Page 76 of Teach a Rogue New Tricks
“Don’t blame yourself for my mistakes, Willow.” Frustration clawing up his chest, Cass spit the words. Too harsh, that tone, but a true enough sentiment.
Bax blinked at him then turned to Willow. “He’s right. Not what I’d have ever expected to say, but he is.”
Willow tugged Bax toward Cass, and when he wouldn’t budge, she went behind him and pushed until he stumbled forward. “Now”—she clapped her hands and stood before them both—“you agree on something. Excellent. Let us progress from there. Next point of order, as I see it—I should have a say in Cass’s requested second chance.”
Cass looked from Willow to Bax. His sister-in-law’s meddling could work in his benefit.
Willow scooted closer to Bax, took his hand in hers. “He protected me the other day. Nora and I were at Astley’s, and a drunken fool assaulted us. Cass attended Ada there, and he scared the drunkard off.”
Bax caved his shoulders toward her. “I suppose I should thank him for it?”
“It’s not a question, Bax.” She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles.
Bax heaved a breath in and used it to buoy himself up and straighten his shoulders. He turned to Cass, his face free from even a hint of animosity. “Thank you.”
“I do not require thanks for doing the right thing.”
“More nice words. Does Father know you’re back in London?”
Cass nodded tightly. “He came to me in France.” He waited, unsure how his brother would react to this news.
“I know.”
Willow gasped. “It’s like a plot from one of my books. Which, I remind you, Bax, I steal. Or used to steal. I’ve mended my wicked ways.”
Bax’s attention snapped toward Willow. “You’re not wicked.”
“I am trying to point out that none of us are perfect.”
“And not all of us kidnap women,” Bax drawled, his narrow-eyed gaze trained on Cass.
Cass finally found his voice. It had jolted entirely out of existence by Bax’s confession. “You knew?” But also. He slanted a curious gaze at Willow. “You steal books?”
She shrugged with a sly smile.
Bax growled. “You’re my brother. You ran off after having gambled and drank most of your inheritance away. You threw Willow’s father’s cheques at our feet. I did not know where you were or how you were surviving. Yes, I wished to impale you with a rusty sword, but I could not help but ask—” He snapped his mouth closed and looked away from Cass.
Every word of the little speech had been shot out like bullets from a gun, precise and quick. And now his throat worked, as if the words he wished to say sat like molasses in his gut, heavy and unwilling. When he finally spoke, he kept his gaze trained in Cass’s direction, but not on Cass at all. “I could not help but ask… Where is he? Is he well? I asked Father to look into it, and he gladly did.”
“Thank you.” For sending Father. For wondering about him in the first place when he would have been justified in washing his hands of Cass completely. He needed to sit. His legs felt odd. His father, Ada, both had told him Bax would not throw him into exile. Even his own good logic had argued the same, yet still he’d clung to fear, kept his distance, pinning Bax into the past as much as he’d pinned himself, seeing only the brother from the docks the day of the abduction—wild with anger, hardened to forgiveness.
Cass rubbed his hands down his face, found the rest of his planned speech sitting dusty on a mental shelf, wiped it clean. “Father’s appearance helped me see how wrong I was about him. And about you. And about myself.” Cass took a step toward Bax.
His brother leaned away from his advance, a quick jerk backward.
Cass stopped. Distance remained still between them. Very well. At least it was not so wide as the English Channel. “I’m trying to be better, and I want only your support. I’ve missed you. And Mother and Father. I’ve missed being part of the family.” The only thing he’d cared for since France—returning to them.
He pulled himself up tall, recognizing the lie in the thought, the omission. Over the last week, he’d come to care very much for someone with no familial connection. Thank God. He chuckled, an impossible sound. “I’ve buried the man I used to be. A remarkable woman has convinced me”—he smiled, an involuntary slip of the lips that happened whenever he thought of Ada and her strength, her cunning, her courage—“to focus on who I want to be in the future instead.”
“And what is Future Cass like?” Bax asked, his gaze slicing like a sabre.
“A hell of a lot happier than Past Cass. He cares about others. He doesn’t drink or gamble or abduct women. He’s contemplating writing a book.”
“Ha!” Bax’s eyes gleamed. “About what? How to debauch your way through London?”
“A gentleman’s guide, if you must know. To, ahem, good behavior.”
Bax laughed, and the sound vibrated to Cass’s very core. He hated the sound and hated more what drove it—disbelief.
