Page 91 of The Lyon Returns
To his right, the duke, Mr. Tyrell—Arnold—and Grayson engaged in a hushed argument. At the crux of the issue was his brother’s wish to take on more of the ducal estate’s responsibilities, and thereby takesome of the burden off of their father.
Grayson argued, at nearly thirty, it was past time he took over the reins. The duke held that Grayson wasn’t ready. Arnold, ever the peacemaker, but also a notorious sycophant of his father’s, sided with him against Grayson, albeit in an apologetic way, so as not to inflame the discord between father and son.
To his left, Brice, Sir Phillip, and Culver sat before the hearth, discussing parliament’s duty to aid England’s displaced war veterans. Culver argued in favor of it. Sir Phillip, with his noble background and aristocratic bias, expressed doubt the ex-soldiers were owed anything. Brice took a more pragmatic approach. He wanted to know exactly how Culver envisioned such aid being doled out.
Gideon decided of all of the men present this weekend, Mr. Floyd had the most sense. He’d retired for the night when the ladies announced their intention to turn in an hour ago. Gideon had wanted to do the same, but something held him back.
Somethings.
Such as things he needed to tell Gwen. Things that might cause her to conclude their venture had no further basis. For no reason he could name, he did not wish her to come to such a conclusion.
Then there were things he wanted to tell her. Maybewantedwas too strong a word.Owed herseemed more apt. Today she’d told him things she’d never shared with another soul. In return, when she’d cast the die in his direction, he’d gone mute as a mumchance player.
Then there were things he wanted to do—with her, to her, inside her, for God’s sake.
Then there were things he couldn’t explain, even to himself, such as the rush of jealousy he’d experienced tonight witnessing Gwen and Grayson’s interaction at the dinner table.
His gaze slid toward his brother. Grayson had not turned a lot of heads as a boy, or even an adolescent. He’d been too mild-mannered, too pampered by his mother, too consumed with trying to be more like Gideon, of all things.
But eventually Grayson came of age. Heir to the dukedom, with his aristocratic features, slim build, and effortless charm, he drew more than his fair share of feminine interest. Maybe ladies’ heads turned when Gideon walked into a room, sending him covert glances, whispering unholy propositions, offering dalliances aplenty. But Grayson, they wanted to marry.
Grayson could have his pick of the ladies on the marriage mart. The diamonds of the first water were ripe for his plucking, and not meant for one such as Gideon—which was fine. He understood. In truth, he hadalwaysunderstood and expected nothing different.
Even Fannie, as arresting as he’d initially found her, in part, thanks to her dogged pursuit, he’d understood was meant for Grayson. Grayson, the duke’s true heir, deserved her; Gideon, the bastard, didn’t.
No doubt, he also did not deserve one such as Gwen, whom he found imminently superior to his late wife in every way.
Tonight when Gideon looked down the table to see Gwen and Grayson deep in conversation, smiling, laughing, looking for all the world like no one else existed, all the old hurt and rage he’d thought he’d banished came hurtling to the surface. He’d wanted to rip Grayson out of his seat by his cravat and shake him ’til his teeth rattled.
A sudden, vivid image of his wife, half delirious as she lay in her blood-soaked bed, birthing her still-born babe, came to him.He said…we would be together. I told him…of the babe. He said…let Gideon raise my bastard.
Had she lived, Grayson would have let Gideon do it, too, without offering so much as one word to wise. After all these years, Gideon still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. But maybe Brice was right, and it was time to let go of the past.
“Gideon? Everything all right?” his brother called, brows furrowed in evident concern. He’d clearly noticed Gideon staring a hole through him.
Gideon unfolded from the couch. He sauntered toward the duke, Grayson, and Arnold Tyrell. “Fine,” he answered neutrally, lifting his hand, two fingers extended toward his father.
Ever the dutiful, mindful son, he spoke in a low voice that would not carry. “Grayson deserves a chance, old man. If you haven’t noticed, he’s no longer a boy in leading strings, and if he’s going to fail at running the estate, better if you’re there to set him straight and teach him the right way to do things.”
His father frowned in displeasure, but did not argue.
Gideon turned to Tyrell, eyes narrowed in warning. “What say you?”
Arnold Tyrell blinked owlishly.
Gideon nearly grinned. He’d put the retired magistrate in a fine spot. Argue with Gideon and earn hisandthe duke’s ire, or side with Gideon and, perhaps, earn the duke’s ire, perhaps not. Everyone knew the duke trusted Gideon implicitly.
“Er…I suppose, if the lad—”
“Theman,” Gideon corrected.
“If His Grace allows Lord Ashwoodsomefree rein while he’s yet here to guide the young—” He broke off, catching himself. “To guide him, more’s the better.”
“Excellent,” Gideon said. He’d done what he could for his brother, and he meant every word. Grayson would not truly grow into manhood until he had the freedom to fail. “With that, gentlemen, I bid you good night.”
His brother stared at him, eyes suspiciously bright. Gideon pretended not to notice.
His father’s eyes twinkled with knowing amusement, all discussion of his succession apparently forgotten. “So soon? I can’t talk you into a cognac?”
