Chapter Twenty-Three #3
“You’re meant to order a drink, West,” Alexander explained, using the nickname of his brother’s courtesy title.
“You’ve had quite enough for the both of us for the conversation I intend to have.” Alexander huffed out a laugh. He wasn’t that deep in his cups. Unfortunately.
“Oh dear, am I in trouble?”
“Routinely,” John said, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his hands in his lap. “Now, when were you going to tell me about your marriage?”
He knew?
“Are you still corresponding with Presley? I told you to quit checking up on me! And I told him to stop being a snitch.”
“They do deliver papers to my house, you know. And correspondence too, when people can be bothered to write,” John said pointedly.
“I have been remiss as of late. I am sorry.” He was. Truly, he was, but at the moment he was more concerned. “Why are you here in the middle of the night, West?”
“I tried your house first. I was informed I’d find you here.” There was a tone of disappointment in John’s voice, which made no sense. He’d been like this for ages now, and John had never once scolded him. “It’s Mother. I received a letter.”
Alexander’s heart started pounding. Their mother did not write.
Not even to ask for money. The last time he’d seen her, in Paris, she’d expressed confusion as to why Alexander had sought her out.
When he’d suggested that they might form some type of amiable rapport, if not familial feelings for one another, she had summarily declined.
I’m not certain I see the point now, she had said.
“Burn it. There’s nothing that letter could possibly contain that could be of any significance. She has had no interest in us, and I will gladly return the favor.”
“She’s dead.”
Alexander stilled for a moment.
“How did …?”
“A solicitor from France wrote to me; she left me a small inheritance,” John explained, softly, carefully. As if Alexander might fly into a fit of rage. “I believe it was written up before you were born.”
“I wouldn’t take a penny from her,” Alexander spat. “I’m hardly hurt.”
“I didn’t come to boast about my wealth, you paper-skull. I came to warn you; Father can remarry now, which is a weapon he will wield. Indeed, I believe his target is one of your new wife’s sisters. A widow with land he wants. That you wanted too.”
“How on earth do you know such things?”
“People have a peculiar habit of underestimating invalids,” John said, testily. “I don’t just laze around waiting to die like you and Father prefer to imagine.”
“I don’t prefer that at all!” Alexander shot back, trying to keep his voice below a shout. “I want you hale and hearty and happy! I want you well!”
“Too bad. I’m not going to be. Ever. You need to accept that.”
“I do.” Alexander knew John was not going to magically become well again. He may not be as smart as John, but he understood basic truths.
“Then why do you behave as if you aren’t the heir?”
“Because I’m not. You are. You could very well be the next duke. Since you’ve been in Chelmsford, you’ve improved greatly. Who can say when Father will die? I myself have thought of hushing him many times, if you catch my meaning. I can’t be alone in that.”
John tilted his head and narrowed his gaze, as if assessing Alexander. It was damned uncomfortable to be scrutinized by a man who saw so much. Alexander wanted to fidget, to shift in his seat.
“You do know, don’t you, that even if I were healthy, even if I became the duke tomorrow, I don’t”—John was almost never at a loss for words—“I won’t marry, Alexander. I won’t have children. I never wanted to, even before I was sick. I’m not that sort.”
“No man wants to marry,” Alexander jested, trying to move away from the direction of this conversation. “That’s the very thing that makes it so appealing for women.”
“Alexander, I’m only going to say this once.
Mostly because repeating myself to you has never worked.
I know you think rather highly of yourself, but I am not envious of you.
I’d like more time of course. I regret not going to Paris before I was sick, and there are so many books left to read.
But I’m not sitting around my house wishing I were in a lady’s bed, I can promise you that.
I am more thrilled to be free of the duty of siring heirs than I can say.
” John laughed softly, although Alexander didn’t know why.
“You cannot steal my fate, even if you wanted to—you don’t dress half as well as I do.
Besides, have you read none of the Greek myths?
I want you to marry. And to have children I can dote on for seven minutes at a time on quarter days and birthdays.
I’m glad it’s your fate, not mine. You will make a much better duke than anyone actually related to that man ever could.
” With that, John patted his hand and stood.
“Keep an eye on our father. And give your wife my fondest regards. I can hardly wait to meet the woman who’s done this to you. ”
He left before Alexander could ask what this was.