“Then your father and I will do whatever it takes to make it happen.”
“Thank you.”
Emalyn shook her head, apparently abandoning the battle. “Once everything is settled with her father, I will ask the duchess and Lady Lydia to tea. Just don’t expect me to like her.”
“Of course not.Ido not like her. Why should I ask you to?”
Emalyn’s expression softened and held a lingering sadness. Then her dark eyes narrowed, developing a bright and penetrating glare. Robert stared back, unwavering, knowing that he was the only one of her four children who did not wilt under that brutal observation. “It’s settled,” he whispered.
Emalyn gave a single nod, then stepped away from him. “I’m going to pay my respects to the bride.” She turned sharply and moved away, her precise steps rapid but proper, her duchess’s shoulders back and stiff, her head high. Well, as high as a woman who stood less than five feet tall could.
Robert adored his mother, but her campaign against Lady Lydia had stressed his last fiber of patience, and he knew that while she may have acceded the battle, the war was far from over. Instead he turned his attention to Thomas, whose restless explorations had brought him closer to the front of the ballroom. His brother should be at the head table with his wife, but Robert understood the pacing. Proximity to Rose had a tendency to make a man’s mind focus on anything except Polite Society.
Thomas paused to speak to another marquess, and Robert eased up behind him, his words soft. “Just consider it your final respite before the work of marriage begins. Oh, that’s right. You’ve been released from that particular duty.”
Thomas growled, turning to his brother. “This new bitterness does not become you.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed, that last fiber of patience cleaving like a shattered spring. “You have no idea what becomes me, sir. You never did.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. He strode into the entrance hall.
And came to a cold halt.
You petty bastard. He did not deserve that.
No. Thomas did not. His brother had no idea how deeply Robert’s affection ran for the new bride. He had been cautious not to reveal it, even when Thomas had asked if Robert were interested in courting Rose before he had started doing just that. Add to the equation the fact that the three brothers had rekindled their closeness over the past three months, a connection they had not had since childhood, and Robert felt like a complete arse.
The three Ashton brothers had plundered the hells, brothels, and pubs of Covent Garden for years as individuals, sullying their reputations and squandering many of their funds. At their father’s insistence, they had returned to Ashton House and spent the last few weeks becoming acquainted with the Kennet family holdings, the extensive businesses their father had bought or built, and they had traveled as a family to the various estates in their charge. Michael, the most damaged of the three, had needed time to heal, but Thomas and Robert had formed a bond, an unspoken agreement that they could, in fact, run the ducal properties as a team, drawing on each other’s strengths. Also during that time, Thomas, Robert, and Philip had engineered and overseen the downfall of one of the city’s most notorious villains, a feat that had resulted in both Thomas and Rose almost being killed.
Together, the Ashtons were formidable. No matter what happened, that should never be forgotten.
Robert spun on his heel and headed back into the ballroom. He paused just inside the door, looking for Thomas, then spotted him at the head table next to Rose. In front of them, the Huntingdale butler was slicing into the thick mass of the wedding cake.
“You can apologize later.” The powerful figure of Philip Ashton moved in beside Robert, his bass voice surprisingly soft. “Right now he has many things on his mind, and your petulance is not one of them.” Like his beloved wife, Philip held no fondness for polite chatter, especially with his children.
“I am sorry.”
Philip sniffed. “You have good reason to be in a lather. You have no reason to pummel others with it.”
Father and son faced the head table, watching the festivities in silence, allowing the churning crowd to mill around them. While they were well known to the people at this event, strangers would never have guessed that they were kin. Philip, fair and blond with ruddy cheeks and icy blue eyes, had descended—according to family legend—from Viking raiders. At six-foot-five, he stood two inches taller than Robert—the tallest of the three boys—and outweighed him by two stone. But while Philip had passed both his pale skin and eyes to his daughter, Elizabeth, Robert had received only the ice-blue eyes. Otherwise, he resembled his brothers, who favored their mother, reflecting her Andalusian-Moorish ancestors with their dark hair, skin, and eyes. Those pale eyes against his dark coloring gave Robert a distinctive look, which he often used to his advantage.
As they watched, Emalyn approached Thomas and Rose, speaking to each of them, then kissing their cheeks. As she straightened, she pressed two fingers to her temple.
Robert frowned. “Does Mother still have that headache?”
“Yes. I’m taking her home. They are bringing our carriage around now. Would you care to join us?”
“It’s strange. People keep offering me rides today.”
“Perhaps they think you should not be alone.”
Robert glanced at his father. “Do I strike you as the type who would sully up into a pout and bury myself in brandy?”
“Yes.”
Robert snorted, then covered it with a cough. “Perhaps later, then. First I must visit my soon-to-be betrothed.”
Philip remained silent, watching his wife amble toward them from the head table. Thomas looked up then, his eyes meeting Robert’s. Robert bowed slightly and tugged on a lock of his hair, as if tipping his hat. Thomas nodded once, then shifted in his seat in response to something Rose had said.
Emalyn stepped between them, slipping a hand inside each man’s elbow. “Take me home, gentlemen. It’s time the Ashton household had a few hours of peace.”
