For years, his mother suffered in silence, her midnight cries the only evidence of her pain. But she had borne her undeserved shame with dignity. Had risen above his father’s petty tantrums. She had survived the years of torment—the direct cuts and malicious snipes—with a strength he admired.
But then his father died, and the depth of the scoundrel’s hatred became apparent to all. Knowing Miles would eventually tak
e his rightful place as the Greystone heir had given his mother a reason to battle on. Knowing her son inherited nothing but the gloomy house and a modest income sent her into a downward spiral of melancholy and ill health.
On her deathbed, Miles had promised to be a Greystone to rival his honourable ancestors. And by God, he’d do everything in his power to ensure it happened.
Even if he died trying.
Miles found Dariell standing guard on the manor’s front steps. His friend remained still and serene as his vigilant gaze scanned the shrubbery around the gravel drive and the cluster of trees hidden behind the misty veil.
“Two more men came,” Dariell said calmly. “Drake, he dealt with them both swiftly.”
“That makes eight in total.”
“A reasonable number for a night of gaming.” Dariell’s dark eyes settled on Miles. He knew better than to mention the incident at the stones. “Your brothers, they seemed shocked by your return.”
Stephen and Edwin had sauntered into the drawing room as if they owned the damn manor. They’d expected to find the front door open, expected to find Gilligan sipping brandy in his master’s chair. They had not expected to find Miles waiting, fists clenched and ready to fight.
“No doubt my father’s sons prayed I’d drowned in a shipwreck or died of a tropical disease.”
“Agreed.” Dariell nodded. “They despise you almost as much as you despise them.”
Despise was too tame a word.
Miles shifted his awareness to the ugly bitterness filling his chest. His need for revenge was like an open wound in his heart, oozing and festering. There was only one course of treatment—one cure. It was the only thing he and Dariell disagreed on. His friend believed bad feelings only served to corrupt the soul.
“Their mother conditioned them to hate me,” Miles said, but their hatred had made him stronger. “Imelda’s spiteful comments were like a sharp blade to my mother’s heart.”
“Ah, too often people believe what they are told. But you know my sentiments on the power of thoughts being—how you say—of detriment to the mind.”
“Indeed.” Miles knew he could whip himself up into a frenzy if he focused on the years of pain. He could rouse an intense passion that could make his cock swell if he thought about the kiss he’d shared with Miss Lovell.
My God, the lady possessed a magical ability to make him forget the rest of the world existed. Her sweet smiles seduced him. Her kind words and caring heart teased him like an expert hand pumping his shaft.
“I’ve decided to go to London tomorrow,” Miles suddenly said. The next time he saw Miss Lovell, he hoped to have a grip on his rampant emotions.
Dariell raised a brow. “Then you are confident your brothers will return to London tonight?”
“A man cannot predict the actions of fools.” Miles resisted the urge to correct Dariell on the familial connection. “Did you not say that once?”
“I did, and it is true.”
And yet it was not a coincidence that Stephen and Edwin were amongst those attending the card game at Greystone Manor. “My father’s sons are fools, but I have an idea why they came here tonight.”
Dariell shook his head. “You still cannot say the word,” he replied cryptically. “To you, the word brother is bound with love and affection. That is what society has taught you to believe, no? To say the word would mean betraying your mother’s memory. And yet, my friend, you betray yourself every time you show it bothers you.”
Miles’ head hurt too much to attempt to unravel the message woven within the statement. Dariell’s words of wisdom were meant to guide one to the path of enlightenment.
“In refusing to call them my brothers I am conveying my disrespect,” Miles countered.
“To whom? To whom are you showing this disrespect?” Dariell shrugged. “Your brothers are not here. Strive for strength of heart not weakness of the mind.” He threw his hands in the air and said, “A finger is a finger.”
Miles couldn’t prevent a grin forming. “What else would it be?”
“When you say finger, you feel nothing. When you say brother, guilt crawls through your body like a poisonous vine. What is the difference? They are both just words, labels given to aid in conversation.”
“I see your point.” And Miles did see. But to master one’s emotions took time and great patience.