Chapter Three

He was a bastard.

A fist slammed into Anthony’s side, sharp and wicked. His body jerked under the power of the punch, and he welcomed the bite of pain. He bobbed and weaved, rolling with graceful speed as he danced around his boxing partner, his brother Sebastian.

Or should he say his half brother?

Anthony felt the crack of leather on flesh and blanked his mind, refusing to allow the fury that powered through him to hold sway. Instead, he moved in to deliver rapid-fire punches at Sebastian. The edge of something dark licked at his insides, trying to fray his control. He held onto it with a cold determination he had not thought himself capable of before now.

“Mayhap, boxing is not the best way to relieve your tension.” The wry murmur of his brother’s voice drew him from the black emotions that wanted to pull him under.

He met Sebastian’s blue gaze and wiped all thoughts from his face. He did not need the concern that he saw shadowing his brother’s eyes. “I am not tense.” He unwrapped his hand, looking at the raw knuckles. They did not wear boxing gloves; their only concession to protecting their flesh was a binding of soft leather.

“Did you not read the letter from Newport?” Sebastian queried.

Newport was Anthony’s solicitor, and the last thing he wanted to talk about was the damn letter he had received from him. Anthony grabbed the towel Sebastian held out and raked it over his skin with a curse. “I did.”

“Then you are tense, brother. Why don’t you go and see Georgina?”

He tried to conjure up images of his former mistress, but he only saw sensual lips and whiskey-colored eyes in a freckled face. He shook his head sharply, not welcoming the reminder of Miss Peppiwell. “I bid Georgina adieu with a few generous gifts.”

Sebastian threw him a startled look. “Why? I thought her experienced enough to suit your tastes.”

“I grew bored.”

“Were you not fond of her?”

Anthony paused, searching for the right words. “The comfort I found in her arms seemed hollow. I grow weary of mindless connections and am thinking of taking a wife.” Seeing Sebastian grimace at the idea of forming a more lasting attachment, he changed the subject. “I am reopening the town house on Grosvenor Square. Care to join me?”

“You know I do not,” Sebastian growled.

They strode from their sparring room down through a massive foyer to the prodigious Calydon library. Anthony closed the door, not willing to face Sebastian’s butler nor the housekeeper’s exclamations at their improper state of undress.

“Do you intend to rusticate here in the country when you now know how imperative it is for you to find a duchess?” Anthony asked, sinking into the single armchair. He assumed a casual pose, legs splayed wide, although he felt anything but. He purposely flattened his voice, burying all trace of pain. He wanted to talk about anything except the letter their father had sent his personal solicitor, along with the family solicitor and God knew who else.

“You know how I feel about acquiring a duchess. You will be my heir, Anthony.” Sebastian poured amber liquid into two glasses and handed one to him.

“I will not!” Anthony’s voice lashed with such vehemence Sebastian paused.

“Anthony—”

“Do not challenge my decision, brother,” he said, accepting the drink.

“It is your right. Not because that bitch splayed—”

“Be careful, Your Grace. The disgust you feel for our mother is understood, but you will not malign her, even if you do not claim her.” He surged to his feet, prowling to the windows overlooking the estate lawns. Restless energy burned through him. “She was unhappy, and I have forgiven her for her transgressions.”

“I have not, and will never forgive her. The position that she placed you and our sister in—If it becomes known, Constance will be shattered. She doted on the old man.”

“And that is why we cannot challenge the claim,” Anthony stated, clearing the hoarseness from his voice. “I have spoken to Mother. I did not ask for justification of her actions, though she offered it with tears aplenty. Her tears I did not want, only the truth. And it seems I am, indeed, the replica of the Viscount Radcliffe. I was blind to not see Constance’s and my resemblance to her lover all these years. So damnably blind.”

Sebastian came to his side, and they stood looking out upon the palatial estate of Sherring Cross. “This is yours as much as it is mine, Anthony. If not by blood, by virtue of the dedication and the wealth you have funneled into the estate to help raise it to the glory that it is today. You should be the rightful heir, to this and to my other estates. If you can never inherit it, I lay the blame directly at her feet.” The bitterness in Sebastian’s voice did not escape Anthony.

He sighed. “I do not. I blame the man that I once respected. The man whose admiration I worked so hard to win. I blame our father, whom Constance loved wholeheartedly and bitterly grieved when he passed. The father she thought loved her in return, but who left her exposed to scorn and ridicule if you dare to name me, my children, or Constance’s children, as your heirs.” He knocked back the brandy appreciating the burn that traveled to his stomach.

They were silent for several minutes before Sebastian spoke. “I know you are avoiding discussing the contents of Newport’s letter.”

Anthony tensed, shifted, and met his brother’s intense scrutiny.

“Father sent me a copy of the letter. I know what it said,” Sebastian confessed.

Anthony felt the blow sharper than Sebastian’s fist. “So you know he has disowned me in every possible way?” Anthony quirked his lips. The pain that sliced through him at the admission, he had not expected to feel. It was not as if the old man had been overly fond of him growing up.

“He has not disowned you.”

“You defend him?”

“I do not, but he has not disowned you, Anthony. He did not proclaim your parentage to the world.”

“He has instructed the family’s solicitor and mine of the circumstances of my and our sister’s birth. He ordered the information be made public if you attempt to allow me to inherit any of the entail. If that happened, Constance would be faced with social ostracism of the worst kind.” A circumstance he would likely kill to spare her from bearing.

Distress flashed through Sebastian’s eyes. It could not have been easy on him to discover that his sister and brother had been labeled bastards, and that their mother had been unfaithful. But the fact was, Anthony had been cut off by a man he thought was his father. A man he had tried to emulate, and had excelled in his studies at Eton and Oxford in order to please.

Anthony could almost forgive the old duke for revealing his own circumstances in such a manner, but the condemnation from society that would befall his mother and Constance was unforgivable. His kind, vivacious sister, who had charmed the haute monde for the season, would be shredded.

The disdain that would be shown by the upper echelons when they discovered his illegitimacy had a laugh bleeding from his lips, though he was anything but amused. An impotent fury had been eating at his insides. The family would have to stick together with their full wealth and power, but still, no one would accept either sibling’s hand in marriage.

“Constance’s children will be branded. My children as well. And for what?” he asked, raking a hand through his hair.

“We should delay telling her as long as possible,” Sebastian said.

“When have we ever lied to each other?” Anthony demanded, even though he agreed. At only seventeen years of age, she had enjoyed her first season immensely. He wanted her to hold onto her innocence a little longer.

“It may never come out.” Sebastian’s voice was implacable. “I will ensure it never comes out.”

“She deserves to know.” Despite the devastation it would cause her, he felt he owed their sister the truth. And yet, he doubted he could tell her. Much as he had, his sister had always sought an explanation for their father’s coldness. He knew she deserved honesty, but he would hold onto the secret a little longer.

“Constance has much to recommend her—blue blood, wealth, her wit and intelligence, and her beauty. I have rejected a dozen offers for her already. But she needs more time. She is waiting for her prince charming to sweep her off her feet.”

He and Sebastian knew every hurt, every disappointment, every hope she had in relation to their believed father.

“As we speak, she is preparing for the Grahams’ ball, and, by the way, is in need of an escort.”

“Our mother will be there,” Anthony retorted, picking up the decanter from the side bar and refilling their glasses.

“I have no faith in our mother’s capabilities as a chaperone. It was under her tutelage Constance entered the card room at Lady Brunel’s ball and offered to deal for Lord Williamson,” Sebastian snapped.

Anthony’s laughter rang through the library. “Fine. I will go,” he agreed.

Against his better judgment, his mind returned to Miss Peppiwell. He wondered idly if he even had the right to think about her. Or about the beautiful Lady Jocelyn, who even now probably expected their betrothal.

He must disabuse her of the idea immediately, of course. She deserved better than the likes of him.

He was a bastard.

Unlike his brother, Anthony wanted a family, children of his own. The mindless pleasures he had found in his mistresses’ arms over the years had lost their luster. He wanted a deeper connection, one he was sure existed…even if Sebastian insisted it did not. Anthony’s sexual tastes had always made him wary of debutantes, but he’d come to realize not even mistresses could soothe his appetites, so why not indulge himself with a wife?

He clenched his jaw. But now that was impossible. He could not marry without informing his intended of his bastardy—it would be unforgivable to deceive a woman like that. But the moment he confessed his shame, any proper lady would flee from him and the very real possibility of society’s condemnation that came with aligning herself with a bastard.

He slammed down his glass with a growl and strode from the library toward the stables, the pointed sword of his ignoble birth suspended above his head.

He did not want a mistress.

He could not take a wife.

So, what was left?

He dearly wished his erstwhile father were still alive. Never before had he so desperately wished to strangle another man with his bare hands.