Or should he say his half brother?
Anthony felt the crack of leather on flesh and blanked his mind, refusing to allow the fury that powered through him to hold sway. Instead, he moved in to deliver rapid-fire punches at Sebastian. The edge of something dark licked at his insides, trying to fray his control. He held onto it with a cold determination he had not thought himself capable of before now.
“Mayhap, boxing is not the best way to relieve your tension.” The wry murmur of his brother’s voice drew him from the black emotions that wanted to pull him under.
He met Sebastian’s blue gaze and wiped all thoughts from his face. He did not need the concern that he saw shadowing his brother’s eyes. “I am not tense.” He unwrapped his hand, looking at the raw knuckles. They did not wear boxing gloves; their only concession to protecting their flesh was a binding of soft leather.
“Did you not read the letter from Newport?” Sebastian queried.
Newport was Anthony’s solicitor, and the last thing he wanted to talk about was the damn letter he had received from him. Anthony grabbed the towel Sebastian held out and raked it over his skin with a curse. “I did.”
“Then you are tense, brother. Why don’t you go and see Georgina?”
He tried to conjure up images of his former mistress, but he only saw sensual lips and whiskey-colored eyes in a freckled face. He shook his head sharply, not welcoming the reminder of Miss Peppiwell. “I bid Georgina adieu with a few generous gifts.”
Sebastian threw him a startled look. “Why? I thought her experienced enough to suit your tastes.”
“I grew bored.”
“Were you not fond of her?”
Anthony paused, searching for the right words. “The comfort I found in her arms seemed hollow. I grow weary of mindless connections and am thinking of taking a wife.” Seeing Sebastian grimace at the idea of forming a more lasting attachment, he changed the subject. “I am reopening the town house on Grosvenor Square. Care to join me?”
“You know I do not,” Sebastian growled.
They strode from their sparring room down through a massive foyer to the prodigious Calydon library. Anthony closed the door, not willing to face Sebastian’s butler nor the housekeeper’s exclamations at their improper state of undress.
“Do you intend to rusticate here in the country when you now know how imperative it is for you to find a duchess?” Anthony asked, sinking into the single armchair. He assumed a casual pose, legs splayed wide, although he felt anything but. He purposely flattened his voice, burying all trace of pain. He wanted to talk about anything except the letter their father had sent his personal solicitor, along with the family solicitor and God knew who else.
“You know how I feel about acquiring a duchess. You will be my heir, Anthony.” Sebastian poured amber liquid into two glasses and handed one to him.
“I will not!” Anthony’s voice lashed with such vehemence Sebastian paused.
“Anthony—”
“Do not challenge my decision, brother,” he said, accepting the drink.
“It is your right. Not because that bitch splayed—”
“Be careful, Your Grace. The disgust you feel for our mother is understood, but you will not malign her, even if you do not claim her.” He surged to his feet, prowling to the windows overlooking the estate lawns. Restless energy burned through him. “She was unhappy, and I have forgiven her for her transgressions.”
“I have not, and will never forgive her. The position that she placed you and our sister in—If it becomes known, Constance will be shattered. She doted on the old man.”
“And that is why we cannot challenge the claim,” Anthony stated, clearing the hoarseness from his voice. “I have spoken to Mother. I did not ask for justification of her actions, though she offered it with tears aplenty. Her tears I did not want, only the truth. And it seems I am, indeed, the replica of the Viscount Radcliffe. I was blind to not see Constance’s and my resemblance to her lover all these years. So damnably blind.”
Sebastian came to his side, and they stood looking out upon the palatial estate of Sherring Cross. “This is yours as much as it is mine, Anthony. If not by blood, by virtue of the dedication and the wealth you have funneled into the estate to help raise it to the glory that it is today. You should be the rightful heir, to this and to my other estates. If you can never inherit it, I lay the blame directly at her feet.” The bitterness in Sebastian’s voice did not escape Anthony.
He sighed. “I do not. I blame the man that I once respected. The man whose admiration I worked so hard to win. I blame our father, whom Constance loved wholeheartedly and bitterly grieved when he passed. The father she thought loved her in return, but who left her exposed to scorn and ridicule if you dare to name me, my children, or Constance’s children, as your heirs.” He knocked back the brandy appreciating the burn that traveled to his stomach.