Prologue
Rufford Hall, Nottinghamshire - February 1816
Gregory, Baron Avery, offered his younger brother Tristan a glass of whiskey. “It’s been so nice, having you home again.” The golden liquid reflected the roaring fire, just a few feet away in the hearth.
"Phoebe insisted.” Tris accepted the glass with a nod and a smile that said better than words ever could the concern that he and his wife obviously had for Greg. “Why don’t you come back to Norfolk with us, before we head to London? Change of scenery might be just what you need.”
But they both knew Greg wouldn’t leave Rufford Hall. After all, he rarely did, preferring surroundings that did not change to those that did. “Who says I need anything?” Greg asked, returning to his study’s sideboard to pour himself a drink as well. “It takes quite a lot of time and effort keeping the Hall running smoothly. Not that you or Russ would understand that.”
As soon as his younger brothers were able, they’d purchased their army commissions and departed for one adventure after another on the continent. Greg didn’t begrudge either of his brothers the freedom they’d found along the way. Such was life for younger brothers. But Greg was the peer, the one tasked with running the Avery barony and its holdings, which he quite enjoyed, actually. Mending his tenants’ roofs, overseeing the harvest, maintaining the glory of Rufford Hall. It was all rather calming in a way. And purpose. It gave him a purpose and kept his mind occupied.
“I do,” Tristan said, making Greg splash more whisky than he’d intended into his glass and subsequently onto the sideboard. “This place is like a bloody mausoleum.”
Greg’s head jerked toward his brother, and he frowned. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“You know what I mean by that.” Tristan heaved a sigh, concern etched across his brow. “She is dead, Greg. And with the way you live, you might as well have climbed inside that coffin right beside her.”
She. Her. Tristan would never say Marina’s name. No one ever did. And though no one had ever said Greg didn’t have a right to mourn her—she had been, after all, another man’s wife—he knew they all thought so, quietly. But he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He’d loved Marina with all of his heart, and with her passing so too went all of his youthful carefree days, the lightheartedness that had, at one time, been so much a part of who he was. Even though he’d come to realize that Marina wasn’t the sweet girl he’d once believed her to be, her death and the death of their daughter had forever changed him.
“Look.” Tristan placed his glass on the table beside his chair. “I can never repay you the debt that Phoebe and I owe you, Greg.” His voice cracked with emotion as though he was reliving the very moment Greg and Phoebe had found Tristan the previous year, the very moment they’d stopped him from fleeing the country and ruining his only shot at true happiness. “But I’m trying my hardest, and you’re making it damned difficult to return the favor.”
Was that what this was about? Another it’s-time-you-got-on-with-your-life speech from one of his siblings? “I’m happy where I am, Tris.” He lifted his over-filled glass to his lips and drank a healthy amount from the top.
“You can lie to yourself if you want, Greg.” Tristan’s green Avery eyes stared a hole straight into his soul. “But you can’t lie to me. I remember what you said to me that day, the morning I left. I’ll never forget it.”
That was the problem with baring one’s soul to one’s brother, they tended to remember every word you said and would use it against you when it suited them. “Tris…” he began.
But Tristan shook his head, his mind clearly made up. “You were young. You made a mistake. You shouldn’t have to pay the rest of your life for it. You’re a good man, a decent one, no matter how you see yourself. And you have every right to a happy life.”
“My life is happy,” Greg stressed, even though that wasn’t entirely true. No amount of tending to his holdings would fill the empty cavity in his chest. Though he was not about to say those words aloud.
Tristan snorted. “Happy? Her ghost haunts each step you take, like a specter floating around you day and night, not willing to let you go.”
“I had no idea you had such a flair for the dramatic,” Greg drawled, hoping he didn’t seem as exposed as he felt under the keen eye of his brother’s observation.
“When is the last time you looked in a mirror, Greg?”
“This morning.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed, silently accusing Greg of being petulant. “When is the last time you truly took a good look at yourself?” He sighed warily. “You didn’t die with her. It’s all right for you to live, you know?”
If he didn’t know his brother’s heart was in the right place, Greg would have been tempted to toss his whisky at Tristan’s head. Even still, it was almost impossible to keep the growl from his voice when he replied, “I breathe in air, same as you, every day.”
“But it’s not the same as me.” Tristan frowned. “It’s not the same, and you know it. You know it because you loved her. You were whole and your heart was alive and—”
“Don’t tell me what is in my heart, Tristan. Only I know what’s there.”
“And what is there?” his brother asked, his eyes steady and unwavering as he studied Greg’s face.
Damn Tristan and his blasted honor. It would be so much easier to be standing there, looking at Russell with all of his flaws. So much easier to tell their less than honorable brother to go hang; but with Tristan… Well, Greg couldn’t tell him what was in his heart, it had been so long since he’d felt it. But he’d be damned before he admitted as much to his youngest brother.
When it became apparent he had no intention of answering the question, Tristan pushed out of his chair and sidled over toward Greg. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“A deal?” he echoed, his eyes narrowing just a bit.
Tristan nodded. “Spend this upcoming season in London. Just this once, and I’ll never mention it again.”
“London?” he spat as though it was a foul word.