He was titled, wealthy, and handsome—everything Society found attractive in a man. So, why didn’t he have the same effect on her that his brother did? In Sherbourne’s arms, she felt none of the rioting emotions Captain Blake elicited with one casual glance.
“It’s been a wonderful party.” Afraid Sherbourne might somehow read her wayward thoughts, she kept up a steady stream of small talk. “Your father is a magnificent host.”
Sherbourne gave a short laugh. “I’m just glad it’s over. If I never see another guest list in my life, it will be too soon.” His candor surprised her. Perhaps she’d been wrong, and there was a bit of rebelliousness behind his blandly perfect features. She wanted to commiserate, tell him of her own impatience with the endless rounds of invitations, but years of training kept the words locked in her throat.
Before she could think of anything else to say, the music died away. Sherbourne released her with obvious reluctance. “The dance was much too short. Perhaps you would allow me to call on you tomorrow?”
Such a simple request, but she’d yet to grant such favor to any of her suitors. Her first impulse was to refuse him, as she’d done all the others. But thoughts of the foolish way she’d behaved over his sinfully attractive brother stayed her tongue.
Perhaps, she’d refused the others because she'd secretly been searching for a hero,someone to loveall along. Somehow, she’d turned Captain Blake into such a paragon of virtue in her mind that no one, not even the captain himself, could live up to her imaginings.
If so, she truly was a fool. Far better to play the game and continue to guard her heart.
“I’d like that,” she told Sherbourne. “I’d like that very much.”
* * *
By the time Dylan entered the dining room the next morning, every trace of the party had been swept away. A sideboard of delicacies gave off assorted tantalizing smells, and his stomach growled noisily.
He’d missed dinner, after all.
Michael entered the room while Dylan filled his plate. They eyed each other warily. The easy friendship they’d enjoyed as children had disappeared long ago.
“Good morning,” Dylan said, hoping to set a light tone. He wasn't in the mood to argue or to be lectured. He wanted to eat and then make his exit before his father showed up.
“Hello.” Michael sounded surprised by his pleasant greeting. “I didn’t know you’d spent the night.”
It was a good beginning. Dylan couldn’t even remember the last time he and his brother had managed to carry on a conversation not marred by anger, jealousy, or defensiveness.
“I stayed for breakfast.” Dylan sat down at one end of the huge walnut table and dug into his kippers with relish. “You can't get fare like this down at Mrs. Tweed’s.”
Michael filled his own plate and then took the place across from Dylan, frowning. “You don’t have to live in that deuced boarding house, you know. You’re welcome to come home anytime you wish.”
“But I like that deuced boarding house. I can come and go as I please without having to listen to Father’s various complaints about my behavior.”
“He's not so bad. and he wouldn't be so angry with you all the time if you behaved with a little more discretion. How do you expect him to react when you taunt him the way you did last night? That blasted party means a great deal to him.”
For once, Dylan decided against a flippant reply. He met Michael’s chiding glance head on, as he tried to find an answer to the question that had haunted him all his life. “You know how hard I’ve tried to win his favor. I was awarded the bloody VC, for Christ’s sake, and he didn’t even come to the ceremony!” His voice rose, and he made an effort to regain control. “He hates me no matter what I do.”
Michael looked away. To his credit, he didn’t try to deny it.
Watching the play of emotion on his brother’s face, Dylan felt a twinge of guilt. He knew Michael didn't enjoy the responsibilities that came with being the heir. And Michael didn’t understand any better than Dylan why their father chose to draw a line so sharply between them.
As children, Michael had often tried to take the blame for Dylan’s many real and imagined transgressions, wanting to spare his little brother at least some of the constant beatings. But the earl never allowed it.
In their father’s eyes, Michael could do no wrong, and Dylan could do no right. “Ah, hell. Let’s just change the subject, shall we?” The last thing Dylan wanted to do was dredge up the hurt and pain of the past.
Seeming relieved, Michael cleared his throat and picked at his breakfast. “The old man’s been after me to marry. I’ve begun courting the Duke of Clayton’s daughter.”
“Lady Natalia?” Dylan pushed away his plate, a sinking feeling in his gut. This was one complication he hadn’t counted on.
“I danced with her last night, and she gave me permission to call upon her this morning. She’s a strange little thing, a bit too foreign looking for my tastes. Not much for conversation either, but her dowry is enormous.”
“I think she’s lovely.” Dylan schooled his face into a smile and hoped his anger and dismay didn't show. Everything came so easily to Michael. It seemed Lady Natalia was no exception. Michael had been given permission to call, while Dylan hadn't even been able to win a dance.
Michael raised a brow. “I thought redheaded actresses were more your type.”
“So, you've heard about Cassandra.” Dylan continued to smile, but he knew what Michael thought. Like Jonathan, Michael assumed no respectable woman would ever look twice at a penniless younger son.
