The Duke in Denial (Scandal in Sussex) (7 page)

“For your sister’s hand. You are her closest living relation. I should have asked your permission before meeting her this morning. No wonder you were upset. I do apologize. It’s been awhile since I last did this, and I must reacquaint myself with the ways of the ton.”

“Her hand?” And then it dawned on him. He shuddered, realizing what Sebastian was about to ask. “My sister’s hand in marriage?”

“Normally I would have gone to her father, but . . .”

“Our parents are both dead,” William finished.

“Exactly.”

The air hung thick between them. William sighed and stared at the fireplace. The fire had consumed itself, and only ashes remained.

“Are you engaged now?” William asked, dreading the answer. His chest tightened. “She never mentioned . . .”

“No! No, we are not. Not yet.” Sebastian tilted his head. “Would you mind? If I were to ask her? I would take good care of her, I promise that.”

“You have my permission,” William said hastily. Did Sebastian truly think he was upset because he wanted Sebastian to ask him for Dorothea’s hand in marriage? He would need to leave. The thought of Sebastian listing all the ways he would be a good husband to Dorothea would be too much to tolerate. The conversation had continued for too long. He jumped off the bed, avoiding Sebastian’s bemused expression. “I am afraid I have a prior engagement I must prepare for.”

“I am sorry. I had no idea.”

“I just remembered. I must meet a friend in Hyde Park.” The words sounded false to his ears: it was an absurd statement. Sebastian would think him horrible.

“Oh.” Sebastian rose from the bed and strode to William. “But you are unwell. You must not strain yourself. I would not want you to harm yourself.”

“It is of the utmost importance, I fear. Please, do excuse me. Doyle will show you out—Your Grace.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened and he swallowed. He lowered his head, and William had to remind himself that sweeping him up in his arms would be the last thing Sebastian wished.

Chapter Five

William grasped the handle of his pistol, fingering the curves. He longed for India and the adrenaline rush of battle. Even if danger had filled his life there, he had not felt trapped. All those years spent anticipating his return to England only to find life in the ton more stifling and oppressive than the Oriental heat.

William desired men, though only the threat of death in the bloody battles in India had forced him to reconcile with that yearning. He had survived the clashing of swords and shooting of pistols, and he was determined to find happiness. He had promised himself that once in England, away from the smell of cannon smoke and dying men, he would fulfill his urges. He had heard rumors of men whose friendship invited speculation, and he wished to be one of those men, though he certainly had not admitted his inclinations to anyone else. Even if he had no desire to be the subject of gossip, he hoped he might meet a man who could be more. Under the moonlight and the shadows of the tree, he had allowed himself to imagine that Sebastian just might be that man.

“Preparing for battle already?” An amused voice broke his reverie, flinging him back to the present.

He lowered the gun, and a surge of pain jolted through his bad arm. His sister stood in the open door frame of his bedroom. She smiled, her expression fond. He locked the weapon away with care, lingering on the silver scrolls which decorated the walnut handle.

Dorothea strode to him, her long afternoon gown swishing against the furniture in his room. “You’ll be back battling the enemy before you know it.”

He nodded, conscious of the pain in his arm that followed him from room to room, from dawn to sunset.

His sister’s eyes saddened. “I know you long to return.”

“I enjoy living with you.”

“And yet you must rush off every morning.” She turned away.

Guilt flooded him at the resignation in her tone, at her conviction that he would prefer to avoid her.

“Dorothea . . .”

Her footsteps halted, and her dark locks fluttered. “Yes?”

“I want you to find contentment.” He swallowed, urging himself to continue. “I am glad you are finding happiness with Sebastian.” The man had been visiting his sister for weeks.

Her eyes darted away. “Thank you.”

The air thickened between them. He dreaded seeing her eyes lit with joy, her cheeks flushed, yet perhaps the possibility of not seeing these signs of affection antagonized him more.

He turned to her. The color of her cheeks remained unchanged, and her gaze was unreassuringly steady.

“I trust you are happy with him?”

Dorothea’s lips rose. “You need not worry so much. There is no country to save.”

He smiled weakly. He needed his younger sister to be happy. It might not be in reach for him, but he wanted her to grasp it, cling to it with all the might of her small-boned frame. “Love is important. If you cannot find it with him—”

Dorothea swung around, her eyes crinkling. A smile developed on her face. “I thought you were not romantic.”

William coughed.

Dorothea approached him. “Is that why you have not found somebody? You are too idealistic.”

He averted his eyes. “Idealistic is the wrong word.”

Her gaze softened, but her eyes stayed fixed on him. “You would like to find somebody, wouldn’t you?”

“You needn’t play matchmaker for me.”

Dorothea twisted a ring on her finger. Once their mother’s ring, the bright topaz gleamed as she slowly spun the band around. “I hope you can consider me a friend.”

“I do.” William didn’t need to hesitate.

His sister smiled. “I realize we spent much time apart . . .”

“The war—”

His sister shook her head. “I know. It wasn’t to be helped. I just hope we can spend more time together from now on.”

He nodded and descended the steps to the ground floor.

His sister followed. “If you did want to tell me something, anything at all, well, I am here.”

A dull sense of dread formed. He swallowed. This would be the time to confess everything. The longings. The thoughts that filled his mind, the ones he refused to deny to himself but could not bear tell to anyone else. How easy it would be to sit her down and tell her everything. And he longed to confess, burdened by his secret. She might be upset if she discovered it otherwise.

And yet.

It was impossible.

Once told, he could not take it back. She would always, always think of him that way. This was not the sort of secret which would ever be forgotten. What if she reviled him?

She might never understand that his longing for men could never be replaced by a longing for women. Men were executed for being sodomites, and William’s very nature put him at risk. He doubted society would be kind to her if his tastes were discovered. Some might consider him lucky if he escaped just with being tarred and feathered, flogged, imprisoned, or castrated.

He forced a smile and strove to dismiss any look of unhappiness from his face. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

She looked up, her expression startled. “You won’t disturb me.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” He bade her farewell and hurried away.

The oak door slammed behind him, and he winced, conscious his sister would think he was avoiding her.

He plodded down the street, rows of tall ivory townhouses dominating either side. Ornate columns and mythological statues shimmered in the bright morning sunshine, showcasing the architects’ knowledge of culture. William gritted his teeth and ignored the sharp surge of pain from his arm. He would not be welcome here if the inhabitants guessed his desires.

A cloaked figure darted up the street, a hat obscuring much of his head. His shabby clothes stood out from the immaculate splendor around him. William stared at the figure. At least he wasn’t the only person who didn’t belong here.

He might leave the area soon enough. General Hawtrey had invited him to discuss fortifications on the south coast.

He meandered down a series of streets, finally arriving at his destination. Doric columns framed the entrance. The door was painted a vibrant red, the same color as his uniform. An iron door knocker, formed in the shape of a lion’s head, adorned the middle of the door. With some trepidation, he viewed the giant ring hanging from the beast’s mouth and tapped it against the door.

He didn’t need this.

He was reminded again of his conversation with his sister and her distress that he avoided her. His arm would heal eventually, and he would return to war. All that would happen if he went away would be that he had not given himself the chance to know his sister better. This was his chance. In a year, if not sooner, she might be married to Sebastian.

Regret poured through William. He should not have avoided spending time there, knowing Sebastian would call on his sister. He berated himself for his cowardly action and hastened back.

He ascended the steps of the townhouse, this time taking care to shut the door gently behind him. Murmured voices echoed from the parlor. His sister had planned to go shopping with Penelope before Sebastian called; perhaps she was here already. Yet this voice was deeper and more masculine than Penelope’s, and William wavered on the tile floor. Would Sebastian meet with his sister alone? Had they been doing that for weeks and he had not noticed it, too intent to abandon the house whenever the duke planned to call?

And yet . . . the voice’s melodious rumble, though pleasant, was not Sebastian’s. He was certain.

His back arched as realization struck. Dorothea was meeting with a man.
By herself.

William lingered, puzzled.

Is it somebody from a bank?
But their estate, though meager, was tidy now. Sir Ambrose, for all his difficulties, had seen to that.

He halted near the door. A peal of laughter reverberated from the room. His fists tightened, and he hurtled his gaze around the hall, debating barging in on them.

Of course he trusted Dorothea. But she should not be alone with a man. She could damage her reputation, she could become hurt herself.

He paced the hallway and glared when a maid ventured into the narrow corridor, so that she scampered away, her cheeks flaming.

He ached with guilt, but he could not, absolutely could not, have his sister found in a precarious situation. What had she been thinking?

More laughter wafted through the closed door. He inhaled, fuming, and clutched the crystal handle of the door.

He charged in.

Dorothea sat, perched on one of the sky blue armchairs that complemented the rich navy walls. William’s heart clenched momentarily: he had successfully avoided the room since encountering Sebastian there.

Her cheeks flushed when he rushed into the drawing room, and her eyes sank. “William. You are back so early.”

He nodded and swiveled to the young, well-dressed man sitting near his sister. He inhaled sharply. There was no reason why Geoffrey Hammerstead, Sir Ambrose’s nephew, should be here.

“Captain Carlisle.” The man’s eyes moved nervously to Dorothea, and he rose. “It is a pleasure to see you again after your time at war.”

“I was just keeping Hammerstead company. He came to call on you,” Dorothea said hurriedly.

“Naturally.” Hammerstead had never called on him before. William gritted his teeth and swept his eyes about the room, landing on the tea tray. “How pleasant of you to offer him refreshment when you knew I was out.”

Dorothea’s flush deepened.

“Your sister is quite kind,” Hammerstead said.

William crossed his arms. “Too kind.”

His sister gestured at one of the armchairs. “Do join us, William. Hammerstead and I were just chatting.”

He plopped down, and the chair creaked under the sudden weight. In no way would he allow them to continue their conversation, if indeed it was only conversation, in private. Perhaps this was why his sister seemed oblivious to Sebastian’s charms; she was cavorting with other men.

“Tea, dear?” His sister’s voice quivered.

William gave a curt nod, grimacing as his sister’s trembling hand wobbled the saucer and teacup. Why must he feel guilty for upsetting her? He hadn’t just been caught in an inappropriate situation. To think he had considered confessing everything to her. Perhaps she wanted him to share his secrets so she might divulge hers.

His blood pounded through his veins, upset on Sebastian’s behalf. Sebastian deserved somebody who would adore him. His sister deserved the same. How could she not see she already had somebody who was perfection?

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Hammerstead said.

William pouted. Surely the man did not intend to make conversation with him? Not after being discovered alone with his sister?

Dorothea stretched her hand out, passing him the tea. A frown formed on her face.

William inhaled. He could not bear to see her unhappy. Giving up, William took the tea from his sister, glancing at the cloudy liquid. He directed his gaze at the visitor. “How many years has it been?”

“Ten.”

William nodded. Ten years since his parents died, ten years since he lived at home, ten years since everything changed.

“I did not realize you were so well-acquainted with my sister.”

“Your sister is a dear friend . . .”

Dorothea coughed and pressed a lace handkerchief to her face.

Hammerstead’s gaze darted to Dorothea, as if finally realizing he might be behaving with impropriety. The man had none of Sebastian’s charm. Dorothea frowned at William, and he struggled to find a more appropriate topic.

“Your uncle tells me that you are enjoying your studies,” William said.

Hammerstead brightened. “Well, yes. Mathematics is fascinating.”

“Not rhetoric, then,” William muttered.

If Hammerstead heard him, he pretended not to, saying, “But there is a chance I might move to Sussex. Near Somerset Hall.”

“I see.”

“I thought Dorothea might provide me with some insight to the people there.”

“Insight?” William arched an eyebrow.

Dorothea glared at him. “I did spend a great deal of time there.”