“France is never dull, Mother,” Henry responded, smiling.
“Are you glad to be home?”
He only hesitated for a heartbeat.
“Of course I am, Mother.”
“Good, good. Ah, the tea tray is here. I’ll pour.”
While the Duchess busied herself pouring out three cups of tea, Henry and William tried to avoid staring each other down.
Henry was aware that his siblings were somewhat unforgiving towards the Duchess. She was a faded woman who had once been a great beauty and had long since had any spirit or character crushed out of her beneath the late Duke’s unforgiving heel. Their father had worked hard to mold his children into theshapes he wanted – forcibly, if necessary – and had already achieved his goal with his wife.
Naturally, then, he had no further interest in her. The Duchess, however, still wore mourning for him, and would likely stay a widow for the rest of her life, clinging to an idealized memory of a terrible man.
Henry thought that his siblings – William, in particular – should be a little more considerate.
“Two months is entirely too long,” the Duchess was saying out, handing a cup of tea to William. “You should have been here to support Katherine through those tricky early months of marriage. She is extremely stubborn, and would never listen to any ofmyadvice.”
“I think Katherine’s marriage is doing very well, Mother,” William said tightly.
The Duchess cast Henry a look. “Well, Timothy is a nice enough man, but you know that he only writes… writesnovels.”
She whispered the word, as if saying it loudly might summon a wicked heroine right there in their home.
Henry hid a smile. Timothy Rutherford, like him, was a second son, one whose father made no secret of how strongly he disapproved. Spurning his father’s money and influence, Timothy had moved into his own apartments and made a living writing novels under a pseudonym. They were good novels, too. Better than good. They’d rocked polite Society, and everybody had read at least one of Timothy’s works, even if they didn’t know that Timothy was the author.
The man was quiet and placid, had great integrity and a bottomless imagination. He had loved Katherine for some time, if Henry was not mistaken, and he privately thought that his sister could not have chosen a better man.
And, of course, her marriage had opened up the way for her brothers to receive their inheritance.
“Any further engagement on the horizon?” Henry enquired and earned himself a glower from William.
“No,” William said shortly.
His eyes flickered to the side, and Henry followed his gaze. A silver locket lay on the desk. It looked like a woman’s necklace, and Henry dredged up a memory of William finding it at a ball,belonging to some mystery woman whom nobody knew. No point in keeping it, in Henry’s opinion.
Which, of course, William would never ask for.
“How long are you staying, Henry, dear?” the Duchess asked, handing a steaming cup of tea to her second son.
“Indefinitely, if you’ll have me,” Henry said, deliberately meeting William’s eye. “Unless it’s inconvenient, of course.”
William sighed. “It’s neverinconvenienthaving you here, Henry. This is your home, too.”
A knot loosed in Henry’s chest, one he hadn’t even known was there.
“I’m glad,” he murmured. “I’m not… notdispleasedto be home.”
William arched an eyebrow. “High praise, indeed.”
The Duchess glanced from face to face, oblivious to any undercurrent of tension between her sons.
Story of our life,Henry thought grimly. The Duchess had never seemed to notice her husband torturing their children. If she had noticed, she had done nothing about it, so it was more palatable to believe that she hadn’t noticed.
It was what Henry preferred to believe, at least.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Henry said politely, putting down his teacup, “I’ll retire to my room. I have a great deal to get done.”
