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.
Chapter Four
Phillipa sauntered into her family’s parlor energized by the restful slumber from which she’d finally roused herself. She’d needed it badly, for her sleep had been dogged with nightmares these past few weeks. Not to mention the last two nights filled with dreams of a very different sort—featuring a pleasing pair of emerald-green eyes doing things to her that was far better forgotten.
This morning’s long slumber had been welcomed, despite missing breakfast. The only thing to mourn was her morning ride with her Aunt Florence, the Countess of Merryweather.
“Good afternoon, Mama.” She smiled at the fetching picture her beautiful mother, Katherine Augusta Peppiwell, crème de la crème of Boston society, made perched on the sofa nearest the windows with the sunbeams lighting her coiffed red hair with fire.
It was her mother’s routine to view the lords and their ladies as they strolled past the Peppiwell’s Mayfair town house.
Her mother poured a second cup of tea the moment she espied Phillipa, immediately launching into her favorite topic. “You must do everything in your power to secure a marriage, my dear. Your father and I are depending on you. Payton has gone and fallen in love with the Viscount St. John’s son. It may be years before he inherits the title.”
Phillipa faltered, and she rolled her eyes. She had no intention of ever marrying and it seemed her mama had no intention of not pressuring her to do so. “Mrs. Pettigrew wanted to know if lamb with lemon sauce would be acceptable for tonight’s dinner, Mama.”
“My dear, you must stop this penchant for ignoring everything I say about you finding a suitable husband,” her mother snapped, then raised the dainty china to her lips and sipped delicately—something completely unlike her.
Their foray into London society had changed them all into something Phillipa hated. She did not understand why her parents wanted to remain in London, but her mother and sisters loved it. They adored the glitter, the gossip, and the scandals that could occur over any small mishap, and bubbled with excitement over the few balls and soirees they had been invited to.
Doing exactly as her mother accused, Phillipa pulled a letter from the stack of newspapers and journals that had arrived earlier. Gladness and relief surged through her when she noted the bold scrawl of Brandon Thomas, her dearest frie
nd. She sank into the sofa facing her mother to read.
“Are you listening to me, Phillipa?” The rattle of the china had her looking up to meet the turquoise eyes of her mother.
“Yes, Mama.” She slit the seal with the letter opener and read the missive carefully. Shock stabbed through her at the news it carried.
“Are you quite well? You’ve gone pale,” her mother said.
The letter slipped from Phillipa’s hand, and she stared blankly at her.
Brandon had gotten married.
She swallowed as pain tightened her throat. She did not love him as she ought to, but to know he’d so easily abandoned his promises to her, hurt. She stuffed the letter in her pocket and forcefully pushed him from her thoughts. “Mama, you know I do not wish to marry.”
“Phillipa,” her mother snapped, then swung a furtive gaze toward the footman who waited at the door.
Phillipa waved her hand, dismissing him.