“What will you do?”
He lifted a shoulder. “What is there to be done? The lady has made her choice.” Though he tried to sound casual, the pain of her decision tied him in knots. He never dreamed he could feel such chaotic emotions over a female. “I think you may have the right of it brother. Women are not to be trusted,” he said dispassionately.
Sebastian hesitated before he spoke. “I can see you closing off your emotions, just as you did when Father shut you out. If you love Miss Peppiwell as you say, then speak with her. Make her tell you to your face.”
Anthony winced. Probably he was being spineless, but he feared what he might do if she admitted throwing him over for another man. The passion they burned with, the connection that had sparked between them…it hurt to think she could dismiss it all so callously. Over something she professed to disdain.
“I will not think on her one moment more,” he vowed. “She never wanted to marry me in the first place. I will be damned if I profess love for her, trying to convince her not to marry Hoyt. He is welcome to the fickle chit.”
Even as he said it, his gut turned to acid at the thought of her in Hoyt’s arms, yielding to his embrace with the fire Anthony knew she possessed.
“I am more worried about Constance,” he went on. “I cannot credit anyone would give her the cut without proof. But if Calvert is right—”
Sebastian muttered another curse. “Indeed, there is much to be done. We must protect Constance at all cost. But first you must call on your lady. I have never known you to be a coward, Anthony. Never. Speak with her before you make a decision that will haunt you for the rest of your life.” Sebastian got to his feet, clasped his shoulder, and left him.
Anthony was so wrapped in his thoughts it took him a few moments to realize the gentlemen he normally drank and conversed with were treating him to covert glances. A sad smile curled his lips. Fickle, indeed. He looked up as a shadow loomed over him. It was Sebastian returning. Anthony arched a brow.
“It occurred to me that you may lack transportation. I will leave my carriage at your disposal. I have informed the coachman.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose,” Anthony drawled, empting his glass of port, enjoying the warmth that trailed from his throat to stomach. “You’ll need it to get back to Sherring Cross.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sebastian snapped. “Deliver me to your town house and I will order up a traveling coach that’s far more comfortable.”
“Very well. Who am I to argue?” No one, that was who. Anthony got to his feet, collected his greatcoat, and walked Sebastian out of the club they’d been members of for most of their lives—and their father before them, and his father before that. This would probably be the last time Anthony would be able to set foot in the establishment. Strangely, he discovered he cared not one whit.
What he cared about was confronting Phillipa. Hell. Going to her, to see the truth of her betrayal, was the hardest thing he would ever face. For, he realized he loved her unreservedly, and he’d never felt happiness as he had when she’d finally consented to marry him.
The future had seemed brighter. Dreams and promises had seemed possible.
How swiftly all his hopes had been swept away by bleak despair.
Chapter Sixteen
He had a sister to comfort.
And a father to confront.
Anthony shifted on his feet in front of Viscount Radcliffe’s town house on St. James Street. He had been shivering outside in the cold for over five minutes, numbing himself to the surge of emotions that filled him. He was standing in front of his father’s house.
His real father.
The knowledge settled in his stomach like lead. He and Radcliffe had never acknowledged each other as anything other than acquaintances and his mother’s second husband. He had avoided the viscount in the days since learning of his true parentage, not knowing how to handle their first official meeting as father and son.
The old duke had died several years ago and his mother had wasted no time marrying the viscount, her long-time lover. Unlike Sebastian, Anthony had been happy for her, hating the shadows that had haunted her eyes all her life up until then. He had not judged her for not honoring a two-year mourning period for a man he had never seen her touch in all his years. But never had he imagined that Viscount Radcliffe was his and Constance’s father. The man must surely have known the truth. But never had he revealed a hint of it to Anthony.
Not that he should have had to. Now that he knew, Anthony had only to look in a mirror to note the resemblance…and soon it would trumpet itself to the world.