The Secret Pearl(58)

“She had accepted the fact that you were gone,” the duke said, “that you would never return.”

“Well.” His brother sank into a leather chair and draped a leg over one of its arms. “She does not seem unduly unhappy at my return, either, Adam. She is not as niggardly in her welcome as you are.”

“And what is she to do when you leave again?” his brother asked.

“Have I said anything about leaving?” Lord Thomas spread his hands. “Perhaps I will stay this time. Perhaps she will not have to do anything.”

“It is too late for you to stay,” the duke said curtly. “She is married to me.”

“Yes.” Lord Thomas laughed. “She is, isn’t she? Poor Adam. Perhaps I will take her from you.”

“No,” the duke said. “Never that. I doubt that would serve your purpose at all, Thomas. You will merely take her heart again. You will convince her again that you love her, that for you the sun rises and sets on her. And then, when you tire of the game, you will leave her. She will not guard her heart against such an ending because she will believe in you as she did before and as she has done ever since you left.”

“I gather you must have played the gallant and taken all the blame.” Lord Thomas was laughing again. “She did not rain blows at my head as I half-expected her to do. You are a fool, Adam.”

“I happened to love her most dearly,” his brother said quietly. “I would have given my life to save her from pain. I knew she could no longer love me—if she ever had—and so I allowed her to think me the villain. But perhaps she already thought that. I came back alive, after all, and spoiled everything.”

“And you also married her,” Lord Thomas said. “You were rather fortunate, I suppose, that Pamela was not born with my mother’s red hair. You would have been the laughingstock. As it is, I suppose people only smile behind their hands to think that you came home like an impatient stallion to mount her in the hay without even pausing to change out of the clothes you traveled in or to remove your boots.”

“Yes, I married her,” the duke said. “You would not, so I did. I do not believe I would have been able to see her live through the disgrace even if I had not still loved her at the time. But you did not even have honor enough to stay away. Perhaps I should have insisted that she listen to the truth. She would be better able to guard against you now.”

“Well,” Lord Thomas said, jumping to his feet again, “you did not because you were ever the Sir Galahad, Adam. You would not have ridden off to war if you had not been. Perhaps I can put a son in your nursery before I leave again—if I leave. Perhaps he too will be fortunate enough not to have red hair. You seem somewhat incapable of begetting your own heirs. Or should I keep my eye on the governess’s waistline?”

The duke took two steps forward, and Lord Thomas found himself standing on his toes, his neckcloth and shirtfront in a grasp tight enough to half-choke him.

“I could have you thrown from my property,” his grace said. “There would be many who would call me fool and weakling for not doing so. But you are my brother and this is your home. And I have enough feeling left for Sybil that I would not snatch you from her before you can make some peace between the two of you. But remember one thing, Thomas. She is my wife and Pamela is my daughter, and I will defend what is mine from disgrace and unnecessary pain. And it would be as well for you to learn that my servants, including Pamela’s governess, are under my protection, and protect them I will in any manner I deem necessary.”

His brother turned his head from side to side when he was released, to loosen his shirt collar, and brushed at his ruined neckcloth a little shakily.

“I came here because I have been away from both Willoughby and England for more than five years,” he said. “I was homesick. You should remember what that is like, Adam. I thought you would have forgiven and forgotten. It seems that I was wrong. Perhaps I should take myself off without further delay.”

His brother watched him with tight lips and keen eyes.

Lord Thomas laughed. “But I forget,” he said. “I brought Bradshaw with me. It would be rag-mannered to drag him away again less than a day after our arrival, would it not? I shall stay for a short while.” He sketched his brother a careless bow and left the room.

His grace sank into the chair behind the mahogany desk, rested his elbows on the arms, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

He had known, of course, that talking to Thomas would do no good at all. But he had hoped that he could appeal to some sense of honor. Its absence had not been noticeable when they were boys. They had always been reasonably good friends despite a five-year age difference. And the selfish lack of responsibility that had always been their father’s complaint against his younger son could have been expected to disappear with the coming of adulthood and maturity. Anyway, it was too late now for his brother to simply turn and leave. Too late for Sybil. She had seen him again, and all the old wounds must be open and raw again.