Page 13 of The Courtship Trap
His brother had insisted they meet in private, something Sebastian was loath to do. The duke would demand to know why he had returned to London. And he would not like the answer.
Alighting from the carriage, he strode up to Markham House. Best to get it over with. He knocked on the door.
Soon, he was ushered into the study by Clinton. Tall and slim, with a distinguished air and graying hair, the butler had greeted him with a glimmer of humor, likely recalling the many scrapes he had rescued Sebastian from as a boy. Sebastian vaguely realized he was musing to distract himself from the conversation ahead.
Philip stood at the window, staring out at his private garden, hands clasped behind his back. This was Sebastian’s second visit to Markham House, but they had exchanged few words the last time. That visit had been about meeting the new duchess—an intelligent young woman with chestnut hair and brandy eyes, already well-rounded with their second babe. He had also spent time with his nephew, Jasper, who shared his mother’s coloring. Sebastian had wondered whether the boy would grow to match his father in stature, and then, before he could stop himself, his mind had strayed to another possibility.
What if Harriet had left for Calais with him all those years ago? Would they have had a son or daughter by now? Would their child have shared Harriet’s auburn hair and ice-blue gaze?
Apparently, hopes for the past still lingered in the present.
Philip turned, his expression stern as he crossed the room.
He greeted Sebastian with a clumsy pat on the upper arm.
“Thank you for coming.”
The corners of Sebastian’s mouth flexed in the hollow imitation of a smile.
He and Philip were similar in build, his brother taller by an inch, and looking at each other was like staring into a mirror.Except staring into a mirror did not usually unsettle him as much as this.
“Of course.”
The duke’s study was a sanctuary of quiet elegance, a place where power was wielded not with swords, but with ink and careful deliberation.
Lined with towering walnut bookshelves, displaying a wealth of leather-bound volumes, the room bore the unmistakable scent of aged parchment, polished wood, and the faintest trace of coffee from afternoons spent in contemplation. African masks were mixed with ormolu clocks and marble statues, speaking to their family’s storied legacy.
A large, ornately carved desk of dark mahogany commanded the center of the room, its surface impeccably arranged—a heavy silver inkstand, stacks of correspondence meticulously aligned.
Behind the desk, a high-backed leather chair bore the faint creases of frequent use—the only sign that the duke allowed himself true comfort amidst his responsibilities.
The true marvel of the study, however, was the expansive window overlooking the private garden beyond. Unlike the manicured precision of a country estate, this London retreat was a carefully cultivated oasis under the pale December sky—a stone pathway winding through bare bushes, leafless vines climbing the trellises, and a wrought-iron bench nestled beneath the shade of an ancient oak.
As the soft golden light of a winter afternoon slanted through the glass, the faint scent of fresh-cut pine and holiday greenery drifted into the room.
To the side of the window, a small sitting area offered respite—two wingback chairs upholstered in deep red velvet flanking a low table, where a silver coffee service gleamed in the light.
Here, matters of state and personal intrigue alike were discussed in hushed tones, a place where whispered secrets could be as vital as formal declarations in Parliament.
A marble fireplace, its mantel adorned with delicately carved cherubs and classical motifs, cast a gentle glow with its cheerful fire, while an exquisite portrait of one of their ancestors surveyed the room with imperious regard.
On a nearby side table, a single vase of winter greenery—an indulgence maintained by the household staff—was the only softness amid the room’s otherwise stately grandeur.
This was a space that balanced duty and retreat, intellect and authority—a place where a duke might command his affairs with the measured precision of a strategist, or sit in rare solitude, gazing out over the garden, contemplating the path ahead.
Philip gestured to the wingback chairs, and Sebastian dutifully took a seat, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of aromatic coffee.
His brother sat opposite, his expression grim, and Sebastian knew they would finally have to clear the air. This discussion had been inevitable the moment he had decided to return to England. He only hoped Lorenzo would one day appreciate the lengths to which he was going to assist him, because, given the choice, he would never have left Florence.
“You no longer accept the allowance I have been sending.”
Sebastian could almost detect a note of hurt in his older brother’s tone. But perhaps that was whimsy on his part.
“I have no need. Business in Florence has been good.”
Philip breathed in, his expression stern.
What did His Grace, the lauded Duke of Halmesbury, make of his little brother engaging in commerce? Considering they were not close, Sebastian had no notion of his brother’s thoughts on the matter.
