Page 27 of In Need of a Duke
Once, before Ian left for Eton, he remembered an afternoon where his mother had opened the doors leading to the garden, and she had danced around the music room in a tangerine gown, her black hair loose over her shoulders. She sang in Italian and spun and twirled with Nathaniel and Ian until he was certain they would never stop being dizzy. He remembered the happiness that clung to her face, certain even then, she clung on out of fear, afraid if she stopped smiling, the world would crash down on her.
He wondered if that was why Charlotte hid away now.
Ian tossed his book to the small table beside the settee and jumped to his feet, staring up at his baby brother, who somehow towered overhis six-foot frame. Well, after his late mother’s confession, he understood why.
That only complicated matters. How could he tell Nathaniel the truth when he hated him as much as everyone else?
Lately, Ian feared his father’s views of the world had made it near impossible for Ian to truly love anyone.
“You think she’s made a fool of you, but you’ve done that for yourself. I’ll go. I know when I’m not wanted.”
“You may send a letter.” Ian cursed under his breath. His father had said the same to him once as he stood by the river, begging to learn how to fish.
Nathaniel scratched his jaw, then shook his head. “I don’t know why you’ve returned?—”
“I need an heir.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.
“There’s a madness in chasing perfection,” his mother had insisted one quiet night not long before she passed. “If you shut everyone out because they are not perfect, then soon you will find yourself well and truly alone. I have known love, and I have known loneliness. And I choose love. I still choose love. And I urge you, before your heart grows cold and bitter, that you soften toward the idea as well.”
He had returned to win back his wife. He had read and studied architecture while on the Continent, keeping his days busy. And when he couldn’t sleep, he would write her letters and tuck them away for when he was braver.
It wasn’t until his mother was gone that Ian realized he needed more than a letter.
His brother scoffed. “You think Charlotte wishes to help you after leaving her as you did?”
“It’s her duty as Duchess.”
“The gossip rags have made it sound as if you still have a way with women,” Nathaniel said. “Perhaps that is true, but it won’t help you with your wife. A woman like Lottie doesn’t wish to be rutted like an animal and left once she produces an heir. Nor does she wish to be abandoned on her wedding night.”
“I haven’t asked your opinion, have I?”
“No, you would never. So, I will only tell you this before I leave?—”
“No need.”
Nathaniel tossed up his hands. “Do as you wish, but if you break her heart again, I will be back, and I won’t be alone.”
Ian adjusted his cuffs, acting bored when his heart began drumming in his chest. “She will never leave me.”
His brother pressed his lips together and raised his brows in frustration. “Goodbye, Ian.”
He only flicked his annoyed glance toward his brother. Let him return to London and do whatever second sons did, which was gamble through stipends and beg for more money, apparently. Or wreck three phaetons while racing, or make absurd bets at White’s, or not know when it was time to stop playing Faro. Nathaniel had no business being at Stonehurst with Charlotte, and he had no business being heir to the estate.
An hour later,having not been in the mood to read, Ian had sat at the window to catch up on correspondence when a footman rushed in.
He cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”
“Hmm?”
“There is a fire in your room.”
Ian threw down his quill. “What?”
“In your private washroom. Please, come with me.”
Ian sprinted around the footman and rushed to his room, furious when he pushed through the door of the washroom and was hit by a thick wall of smoke. In the large porcelain tub were the smoking remnants of his suits.
His Savile Row suits.
