Chapter 4
Wesley
It had only been a couple weeks since his mother’s letters had started to arrive, yet he knew that she was waiting for him in the drawing room from the moment he stepped through the front door.
Simmons, his butler, had a pained expression, and it could only be for one reason.
Wesley handed over his hat and gloves. He considered retreating to his study or turning right back around and leaving his home altogether, but he dismissed the ideas.
She would simply wait him out. She always did. So he might as well get on with it.
“Your Grace,” Simmons said. “You should know that Her Grace is—”
“I gathered.” Wesley straightened his coat. “Tea?”
“Already served, Your Grace.”
Of course it was. Mother would have taken the house in hand from the moment she crossed the threshold.
He found her seated by the window, a cup and saucer effortlessly balanced before her, her posture perfectly proper.
She looked up when he entered, and her expression made his chest tighten.
She looked tired and even older than he remembered.
And he’d just seen her nearly a month ago.
She still wore half-mourning colors for his father, though it had been almost five years. Had it really been that long?
“Mother.” He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself something stronger than tea. “I wasn't expecting you.”
“Clearly. You've been avoiding my letters.”
“I wasn’t avoiding you. I've been busy.” That wasn’t entirely true. He could have at least asked his secretary to pen a missive to her. But he didn’t really know how to respond to an ultimatum of marriage, especially one his mother didn’t have the authority to coordinate on his behalf.
“Too busy to respond to your mother?”
He took a long swallow of brandy before turning to face her. “What brings you to town?”
“You know perfectly well what brings me here.” She set down her teacup. “Lady Caroline’s mother tells me you've barely spoken to the girl.”
“Lady Caroline and I have nothing to discuss. That is your folly, not mine.”
His mother rose with a stiffness that hadn’t been there before his father had passed.
Since Father’s death, she either cried or nagged Wesley about his duties—marriage, siring an heir, or whatever else she believed he should be doing.
“Wesley, I have been patient. I have given you time to settle into your duties and find your footing. But you are almost six-and-twenty, and you have given no indication that you are going to take your duty to marry seriously.”
Because he already knew who he wanted, and she didn’t want him.
“I will when I meet someone of interest. Might I remind you that it is still my choice who I wed.”
“But you have to actually make a choice.” She approached him, and he resisted the urge to step back. “Your father would have expected—”
“Don't.” The word came out sharp. “Don't tell me again what Father would have expected.”
Her mouth thinned. “Someone must. You seem determined to forget your obligations to this family.”
Wesley set down his glass before he threw it. “I have forgotten nothing. I have done everything asked of me. I have managed the estates, attended Parliament, maintained every duty and act of propriety that Father’s title requires. I have been the perfect duke.”
“And yet there is still more to do.” The words landed with a sting.
“I’m well aware of your desire to see me wed. So that I can bed the woman until I put my son in your arms, and then you can teach him his duty, too.”
His mother's face had gone pale. “I can’t believe you—”
“Is this not how a duke is supposed to speak to his mother?” Wesley moved past her to the window, staring out at the street below. “I am not Father. I will never be Father. And I am sorry that disappoints you, but get out of my future marriage, Mother.”
The silence stretched between them. When his mother spoke again, her voice had lost some of its edge.
“I do not need you to be your father.” She sounded tired now, the relentless energy draining away. “I need you to be the duke. The family needs an heir. The title needs continuity. These are not my whims, Wesley. These are facts.”
“I am aware of the facts.” He turned to face her. “And the facts are that the bloody title can hang if it means marrying someone that I don’t have affection for. Some cousin of mine can inherit this blasted title, for all I care. Those are the facts, Mother.”
His mother wiped her eyes and turned to leave.
She paused at the door, and for a moment, she looked less like the formidable duchess and more like his mother—the woman who had read him stories as a child, who had held his hand at his father's funeral, who had aged a decade in the months after the burial.
“I loved your father,” she said quietly. “I do want that for you, Wesley. But you have to try to find it.”
Then she was gone, and Wesley was alone with his brandy and the weight of everything he couldn't say.
He sank into the chair his mother had vacated, still warm from her presence, and let his head fall back. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in the air, and Wesley thought about Thea.
He always thought about Thea. He had sensed something was off with her at the garden party, but he still didn’t know what that was about. He just had a row with his mother, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder what Thea was doing.
His mother said he wasn’t trying. She wasn’t wrong about that. All he could think about was the way Thea would fit against him. How she would feel if he pulled her into his arms and kissed her in every way that had haunted his dreams for years.
But then he would look foolish when she pushed him away. And he wasn’t one to force himself on a woman.
Wesley poured another brandy and resolved that some things just weren’t meant to be.
********
The Fox was loud tonight, the usual crowd swelled by a group of young bucks celebrating someone's birthday in the corner.
Wesley found their regular table and dropped into his chair.
Kit was already there, cap pulled low, shuffling the deck with those quick, slim fingers.
Something about Kit's hands had always struck Wesley as odd.
Maybe it was their small size? But he'd never bothered to give it much thought.
Kit was just Kit. Sharp-tongued, good at cards, irritating in a way Wesley had grown to admire in the cocky man.
“You look terrible,” Kit said, taking in his appearance.
“Then I guess I can’t make it much worse.” He raised his hand to signal for a drink.
Louis and Max arrived, settling at the table. Louis took one look at Wesley's face and signaled for a bottle instead of glasses.
“Has something happened?” Max asked.
“My mother paid a visit.”
“Ah.” Louis poured four whiskeys, sliding one to Kit without asking. “Let me guess. You’re to marry Lady Caroline and produce your heir as quickly as possible to honor your duty to the family name.”
“That is the measure of it.” Wesley wasn’t even sure why he had come out, other than he couldn’t sit in his study staring at the fire any longer.
“Well none of that is new.” Louis drained half his glass. “The question is what you're going to do about it.”
“Get drunk and lose money to Kit, most likely.”
Kit collected the whiskey with a nod of thanks and dealt the first hand. “Happy to assist with the losing money portion of that plan.”
The game settled into its rhythm, but Wesley could feel his friends watching him.
He won the first hand and lost the next three. Kit raked in the coins with that satisfied grin.
“Damn and hell,” Kit muttered. “That's a pretty pot.”
Wesley had heard Kit say that a dozen times now. The same mild curse, the same pleased tone. It was becoming as familiar as the cap pulled low and the rough voice.
“You always say that ridiculous phrase.”
Kit's hands stilled for just a moment on the coins. “I might be just a tad superstitious. Can't change what works.”
The game continued. Wesley's mind drifted—the whiskey doing its work—and he found himself watching Kit without meaning to. There was something familiar about the man, and he hadn’t quite put his finger on it yet. He was almost sure he’d seen the man before meeting him at the Fox.
“All right.” Louis set down his cards. “I think you’ve had enough to drink now, and we're doing this.”
Wesley looked up. “Doing what?”
“You already know what the problem is.” Louis leaned back, arms crossed. “We've let you do this for too long. Just admit who it is that you want.”
“I don't—”
“Thea.” Louis's voice was flat. “You're in love with her. You've been in love with her since before your father died. And you're going to die miserable and alone if you don't do something about it.”
Wesley's jaw tightened. Kit choked beside him, patting his chest.
“Louis—”
“No. I'm done watching you play the part of some scared fool.” Louis leaned forward. “You want her. That's been obvious for years. What's not obvious is why you're still sitting here, night after night, pining like a lovesick boy instead of just pursuing her.”
“It's . . . that’s not . . .” What could he even say to that?
“You are making this more difficult than it needs to be.” Max's voice was quieter than Louis's, but no less pointed.
“You don't understand.” Wesley stared at his cards. He couldn't look at either of them. “And what do you two know about courting a woman? Should we bring up the women you’ve dallied with?”
Louis laughed. “This isn’t about us. And if I thought wetting your wick would cure what ails you, we’d haul you off to a brothel right this instant.”
Kit’s cards slipped out of his hands, and he scurried to pick them.
“Are you all right?” Max asked.
“Yes.” He waved them off. “Don’t mind me.”
Max refocused his attention on Wesley. “What in the devil is holding you back? From where I sit, you can have what you want.”
“She was engaged to someone else.” The words come out bitter. “She chose another man when I was right there. She didn’t want me then, and she doesn’t want me now.”
Max clutched his shoulder. “She watches you. The same way you watch her.”
“We’re friends. And you’re right. I watched her get engaged to William.
” His voice came out rough, and he didn't care anymore who heard.
The whiskey, the exhaustion, and the weight of his mother's disappointment had stripped away the desire to play his part.
“I stood there and watched her choose someone else, and I didn't say a word. Because I was drowning. I was drowning in my mother’s expectations and the fact that I will never be the duke or the man my father was. And how could I have given Thea what she deserved with all that hanging over me? And I thought—” He broke off, throat tight.
“What?” Louis prompted. “What did you think?”
“I thought she'd be happier without me.” Wesley laughed, a bitter sound. “Without the title, and the obligations, and everything that comes with being a duchess. I am still not certain I want to be a bloody duke, but there’s no changing it.”
Kit dealt another hand. His movements were careful, and Wesley noticed his fingers weren't quite steady. Strange. Kit's hands were always steady.
“And now?” Louis pressed, his stare burning into Wesley.
Wesley thought about all the times he’d been in her presence. The words had been right there, burning in his throat. It has always been her.
“Are we going to play cards?” Kit asked, but no one responded.
“I want her,” he ground out. “And I always will. Is that what you want me to say?”
The table was quiet. Kit studied his cards with unusual intensity, face shadowed beneath the cap's brim.
“Then there shouldn’t be anything holding you back,” Max said. “It's that simple. Either she loves you, or she doesn't, but at least you'll know.”
Wesley looked down at his cards. He couldn't remember what he was holding.
“I’m out.” He tossed the cards on the table. “I am no use to anyone here. I’m better off finding my bed.”
Louis and Max exchanged a glance but didn't try to stop him. They knew him well enough to recognize when pushing would only make things worse. And Wesley was too far in his cups to resist telling them to back off.
Kit looked up as Wesley stood. For a moment their eyes met, and Kit’s expression was unreadable. Then his gaze dropped back to the cards. The man probably didn’t know what to think about the conversation.
Wesley collected his coat and made his way out into the night.
Max was wrong. He had to be. Thea looked at him the way she looked at any old friend—with warmth, maybe, but not want. Not the way Wesley imagined her when he was alone in his chamber stroking himself like a cad.
The carriage rattled through empty streets. Wesley leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes, but all he could see was Thea.
What if Max was right?
The thought was dangerous. He'd spent the past couple of years convincing himself that Thea didn't want him. She'd proven him right when she’d accepted William's proposal. If he let himself hope now and he was wrong . . . he couldn't survive that. Not again.