Royal Regard

Chapter Thirteen, Part 4

The oily smell of burnt coal reminded Nick to add a shovelful of slack to the fireplace. While he stumbled slightly to the hearth, he pondered how to politely decline the elderly man's offer.

"I am the perfect second son," Nick said, shaking his head, possibly slurring his words. "I arranged everything in my life precisely for the freedom to go anywhere, do anything, and remain permanently unattached. I chose to come back to England and take on the oversight of this damned title in dubious deference to my father and brother, when I could have stayed in Santiago, never to be seen again. I still sometimes regret it. Deeply. I would be better off if the duchy had reverted to the Crown."

"No argument from me," Huntleigh agreed. "I would rather be a Bedlamite in chains than a titled man in London—although a case could be made there is no difference. I would have hated playing Lord of the Manor, and so would Bella. We would have come home to raise children but were never forced to choose."

While he watched the anthracite ignite, warming his already warm hands, Nick continued, "I do not wish to regret a wife and children, nor for them to regret me if I cannot bring myself to stay in one place the rest of my life. I'd rather leave the dukedom to a chimney sweep than cause that kind of pain."

"I understand that, and in fact, respect it a great deal."

"You may be the only man in England who would."

"No, I think the late duke would have agreed. Well, the senior Northope, at any rate. I had very little knowledge of David."

With mention of his father, Huntleigh saw he now had Nick's undivided attention, so indicated with his eyes that Nick might prefer to re-take his chair. Somehow without tripping over his own feet, Nick complied with the unspoken request, stopping at his desk on the way to retrieve the brandy carafe and his glass.

As Nick poured more cognac, then a cup of cold coffee for his guest, Huntleigh started, "When I wed Bella, I was a not much older than you. You are six-and-forty?"

Nick nodded, swirling the brandy in his glass.

"I was just past fifty, and had sworn equally as adamantly I would never marry. Then, of course, I was granted lands and a barony to bequeath. It might take you as long to justify the decision, but if it does, Bella will be contentedly settled with another man."

Nick felt a lump in his throat and washed it down with a sip of his drink.

"She will be just as fond of him as she is of me," Huntleigh continued, "and if she is lucky, he will be as fond of her as her money. I think that a poor substitute for a man who might bring her joy."

"You are offering me your blessing?"

Huntleigh shook his head, but did not reply right away. Eventually, he intoned, "I am offering you the chance to earn my blessing, and my fortune, before anyone else does."

Nick found himself once more unaccountably belligerent.

"I don't need your money, and I don't need your sanction to fall in love with Lady Huntl—Bella—or to marry her. Or to take her off to sea with me, if it came to that."

Huntleigh leaned back, finally fully at ease, and stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. "I knew if you had a brandy or two, you might come to see the sense in it."

Nick had the feeling he had just missed something terribly important, but felt too bleary-eyed to see it. His confusion increased tenfold when he realized he wasn't really bleary-eyed at all. He was remarkably clearheaded considering the amount he had imbibed.

"I think I need less brandy and more coffee."

"I am certain you do. Shall I call for the butler?"