Chapter Seven
Vincent set his hat on his folded greatcoat on the leather bench and stared blankly out the closed window on the carriage’s door. Given the heat of the theatre, he had left the coat in the carriage. Lady Juliana and her aunt, Mrs. Caldwell, sat across from him discussing the evening’s performance, their feminine voices an uninterrupted lyrical drone. He barely heard them.
Christ, he missed Oliver. It had felt so good to simply lay eyes on him, to be near him again, yet at the same time it hurt like hell. With Oliver’s arms crossed over his chest and a surly twist on his full lips, Vincent had known he would not receive a warm welcome. The untidy cravat with its agonizingly bare and lopsided knot had only served as another reminder that Oliver was no longer his. Still, Vincent had to speak to him, though it had been painful to have the truth thrown in his face.
Knowing he was his father’s pawn and hearing it from Oliver were two vastly different things. With only a few words from him, Oliver had understood every nuance and every detail of the situation, leaving Vincent feeling stripped bare. Vulnerable and exposed. And needing his friend more than ever.
Yet there had been no compassion in Oliver’s dark gaze. Only contempt and pity. Exactly what a willing pawn deserved.
Vincent passed a hand over the back of his neck. And he called himself a man. He caught the disdain-soaked harrumph before it left his throat. Men did not allow themselves to be so neatly manipulated.
Marriage. It had once been a vague notion, a concept he gave little consideration to. But he’d had ample opportunity to familiarize himself with it recently. Definitely not something he wanted or wished for.
He wanted Oliver in his bed and no one else.
Shoving those feelings deep down where they would never see the light of day again, trying his damnedest to deny a part of himself… Three weeks of that torture had been the very definition of hell. How would he survive a lifetime of it?
He couldn’t.
He needed Oliver. He was bound to him in a way he could not fully explain, yet would no longer question or deny.
The knowledge settled over him, infusing into his bones, bearing the calm, quiet weight of an undisputable fact. He belonged with Oliver, not with Lady Juliana.
He pulled his attention from the neat row of townhouses lining the street and looked to the young lady who was still discussing the evening with her aunt. Head tipped toward the older woman, she absently adjusted the ivory shawl about her slim shoulders. After numerous late morning calls and afternoon rides through Hyde Park, he still knew little about her. She preferred her tea without sugar, did not mind the rain, and had a decided fondness for Grafton. Anytime he mentioned his brother, her eyes sparkled, her lips tilted up at the edges, and her polite attention turned into rapt attention.
She did not belong with him, either. Nor did she deserve to be tied to him by forces beyond their control.
But what could he do about it? Everything was settled. The outcome predetermined before his father had even voiced his “request.”
His mouth thinned into a determined line.
He would do what he should have done in the first place. But first, he needed her permission. After all, it involved her future as well.
The carriage stopped outside Lady Juliana’s home, a neat white townhouse similar to many others that lined the streets of Mayfair. Metal clanked as the footman unfolded the step and then opened the carriage door. She and her aunt politely bade Vincent good night and thanked him for a pleasant evening.
Mrs. Caldwell departed from the carriage. Lady Juliana shifted along the bench, moving closer to the door, and made to follow her aunt, but Vincent leaned forward, his shoulders partially blocking the open door.
“Wait. Please, Lady Juliana,” he added at her startled glance. “Might I have a moment of your time?”
Unlike Oliver, she heeded his request. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her expression one of polite interest.
“I wish to ask you a question.” He pitched his voice low to avoid being overheard by her aunt, who lingered along the short walkway leading to the front door. “And I request nothing less than complete honesty.”
The polite interest didn’t falter as she nodded, bidding him to continue.
“If the choice was yours, whom would you marry? Myself or Grafton?”
* * *
Vincent shut the study door behind him.
Seated in one of the black leather wingback chairs by the fireplace, his father was reading the newspaper. Nearly nine in the evening and he appeared as though his valet had just finished dressing him. The short layers of his silver hair neatly combed, not one unwanted wrinkle in his navy coat. Yet the glass of brandy on the table beside him indicated he would retire soon.
Ten more minutes and Vincent would’ve had to wait until tomorrow.
Unacceptable. One way or another, he would have ensured his father heard him out. He would not allow another night to pass and have all be right in the Marquess of Saye and Sele’s tidy little world where every inhabitant eagerly bent to his will.
Resolute, he crossed the room and stopped next to the other chair angled toward the fireplace. “Father. Might I have a word with you?”
His father’s attention didn’t stray from the Times. “Do you need my assistance obtaining the special license from the archbishop?”
“No. Lady Juliana and I will not be wed.”
“She rejected your offer?” Eyes still on that damn newspaper, he absently reached out, fingers closing around the glass and took a sip. “I’ll have a word with her father. The man assured me the girl would accept you.”
“I have not asked for her hand, nor will I.”
That got his father’s attention. “You must.”
Vincent shook his head. “Grafton cares for her, and more importantly, she is in love with him.” He knew what love looked like—Oliver had taught him that—and he had seen it reflected in Lady Juliana’s face when she had answered his question with a shyly whispered, “Grafton.”
His father waved his hand, dismissing the notion as insignificant. “It matters not. Grafton will wed the Duke’s daughter and do his duty. And so must you. Lady Juliana cannot be tossed aside.”
Vincent stared in detached horror at his father. The man truly did not care about his children’s well-being. And to think Vincent had so desperately craved his attention. Spent years trying to mold himself into the perfect son, all for nothing.
Even if Oliver refused to ever speak to him again, Vincent still owed him his gratitude. If not for his friend, he could have become…this. Cold. Detached. Focused only on his business interests and Society’s good opinion of him. He might physically look like his father’s son, but that’s where he wanted the resemblance to end.
“Lady Juliana will not be tossed aside. There will be no scandal. Nor will you create one in an effort to force my hand, for it would only reflect poorly on yourself and Grafton. As for my recent association with her, it will simply be put about that I was serving as her temporary escort in my brother’s absence. She so enjoys the theatre. It would have been a shame to deprive her while Grafton is in the country.”
A flush rose up from his father’s neck, tingeing his ears red and coloring his cheeks. An ugly scowl contorted his features. Vincent had never witnessed the sight, but apparently his father did not react well to having his wishes ignored. How unfortunate for his father.
The man shot to his feet, flicking the newspaper to the floor with a sharp snap of his wrist. “You must marry eventually, so you will marry her. Now. It is your duty. You must secure an heir.”
“Since I do not plan on being put in the ground any time in the near future, there is no reason for me to marry now. I am only four-and-twenty. Still plenty of years ahead of me to choose a wife.” A small portion of his brain marveled at his ability to remain so calm and composed, so unaffected in the face of his father’s anger. But he knew the encounter was a mere prelude, a warm-up exercise, so to speak, for what awaited him after he left this house. “If in ten years Grafton does not have an heir and a spare, then we can discuss marriage. Until that time, I am content to wait.” He highly doubted it would come to that. If his suspicions about him were correct, Grafton would have a small brood before the decade was up.
“Grafton must honor the agreement I made with his grace.”
“No. Grafton will honor his obligation to Lady Juliana.” And as soon as he returns to Town, I’ll have a word with him to ensure he does.
His father’s nostrils flared, his blue eyes nearly bulging from his head. “Marry her or I will cut you off.”
Vincent shrugged. As if it would be a change from his father’s usual indifference, not that he cared one whit about the man’s opinion of him anymore.
“I will cut off your quarterly allowance,” his father snarled in a tone that brooked no threat of rebuttal. Hands fisted at his sides and jaw clamped tight, he was so beyond his usual stoic composure it was almost comical.
“I don’t need it. Do you remember the Rotherham property? That dismal little property you refused to give me? I purchased it a year ago. You should have asked more for it.” He paused and allowed the pride swelling his chest to curve his lips. “Best investment I ever made. Good evening, Father.”
With that, he tipped his head and turned on his heel, leaving his father scarlet-faced and slack-jawed.
* * *
Vincent didn’t recall there being so many stairs. Heart slamming against his ribs so hard and fast he was amazed it didn’t burst from his chest, he rounded the landing and went up the next flight. Surely they hadn’t added another floor to the building in his absence.
When the last step was finally behind him, he paused and closed his eyes, trying to will his pulse to slacken to something that approached normal levels.
Absolutely wasted effort.
Forcing his feet to move, he walked to the door on the right.
Sweat dripped down the back of his neck, a hot tickle under his stiff collar. He removed his gloves, stuffing them in his coat pocket, and tugged on his cravat. Should have left the greatcoat in the carriage, but he had not wanted to be without it in the event he had to walk home in the chill, damp late October night. After unbuttoning the coat, he held up his hands. By God, he was shaking.
He had never felt this way before. Never needed something so badly and, at the same time, been scared out of his wits. He knew what Oliver wanted from him. Had already damned himself for a fool countless times for not accepting himself for who he was ages ago. For even having brought them to this point. He knew the words he needed to speak if he stood a chance in hell of convincing the man to take him back. Yet still, opening his heart to Oliver, laying himself bare at his feet, giving up that need for control and exposing himself so completely…
A decidedly frightening prospect.
But he was determined to do it. He’d take a lesson from his friend and demand the man hear him out.
But what if he wouldn’t listen?
What if Oliver walked away from him again?
What if Oliver didn’t love him anymore?
His hand shot out, fingers gripping the door’s frame, to keep from crumpling to his knees.
Stop it!
It was pointless to allow the worries to consume him, to batter away at him until he couldn’t stay on his feet, much less form a coherent sentence. In any case, he would never know the truth unless he knocked on that door.
So do it.
He gave his evening coat a sharp tug to straighten it, reached up to check the knot on his cravat to assure it was still centered, and then knocked once on the door.