Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate, and furious,
Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, II, iii
How the hell had the old man managed to talk him into this?
Gervase stared at the stack of books before him, each fatter and more ponderous-looking than the last. Somewhere in those musty pages were the answers to the duke’s questions on how to break an entail or—to be more accurate—how to keep his heir firmly under his thumb.
Manipulative bastard. He felt an unwanted twinge of sympathy for Reg. That his brother had agreed to marry Alicia, despite having no great love for her, was a major concession on his part. But still the duke wanted more control: he might accept—even embrace—compromise in the business world, but he shunned it with a vengeance in family life.
So what pressure had he brought to bear upon Reg, to get him to agree to this? It had to have been more than an appeal to sentiment, to judge from what Gervase had heard of their argument last night.
As opposed to Gervase himself, swayed by an unexpected show of fatherly support.
Surveying the stack of books with a jaundiced eye, he decided that he must be going soft in the head. How else could the duke have got past his carefully constructed defenses? If he’d any sense, he’d have told the old man to find another pet solicitor to do his bidding.
But even now he could feel his father’s hand on his shoulder, see the keen blue eyes looking into his, hear the coaxing, almost gentle note in the older man’s voice. Having seen the duke’s tactics in action more times than he could count, he’d thought himself proof against all that. And yet a single appeal to his loyalty had been enough to blow him from his moorings.
No, that wasn’t entirely accurate. It was more that, for the first time in recent memory, the duke had seemed interested in what might be going on with him, in his life. For once, just once, had his father seen the person instead of the pawn?
Gervase swallowed, his throat suddenly tight, even as he berated himself for this descent into sentimentality. Would he ever, deep down, stop wishing for his father’s approval, or even just his attention? He’d made a success of himself without either, and he was damned proud of that. But... he couldn’t deny that his father’s support would have been welcome, then.
So, better late than never? Or was it merely that Whitborough now found Gervase’s career convenient to his own schemes? And could it do any harm simply to look at these damn books, see what was in them? He could always change his mind later.
As if in a trance, he reached for a book, drew it towards him, opened the faded cover...
“Burning the midnight oil already, and it’s not even noon,” a familiar, acerbic voice remarked from over his shoulder.
Only a lifetime of training kept Gervase from jumping out of his skin. He took a moment to don his cool façade before glancing up from the book. “Good morning, Mother.”
She regarded him with equal coolness. “Dare I ask what you’ve been set to work upon? Unless your exertions are your own idea, in which case I apologize in advance.”
“What do you think I’m working on?” he inquired provocatively.
Her brows arched elegantly. “At a guess, whatever business your father has requested.”
Again he strove to keep his face impassive; the woman was uncanny. “I congratulate you on your perspicacity. Either that, or your superior network of household spies.”
True to form, the duchess did not deny the latter, nor did she appear the least abashed. “I like to keep my hand in things.” She regarded the stack of books with a critical air. “They all look highly indigestible.”
“They do,” he agreed without enthusiasm, closing the one in his hands. “I’d as soon work my way through the whole of English common law again.” Setting the book aside, he regarded her quizzically. “So what brings you here, Maman? I thought you’d be with my sisters, helping to plan Reg’s wedding.”
“I was looking for your father, actually,” the duchess replied, seating herself in the chair directly across from him. “But he seems to have made himself scarce.”
Wise man, Gervase thought, but was just prudent enough not to say. “Perhaps he’s occupied with wedding business as well. There must be any number of details to oversee.”
“Indeed. God—and your father are in the details.”
The dry note in the duchess’s voice had Gervase eyeing her with increased speculation.
He had, he realized, almost no idea of how his mother felt about her favorite son’s impending nuptials—or his chosen bride. She’d been fond of Margaret and Alicia as girls, and had favored the match between Margaret and Hal, but that had been so many years ago. Might her sentiments have altered when it came to Reg’s future?
“I gather the happy couple have informed you of their plans,” he observed. “After so long a betrothal, doesn’t it surprise you that they should be marrying so quickly now?”
She gave a Gallic shrug. “They’ve been altar-bound for nearly five years—I wouldn’t describe that as ‘quickly.’”
“I’m astonished that it wasn’t ten years, given the way Reg has been dragging his feet,” Gervase countered. “Don’t you find it the least bit odd that he’s reversed himself like this?”
“It is Reg’s decision to make.” Was his mother avoiding his eyes? “I’ve told him that he has my support in whatever he chooses to do.”
No surprise there, Gervase mused. The duchess had been Reg’s staunchest advocate since the day he was born.
“And Alicia is a beautiful, accomplished, virtuous young woman,” she continued. “If not perhaps the one whom I would have chosen right away for Reg.”
“Whom would you have chosen, then?” At least he knew that Margaret was out of the running. “Or would you have preferred that he make his own choice and marry for love?”
“Marriages for love are frequently overrated,” observed the woman whose tempestuous union had been the stuff of local legend for the last thirty years. “But I suppose—on balance—that they’re preferable to the alternative. I can’t really say that I had a prospective bride in mind for your brother. On the contrary, I found it difficult to think of a woman who would suit him. And so,” she added on a sigh, “your father and Alicia’s father made their arrangement.”
“But they could have got out of it, though, couldn’t they?” he pressed on. “If Alicia had met someone she preferred—”
“She’d have far to seek before she found a prize like Reg!” his mother declared emphatically. “Handsome, rich, heir to a dukedom...” She paused, a shadow flickering across her face. “I loved Hal dearly, and I grieved for him, but Reg is by far the stronger character. And Alicia’s adored him since she was a little girl.”
“Reg doesn’t appear to adore her in return,” Gervase pointed out.
The duchess shrugged again. “So he’ll never rank among the great lovers of the age. He’s marrying her on New Year’s Eve—that should be enough for her. And for your father as well. Which reminds me,” she fixed Gervase with a piercing stare, “eight years ago, I stood by you—and against him—when you wished to pursue a career in law rather than enter the Church. I exacted no promise from you then, but I would like you to remember it all the same.”
“Because you wish me to promise you something now?” Gervase met her gaze squarely, recognizing the same appeal to loyalty that his father had made, though couched in different terms. His mother was attempting to call in a favor—and they both knew it.
She flushed slightly but her gaze did not falter. “I wish you to consider, very carefully, which side you should be on—not just for now but for the future. And as I am a woman of my word, I will make good on my other, more recent promise as well. Whatever Harold has offered you, I will offer more.”
Her eyes bored into his, the eyes of a lioness watching—and assessing her prey. Gervase could not tell what she saw in his face, which he suspected was no longer as impassive as he wished, but after a moment, she drew back just a trifle. “Do we understand each other?”
It took him a moment to find his voice, another to master it. “Perfectly.” To his relief, the reply emerged with a cool indifference worthy of the “Clockwork Solicitor.”
“Splendid.” The direction of the duchess’s gaze shifted suddenly. “Ah, Margaret,” she said in a very different tone. “Good morning, my dear.”
Gervase stilled, then slowly turned his head to see Margaret standing in the doorway, regarding him and his mother with undisguised curiosity.
“Good morning, Duchess,” Margaret replied, glancing uncertainly between mother and son. Was she just imagining the tension simmering between them? Or had her nerve-wracking encounters with Reg and Alicia that made her preternaturally sensitive to that? “And congratulations,” she added, reminding herself that the duchess’s view of the impending nuptials was likely very different from her own. “On the wedding—you must be so pleased.”
“Thank you, ma chere.” The duchess inclined her head, her exquisitely boned face a mask of perfect courtesy. “When it comes to the wedding, well... words fail me.” Then, as Margaret blinked at her dry tone, the older woman rose from her chair. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have some business to attend to. Gervase,” she turned to her son, “I trust you will remember what I said?”
“How could I not, Maman?” he returned, his voice equally dry.
The duchess patted his cheek with an elegant, long-fingered hand. “Très bien, chéri. I’ll see you both at luncheon,” she added over her shoulder, as she swept from the room.
Margaret stared after her bemusedly. “Just—what was that about?” she asked, turning to Gervase, still seated at the table and staring at a tall stack of books in front of him.
“Nothing you need trouble yourself with, darling.” He pushed away the books, glanced up at her with the beginnings of a smile that faded as he regarded her more closely. “What’s wrong, Margaret?”
The concern in his voice, in his gaze, made her own eyes sting. She blinked them furiously and tried for a reassuring smile, only to give up the attempt when she felt her lips tremble. “Does it show so blatantly?”
“Only to me. What happened, ma belle?”
Her sigh caught in her throat. “I tried talking sense into your brother and my sister—and failed abysmally,” she confessed. “Reg essentially told me to mind my own business, and now Alicia isn’t speaking to me because she thinks I’m jealous that she’s to be the next Duchess of Whitborough. Oh, and she reminded me that, unlike Reg, Hal never set a wedding date.”
Gervase winced. “I’ve heard women always go for each other’s most vulnerable spots in a quarrel. Even my sisters, who rowed far less than my brothers and I ever did.”
Margaret swallowed, still feeling the smart of Alicia’s accusation. “It wasn’t that scratch about Hal that hurt most—please don’t think that! It’s that she believes I’d let jealousy over something so petty spoil our relationship.”
“Poor darling.”
The caress in his voice warmed her more than the finest brandy, and she fought back a rush of tears. “My own fault—I made a mess of the whole business, with both of them.”
Pushing back his chair, Gervase held out his arms without a word, and she surprised herself by walking into them. And was even more surprised when he drew her down onto his lap and gathered her in, arms enfolding her as if she were something infinitely precious. Cherished, even. Breathing out in a tremulous sigh, she relaxed into his embrace. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how badly she needed comfort just now. How strange—and yet not strange that Gervase should know that.
“Leave it be, then,” he advised. “At least for now. No point in making bad worse.” He brushed his lips against the crown of her head. “I suspect Alicia was too angry to think rationally and said what she knew would cause you the most pain. But she is your sister, and you do love one another. I am certain the rift will mend—if you don’t force the issue too much.”
“But how can I not?” Margaret protested. “I can’t just stand by and let this disaster of a marriage take place!”
Gervase drew back just a little, scanning her face intently. “I have not asked before, darling, but why are you so adamant that Reg and Alicia not marry? When you said he wouldn’t make her happy—”
“I meant every word,” she broke in vehemently, “and I believe it with all my heart! But I cannot share my reasons with you. Can you not take my word for it?”
A faint frown creased his brow, but after a moment, he gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. I know this is not something that you would say lightly.”
“Thank you. I would tell you, if I could! But it’s such a sensitive matter—and I gave my word...” she trailed off, sighing again. “Conflicting loyalties are the very devil, aren’t they?”
“They certainly are.”
A strange inflection in his voice caught her attention; he was looking at the stack of books again, his expression unreadable. Margaret studied him thoughtfully, remembering that odd little exchange between him and the duchess.
“Gervase, what exactly did your mother want?” she inquired—and felt the sudden tension in his body, even though his arms remained relaxed around her.
“Oh, the usual,” he replied, after a moment. “Ammunition against Father, and safe conduct for Reg. She believes I can provide both.”
“Why would she think that?’
“Well, it’s—complicated.” His mouth crooked up. “But then, isn’t everything, when it comes to my family?”
Margaret blinked, as bemused as ever by the inner workings of the Lyons clan. “Why does your mother think your father’s working against Reg?”
“Because he is?” Gervase offered, a glint of wry amusement in his eyes. “My mother’s instincts are all too accurate in this case. For as long as I can remember, Father has desired control over his children, especially his sons, and Reg has always resisted him.”
“So have you,” Margaret pointed out. “You might not make as much noise about it as Reg, but you’ve gone your own way and not let your parents tangle you in their schemes.”
His gaze shifted suddenly, almost furtively, away from her. “Ah, well, as to that...”
“Gervase.” Margaret eyed him with growing apprehension; on the rare occasions she could remember him losing his composure, his family had invariably been the cause. Slipping a finger under his chin, she turned his face towards her until they were eye to eye. “What precisely do Their Graces want you to do?”
He did not look away this time, but she could sense his discomfort. “As it happens, both of my parents wish to engage my services, in matters related to the estate.”
“In what way? You might as well tell me, you know,” she added. “Because, it’s clearly troubling you, and no true friend would let you tie yourself in knots over this.” She wound her arms about his neck, keeping him tethered to her side. “Let me help, Gervase. Please.”
He drew a long breath. “This could—this could take a while...”
He told her finally, choosing his words with meticulous care, feeling as tongue-tied and awkward as a schoolboy giving his first recitation. And watched the deepening confusion on her face as she tried to take it all in.
Afterwards, she massaged her temples and shook her head dazedly. “I took a Beecham’s Powder half an hour ago. I now feel sorely in need of another. And the more I hear about your parents, the more convinced I am that I will never understand them!”
“You wouldn’t be the first to reach that conclusion,” he observed dryly.
“So, let me get this straight,” she began, folding her hands in her lap. “Your father is offering you the earth to find ways to strip the wealth from the estate, to ensure that Reg accedes to all his demands. Your mother is offering you the moon to find ways to stop him. And for some inexplicable reason, you have not told them both to go to perdition—”
“I’m waiting to see which of them will throw in the sun and the stars as an incentive.”
Margaret huffed an exasperated breath. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re far too clever for your own good?’
“Yes, on a number of occasions. Sometimes I even agree with them.” He felt his lips twist in a smile that mocked everyone—himself most of all. “I eat the air, promise-crammed. You cannot feed capons so.”
She pulled a face, whether at the quotation or its underlying sentiment he did not dare to ask. “It’s like an eternal game of badminton, with you as the shuttlecock! Don’t you tire of it?”
He exhaled wearily. “More than you can imagine, but... it’s the Lyons way. Intrigue and manipulation are in our blood.”
Notice me, Father. Notice me. He could hear the boy who still lived inside of him urging, pleading—despite his grown self’s attempts to silence that plea. So many years as the forgotten son, vying for his father’s attention. School honors, examination results, form reports... all the prizes he’d striven for in the hope that it might make a difference. It so seldom had. Perhaps a moment or two of approval, before the duke turned to praise Hal’s score in a cricket match or even Jason’s progress on his new pony.
Not that Hal had found their father’s commendation so great a reward, laced as it always was with advice on how he could improve. He could remember his brother complaining on one such occasion, “If my team wins by ten points, Father will tell me how we could have won by twenty! He’s never satisfied!”
And his mother, who tried to be more even-handed with her affections, but could never quite hide her own partiality towards Reg. That moment when she’d supported Gervase’s wish to pursue a career of his choosing might have been the closest they’d ever been. How much did he owe her for that? Had she the right to demand his allegiance to Reg, who had always struck him as more than capable of fighting his own battles? If their positions were somehow reversed and he was the ducal heir, would she be pressuring Reg to help him avoid their father’s subtle snares? He doubted it.
“Gervase.” Margaret’s voice and touch recalled him to the present; he turned his head to find her studying him with concern. “You know you don’t need their approval, don’t you?”
She nestled, warm and sweet, within his arms, but despite their physical closeness, he felt suddenly, almost overwhelmingly apart from her in that moment. She did not understand. Indeed, how could she? The Langdales had loved their children equally—or done a far better job of concealing their preferences. Easy for her to tell him to wash his hands of his parents!
He swallowed, doing his best to extinguish the spark of anger; she didn’t deserve that from him, not after the morning she’d had so far. “Yes, I know.” On a purely rational level, he understood that he did not need his parents’ approval. Which didn’t stop him from wanting it... and that was something he suspected even Margaret couldn’t help him with. Still less would she understand the twinge of perverse satisfaction he felt at their attempts to win his loyalty, after years of inattention... a satisfaction of which he was almost—but not quite—ashamed.
Well, he’d be damned if he let this tug-of-war spoil things with Margaret. Or his Christmas, for that matter. He’d waited almost all his life for his parents’ recognition; they could wait a few more days for his—if he chose to grant it.
Resolutely, he turned again to the woman he held in his arms. So sweet and so good—a better, kinder, more generous person than he could ever hope to be—and far more deserving of his attention than his parents’ ancient grudge. “I suspect that this, like my brother’s wedding, is a subject better left for another time,” he remarked, settling Margaret more firmly on his knee.
She raised quizzical brows. “Avoiding the issue?”
“Just—putting it aside for now. To focus on something a good deal pleasanter.” He leaned in and kissed her, a long, lingering kiss meant to draw out the strain and tension from them both. From her soft sigh of response, he gathered he’d succeeded, and encouraged, he kissed his way down the smooth column of her throat, ending just before the topmost button of her blouse. Margaret shivered pleasurably, her dark eyes slumberous and half-lidded.
He caressed her cheek. “Might I come to you again, tonight?”
She smiled, twining her arms about his neck. “I’d be greatly disappointed if you did not.”
“Heaven knows I cannot bear to disappoint a beautiful woman.” Deftly, he unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse, slid his fingers inside to stroke the upper swell of a breast just above her corset. Margaret made a low, urgent sound in her throat, leaning into his touch and reaching for his shirt buttons. Heat rushed to his groin, an unnecessary reminder that his body was quite willing—and able—to resume what they’d started the night before.
The knock on the library door had them springing apart, breathless and wild-eyed.
“Damn,” Gervase muttered, throwing Margaret an apologetic glance. “I knew I should have locked the door. Who is it?” he called, more loudly.
“Elaine. May I come in?”
Margaret all but leapt off his lap, hurrying to put the expanse of the table between them as she hastily buttoned up her blouse. Gervase took a few moments to smooth his shirtfront and grimly will his overeager body to quiescence before granting his sister admittance.
She entered the room with a buoyant step. “I thought you’d like to know, Ger—the actors have arrived. The ones who’ll be performing tomorrow night. Father wants us all to come and meet them, show our hospitality—oh, Margaret!” she greeted her friend. “I didn’t realize you were in here too. My heavens, have you both spent the whole morning in the library?”
Gervase shrugged, deliberately casual. “I have, but Margaret just got here. I’d be happy to come along in a minute, Lainey—what sort of company are they?”
As familiar with the Bard as he, she recited, “The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral—”
“Scene individable or poem unlimited,” Gervase finished for her, hearing Margaret stifle a giggle. “Then came each actor on his ass. Have you seen them perform before?”
“No, but Madeline has,” Elaine replied. “She says they’re quite a decent troupe, and you know how exacting she can be.”
“High praise indeed,” Gervase observed. Still, none of the Lyons family ever had to feign enthusiasm for the theater. Rising, he offered a decorous arm to both Elaine and Margaret. “Very well, Lainey. Take us to meet these ‘abstracts and brief chroniclers of the time.’”
“The play’s the thing,” Margaret chimed in brightly, mistress of herself once more.
Linking arms, they left the library in perfect amity.