Chapter 9
“Iwondered if I would find you here.”
Everett paused in the act of lifting the whisky to his lips and winced. He wasn’t surprised that Verity had stolen into the library after midnight to harangue him. But he had expected his sister’s arrival at least a half hour earlier.
“You knew you would find me here,” he corrected her, not bothering to stand politely as he ought.
The lamps were out, and there was naught but a fire in the grate to cast some meager light on the chamber.
Verity knew Everett couldn’t abide by the study that had belonged to their sire.
Whenever he sought solace, he came to the library instead.
Over the years, they had met many times in the library like this, always when the rest of the house was abed.
As children, they had told each other stories, stealing away when their nurse was asleep, seeking solace in each other’s company.
Their father had been a harsh, disapproving, heartless bastard.
Their mother had often been distracted by society, flitting from one event to the next when she wasn’t preparing for her most recent lying-in.
They’d had a string of siblings who had died, some as babes, others born still and silent, and only the two of them were left.
Here they were as adults, still in this bloody library, still lost.
“I suppose that I suspected it,” Verity said, settling into the chair opposite his. “Do you have some whisky for me?”
“Has anyone ever told you that ladies don’t drink whisky?” he asked wryly, but he was already pouring her a dram.
The glass had been waiting.
He couldn’t face Sybil this night.
Not yet.
He was deadly tired and also damnably confused about the whirl of emotion rushing through him. The ferocity of his feelings where she was concerned alarmed him. He’d thought he felt nothing but fury and desire.
Clearly, he had been wrong.
“Has anyone ever told you I’m anything but a lady?” Verity countered, accepting the whisky he offered her.
“If they had, I’d have punched the bastard squarely in the eye.”
“What if it was a woman?” his sister asked slyly.
“Then I would settle the matter via other, less violent means.” He took a sip of his whisky, trying not to think about the gray-eyed woman waiting for him in the bedchamber adjoining his.
The duchess’s suite had been hastily prepared for her. Thankfully, Maman had been keeping other quarters, and the entire affair had been discreetly taken care of by his housekeeper, the capable Mrs. Eustace.
“You’re married,” Verity said softly, as if sensing the direction of his meandering thoughts.
“Indeed,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice.
“And the duchess has been at Riverdale Abbey all this time?”
“She has.”
“Did you get her with child, Everett?”
He spat out his whisky, showering it into his lap, and coughed. “Sweet God, Verity. Give a man some warning next time, won’t you?”
His sister was unmoved, lifting an imperious brow. “Well, did you?”
An excellent question. Sybil could, at this moment, be carrying his babe. The notion made something inside him swell, until the pressure in his throat made him swallow in an attempt to contain it, whatever the bloody hell it was.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he muttered.
“Then why did you marry her in such haste, and why did you keep her a secret for so long?”
He sighed, for he had known his always forthright sister would have questions. Questions he didn’t relish answering. Verity was excellent at prying the truth from him, regardless of the circumstances and whether the subject was fit for a lady’s ears.
“I married her because…” he began, only to have his words trail away, because they were confounding.
Terrifying.
Confusing.
He’d married her out of duty. To satisfy their mother’s endless questions about when he would find a wife. Because he required an heir and a spare. Obligation. That was why he had married Sybil.
But he had also chosen her specifically for the task, and that was the truth of it.
As King had pointed out in his odd way, it could have been anyone he’d wed.
And yet, he’d married Sybil. Because she had been indescribably radiant.
Because he had been held captive by her gray eyes.
Because her laughter had been sweeter than any music he’d ever heard, and because when he’d looked at her lips, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but kissing them.
Because she had seemed so unspoiled by cynicism, so innocent and na?ve. So unlike Lydia. And then, in one awful moment, she had proven him spectacularly wrong.
“Because…” Verity prompted him gently.
“Because I liked her,” he admitted at last. “I thought she was different.”
“Brother.” Verity stared at him as if he had transformed into some mythical beast before her eyes.
“What?”
“You fell in love.”
“No, I didn’t,” he snapped.
Good God. He hadn’t fallen in love with Sybil.
There hadn’t been enough time. Surely he would have known.
He had been captivated by a woman before, when Lydia had nearly tricked him into a marriage that would have been a hellish nightmare at best. He knew what to expect.
He would have felt something for Sybil, something different, something stronger…
Fucking bloody hell.
Verity chuckled. “Poor dear brother. You didn’t realize it, did you?”
He took a fortifying sip of whisky. “Even if that were the case, it’s a moot point.”
“Why should it be moot?”
“Because she’s in love with someone else,” he forced out, still unable to keep the resentment from rising once more at the reminder.
At the memories.
Sybil in her beautiful gown, the loveliest bride he’d ever beheld. His. In another man’s arms. It was as if he had cracked in two in that moment.
“How perfectly dreadful.” Verity reached across the space between their chairs and patted his arm. “I’m so sorry, brother.”
“A bloody footman, to be specific,” he added. “If you can believe it.”
“Oh dear.” The teasing had leached from Verity’s tone and expression, pity in its place. “One of the servants at Riverdale Abbey?”
“No.” He gulped down the remainder of his whisky. “A servant at Eastlake Hall. I…saw them together.”
“Why did the two of you wed if you saw her with another?”
Verity sounded as confused as Everett felt.
“Because I had already married her,” he admitted grimly. “It was just after our wedding breakfast. I can only presume she married me because there is no earthly way her bastard of a sire would have allowed her to marry a lowly footman.”
Sybil must have been terrified of what her father would have done to her, had he discovered the scandalous nature of her relationship with a servant.
He would have likely beaten her—or worse.
Everett understood her better now, having learned the truth about Eastlake, and he couldn’t quite stifle the sympathy he felt at her plight, even if he was still furious over the betrayal she had committed against him.
“That is wretched,” Verity agreed, tearing him from his thoughts again. “After what happened with Lady Marnham, you must have been quite distressed.”
Distressed didn’t begin to describe what he had felt that day.
What he felt still. It was stronger than the devastated betrayal that had filled him when he had caught the Earl of Letton in Lydia’s bed.
He had told himself that the difference had been because Lydia hadn’t yet been his when he had realized her perfidy, even if she had been caught in a far more damning embrace.
But now, he was no longer so sure.
“I wasn’t pleased.” Everett poured another measure of whisky into his empty glass, knowing he wouldn’t find the answer for what ailed him at the bottom of a bottle and yet miserable enough to try, despite all logic and reason.
“Now you understand my reason for keeping Sybil at Riverdale Abbey and for failing to inform everyone of our nuptials.”
“I’m still rather miffed with you for keeping your wedding a secret from Maman and me.” His sister passed him her own empty glass. “Another, if you please.”
“Are you certain that would be wise?” he asked mildly, already pouring.
“Every bit as wise as the whisky in your own glass.”
“Touché, dear sister.” He offered her the tumbler. “I didn’t want for it to turn into a great lot of unnecessary nonsense. Maman’s maudlin sentiments are too great a burden for me to bear.”
“You are fortunate indeed that you didn’t include me in that, for I am not maudlin in the slightest. I’d have boxed your ears.”
Everett chuckled. “I’d have liked to see you try.”
She raised her glass at him in a scolding gesture. “I would’ve liked to have been there, maudlin sentiments or not.”
“You were here in London. I thought it best not to disturb you from your efforts with the orphanage.”
That much was also true. Verity was devoted to a foundling hospital that she sponsored.
After her beau, Lord Leopold Douglas, had died before they’d been able to wed, she had thrown herself into charitable causes.
Along with perfecting the art of generally not giving a damn of what polite society thought of her.
“You know that I always have time for you,” Verity said softly. “You are my brother.”
“I should have sent word,” he admitted.
“Next time you get married in haste, see that you do.”
He grimaced. “I’ll not be getting married again, thank Christ. Once was almost enough to bloody well kill me. Forgive me my vulgar tongue.”
“Of course. You know that you needn’t fret over my tender sensibilities. I have none.” Verity took a sip of her whisky, studying him curiously. “Why did you bring her here to London now? What changed?”