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He loved Abigail. At least he thought he did. For the past five years, he’d waited for her to either disregard her father’s objections or help him overcome those doubts. Still, Will’s feelings had not changed for her. Had they?
During the past year, her letters had come less frequently, and there had been a distance to her writing. Why hadn’t he fought harder for her hand in marriage? Why hadn’t she done more for him after his father’s death?
Dammit!
One full day in this damned country and already he felt confliction running through his veins. Abigail was the one for him. Even if he still felt some anger toward her for not marrying him. He couldn’t want another woman. And yet, even as he had that thought, his erection pressed tightly against his trousers.
There was something about Elizabeth that stayed with him long after she’d left the room. Perhaps these lustful feelings were merely from denying himself for so long. When he’d first met Abigail, she’d only been sixteen. He’d promised himself that he would never dishonor her by asking her to give herself to him before marriage. They had only shared a few stolen kisses.
Will stood and moved to the small cherry table in the corner holding the spirits. Not much of a brandy drinker, he found a bottle of whisky. After pouring a small glass, he drained it in one gulp. He had to get out of this house…but he had nowhere to go. And according to Elizabeth, he would be ridiculed on the basis of his clothing.
A sense of incompetence filled him. The only other time he felt this inept was the first month after Father died. Only then, he had Alicia to help guide him with the younger children. Now, he had no one.
Except Elizabeth.
The next afternoon Will sat at his desk shuffling through his newly inherited huge stack of papers and ledgers. He’d barely slept last night with all his tossing and turning and dreaming of a woman he shouldn’t even think of.
“Lord Somerton is here to see you, Your Grace.”
Will shook his head and looked up at the footman. “Who?”
“Viscount Somerton, Your Grace.”
Will frowned, thinking back to his short years in England. “Do I know him?” he muttered.
“I could not say, Your Grace.”
He shrugged. “Show him in.”
The footman nodded and then left. The loud sound of footsteps followed. A tall man with short light brown hair stood in the threshold.
“Will Atherton, as I live and breathe. You truly don’t look any different.”
Will stood and stared at the stranger. “Do I know you?”
The man rolled his head to the side. “Somerton. When you were six, you came to my father’s home in Suffolk for a few weeks in the summer.”
He did? Why did he have no memory of that summer? “Well then, welcome to my home, Somerton.”
Somerton handed him a bottle of fine whisky.
“How did you know I drink whisky?”
“Just a feeling.” Somerton sank into the deep leather chair by the fireplace. “How are you settling in?”
“Very well,” he lied.
Somerton tilted his head with a slight smirk. Staring at the papers on Will’s desk, he inquired, “Indeed?”
Will sat back down in his chair and blew out a breath. “No. I don’t have a clue what to do with most of this stuff. The only thing I’ve figured out, thanks to Elizabeth, is that I’m not allowed to sell off most of my inheritance.”
“Ah, yes. The joy of entitlement.”
“You know something of this?” Will asked quietly.
“Of course, I do. But why do you want to sell off anything? The late duke was rumored to be as wealthy as—”
“He was, and apparently left the estates in perfect condition.” Will stared at the bottle of whisky and wondered if two in the afternoon was too early an hour to open it.
