Page 28 of The Duke of Desire
A few times, West had come close. Sometimes he read it immediately; other times he waited until he was at least tipsy. Why did he torture himself? Because what if the letter he burned was the letter in which she apologized? The letter in which she atoned for her wrongdoings and told him she loved him?
“Let’s just get it over with.” West picked up the glass first and tossed back the entire contents. He savored the rich, warm flavor and took a deep breath after he swallowed.
Seaver disappeared into the dressing room as West lifted the letter from the desk. He opened it slowly, dread curling in his gut.
As usual, it was less than a page and was crafted in the straightest, most elegant handwriting he’d ever known.
Clare,
Happy birthday. I hope this letter finds you well. And hopefully married or about to be married. You have a duty to the title, and your failure to provide an heir weighs heavy on my mind. Your father would be bitterly disappointed.
West crumpled the edge of the letter in his curling fingers.He wouldn’t either.The only thing his father had been bitter about was her.
If you can’t see fit to marry, you could at least repair your ghastly reputation. Though I am far away in Cornwall, I am still well aware of your transgressions, as are my neighbors. Have you no care for my shame, if not your own?
I am well and will continue to pray for your rehabilitation. It’s never too late to embrace godliness and expel sin. Sometimes I wonder what I did wrong to beget a son such as you, but I know it’s the devil tainting you. There is nothing I could have done better.
Except maybe loving him? Or his father?
He forced himself to finish it.
I am ever hopeful you will respond someday. Until then, I remain yourfaithfuland concerned mother.
Anger burned his insides. She’d underlined faithful as she always did. She meant that as a slight against his father, who’d been unfaithful, but only because she’d given him no other choice. What was a man to do when his wife showed no interest in him for over a decade? His father had been a bloody saint, and all she could do was disgrace his memory with her rubbish.
He crushed the paper in his fist and dropped it onto the desk. He would’ve thrown it in the fire if one had been lit.
Why had he bothered? She wasn’t ever going to change. Ten months after his father had died fourteen years ago, she’d moved to Cornwall, much to West’s relief. At first, he’d tried responding to her correspondence, but she’d only written back to him with greater fervor. He’d ultimately given up, and it had been close to a decade since he’d tried. That she continued to write to him was a testament to her tenacity. But then he’d never doubted that.
Obstinacy had been one of her greatest traits. Along with detachment and disdain. He hadn’t noticed it much until he was about ten. He’d started to spend more time out of the nursery, particularly with his father, and the chasm between his parents had become rather obvious. He’d especially noticed it when they visited his aunt and uncle or the neighbors. West noted that they exchanged smiles and looks, that they touched one another. When he returned home, it was like stepping into a tomb—nothing but darkness and gloom.
He’d grown to hate it. And once his father had shared the truth, that he’d tried to love his wife, but she couldn’t love him back, West had grown to hate her.
A rap on his chamber door drew him from his memories. He took a deep breath and blinked, refocusing his eyes on the room around him.
Seaver came from the dressing room. “Shall I answer the door, Your Grace?”
West couldn’t imagine who it would be, but he was grateful for the interruption. “No, I’ll get it.”
“Did you draft the note yet? If so, I can take care of that now.”
“I haven’t. As usual, The Duchess has pissed all over my mood.”
“My apologies. Perhaps you’d care for another glass of whiskey.”
A second knock came from the door. “In a bit, thank you.”
Seaver nodded and returned to the dressing room as West went to the door. Opening it, he was surprised to see Townsend.
The viscount was a good five years younger than West’s thirty-one—almost thirty-two—years. He was also a few inches shorter and possessed a lean, athletic frame and a crop of light brown hair. His bark-brown eyes looked troubled, and he had trouble meeting West’s gaze immediately.
“Townsend, to what do I owe this visit?”
“Your Grace, I wondered if I might intrude upon you for a few minutes. I am seeking some advice, and you seem the best person to provide assistance.”
West opened the door wider. “Certainly. Come in.” As Townsend came inside, West tried to imagine what he could possibly advise him on and came to only one conclusion—sex. The number of young, unmarried men who’d sought his counsel was too high to count.
After closing the door, West followed him into the chamber to the small sitting area near the hearth. “This is…unexpected.”
