The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex) (3 page)

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.”

Surely the viscount isn’t winking?

At least Burgess had not mentioned his need for an heir. Most people managed to allude to that earlier in a conversation with him. Having the duke’s heir and then the duke himself die in rapid succession did not lend people to have confidence in the Lewis line. And Sebastian had no brothers to take over should he die.

He turned his head, distracted by a group of young men and the way their colored waistcoats gleamed in the candlelight. He had not been exposed to this in Yorkshire, avoiding situations that ushered feelings impossible to contemplate. His fingers tingled, remembering William.
What would it feel like to trace my hand over his firm figure?
Sweat formed at the back of his neck, and he reached for his cravat, his finger brushing against the linen knot.

“Unless . . .” Lord Reynolds said.

“Yes?” Sebastian shifted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Something flickered in Lord Reynolds’s eyes, as if he knew Sebastian better than he did himself.

“If marriage doesn’t suit you . . .”

Sebastian wasn’t certain what Reynolds was implying, but he resented the idea he somehow differed from other men. He composed his features. “Marriage suits me fine.”

“Of course,” Lord Reynolds murmured. “But your cousin is not long in his grave; perhaps you can enjoy the novelty of being a duke for a while longer.”

Lord Burgess grinned, definitely winking now. “Enjoy the women.”

One of the men in the cluster turned toward him. Burlier than the others, the man frowned, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

Sebastian’s throat dried, unaccustomed to the aggressive stance of the stranger. The man whispered something to his companions and strode toward Sebastian. His bronzed skin complemented his dark tailcoat. Reynolds and Burgess paused their conversation as the man halted before them.

Reynolds nodded to the other man and then turned to Sebastian. “Your Grace, let me introduce you to Geoffrey Hammerstead. His uncle, Sir Ambrose, is one of your neighbors at Somerset Hall.”

Hammerstead nodded. “I was acquainted with your cousin.”

“Oh.”

“He shouldn’t have died.” The man’s words were matter-of-fact.

“Well . . .” Sebastian swallowed and stepped back. “War is brutal.”

“Naturally.” Hammerstead’s steely eyes remained fixed on him. “Though you must agree the circumstances surrounding his death were mysterious. Especially since his father died so soon after. Rather convenient for you.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened at the man’s directness. Other men might instigate a duel at this point. Though brandishing a pistol about might not be the best way to make the man stop thinking he was behind his relatives’ recent deaths. “You cannot mean to suggest . . .”

The man shook his head. “I just hope you can live up to your cousin. He was a good man.”

Sebastian hesitated, reluctant to further disgruntle one of Lewis’s friends. “I shall aspire to do so.”

Hammerstead gave a curt nod. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Your Grace.”

“And you.” Sebastian’s eyes followed the man until he vanished into the crowd.

Burgess spoke first. “Rather rude. He wasn’t even close to Lewis.”

Reynolds shrugged. “Hammerstead’s uncle has a tendency toward aggression as well. I wouldn’t dwell on the encounter. Nobody expected you to become duke, that’s all. I don’t think he really suspects you of murdering him.”

The viscount laughed, and Sebastian tried to join in, though he was still shaken. The idea was ridiculous. His cousin had not been killed by nefarious means. Well, perhaps war was always nefarious, but at least it didn’t tend to be personal.

He closed his eyes, contemplating his new responsibilities. It would not do to be overwhelmed by the vast amounts of land he possessed and the duty he held to his many tenants. He would strive to fulfill his duty. Perhaps his reluctance to marry was merely a reluctance to take on his new role. Perhaps things would be different if he had ever wanted to become a duke, or had ever expected to inherit the title.

Certainly he enjoyed speaking to women, even if they did wear absurd pastel-colored ribbons in their hair and insisted on talking about hats and hemlines in the serious way that Sebastian reserved for discussing hunting and fishing. Not that Sebastian couldn’t talk about hats and hemlines: he did strive to please.

Men were rather more difficult to talk to. Especially since Sebastian had reached adolescence and found himself distracted by their broad shoulders, melodic, deep voices, and the way their gaunt cheekbones caught the light. Women had cheekbones too, but they never affected Sebastian the same way. It was funny, that: clearly, he had yet to meet the right woman.

“It’s a shame Somerset Hall is in disarray.” Lord Reynolds shook his head. “Bringing some order to the old place would be helpful.”

“A wife brings order to the household,” Sebastian said, a knot forming in his chest, tightening with the efficiency of an angler’s loop. All he ever sought was to be dutiful, and one of his duties included remarrying. After all, a rake’s lifestyle—moving from woman to woman—held little appeal for him. That was the reason why he had agreed to settle down so soon after his aunt suggested it. He had no desire to postpone the inevitable, to spend his time explaining away his lack of marital circumstances. He longed for normality, particularly now, when so much attention was directed at him.