Chapter 51
Derek
Derek stared at the decanter of whisky sitting atop his desk. The liquid appeared almost black in the dimness of his study, the only light coming from the sconces in the hall outside.
By this time tomorrow, all would know the Marquess of Dunmore’s roving days were at an end. From being known for only bedding a woman once, to only bedding one woman for the rest of his life.
Livy, for the rest of his life.
He picked up the decanter by the neck and took a swig. His hiss echoed in the quiet room.
It sounded like heaven.
And he had no idea how he’d gotten here. What he’d admitted to Mr. Sheffield hadn’t truly hit him until he’d returned home from the foundling home.
He loved her.
And he’d done a right-shite job telling her he wanted to marry her a few days ago. Tomorrow night, he’d do better. His fingers trembled on the desktop. Then he supposed he should write to her father. Though it was probably best to wait until after the foundling charity event.
He groaned and let his head drop to the cool wood surface.
His heart shouldn’t be beating as fast as it currently was when all he was doing was sitting on his arse in his study.
But nerves were crawling under his skin, and fear was burning a hole in his gut.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight, but his shadows didn’t disappear.
He couldn’t shake the grim certainty that now everything was in his grasp, everything he had never known he needed, fate was lurking, waiting to snatch it away.
“Why is it dark as Hades in here?” a familiar voice drifted from the hall.
“His Lordship requested it so, Your Grace.”
Derek’s head snapped up so fast pain shot down his neck. He winced and rubbed the spot.
An ominous shadow of a man appeared in the doorway. “Well, this is melodramatic. You look like you need a drink.”
“Rafe,” Derek breathed.
The events of the last month came barreling forward, and fuck, he blinked furiously, his chest cracking as every overwhelming emotion he’d experienced in that time roared to life inside him.
Dear God. What was happening to him? It was like everything he’d been so determined to hold at bay spilled free the moment that familiar low timbre hit his ears.
Like he wasn’t alone any longer. His best mate was back. Fucking hell, he’d missed the bastard.
Derek swallowed thickly. They weren’t ones to sit around and discuss feelings or provide comfort or advice. But just Rafe’s presence was home, was family.
“You’re home,” he croaked out. “When did you get back into town? How was—”
Rafe’s hand shot up. “Not now. I’m back, and we’re going out.” He glanced around the dark study. “Somewhere with a bit more light.”
Derek nodded. “After the day”—bloody month—“I had, I could use a drink.” He hastily grabbed his coat.
“My carriage is out front and waiting.”
They strode shoulder-to-shoulder to the entry.
Fuck, it felt good to have Rafe by his side again.
A carriage ride later, they were settled in front of a card table at Grambler’s, each with a whisky in hand. Well, Rafe’d had a whisky in hand, but the man had just downed the thing and was already pouring a refill.
“How was Iron—”
“So will you tell me why you were moping in a darkened townhouse, facedown on your desk?”
Derek narrowed his eyes at his friend. Avoidance. But he knew that place wasn’t something Rafe or Dorothea ever wanted to discuss. He let it go for now. “I was not moping.” He rotated the glass in his hands. “I was…” Spiraling? Being scared shiteless?
“You were…” Rafe’s brows were practically touching, he was frowning so hard.
Derek ran a hand down his face. Fuck. “You wouldn’t believe how much has happened while you’ve been gone,” he murmured.
Rafe scoffed. Like he…understood? Derek cocked his head and studied his best mate. Who was now on his third glass of whisky, whereas Derek hadn’t even touched his yet.
“Do you need me to pour it down your throat?” Rafe jerked his chin in the direction of Derek’s glass.
“I fell in love,” Derek blurted.
Rafe spit his whisky all over Derek.
“Unnnghhk.” Derek grimaced and wiped the spew from his face. “Bloody hell, Rafe.”
“Bloody hell, me? Did you hear what you just said?” Rafe’s knee bounced erratically, and he sloshed more whisky into his glass. “Now fucking drink.”
They downed their whiskies. Derek really did need liquor right about now.
“So, how was the estate? Was it as bad as your steward—Thomas? Timothy?—made it out to sound?”
“Theo,” Rafe spat. Spat so violently, Derek retreated farther into his chair. What in the bloody hell? “And you’re redirecting. I could have sworn I heard the word love come out of your mouth. And it wasn’t followed by quim. So, I’m not sure I understand.”
Derek’s lips twitched. There was a bit of Rafe’s usual self. But he couldn’t brush off the feeling something more was going on. There was something different about his best mate.
“I know you have only been gone a month, Rafe, but my entire world has been turned on its head.” He paused, then whispered. “Because of a woman.”
Rafe stilled. His gaze shot away from Derek’s. He threw back more whisky. “This would be the love you speak of?” Rafe said, but it was strained.
“Yes, while you were gone…” Derek stared down at his whisky, hesitating, and finally took a sip.
“This slip of a woman stole my clothes, and along with them, my fucking sanity. I bloody fell in love with her. I…” I don’t understand how it happened.
I’m having trouble believing it’s actually real. That I actually deserve this.
Derek met Rafe’s eyes, searching. But his friend didn’t have any more answers than Derek did. If anything, Derek only saw questions clouding Rafe’s dark grey gaze.
“You…?” Rafe asked. Then his eyebrows shot up, and he blinked twice. “Pardon, did you say she stole your clothes?”
Derek downed the rest of his whisky and slammed the glass down on the table. “Yes. And I’m going to fucking marry her.” And there went his throat closing up again, panic wrapping its fingers around his neck.
Rafe’s knuckles were white on his glass. It was like he shared Derek’s panic. They’d always been nearly perfectly attuned. “And this chit wants to marry you as well?”
Derek nodded jerkily. He had no doubt.
“I’m not exactly an expert in the field, mate.
” Rafe threw back another finger of whisky and bared his teeth through a hiss.
“But isn’t that a good thing? You both want to marry each other,” he said bitterly.
“Why the bloody hell were you sulking in the dark? Why do you look like you’re about to shite a brick? ”
Derek opened his mouth, hesitated. Then closed it. Grunted. Opened it again, but nothing. He growled. He didn’t know how to voice what he was feeling.
Rafe stared dumbly back at him. “Were there supposed to be words accompanying…all of that?”
Derek shot him a glare. “I don’t deserve her, Rafe.
I’m not a good man. I’m a fucking arse, and I know it.
And I can’t help but think I’m just waiting for the final blow to fall.
That this is all a sick jest by fate. Everyone always leaves.
Except for you and Dorothea. You two are my constants.
It’s hard to believe I could have someone else too. ”
A grimace flashed across Rafe’s face. “Christ. This is really awkward. I’m exceedingly uncomfortable.”
“I know,” Derek gritted. He and Rafe did not do this.
“Listen, Dare. You both want to fucking marry each other. Just do it. Could it all go to shite? Yes. It could be a fucking disaster of Shakespearean proportions. She could rip your heart out and place it on a stake for the buzzards to feast on. Or your ballocks—I’m not sure which would be worse, probably the ballocks.
But what are your other options? At least she wants to bloody marry you. ”
Derek blinked at his best mate. “Was that supposed to make me feel better? Because I think I might actually feel worse.”
“That was my best effort.” Rafe threw back the rest of his whisky. He shuddered. “All this speak of emotions has me twitchy.”
Derek snorted a soft laugh. “You and me both. You should have seen me when I first realized I had feelings for her.” His stomach flipped over.
It was still unsettling. Clearly. He rolled his glass between his hands, staring at the amber liquid.
“I know it might sound simple,” he said softly.
“But a lot has happened since I met her. Obstacles. Things like the foundling home’s funding. ” His gaze flicked up to meet Rafe’s.
Understanding dawned in his friend’s eyes.
“We’ll figure that out, mate. Things weren’t as dire as they first appeared at Ironcrest.” He stiffened and then appeared to force himself to relax.
“I still cannot fund the entirety of the home, but depending on what we draw up for the payment schedule, I may be able to assist with the later payments.”
“That is fantastic news, Rafe,” Derek said.
That was bloody fantastic news. And not even because of the foundling home. He could only imagine the stress Rafe had been under, facing his demons at Ironcrest and having no idea what sort of disaster he was walking into. If he was about to lose his main source of income.
“It’s an immense bloody relief. We still have a lot of rebuilding to do. And it won’t be quick. Fortunately, Theo is exceedingly competent. Fucking brilliant, really.”
“I actually have some good news of my own.”
A throat cleared, and Derek and Rafe’s attention landed on the portly man they’d both missed approaching. Lord Wentworth. He rocked back and forth on his feet, his brows pinched uneasily.
“Apologies, my lord, Your Grace.” He bowed awkwardly. “I had wanted a word with Lord Dunmore, but I can come back another time.”
Derek forced a…something. His lips moved in the general direction of a smile. “No worries, Lord Wentworth. Say your piece.”
“Ah. Thank you. I hadn’t seen you around lately, so I wanted to take advantage of your presence.” He laughed nervously. He glanced toward Rafe. “Terrible news to hear about your estate, Your Grace. Fires are a nasty business.”
Rafe nodded, his face expressionless. Lord Wentworth fidgeted.
“Well, then. Yes. To business. I was wondering if we could discuss my proposal again. I was thinking I could pique your interest with some shares in my shipping enterprise, perhaps. And of course, do not forget the donation to your foundling home.”
Derek threw back his whisky. The man was nothing if not persistent.
But thank the bloody gods Derek wasn’t going to need to take him up on his offer.
“I see you haven’t heard. We have a fundraising event for the foundling home taking place in a sennight.
We’re all set on that end. I won’t deny that what you’ve offered is appealing, Lord Wentworth, but I have my sights set on a different woman. ”
Lord Wentworth’s eyes widened.
Yes, that was most likely going to be the entire ton’s reaction tomorrow night.
“I see…”
Derek nodded. The man continued to stand there, unmoving, silent. Derek lifted his brows. “If that was all?” he prodded.
“Ah. Yes.” The man bowed. “Gentlemen.”
They both watched in silence as the man walked away. Finally, Rafe broke the silence. “You have enough then. To fund the home. So you can marry your woman.”
“Yes,” Derek said with a long sigh. There was nothing standing in his way any longer. Just the bone-deep terror he couldn’t shake.
“Derek,” Rafe said quietly, and he waited until Derek’s gaze met his. “You know I understand on an elemental level. The fear. I get it. Because no one in our bloody lives has ever wanted us.” He paused and inclined his head. “Grandmama withstanding.” They toasted in unison to the dowager.
“But if something happens? We have each other. Always. You and me, we’re connected—some shared demon inside us both, drawing us together.
When Grandmama and I moved in with you when I was fifteen, for me, it was sealed.
Our fate was sealed. Brothers, not by blood, but by something far deeper.
Because, as we both well-know, blood counts for nothing. ”
Derek swallowed hard and glared at his whisky. That’s how it had always been. He and Rafe against the world. Even when they’d thought they’d lost Rupert to his despicable mother. Nothing came between him and Rafe.
“I can’t promise you everything will work out with your woman. Whether it be her or if fate deigns to play the villain. And I understand more than you know; fate’s an ill-tempered bastard that fucking hates us. But me and you? That’s something you never need to worry about going away.”
Their gazes clashed. Derek’s nostrils flared, his lips pressing tight as he nodded.
“I will always be here,” Rafe said tightly. “Brothers.”
Damnit, Derek, hold your bloody shite together.
They sat in thick silence for the longest minute of Derek’s life—and likely Rafe’s as well—his friend’s throat visibly working, battling to swallow down the emotions threatening to drown the both of them.
“Brothers,” Derek choked out.
They both averted their gaze and threw back more whisky.
“Glad we have that settled,” Rafe said gruffly to the table.
“Now, I think after that we both need to finish this decanter.” He cleared his throat and met Derek’s gaze.
“Then I need a change of scenery. This place is clearly crawling with emotions, and it’s making me nauseous. Will you join me, brother?”
For the first time that night, Derek grinned. “Always. The Devil’s Eye?”
Rafe lifted his glass in the affirmative.
They downed the rest of the whisky and stood to leave.
The room spun slightly, and Derek had to blink away the drunken haze.
Fuck, he’d drunk way more than he’d thought.
They stumbled their way toward the exit.
Rafe knocked into him, which knocked him into another gentleman.
“Apologies,” Derek said gruffly, locking eyes briefly with Lord Wentworth. The man shot him a smile that was more grimace. Poor chap. Derek almost felt bad for the man.
“Come on, make haste. I heard whispers of a curricle race in Hyde Park later tonight.” Rafe rubbed his hands together. “Let’s kill a few hours and then perhaps I can win a fat purse to help with the foundling home. It’s been too bloody long since I’ve raced.”
Derek turned toward his friend. “Don’t you think you’ve had a bit much to drink to partake in a race?”
Rafe chuckled. “Do you remember who you’re talking to? It’ll take a lot more than this to take a behemoth such as me down. Plus, we can sober up at The Devil’s Eye.”
Derek snorted. Sober up at Ryker’s establishment? Sure. “Apologies. What could I have been thinking? What could possibly take down the Iron Duke?”
Something flashed across his friend’s face. But then it was gone, swallowed by a sardonic grin. “What indeed?”