secret of her birth, that it would wreck her marriage. Maybe even end it. That fear had left no room for anything else.

  She had apologized, but since she didn’t know precisely what she’d done, it was ineffective. After her first few words, Nathaniel had hardly seemed to listen. Perhaps he’d thought her insincere, rather than insensible. And now they were scarcely speaking. Oh, they spoke, of course. But they said nothing important. He’d gone off to London, claiming business. She suspected, worried, that he just wanted to get away from her.

  So here she sat, her world falling apart, and she had to pretend to enjoy the buzz of empty chitchat.

  “Oh, remarkably calm,” said the woman on her right.

  Violet became aware that she had missed at least one remark addressed to her.

  “If my husband had gone off to London with Thomas Rochford, I’d be frantic with worry,” agreed another farther on.

  Marianne, on Violet’s other side, gave a start and turned to look at her. Violet was bewildered. Were they speaking to her? Nathaniel hadn’t mentioned a traveling companion.

  “Alvanley saw Hightower in Rochford’s curricle, driving off,” said the first woman.

  Nearly everyone at the table was looking at Violet now.

  “Lud knows what sorts of mischief they’ll get up to,” tittered another.

  “Did you know…?” began her overly informative neighbor. All the others leaned forward to catch her whisper. “I overheard my husband say that the ‘two most beautiful lightskirts in London’ came to blows over Rochford. Screaming and hair-pulling, right in the street.”

  Gasps of delicious horror went round the table.

  “They say he fought a duel when he was only nineteen,” piped up a younger woman across the teacups. “With swords, not pistols. Like the old days. To first blood.”

  Women around the table paused, bright-eyed, to imagine the scene.

  “I heard that Cecily Saunders went into a decline when Rochford didn’t offer for her,” said someone else.

  Polite snorts met this assertion. “She was the only person on Earth who expected him to,” was the reply. “What a ninnyhammer!”

  “Yes, but… When he fixes you with those blazing blue eyes…”

  This time, it was sighs all around. “He has the face of a fallen angel,” murmured someone.

  To Violet’s dismay, the group’s attention turned back to her.

  “Of course, Hightower is handsome as well,” said her neighbor.

  “The two of them together…! Oh, my.”

  “I daresay they’ll…make quite an impression in town.” Women exchanged speculative looks.

  “But no one’s there at this time of year,” said one of the youngest at the table.

  “My dear, there’s plenty of a…certain type of female available.”

  Violet knew she had to say something. She just couldn’t think what. Marianne nudged her surreptitiously. Exerting stern control over her voice, Violet said, “Nathaniel had business in London, and he wanted to leave me the carriage.” He had said this, without revealing that he had a fellow traveler. Violet had gotten the impression that he was hiring a chaise. Or made an unwarranted assumption, apparently. “He’ll be back tomorrow.” The moment she said it, she wished she hadn’t. It was like a promise she couldn’t keep, because she couldn’t remember i
f he had said that.

  “You must hope so,” murmured one of her tablemates. Violet didn’t see who it was.

  She couldn’t reply. To assure them that he would indeed be back could only sound defensive. To ask what she meant would sound concerned. Violet sipped her tea instead, and had difficulty swallowing past the lump in her throat.

  “Gossiping, ladies?”

  Violet started and almost spilled her tea. The Prince Regent had come up behind her. For such a large man, he moved remarkably silently. But what was she thinking? The noise in this room would cover the sounds of a stampede. She felt a hand heavy on her shoulder, and then she was enveloped in the heavy scent of his cologne, and his breath ruffled the curls falling past her ear. “I promised a tour…”

  On her left, Marianne stood, smiling brilliantly. “Oh, how kind of you, Your Grace! The pavilion is the most splendid place I’ve ever seen.”

  The Regent did not hide his chagrin, but he was too gracious to actually reject her. And Marianne’s beauty and enthusiasm for his architectural creation clearly softened the blow. When Violet, perforce, rose as well, he offered them each an arm.

  Recent events had driven the Regent right out of Violet’s mind. Now, she tried to remember what Marianne had told her about discouraging unwanted suitors. Her lovely friend had had much more experience in that area than Violet. What had she said about the Regent? “Avoidance and evasion. That’s what a wise old dowager told me. From personal experience, I believe. He has no patience. And he’s easily diverted. Like a cranky child.” It might have been funny, except that avoidance was currently impossible. The Regent had pulled her hand through his arm and was clutching it with damp, pudgy, and startlingly strong fingers.

  What else had Marianne said? “Laugh at inappropriate times. Quite heartily. It worries men very much not to know what you find so amusing. If they ask, simply laugh again. They’ll soon take themselves off.”

  Violet summoned all her skills of dissimulation and laughed, right in the middle of the Regent’s lecture on Chinese nodding figures.