Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
TWO WEEKS LATER
T he evening light slanted low across the study, gilding the edges of the tall windows and stretching long shadows over the walnut paneling. The scent of burning wood lingered from the hearth, mingling with the sharper tang of ink and old parchment. The house was quiet, the hush pressing heavier tonight.
Edward stepped inside his study, fatigue pressing against his bones after the length of the day. He worked the buttons of his waistcoat free with a sigh, his mind drifting as he shrugged off his jacket. The ache behind his eyes had little to do with Parliament's endless quarrels. The afternoon had seen him pacing the edges of Hyde Park, his boots scuffing the gravel paths with no real direction—except perhaps hoping, foolishly, that she might be there. She wasn’t.
And he’d returned home cursing his own absurdity. It had been over two weeks now without even as little as the sight of her. And he was beginning to crave it, unnaturally so. Was there a truth to her words when she said her final goodbye?
The jacket slid from his shoulders, and as he turned, he nearly started.
Benedict was there, behind his table, but instead of the ledgers and folios Edward would have in front of him, Benedict had a pile of books.
“Is there a reason you are in the one place I feel is truly mine?” he asked while placing his jacket on the hatstand.
“I felt it imperative to start familiarizing myself with my future surroundings,” Benedict said with a shrug. “In three months, you'll be off gallivanting across Europe, and someone must be ready to manage the lands. Sooner or later, Valhaven will fall to me, after all. How was Parliament??”
“ Aggravating ,” Edward went to the sideboard and poured himself some brandy. “But that is what you get for sticking a bunch of Whigs passionate for reform and cynical Tories into a room, then praying that neither of them sets the place on fire.”
“Or cross the floor and bludgeon the speaker into a pulp,” Benedict chuckled. “But I mean, how did they take the proposal to disenfranchise the East India Company?”
“They jumped on that proposal like fleas on a mongrel,” Edward replied dryly. “Any scheme promising to fatten their purses is one neither party would dare refuse. But back to your earlier remark—are you planning to step into my ducal role with a wife in tow?”
Benedict rubbed the back of his head, “About that… I plan on courting Miss Penelope.”
Edward ground his molars as he poured out another glass of brandy. As unseemly as it was, he knew he had to tell his brother the truth about the young lady, no matter how much of an invasion of the young woman’s privacy it was.
“Benedict—”
“I know what you are going to say,” Benedict hastened to reply. “That it is rather unseemly to be jumping from one lady to another, no less when they are sisters—how it will look like I have no head on my shoulders and all that. You might go so far as to warn me that the scandal will cling to my name for years. But, Edward… I simply cannot bring myself to care.”
Taking his glass, Edward circled the desk and gestured for Benedict to join him on the chaise.
Once his brother settled, Edward chose his next words with deliberate care. “I hope you will keep everything I am about to say to you in strict confidence…”
What followed was a carefully curated confession—an account of Penelope’s entanglement with Rutledge. He spoke of the poor girl’s insidious seduction and the result of their ill-fated rendezvous . The attempt to have Rutledge own up to his part in it all, culminating in the confrontation Benedict himself had been involved in. Edward shielded the most delicate truths, omitting Alice’s involvement entirely, for some secrets were not his to share.
Silence hung thick in the air when he finished.
Benedict stared at him, the color draining from his face. His voice, when it came, was a whisper laced with disbelief.
“She is carrying his child...” he concluded on his own.
“It is more than likely,” Edward said sympathetically. He waited a while as Benedict internalized the unsettling news. Leaning back, he rubbed his tired eyes, “I need you to know that if you decide to step away, no one will blame you. It is a very difficult burden to come to terms with.”
“…Not as burdening as she must be feeling,” Benedict mused.
Edward took a bracing mouthful of his drink.
“No wonder Rutledge was such a jackanapes when I met him,” Benedict sneered. “I wish I’d given him more facers.”
“I doubt he would have liked that,” Edward replied. “His good looks are how he gets his conquests…” Pausing, he tilted his head. “Actually, dash that. I do think his face needs a substantial rearranging. It would stop these unfortunate situations from arising again.”
Setting his glass down, Edward crossed his legs, “I’d advise you to think about the situation, Benedict. I know you are one to run in headstrong and all, but this is a ton of responsibility, especially considering the responsibilities you will already be taking over from me.”
Sobering, Benedict asked, “How long did it take you to finally settle into the ducal role?”
“Over three years,” Edward replied, “And that was touch and go, try and error. But I settled into it eventually.”
Shaking his head slowly, Benedict asked, “Why are you so fixated on not marrying, Edward? I know you despised the way Father handled business, and I know you abhor our finicky cousins, but why spite yourself when they are living free of all this concern?”
Leaning in, Benedict pressed the point, “Don’t you think that one day, when you are old and grey, lounging near the Seine River, or whichever river is in Italy—”
“The Reno. We have a cottage in Sasso Marconi.”
“—you wouldn’t want someone beside you?” Benedict finished, one brow lifted high. “Don’t you want a companion in your twilight years? Or do you think it is your destiny to die alone?”
“I think destiny or fate or providence, whatever you might want to call it, has not been very kind to me in the regard of providing a suitable partner. The ladies I draw only see me as a vehicle to a better life, they do not see me or care to know me.
“It is the reason why I never dance with Misses of marriageable age, and only stick with widowed or married women,” Edward remarked. “But the truth of the matter is… I have not thought that far down the line yet.”
“I’d hate to see you squander your life away, brother,” Benedict murmured. “You deserve someone good and fitting in your life too. I know you are not one for society diamonds-of-the-first-water sort. If I were to imagine you with someone, it would be a practical-minded Miss with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind.”
If only you knew.
“Well, until the fates send me such a lady—” they already have, “—I will live my lonesome life, with premium wine and an old hound who enjoys the finer things in life, like ripping apart balls.”
Lifting his glass, Benedict chirped, “My best to you, old man.”
At the doorway, Edward looked over his shoulder, “I expect you to be gone by the time I return.”
“Never change,” Benedict laughed.
In his rooms, Edward called for bathwater and undressed into his robe, while his thoughts strayed to the conversation he’d just had with Benedict.
Truly, was this decision not to marry only hurting himself and no one else? Was he damning himself to a life of seclusion and solitude for an old, immaterial grudge?
Would Alice accept a marriage proposal now, when she was sworn off to not even look at him twice anymore? How would she take it when Benedict courted Penelope?
“All this while, the only thing Alice ever wanted was to protect Penelope, and now she won’t have to worry about her anymore…” he said to himself. “What would she think about my sudden change around?”
That was if he was truly considering this.
Atticus ambled over to him and nudged his knee with his greying muzzle. Reaching out, he rubbed his dog’s ears. “How are you, old boy? Do you have any drops of wisdom for me on how to win a woman who you effectively rejected?”
Tilting his head, Atticus meandered off to his spot before the slumbering hearth and circled the rug. “That would be a no , I take it,” Edward sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to figure it out on my own.”
He fell back against his soft bed, waiting for the footmen to enter to tell him the bath was ready.
He exhaled deeply and fell back against the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. The fire crackled low, shadows dancing on the carved mahogany panels along the walls. The scent of wax and the lingering aroma of the evening’s brandy clung faintly to the air.
His eyes slipped closed for just a moment. A moment .
But exhaustion—of body, of mind—was relentless. And so he drifted.
The candle burned low, pooling wax along the brass holder as Edward bent over his desk, the scratch of his quill the only sound in the quiet chamber. His textbooks—Latin grammar, treatises on law—lay open beside him, the scent of ink sharp in the still air. The looming exams at Oxford were weeks away, and he'd been studying late into the night more often than not, determined to prove himself. Determined to be more than his father expected of him.
A quiet knock sounded at the door.
Edward barely looked up. "Yes?"
The door creaked open just enough for a small, tear-streaked face to peek through.
Benedict.
Edward's chest tightened instantly. "What’s wrong, Ben?"
The boy shuffled inside, hands curled into fists against the too-large sleeves of his nightshirt. He didn’t speak, just sniffled, cheeks blotchy with unshed tears.
Edward pushed back his chair, softening his voice. "Come here."
Benedict approached slowly, his lower lip trembling, but still, he said nothing.
Kneeling, Edward brushed the damp curls back from his face. "Did you have a nightmare?"
A tiny shake of his head.
Edward hesitated, scanning him more closely. No bruises. No sign of illness. Just—sadness. The same sadness that had lingered since their father had begun to pay him less and less attention.
But Benedict never voiced it. He never spoke of it at all.
Edward cupped his brother's shoulder gently. "Would you like to stay here with me for a bit? I was working on translations. I know you like helping me mark the declensions."
That earned the faintest, wobbly nod.
"Good. Here, sit—"
"Edward!"
The Duke's voice cut through the quiet like a blade, echoing sharply from down the corridor.
Edward flinched. Benedict did too.
"Wait here, Ben. I'll be back soon, all right?" He gave his brother's arm a gentle squeeze.
Benedict nodded again, curling into the corner of Edward’s chair, small and uncertain but trying to be brave.
The Duke’s voice rang out again. "Edward! Now!"
Edward set his jaw. "I'll be back," he repeated quietly and turned toward the door.
The scent of brandy hit him first as he entered his father’s study.
It was worse than usual tonight. Heavy. Clinging.
His father sat behind his great carved desk, the curtains drawn despite the early evening light still lingering outside. A half-finished decanter sat next to a second glass, empty but stained where it had been filled and refilled.
And sprawled on the settee—half-clad, her bodice scandalously loose—was a woman Edward did not recognize. As had become customary ever since his mother’s passing.
The red silk of her gown pooled over her thighs, the neckline barely decent, her lips painted and slightly parted as she gazed at Edward with a lazy, almost taunting smirk.
Revulsion rose thick in his throat.
The Duke exhaled noisily, setting his glass down with an audible clink . "Close the door."
Edward obeyed, standing stiffly just inside the threshold, hands clasped behind his back. He knew better than to speak first.
The Duke watched him for a long moment, eyes sharp despite the liquor—assessing, as if searching for flaws. Then, he gestured vaguely with his glass.
"You’ll be leaving for Oxford soon. And before you know it, you will be married. It’s time you understand the gravity of your position."
Edward remained silent.
The Duke sat forward, his glass clinking sharply against the desk as he set it down.
"You are the heir. My heir. The sole future of this family. Everything—everything—rests on you. Do you understand?"
Edward nodded stiffly. "Yes, Your Grace."
The Duke's eyes narrowed. "Do you? Or do you merely parrot what you think I want to hear?"
Edward’s lips pressed together.
His father leaned back, taking another long, slow sip. "You know why I called you here? Because you're of age now. It’s time you start thinking of your legacy. Time you understand what it means to bear the Valhaven title."
Edward felt his stomach twist.
The Duke continued, voice turning colder. "It means ensuring our bloodline continues. That when you return from Oxford, you’ll be seeking a wife of proper station. One who can give you a son. Because make no mistake, Edward—there will be an heir. And it will not be that other one."
The cursory mention of his brother struck like a lash. Edward’s back straightened. "He is your son too."
The Duke scoffed, gesturing vaguely to the woman on the settee, who giggled and took another sip of brandy. "A mistake. His mother's shame, not mine. The boy's existence is tolerated. Barely."
Edward's hands clenched behind his back, nails biting into his palm.
"You," his father continued, "are my rightful heir. The one who will carry this name forward with dignity. And you will have a son to secure this legacy, Edward. The Lord chose you. I chose you. Lord knows I will not have my title tainted with... half-blood."
Edward felt his pulse pound at his temples, the words battering him with a sickening clarity. His father wasn’t protecting the family. He was protecting his own pride—his own twisted obsession with control.
"I will not see this line end in ruin because of that mistake," the Duke finished, voice slurring slightly as the brandy took its hold. “Everything I did, I did for you, boy. And you will carry it with honor, with grace, with—”
"Is that why you summoned me? To remind me of my duty?" Edward interrupted.
The Duke’s lips twisted into something cruel. "Among other things. I’ve taught you how to be a man. Power. Wealth. Influence. You think it was for naught? Look around you. Everything I have built is yours. Ours. I know a part of you still reviles me for what happened with your mother. But you must understand—"
The glass was raised again, the scent of liquor thick in the air.
"Love," he sneered, as though the word itself was dirty, "is for fools. Control the bloodline. Control your emotions. And desire—" He waved the glass toward the chaise, gesturing toward the sprawled woman. "Is merely a distraction. A game. Women serve a purpose, and once that’s done, they become irrelevant. You will learn."
Edward felt the words like bile rising in his throat.
"Will I?" His voice was icy now. "Is that all you want me to see in people? Utility? While I live to be the pride in your eyes?"
The Duke’s gaze sharpened suddenly. "Don’t you dare judge me, boy. You think you’re so different. One day, you’ll be just like me. You’ll have children of your own. You’ll understand how the world works. And you’ll thank me for—"
Edward turned on his heel.
"Edward!" his father barked, but he didn’t stop.
The study door shut behind him with a deafening click.
Benedict was still curled in his chair when Edward returned, the book he’d left open untouched in his lap. Edward knelt before him, the anger still boiling in his chest—but he forced it down.
"I’m back," he said gently, brushing a curl from his brother’s forehead. "Sorry I took so long."
Benedict looked up, blinking sleepily, but the shadows in his eyes lingered.
"You okay?" Edward pressed softly. “You can sleep in my bed tonight, I’ll be staying up—I have a lot to catch up on.”
Benedict nodded. Quiet. Always quiet.
But Edward had seen too much of that same quiet in himself.
He smiled weakly at his brother. His father was wrong. The title would be passed down, most certainly. But it would pass down to Benedict.
And Edward would make certain of it.
A heavy knock at his bedchamber door tore through Edward’s pasty slumber.
“Your Grace, the bath is ready.”