Page 90 of Ne'er Duke Well
Peter had thought his father might kill her.
“Eventually he gave up. When I was nine or so, he left for the last time. He was sick already, then—yellow fever. He took every penny we had and left us there.”Rot in this godforsaken place, he’d said.
They would have, probably, if not for Josephine. His motherhad crumpled—she had always been brave, but she had also always been wealthy, had always had servants and caretakers, a cook, people to work for her who loved and respected her. But without money, the house had fallen to decay, vines curling through the walls of the stables, the well filling with brackish water.
Josephine had taken care of Morgan and Peter and his mother too, had single-handedly managed their finances, taught Peter and Morgan to mend their own stockings and pick persimmons when the skins were soft.
“It was a year or two after that that Morgan got sick. He started to cough when we’d swim.”Morgan’s face, breaking the surface of the pond, white and a little frightened, gasping for breath.“He would grow feverish at night and in the morning be fine again. It went on and on—he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to ride any longer. One day I was taller than he was. One day he got in bed and never got out again. That was when Josephine told me that he was my brother.”
Selina, who had been silent through this recital, cupping his hand between her own, took a small, gulping breath. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that you lost him.”
He let her trace the arch of his knuckles and did not pull away. “I got it into my head that my father didn’t know.” He couldn’t have said why he’d believed it—he’d known his father was a contemptible sod for years.
Hope, probably. Impossible, childish hope.
“I wrote to him. I told him that Morgan was sick. Ibeggedhim to send us—hell, anything. Doctors. Money. Medicines. And then when he didn’t respond, I thought the letter must have been misdirected, so I wrote to him again. And again.”
“Oh, Peter. Oh no.”
“He finally answered. He said he had no son in New Orleans—not Morgan, and not me.” He laughed, and it was awrongsound,here in Freddie’s bedroom. Bitter and hateful. “He would have been so goddamned angry to see me here. Living in his house. Spending his money. Ruining everything he thought was so important—the Kent name, the title, our place in this world—all the things that mattered more to him than his own children.” His voice broke on the last word, and he hated the weakness in it, hated the pleasure he took in spiting his father, who wasdead, for God’s sake, whoshould not matterany longer, and yet did.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything, in the end. Morgan had consumption—it’s not as though he could have been cured, even if our father had sent a chest full of gold bars. But he didn’t even try—he didn’t even see Morgan, didn’t acknowledge him.” He’d left them—all of them—to rot. Just as he’d said.
Selina tucked her feet up into her chair and shifted her body closer to his, pressing her arm against his arm, tipping her head onto his shoulder. She was warm, and she smelled familiar and real beside him.
“We won’t leave Freddie alone,” she said. “Not for a moment. I promise.”
He swallowed, and could not speak.
“Put your head on mine,” she said. “Rest.”
Peter drew a breath then laid his head atop hers. Her hair was soft against his cheek.
He had done nothing to deserve her. There was no reason she should be here beside him, all night, holding vigil over his brother.
There was no reason she should care for all of them—no reason except that it was her nature to care, to protect and love and try to set things right.
He didn’t know how to make the family he’d always wanted, how to drag the fantasy kicking and screaming into the world. Hedidn’t know how to give Freddie and Lu security, a solid steady hearth fire. He wanted to keep the children safe, and yet part of him was shouting that this was proof—that he could not do so. That he would fail.
He could not think of losing Freddie. He could not bear to imagine losing any of them, and yet it seemed inevitable now: loss and grief and the sickening childish heartbreak over being abandoned.
It took a long time for his anger to dissipate, and Selina said nothing all the while. Merely held fast to his hand. He gripped her fingers in return, holding as if to life itself, and she did not pull away.
She was the heart of their small, fragile family, and he feared what would happen between them if everything fell apart. He trusted her—her calm and confidence and patience—and yet he feared too that she would not want to live in a family as fractured as his own had been. She had been raised in the tight knot of Ravenscroft affection, in the knowledge that she was safe and precious and loved.
Safe, he thought, and tightened his fingers on hers. There was nothing he would not give to keep her that way—Selina and Freddie and Lu.
Precious, he thought, and breathed in the spicy-sweet scent that was bergamot and Selina’s skin.
Loved, he thought.My love, he thought and had no other words but those.
Chapter 23
… And when, dear child, are you bringing yourwifeto visit me? I am eager to meet her. You’ve been quite cryptic, but I know you. She must be fine indeed. By the way, I have the estate well in hand—stop sending so much money!
—from Josephine de Marigny, of New Orleans, Louisiana, to Peter Kent, the ninth Duke of Stanhope
On the third morning of his illness, Freddie’s fever had not abated. Selina had persuaded Peter to sleep on the mattress Lu had dragged into Freddie’s room their first night in the house. One of the children, it seemed, was afraid of the dark. Selina did not know which.
