Page 33 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Which was mayhap why those faraway remembrances whispered forward.
In Wingrave’s mind’s eye, he saw himself in this very spot, a book on his lap and silence his only company, until he’d snapped whatever title he’d been reading shut and gone in search of his brother.
So many times, Wingrave had caught sight of his sad-eyed sibling, elder by but a year.
That hadn’t always been the case. Before Evander’s studies as future duke commenced and their sire severed the connection between them, Wingrave and Evander had been inseparable.
But then Evander had been all but locked away in His Grace’s office, with the duke and the army of stern-faced, monotone tutors who’d hammered away at all Wingrave’s brother needed to know about the duchy and the responsibilities that accompanied it.
In contrast, Wingrave had found himself blessed with free rein to explore, to pursue whatever curiosity fascinated him in a given moment, and each and every one of those many moments had involved losing himself in the pages of the books shelved here. They’d been a poor substitute—inanimate companions—but companions nonetheless for a then newly lonely Wingrave.
Wind wailed and gusted, sending flecks of ice-mixed snow pattering against the windows like little crystalline teardrops the skies had stirred to life from memories of long ago, and Wingrave sat motionless, his unblinking gaze riveted on the whorl of flakes whirring outside those frosted panes.
In his mind, the past mingled and mixed with the present, a kaleidoscope of images and words and sounds.
The duke responding to an urgent summons that had arrived from London.
Evander’s tutor choking on his ink-filled tea and running from his employer’s office.
And Evander. All the while, a fifteen-year-old Evander, home for winter recess from Oxford, put to work on the Blofield books. Through that sudden and intrusive chaos that had drawn both duke and tutor elsewhere, Evander remained with his head bowed, his pen scratching away at the open pages before him. Evander ... a changed figure, now a shadow of the boy, brother, and friend he’d been.
“Come,” he urged. “The lake is frozen, and it won’t be long before the duke realizes there’s no emergency requiring his attention.”
Evander finally looked up, with clever—and stunned—eyes. “You did this?”
He flashed a proud grin at his big brother, then sketched a flourishing bow.
Evander frowned in return. “I cannot leave. I’ve the books to see to,” he said, his pen flying across the page once more as he returned to work.
He came around to the space left between the duke’s desk and the imposingly heavy and ornate desk adjacent it that his brother occupied.
“We always used to skate, Evander,” he said quietly.
“I don’t have time—”
“I miss you.”
The frantic and fast strokes of Evander’s pen slowed, then stopped. His serious features, so very like his own, made seeing his face like looking into a mirror.
After a seemingly endless quiet, a smile built slowly on Evander’s lips.
Evander snapped his book closed and jumped up so quick, his mahogany Hepplewhite armchair flew back and landed with a loud clatter on the floor. “I’ll race you there.”
Before that final word had left his mouth, Evander took off, running from the office, and he set after him, racing in swift pursuit.
The sounds of their laughter—the final laughter they’d ever shared as brothers and the final expression of stupid mirth Wingrave had ever known—rang in the chambers of his mind.
Emitting a sound of annoyance, he gave his head a firm shake.
Good God. He couldn’t recall a time in recent memory when he’d thought of his late brother.
What accounted forthosemaudlin thoughts?
Maybe this was his penance for scaring the young lady?
Wingrave’s lips twisted in a mocking grin. Or, as she liked to refer to herself, his new ...friend.
His wry mirth faded.
