Not that they were happy, but that they were gone.
Most of his friends, if he could call them that, were busy with their wives, busy with their children.
He flinched. He did not wish for a wife. He did not wish for more children. It felt too much like a replacement. Like an attempt to bury his loved ones’ memories as he had their bodies.
But he was a duke.
One day, he would have to do his duty. Again. The risk was impossible.
Society said he would need to start a line to ensure the passing of his dukedom to the next generation. But the very idea of having to get close enough to someone to make a child with them… it was appalling.
He didn’t mind getting entangled with women. He quite liked pleasure, but to make a child with someone, to blend his personality with another’s and hope that the child would become someone who was, if not happy, at least content with the world? It was quite an undertaking.
He would not bring a child into this world to be miserable. And to find the right woman, a woman who could never be as wonderful as Evelyn but at least could do her duty, was no easy thing.
When he, at last, could avoid it no longer, he knew he would have to find the right person so that he could avoid a completely disastrous marriage, which would create a disastrous upbringing for his children.
The pressure of the years going by were very real. And his own life was not without risk. Many disliked him. And he needed an heir before someone shot him in a duel.
And if he was honest, he was lonely.
He was willing to admit it, even if only to himself, that the long hours werelong. He loved books. He loved to debate, but he missed friendship. He had been careful in the cultivation of his friends, choosing only people who could see him for who he truly was and not hate him for it.
For his calculation, for his ability to see the weakness of others, for his determination to go after that weakness when necessary and turn it into a weapon.
And it had been the death of his wife and children that had turnedhiminto a cold weapon.
He acted ruthlessly over and over again at war on the continent against Napoleon, in politics, and in honor. He would do it again if and when he had to, and no doubt he would have to soon.
After all, the House of Lords was in session. He had no desire to go back to France and fight. Besides, a duke was not supposed to do such things. He’d left those days behind. He’d spilled a river of blood trying to forget the new members of his family crypt.
He’d failed and returned home.
He still had a taste for the fight. He could not give up yet. Surely, there were ways he could still make meaningful change, despite humanity’s nature?
He was determined to stay afloat in a dark sea of emotion intent on dragging him down. Emotions that threatened to swallow him up daily.
Tom Courtney had been his best foil over the years to keep him from the darkest pitch of it, but he wanted his friend to be with his wife, his trip abroad with her, and to be happy. He would have to find a way without Tom.
Tom needed to be with his wife. And he deserved the love he had found.
A love like the Duke of Clyde had for his wife.
He was surrounded by beasts of men who had found love.
The Duke of Clyde was a perfect instance of someone who had found love—all-consuming, transforming, beautiful love. He wondered what that would be like, to be kissed by the sweet balm of hope again. Surely such a thing was not possible. Nor did he truly wish it.
He was no fool.
He adjusted himself in the tub, trying to sink lower, but he was too large. Garret had the copper tub made especially for him, but even so, he could not quite sink in all the way. His dark hair skimmed the water. He tilted his head back and stared up at the stuccoed ceiling with its gilding and a painting of the gods above.
A floorboard creaked, and he tensed.
He drew in a slow breath through his nose.
Some might think the noise was caused by a rat. After all, great houses had them in scores. It did not matter how wealthy one was. The palaces of Europe were full of the vermin.
Not his house.