Wilde in Love(13)

North grinned at him. “She once asked me if your next book would describe people carrying their heads in their arms. Or riding giant dragonflies. In short, she’s not a true believer.”

Sadly, that was the best thing that Alaric had heard about Diana Belgrave to this date. “How did you meet her?”

“I saw her in a ballroom, sitting at the side of the room.”

That made sense. Miss Belgrave had the air of a wallflower, for all she was so fashionable.

“How did she respond when you were introduced?” he asked.

North turned his head, and their eyes met. “I’m heir to a duke,” he said flatly. “Her grandfather was a mayor of London. Did she have a choice other than to be overjoyed?” He picked up the cue he had discarded and slammed the red ball into a pocket without appearing to position the shot.

Alaric shook his head. “No.”

“She was laughing,” North said.

To Alaric’s mind, his future sister-in-law had a glower that made it hard to imagine her laughing.

“I saw her, and I wanted her to be mine,” North stated.

Alaric opened his mouth and closed it again.

Damn.

Love was like an infection, apparently. Disease of the brain.

“I knew,” North said, sounding like a man in a fever dream. “I knew that I had to have her.”

If Alaric believed in love spells and the like, he would have thought his brother had been struck by one. Except that would imply Miss Belgrave had administered said charm, which would in turn imply she actually wanted to marry his brother.

“Have you ever felt that way?” North asked.

“Absolutely not,” Alaric stated. “I doubt it’s in me.”

North flipped his cue, the gleaming wood catching the light. “I think it runs in the family. Look at our father.”

Alaric shrugged. “What about him?” The duke’s third wife, Ophelia, had bright red hair, a pointed chin, and a temper. Alaric liked her. She and their father seemed to have a passionate, if tempestuous, union  .

“Years ago, the duke entered a room and saw our mother lying on a sofa being fanned by three suitors. He says that he knew at that very moment that he would marry her. He got rid of her suitors, tossed the fans, and kissed her.”

Alaric laughed. A portrait of their mother, the first duchess, hung downstairs; with few memories of his own, he’d formed the opinion that their mother was a beautiful minx who had led their father on a pretty chase.

“I don’t see the point of emulating Father’s methods of courtship,” he said. “Remember, his second duchess ran off, leaving four of her children behind, never mind the three of us.”

“After Mother died, Father made the pragmatic decision to provide his three orphaned sons with a mother.” North paused, and then added blandly, “His choice of mother for those orphans was, perhaps, unfortunate.”

Alaric’s bark of laughter echoed his brother’s. The second duchess hadn’t had a maternal instinct in her body. She had dropped babies in the nursery as if they were abandoned kittens; none of them—including her own children—had further contact with her.

After her fourth baby arrived, six years into the marriage, she’d run off with a Prussian count, and Parliament passed a Private Act granting their father a divorce without discussion.

“I realize it casts some doubt on the duke’s judgment,” North said. “But he maintains that he felt the same certainty about Ophelia as he did for our mother, and both his first and third marriages are successful.”

“God willing, I’ll never be struck by a ‘certainty’ of that nature,” Alaric said. “If this is what love does to a man”—he waved his hand at North’s costume—“I want nothing to do with it. I’m right, aren’t I? She is the reason you turned yourself into a popinjay?”

For the first time Alaric saw a trace of discomfort on his brother’s face. “Diana is fashionable. She cares for such things.”

“You put on yellow heels in order to win the lady’s heart.”

“She had no choice in whom to marry, so I wanted to—to make it a more appealing proposition, that’s all.”

“Diana Belgrave is a lucky woman,” Alaric said. “Damn lucky.”

Even if she doesn’t recognize it.

But he kept that thought to himself.

“It’s your turn, by the way,” North said, flipping his cue again.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to box a round instead?” Alaric asked. “I went for a ride earlier, but I’d welcome more exercise.”

“Absolutely not.” North eyed him. “I’m sure you strip to advantage; I suppose you kept yourself fit on board ship by taking on the sailors.”

“Under all that silk, you’ve still got a muscle or two. Where’s Parth, by the way? Unless he’s changed as much as you have, he was always game for fisticuffs.”

Parth Sterling, a former ward of the duke, had grown up with them from the age of five. The four of them—Horatius, North, Alaric, and Parth—had racketed about the estate for years, leading a pack of boys whose fathers ranged from the estate blacksmith to the village butcher. Parth was like a brother, an irritable bear of a brother, a Wilde in everything but name.

“He was supposed to arrive today. Perhaps tomorrow.” North pocketed a ball. “He’ll spar with you.”

“Should I expect an egg-shaped wig?” Alaric asked warily.

North laughed. “He’s too busy building his empire to bother with fashion. Are you still one of his main shareholders?”

“Certainly. I paid for my estate with returns from my initial investment. What’s his focus at the moment?” Parth had started by trading in China, but he had an eagle eye for anything that would return a huge profit. Letters from his solicitor trailed Alaric around the world, each noting how much money Parth had recently made for him.

“A power loom. Oh, and he’s talking of starting a bank.”

“A power loom,” Alaric said, his interest caught. “Have you seen it?”

North nodded. “He bought an estate west of here, not far from yours, and housed the loom in a barn, along with the men who are working on it. The old manor had burned, so he’s building a house with cast-iron balconies made to his own design.”

Alaric detected a tinge of envy. “You don’t mind living in the castle, do you?” He glanced around. Even now, at the height of summer, the stone walls were a little damp, and the place smelled like old books and dogs. Like home.

“No more than anyone does who had planned to build his own house,” North said wryly. As a boy, he had spent hours sketching buildings he planned to construct someday.

“Being the heir doesn’t mean you can’t design a house. I brought you back a pattern book by a fellow named Palladio.”

“Andrea Palladio, I assume,” North said. “Thank you. I haven’t time to design a house, though the dairy went over in a storm, and I designed a new one.” The savage undertone to his voice surprised Alaric.

He stayed silent, watching his brother play billiards as if it were a game of war, on a battlefield with only one army. A man’s dreams can be flattened by responsibilities.

He himself had spent years exploring the globe.

Perhaps it was time to come back home.

To take over responsibilities and allow North to spend the next decade doing as he wished. Perhaps he would build a mansion with ceilings high enough to accommodate his wife’s wigs.

“I’m back now,” he said, keeping it simple. “I could take over the estates, including working with Father. You can do whatever you like. Though your future wife might have objections if you set out to travel around the world.”

North’s eyes met his. “I appreciate your offer, but it’s my responsibility. I’ll be the duke someday. Father can’t do it all, even with three estate managers. These days he is spending more and more time in Parliament. And you love to travel.”

“Neither of us was born to be duke,” Alaric retorted. “Horatius was. He would have relished it, but I won’t leave you to do it by yourself any longer. We’ll share it. I took the first bout of freedom; you take the second. I’ll travel again later.”

“No,” his brother said. “I appreciate it, but it’s my lot, and I won’t impose it on anyone else.”

North turned, slotting his fancy billiard cue into the holder to the side of the door. Alaric watched his broad shoulders, dismay pricking his spine. There was something brittle about his older brother, something near damaged.

He felt a surge of dislike for his fashionable, sulky future sister-in-law, but he shook it off. Diana Belgrave was likely more a symptom than a cause.

English gentlemen didn’t hug each other. It wasn’t a rule that had to be voiced, in the nursery or elsewhere. It was intrinsic to the heartbeat of high society, to the stiff upper lip that shaped male relationships.

But as Alaric had discovered, it was a rule that many parts of the world considered absurd. He strode after his brother and wrapped his arms roughly around him.

North stood stiffly for a moment, then his arms reluctantly encircled Alaric. “You intend to bring foreign customs home?” he murmured in a wry voice.