Page 8

Chapter Eight

R obert had scarcely handed his gloves to the butler and dismissed his hat when he noticed something peculiar.

The door to his study was open. And from within, he could clearly hear the unmistakable clink of glass.

His brows furrowed. He moved swiftly down the hall, ready to admonish a careless footman or intruding guest, only to halt at the threshold. The man stood with his back to him, sun-browned and broad-shouldered, nursing a tumbler of brandy as though it belonged to him.

Robert’s disbelief faded into a crooked smile.

“Mason.”

The man turned with a grin that split his tanned face, but his eyes were bright with mischief and warmth. “You always did walk like a soldier, even when sneaking into your own study.”

Before Robert could reply, Mason crossed the room and embraced him in a brotherly, one-armed hug.

“I thought my ears were deceiving me when I heard the news,” Mason said, stepping back to survey him. “You. Engaged. I nearly had to ask the ship to turn around and return me to sanity.”

Robert let out a dry laugh. “And yet here you are, returned in full health and still just as obnoxious.”

Mason clapped him on the shoulder. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you alive and well. And with a fiancée, no less. Tell me, who is this miracle of a woman who has you trading solitude for soirées?”

Robert strode to the decanter and poured himself a drink before answering. “Her name is Evelyn Ellory. You’d like her. Or perhaps not. Most people don’t know what to do with her.”

“And yet you’re marrying her.”

“Yes.”

Mason raised a brow, clearly expecting more. “So? What happened? Did lightning strike? Did she save you from a duel? Did you, God forbid, fall in love?”

Robert scoffed into his glass. “There is no love.”

Mason blinked. “Then why, in God’s name, are you marrying the girl?”

The question hung in the air a moment. Robert felt the old weight of trust between them, the kind formed in blood and fire and sleepless nights.

He wanted, more than anything, to tell Mason everything, every dark corner of his plan, every vow he meant to break, but Mason might try to dissuade him from all of it, thinking it would be the right thing to do.

Robert took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on the amber swirl in his glass.

“I’m tired, Mason. Tired of silence. Tired of walking through this life with no one beside me. If not love, then perhaps… companionship.”

The word usually made him shudder. It was foreign, unnecessary to his way of life. Yet now, it slipped from his mind as naturally as a drop of rain from a cloud. Exactly at the right time, exactly where it needed to be.

Mason’s expression softened, surprise fading into something more earnest. “Well. That’s more honest than most men ever get before the altar.”

He raised his glass in toast. “To companionship, then.”

Robert clinked his glass against his friend’s. Then, Mason settled into the armchair across from Robert, stretching out with all the comfort of a man who hadn’t been welcome in many drawing rooms and didn’t care a whit about it.

“So, tell me more about her,” he said, swirling the last of his brandy. “This Evelyn Ellory. Is she truly the sort to turn a duke’s life upside down, or is that just you being dramatic?”

Robert chuckled low under his breath. “She’s chaos wrapped in silk. Sharp as a blade and twice as stubborn. She lies poorly but with such conviction, you almost admire her for it.”

Mason’s grin widened. “Sounds entertaining.”

“It is,” Robert admitted. “Infuriatingly so.”

A brief pause followed, filled only by the faint tick of the longcase clock in the corner. Mason’s gaze dropped thoughtfully to the rug before he spoke again.

“You know,” he added, more gently, “it sounds like your mother would have liked her.”

Robert’s smile faltered. His fingers tightened slightly around his glass.

Mason looked up quickly, wincing. “Damn it. I didn’t mean to?—”

“No,” Robert said quietly, setting his drink aside. “You’re right.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling as though the memory of her lingered there. “My mother would have adored her. She always said she liked women with fire in their blood. Claimed they made the best wives and the most terrifying opponents.”

Mason gave a soft laugh, and Robert allowed himself a small smile.

“It still hurts,” Mason pointed out thoughtfully.

“It does,” Robert replied, his tone steady. “And it always will. But you’re right. My mother would’ve looked at Evelyn and said, ‘That one. That’s the one who’ll keep you honest, whether you like it or not.’”

Mason nodded slowly, the weight of shared loss between them unspoken but understood.

“And your father?” Mason asked, testing.

Robert’s expression darkened, but his voice remained calm. “My father would’ve tried to crush her spirit before the ink on the contract was dry. Even if he were here, I would never let that happen.”

Mason studied him for a long moment, then leaned forward with a grin. “So, not in love, you say?”

Robert raised a brow. “Absolutely not.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mason said, leaning back with infuriating satisfaction. “Well, let me know when you’ve convinced yourself of that.”

Robert shook his head, smiling despite himself. That was when Mason glanced toward the window as the sky softened into the golden hush of the afternoon.

“Come,” he said suddenly, rising to his feet and brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “Let’s take a walk. Clear the air. Maybe stretch those brooding muscles you’re always using.”

Robert gave him a dry look. “I don’t brood.”

“You do, actually. Brood, sulk, glower… it’s practically your profession. Now, get up.”

Robert sighed but stood, reaching for his coat.

Mason’s tone shifted, quieter now. “We could walk up the hill.”

Robert stilled, his fingers pausing at the button of his coat.

“To the graves?” Mason added gently.

Robert looked away for a long moment, jaw tightening. He hadn’t been up there in months.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I think… I’d like that.”

Mason didn’t speak again. He only offered a nod and opened the door for him. They stepped out into the brisk air with the wind tugging faintly at their coats as they moved down the gravel path in silence.

There was something sacred in the way neither of them needed to speak. Mason had always known when to fill the silence and when to simply walk beside him. After all, Mason Cunningham, the Viscount of Huntley, had been his friend since childhood. Mason knew him better than he knew himself.

As they crested the familiar slope, the hill greeted them with wind and wildflowers, and in the distance, a small plot of white stone markers waited, nestled under the boughs of two old ash trees.

Robert’s pace slowed. It never stopped hurting, but somehow, today, with Mason at his side, it felt a little less impossible.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Mason only nodded. “Always.”

The grass beneath their boots softened as they reached the quiet hilltop where wind rustled through the tall reeds and the boughs of the ash trees murmured like a lullaby for the dead.

Three simple headstones stood in a row, their edges worn by time but clean, lovingly tended. Robert stopped before them.

He let his eyes linger on each name.

Her Grace The Duchess of Aberon, born Cecily Mulligan.

Bernard Firming, 5 th Duke of Aberon.

Julian Firming, the Marquess of Belvedere.

His mother. His father. His brother.

The stillness settled around him, like a silent, heavy embrace. Mason stood a few paces back, letting him have the moment to himself. Robert’s breath left him slowly, as if his lungs refused to fill too deeply in this place.

It had been so long ago, but time had done little to soften the blade of memory. Nine years old. That was all he had been. Just a boy with a scraped knee and a head full of stories about noble men and valiant heroes. Until the world taught him how fiction bled at the edges of reality.

The carriage had creaked beneath them as they turned off the main road. They had been returning from a summer visit to his grandmother’s estate. His mother was humming a lullaby softly under her breath. And then, shouts. Hooves. Chaos.

Then, his mother’s hand pressed on his shoulder, her voice calm but urgent. “Under the seat, Robby. Now. Don’t speak. Don’t come out, no matter what.”

He had obeyed. He always obeyed her.

He remembered the click of the hidden latch, the dusty velvet beneath him as he curled into a space barely big enough to fit him. He heard the carriage door thrown open. Voices. Angry, laughing, foreign. His mother’s scream. His father’s defiance. Julian’s terrified cry.

Then, silence.

Blood.

The end of everything .

And he had done nothing .

He had stayed silent until long after the horses had gone, until the dusk had stretched long and violet and cold.

He had crept out, trembling, and found their bodies.

His mother lay slumped against the carriage wall, her shawl stained red.

His father was collapsed in the grass, a pistol still in his hand.

Julian’s eyes were wide and unblinking toward the stars.

He could never forget the sound of his own screams.

That night, he buried something in himself. The child. The fear. The softness.

In its place, he planted a vow.

Never again.

Never again would he be powerless. Never again would he freeze. Never again would he lose the people he loved and stand by like a coward. He trained. He studied. He hardened.

And still… the guilt never left him.

“I should’ve done something,” he murmured now, so quietly Mason almost didn’t hear.

His friend’s voice came low. “You were a child.”

Robert shook his head. “I was a Firming.”

He crouched beside the grave, fingers brushing the cold stone of his mother’s name. He’d worn her locket for years beneath his collar, unseen. A charm, a burden, a tether.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I have to break my promise to you.”

He stood, brushing the soil from his hands. He turned to Mason, his voice steadier now. “Let’s go.”

Although his friend was by his side, Robert didn’t feel any lighter. Not when he knew the path that still lay ahead of him.