Page 63 of The Music of Love

His aunt, or whoever she was, winced, whether from his tone or his unprecedented swearing, Stacy neither knew nor cared.

“I haven’t told him everything, Frances.”

Stacy dropped into his chair, not caring that Frances was still standing. “How do you two know each other?” He looked at the woman he had always believed to be his only living relative. “Who the hell are you?”

She rushed toward him and sank down beside his chair. “I’m so very sorry, Stacy, so very sorry. I’ve wanted to tell you for years, but Father forbade it. I never wanted to lie to you.” Tears welled and fell and she grabbed his hand.

Stacy shot to his feet and yanked out of her grasp, equal parts confused, angered, and repelled. He gestured to the chair beside the viscount.

“Have a seat.” His head was heavy and hot; his thoughts were in a jumble. Who was this woman? She’d been the bedrock of his existence all his life and she’d been lying to him for thirty-five years? Thirty-five years.

Stacy couldn’t bear to look at her and turned back to his brother. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to finish this story, my lord?”

Pendleton glanced at Frances Tate—or whoever she was—and turned back to Stacy. “Frances is the earl’s eldest daughter by his first wife. We have two other sisters, Mary and Constance.”

Stacy’s brain tried to absorb what this man—his brother—was saying. He looked at his . . . sister but she was staring at the carpet, tears falling onto her folded hands.

Something else occurred to him. “Wait. How do you know her?” He whirled on his aunt—his sister—before Robert could answer. “You’ve stayed in contact with them?” His voice vibrated with disbelief and growing anger. Frances covered her face and wept.

“She comes to visit us several times a year—on Father’s orders—I’d always believed she lived with a widowed friend in Cornwall.”

Stacy’s laughed bitterly. “Ah, yes. The widowed friend you go and visit.” His head throbbed. She’d lived two separate lives and he’d never known. He was a fool—a pitiful idiot.

Frances reached out, as if to touch him, and waves of rage blurred his sight as he absorbed the depth of her deception—her betrayal.

“I think it would be best if you departed with Lord Pendleton when he leaves.”

She stood and took a step toward him. “Stacy, I want to tell you—”

“You’ve had almost thirty-five bloody years to tell me the truth, Frances.” He stared into her familiar—once beloved—blue-gray eyes, more furious and hurt than he could ever recall being in his life. “You may start packing now.”

She gave a pitiful cry and stumbled toward the door.

“You’re being cruel,” the viscount said when the door shut behind her. “She merely did what Father ordered. It was Frances who finally made him tell me the truth about you. She couldn’t bear it any longer, now that you are married and to have a child. She was tormented—”

Stacy removed his glasses and looked at his brother. The man stopped talking, his mouth still open. Stacy felt a nasty smile twist his lips. What a powerful effect a simple pair of eyes could have.

“My God,” Pendleton breathed.

“Or the devil. Perhaps now you understand why the earl banished me?”

Pendleton flinched as though Stacy had struck him. He shot to his feet, his face a cold, proud mask that looked oddly familiar.

“I knew nothing of this. I am just as much a victim as you are. I didn’t need to come here today, I wanted to.” He shook his head hard, as if to dislodge something. “Like a fool I could hardly wait to meet the brother I never knew I had.” He realized he was still clutching his glass and lowered it to the table with a clatter. “If you’d rather I never darken your door again, I will leave.”

Stacy saw himself in the other man’s face for the first time: haughty, proud, and stiff. Twinges of something arrowed through his body—guilt? Curiosity? Remorse? Pendleton was right: Robert Harrington wasn’t the responsible party and Stacy was behaving like a fool.

He dug deep to find the reserve of calm he needed. “I apologize for my ungracious words and behavior.” Stacy paused. “Tell me, my lord, what is it you want from me?”

Pendleton frowned uncertainly but resumed his seat. “I don’t know. All I know is that when I learned I had a brother I had to meet you. I know your wife is to have a child and I—” he stopped, an agonized spasm distorting his handsome features. “You are my heir; do you understand that? If I have no son—which seems likely as my wife has not been pregnant in eight years of marriage—then you will be the next earl.”

Stacy gaped. No, he’d not realized that.

Indecision and insecurity flitted across his brother’s proud features. “All my life I’ve wished for a brother. I love our sisters but they were so much older than me. When I was young, I used to rattle around Thurlstone Castle and wish I had somebody my own age to play with. Mary and Constance are mad to meet you. This has not been easy on them. None of our sisters have married and likely never will.” He laughed but there was no mirth in it. “Our father is a hard man. In some ways you’ve been lucky to grow up away from him. He crushed the girls and I suppose he did a fair job of crushing me, too.” He flushed at his words but did not explain. “I’ve always admired Frances because I believed she’d somehow gotten away. Now I see he used her even worse than the rest of us. She was twenty-seven when he sent her away with you. Constance told me Frances begged to be the one who raised you.” He cut Stacy a hard look, his jaw taut. “You ask what I want? I want to know my brother; I want you to come to Thurlstone. I’ve already told our father I would ask.”

Stacy could only gape; how could he share a father with this stranger—a father who’d banished Stacy at birth? What kind of man did that? The kind of man who would’ve thrown him over the castle walls still squalling in the Middle Ages. His lips twitched at the melodrama of the notion. Could such a father be worth knowing? He looked at his brother, who was staring at him with open curiosity. Not because of his skin or eyes, but because of who he was: his brother—his twin—his flesh and blood.

“All my life I believed there was only my aunt and myself—a tiny but close family of two. I’m sure you can guess how my appearance has mitigated against too much mixing in society. Indeed, if my wife hadn’t come to me it’s doubtful I ever would have married.” He smiled ruefully. “We’ve been married a little over a month but already I understand that expanding one’s family can be a very comforting thing. I will speak to Mrs. Harrington on the matter and perhaps we will make a visit one day, or perhaps you and your wife will come here. Who knows?” He picked up his spectacles.