Page 20

The journey to Penhollow proved less laborious than Lowen had anticipated. The weather had been kind, the roads dry, and the horses fresh—so the miles passed by faster than expected. What he hadn’t anticipated was Thomasin’s reluctance to leave Cornwall.

“You’ve always wanted to be in London with me during the season.

What changed?” he asked, leaning against her doorframe as she and her lady’s maid packed her gowns.

It was a task the maid could have managed alone, but Thomasin insisted on overseeing anything to do with her personal effects, as if a misplaced ribbon might unmake her.

At fourteen, Thomasin was far more precocious than most girls her age. Perhaps it was Lowen’s influence—his quiet nature had rubbed off on her over the years, leaving her thoughtful, sharp, and uncommonly observant.

“I’ve been making great strides with my paintings,” Thomasin said. “If I leave now, it’ll disturb my rhythm. And my studio is here, which I very much like.”

“Perhaps you’ll find inspiration in London,” he said. “If not, I’m sure you’ll still be entertained nonetheless.”

“Only if your new wife is entertaining. Helena, is it?” She tossed a spencer into her trunk after much deliberation.

“Yes. Miss Helena Hargreaves.”

“Miss? Not a lady, then? Was there not talk of you and a Lady?”

“There was a Lady Charlotte, but I never courted her.”

“Why ever not? Shouldn’t a duke be with a lady and not a miss?”

“Things change.”

“Hmm,” she replied, her suspicion plain.

Lowen was still surprised by how quickly news traveled. He assumed some vague retelling of his evening at Lady Crockwell’s had made its way to Cornwall, though he couldn’t be sure. Thomasin would never say outright—for fear of revealing her source, which, as Lowen knew, was most likely a servant.

“Do you think I shall like this Miss Helena Hargreaves?” she asked.

“I can’t be sure,” he said, after a pause. “But if you don’t, I pray you have the good sense to keep me out of your squabbling.”

Thomasin raised an ebony brow, looking very much like him in that moment. “You know you’ll be outnumbered if Miss Helena and I do get on well. So perhaps it’s you who should maintain some good sense.”

Lowen smiled despite himself. She had Benjamin’s boldness—God help him.

Moments like this made him think of his brother.

It struck him sometimes, like a knock to the ribs, how easily memory could masquerade as presence.

It was a pity Thomasin had never known Benjamin—or perhaps, considering the grief, it was a blessing.

“Outnumbered in Parliament, and now outnumbered in my own home,” he said dryly.

At the mention of Parliament, Thomasin made a face. “Will you have time to take me to all the places you promised you would?”

“Yes. But if not me, then Helena.”

“If we get along,” Thomasin said, tucking the last of her clothing into her trunk. The lady’s maid curtsied and quietly excused herself.

“You shall,” Lowen replied evenly. “Now prepare yourself for bed. We leave at first light.”

He walked over, gently poking Thomasin on the nose as she made another face, and Lowen found himself mirroring it.

If it were up to him, he’d remain in Cornwall permanently, never setting foot in London again.

Everything about the city disturbed his senses—the smell, the noise, the weather, the people.

But he had made promises. And those promises had teeth.

There were cousins, of course, eager to seize the dukedom and the societal benefits that came with it. But Lowen didn’t trust them. Being a duke wasn’t just a duty passed down—it was the weight left behind. The chain he’d agreed to carry.

It wasn’t just a promise he’d made.

It was also his punishment.

After visiting with Thomasin, Lowen stopped by his study to review the ledgers left by his steward.

Every time he was in the study, his attention drifted to the large oil painting that hung over the mantel on the other side of the room.

It was a portrait of the Roskelley family, captured in all their patrician glory just before Benjamin’s death.

His brother’s melancholy eyes seemed to stare at him from beyond the grave.

A memory resurfaced, as it always did whenever Lowen stepped into this damned room.

He couldn’t recall how old he’d been—only that, on the rare occasions the family was together in Cornwall, he spent most of his time chasing after Benjamin.

This time, he’d had a bow and arrow in hand, a gift from their grandfather. He trailed close behind his brother, feet thudding down the long hall.

“Benny, you said you’d teach me!” Lowen had pouted, not noticing where the arrow’s tip pointed.

“Careful,” Benjamin said, turning at last to face him. “I will teach you. Just not today.”

He took the arrow gently, angling the point toward the floor before giving it back. “I’ve got to meet with Father first.”

Lowen’s small fist clenched at his side. “But you’re always with Father! You’re never with me!” His voice wavered, eyes stinging. It was the first time in months he’d seen Benjamin—Lowen was only home for a brief respite before returning to Eton. “What’s so interesting about Father?”

Benjamin chuckled, softening and leaned in a little. “Absolutely nothing. But we’re reviewing accounts and ledgers with the steward today, and believe me—I’d rather be with you.”

Lowen hesitated. “Is that something I should know?” he asked. “Can I come with you?”

“It’ll bore you,” Benjamin warned.

“It won’t!” Truthfully, he hadn’t the faintest idea what accounts or ledgers even were—but they had to be important if Benny and Father were meeting about them in the study. “You don’t think it’s something I should know?”

“You will, in time,” his brother said. “But you’re much too young. Go outside, and I’ll meet you in about three hours.”

“One hour.”

“ Three .”

“Two!”

“Agh, Lowen! I don’t have time for this.”

“Then let me come with you,” he pleaded.

Benjamin raised a brow, considering. After a moment, he sighed in defeat. “Very well. But prepare to die of boredom.”

“If you can do it, I can do it,” Lowen said, chin lifting in challenge.

His older brother was good at nearly everything—horseback riding, fencing, tennis, fishing, arithmetic, languages, even his penmanship!

They were only five years apart, but it always felt like Benjamin was a whole lifetime ahead.

Lowen was forever attempting to catch up, late to nearly every accomplishment.

“Then perhaps you ought to be duke,” Benjamin said with a teasing wink. “It’d save me a great deal of trouble.”

“I would like to be a duke,” Lowen replied, trotting at his brother’s heels again. “Then no one could tell me what to do, and I could eat sweets and buy as many horses and dogs as I liked.”

Benjamin snorted. “Even the King doesn’t get to do whatever he wants. And what in God’s name would you do with that many horses? It’s not as if you can ride them all at once.”

“I’m going to build a carriage the size of a castle,” Lowen grinned. “And all the horses will pull it while I ride in it—and I’ll travel all across England!”

At that, Benjamin threw his head back and laughed. No one else ever made him laugh like that, and it pleased Lowen to no end.

But as they reached the dark wood of the study door, the sound died quickly. Benjamin cleared his throat, his young face stiffening into something older than it should have been. He raised his hand—it trembled, just slightly—and knocked.

“Enter,” rumbled a familiar, unamused voice from within.

Lowen had never been inside his father’s study before. It was larger than his bedroom, but just as dim. Like every other room in the manor, the heavy curtains were always drawn—even in daylight—so the space was lit only by the warm, flickering glow of candlelight.

“What was that ruckus?” their father asked, eyes never leaving the papers on his desk.

“Your Grace,” Benjamin began carefully, “I’d like to request Lowen’s attendance at this meeting.”

The Duke didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “His attendance isn’t necessary.”

“Please, Fath—Your Grace,” Lowen interjected, stepping forward.

His father’s once-dark wig had been replaced with a white one, and Lowen realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him up close.

The Duke was never at the dinner table, never in the drawing room, never at their mother’s bedside when she was ill—which she almost always was.

If Lowen happened to pass him on the street, he might not even recognize him.

Finally, the mute, colorless eyes lifted—assessing Lowen as one might a fly on a windowpane or a loose thread on a cuff.

Seconds passed before his father released a deep exhale.

“Very well. Stay, if you think there’s anything here worth learning.” He nodded toward a chair near the sideboard far behind Lowen. “Sit in silence and observe.”

With restrained glee, Lowen did as he was told, placing his bow and arrow on the floor beside him before taking his seat. If he followed his father’s instructions, perhaps he’d be allowed to join his dealings more often—more time with Benjamin before returning to Eton.

The steward entered soon after, carrying a heavy, leather-bound book, and took his place across from the Duke—next to Benjamin.

Quickly, Lowen realized he cared not a fig for arrears—whatever that was—or tithes to the church, harvest yields, or the procurement of wax candles and linen. But if Benny had to endure it, so would he.

Only… from his place in the room, he could hardly see whatever papers they were looking at—much less properly hear them.

Lowen tried to scoot forward, but the chair resisted. He shifted again—it barely budged.

Glancing down, he saw the foot of the chair was caught on the corner of a thick rug.

Maybe if he kicked it free?—

He slid forward in his seat, nearly toppling off, and grabbed the sideboard for balance. The chair lurched with him, thudding forward, and the sideboard gave a precarious wobble.

A crystal glass teetered, then tipped—and crashed to the floor with a piercing shatter.

“Damn it, boy!” his father roared, slamming his palm down. “Could you not do as you were told?”

“I—I’m sorry, Father,” Lowen squeaked. His eyes watered and his throat burned, mortified as the steward merely raised an uninterested brow and Benjamin frowned.

“Address me properly, boy!”

“I’m s-sorry, Your Grace,” Lowen stammered, nearly in a whisper.

“Go,” his father instructed, his tone clipped. “You are not needed, as I said already.”

Clenching his jaw so tightly it hurt, Lowen nodded, struggling to keep his tears from falling. He fumbled with the large brass doorknob before pushing the heavy door shut behind him with effort.

Once in the hall, the tears fell quickly, shattering like glass on the lapels of his little coat. He wiped at them in case any servants were wandering the corridors. He didn’t like it when they fawned over him as if he were a baby—he wanted to be taken as seriously as Benjamin was.

“You forgot your bow and arrow,” Benjamin called behind him, his long strides carrying him swiftly to Lowen’s side.

He held the items out.

“I don’t want them anymore,” Lowen muttered, pushing them away with a petulant shove.

“Of course, you do,” his brother quipped. “Because I’ll be outside waiting for you once I’m finished.”

A small burst of joy lit in Lowen’s chest—one he stubbornly shoved down. He wanted to be angry at his father, and by extension, at Benjamin. No one ever had time for him when he was ready… Lowen was always the one waiting. This time, he wouldn’t wait.

“I don’t care,” he grumbled, continuing down the hall, but Benjamin followed, undeterred.

“Of course you care. Don’t be so pigheaded, Lowen,” his brother said, stepping in front of him. “I’ll fetch you once I’m finished.”

“I’d rather you not,” Lowen replied.

Benjamin held out the bow and arrow again. Reluctantly, Lowen took them.

“I’ll be knocking at your door,” Benjamin said, gently poking the tip of Lowen’s nose before turning back toward the study.

To his shame, Lowen never answered the door when Benjamin came knocking.

Even now, he dropped his head into his hands whenever he recalled it.

He’d been so resentful—if only he’d known.

Had Benjamin ever realized how bitterly Lowen resented him as a child? It was an immature sort of resentment, born from the illusion of Benjamin’s perfection—the heir, the Marquess of St. Aubyn. Handsome, steady, brave. And now, dead.

If only Lowen had known what it truly meant to be his brother—the burden of being the eldest, always under the constant, watchful eye of their father, who was obsessed with his own perfection.

Lowen had mistaken that vigilance for love.

But it wasn’t love. It was scrutiny. And Benjamin had borne it all.

“I’m sorry, Benny,” Lowen whispered to the painted world where his brother now lived—forever untouched by time.

With a heavy sigh, Lowen finally managed to focus on the paperwork scattered across his desk. As he reached for the inkwell, his hand—suddenly clumsy—knocked the small jar of black ink onto his ledgers.

“Damn it all,” he muttered, reaching into his pockets and pulling out a piece of fabric—not a handkerchief, but Helena’s gloves.

He’d forgotten he had taken to tucking them into his coat each morning after dressing, a private habit.

Somehow, they still retained her powdery-sweet scent.

How was it possible she smelled like a confectionery shop?

Absentmindedly, Lowen brought the gloves to his lips, wondering what she’d been doing these past few days.

Before leaving, he had sent a missive to her mother, instructing that any shopping they undertook should be charged to his accounts—even if it wasn’t for Helena.

His gifts to the family. Perhaps it would soften Helena toward him.

He knew she still regarded him as an enemy, especially after he forbade her from any dalliances with Mr. Stockwell. Suspicion still lingered, and the ribald jests about Helena’s virginity—or lack thereof—left him perpetually on edge.

The memory of those rumors soured his mood again.

Irritated with himself, he shoved the gloves back into his pocket.

He turned his attention back to the desk, declining to call for his butler.

Lowen decided he could clean the mess himself; it was simpler than the matter that had led him to his impending nuptials.