Page 51 of A Duke to Undo her
“Sometimes I cannot believe that both of my boys are grown men,” she reflected. “Do you think Thomas Lawrence captured our family well?”
Cassius gave a little chuckle, his tension loosening somewhat as he contemplated their family group as set out on the canvas: golden-haired Nerissa and Benedict sitting together in smiling harmony and dark Cassius standing, almost lurking, behind them with a touch of disgruntlement in his eyes.
“He captured you and Benedict well enough, but I look a little out of place, skulking at the back there with that peculiar expression, rather like a pantomime villain.”
“Benedict and I sat for hours. You would barely stand still long enough for the poor man to even sketch you, never mind paint you,” his mother accused him, although smiling. “You cannot blame poor Mr. Lawrence for your peculiar expression now. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember swearing never to sit for another portrait,” Cassius admitted and allowed his mother to walk on.
She moved slowly but purposefully and a few moments later, the Duke of Ashbourne found himself in front of a large painting of his father, Henry, the Ninth Duke of Ashbourne. It was the last portrait ever taken of his father and it included Cassius, his heir, sixteen years old and standing in the foreground before his father’s chair.
Why must his mother choose this picture? Why today of all days? The duke took a long breath and closed his eyes. While he did not actively avoid this picture, he had rarely ever stood before it and usually even averted his eyes when he walked past it through the gallery.
Still, Cassius seemed to know the composition of this picture better than any other in the house: two striking men with thick dark hair and eyes of deepest midnight, one a youthful version of the other and destined to grow into the figure in the chair, a man who died in the prime of life only months after the painting was completed.
“We should do this another time,” the duke announced, turning away before his mother could offer any comment. “I need to bathe before dinner.”
Briefly, the dowager duchess seemed likely to object, but then thought better of it.
“Very well, but Cassius, can I ask a favor of you?”
He hesitated before he agreed, wary of what she might be seeking, given her nostalgic mood and his own present inner turmoil.
“I will grant what is in my power,” he answered.
“Will you come back here another time soon and look at that picture properly with me?”
The duke contemplated this request, knowing that it would seem so small to anyone else in the world but him.
“Is it so very important to you that I must be with you when you look at it?” he questioned, only postponing the inevitable since he would never allow himself to be so cowardly as to run from a painting.
“Yes,” she nodded. “It is very important to me. I would not ask otherwise, believe me.”
“Very well,” Cassius agreed, his heart heavy with a commitment he would have preferred to avoid. “Today, I am…tired. But the next time you ask me, I will make sure I am ready to view that painting with you.”
“Thank you, Cassius. I will detain you no longer this evening. Go and take your bath."
“What will you do now, Benedict?” the Duke of Ashbourne asked his younger brother after dinner, once their mother had departed for her bed.
“Finish my port and retire for the night,” answered Benedict with an easy smile and a yawn. “All the late nights this week are finally catching up with me. Then, I plan to return to London. I am invited to several balls later this week and may attend them all.”
“That was not what I meant,” Cassius said rather heavily. “I was asking about your future life plans. Mother was reflecting today on the fact that we are now both grown men. I wondered if you had thoughts on some useful occupation for yourself.”
Benedict shrugged, with an insouciance that irritated his older brother before he even tried a second answer.
“You always told me that professions were beneath my dignity as heir to the duchy,” he observed. “Not that I’m really cut out for law or science and the rest. Nor do I have any real artistic or musical talents, so I am no great loss to the stage. Should I do a second grand tour? I did learn excellent Italian on my first and it is growing rusty.”
“Life is not just a game, Benedict,” Cassius snapped. “What would happen if I died tomorrow? You ought to be learning howto manage the estate, how to make yourself heard in the House of Lords, finding yourself a wife.”
“Are you planning to die tomorrow?” Benedict retorted, and Cassius thought at first that he was still joking before spotting the steely glint in his brother’s usually mild eyes. “No? I thought not. If there’s something you want from me, Cassius, you should tell me what it is, not try to scold me into it like an uncomprehending schoolboy.”
The duke threw back the last of his own port, barely tasting it. Why was Benedict irking him so much tonight? Did he really want the young man to be as miserable as he was himself? Surely, he had raised his brother deliberately not to resemble him. Cassius had never wanted Benedict to suffer as he had done.
“I am only worried, for you, and for the estate,” the duke tried to explain himself.
“Really? Well, I think you ought to live your own life and let me live mine,” Benedict told him more forcefully than usual. “There are others who agree with me on that point.”
“I have already told you that when you marry, you shall have your own London house and household, Benedict. What more do you need in order to live your own life?”
