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Her heart gave one thud. “You are leaving?”

“I will not be able to continue my overnight stay, no. But we will call on you soon. Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”

“Which is it?” She asked the question in Monegasque—better to be rude than vulnerable—and tried to keep her tone cheerful. “Tomorrow or days from now? And when will you next be able to make the trip? For this party? In two
weeks
?”

His smile looked normal, but his eyes sparked with concern. “Please,
mon amie
, you know my grandfather’s health is fragile.”

Which made her feel like a selfish clod. “I know. But I . . . I need you.”

“This isn’t how I planned it—I’m sorry.” The conflict on his face made her feel even worse. “But you will be fine. They have accepted you.”

She could only swallow and reach for her coffee. He had
promised
.

That soft light in his eyes was the one that usually accompanied his reaching for her hand. But he didn’t. Not here, not now, not with this particular company around them.

Which begged the question of when he ever would again.

“If you need me,” he said softly, still in Monegasque, “I will come in half a moment.”

She nodded. She understood that his grandfather relied on him. She understood that his responsibility was first and foremost to Stafford.

But understanding didn’t keep the mist from overwhelming the sun again. Didn’t change the fact that she needed him in the coming days—and he would be far away.

Eight

J
ustin spotted James Cayton near the train platform and told himself it would be good to see his cousin again. And more often, now that Justin had no reason to travel abroad. He told himself they could finally be friends.

But when he saw the black-haired figure making Cayton laugh, his hand curled into a fist. What in thunder was Pratt doing here? He strode forward knowing well his face reflected the question. “James!”

His cousin turned. Recognition lit his eyes—but no pleasure. “My lord.”

Were it not for Pratt’s smirking gaze upon him, Justin would have winced. Instead, he forced a smile. “Are we so formal, cousin?”

Cayton’s smile looked every bit as strained. He motioned toward his companion. “Are you acquainted with Lord Pratt?”

Justin bit back the
unfortunately
that threatened to spring from his tongue.

Perhaps Pratt heard it anyway, given his bark of dry laughter. “We were at school together. You were, what, a year below me, Harlow? Two?”

“Two, before you were expelled.” Justin tried to convince his fingers to unclench, but in vain.

Pratt had the gall to laugh again. “The headmaster had no sense of humor when it came to his daughter.”

At least Cayton’s grin was short-lived. Though whether from lack of amusement or the glare Justin sent him . . .

His cousin cleared his throat. “I am not certain if you’ve heard yet, Pratt, but my cousin is Lord Abingdon now. My uncle was recently killed in an automobile accident.” Genuine grief lit his eyes.

Justin drew in a deep breath.

Pratt’s smirk barely shifted. “Sorry to hear it. From what you tell me, Cay, your uncle was a man who knew how to enjoy himself. Gambling, women, and drink were his life, were they not?”

Justin’s fingers curled again, and his blood went hot. Yet how was he to argue? He swallowed back the irritation and made it a point to direct his gaze to the distance, where the rhythmic puff of steam marked a locomotive’s approach.

Cayton must have seen the flash of anger. He put a restraining hand on Pratt’s shoulder and whispered something.

Pratt snorted and shrugged away. Took a step nearer to Justin. “I came across Whitby this morning on my ride—and the girl you brought to him. He seems convinced she is his daughter.”

Brook had met Pratt already? And she had not told him? Justin pivoted slowly when he wanted to spin and lunge.

The young lord’s smirk had turned to an outright sneer. “Beautiful girl, isn’t she? And the fire in her eyes—that one is passionate. Tell me, my lord, how well do you know her?”

Insinuation hissed like a snake, and the answering outrage brought Justin a step closer, made his other hand clench into a matching fist.

Cayton stepped between them, eyes wide with warning. He aimed his glare at Justin, though he said, “Pratt, have a care.”

Pratt’s answering laugh slid over him like a shadow. “Oh, I do. I assure you. And I very much look forward to getting to know the baroness better myself. Very much indeed.” He took a step backward, into the throng of people awaiting the train. “Good to see you again, Lord Abingdon. Cayton.”

His cousin gave Justin an angry glare as Pratt disappeared. “Must you be always such a prude, Justin? Why can you not laugh and wave things off like any normal man?”

Were it not for the increased press of people, he may have given Cayton a shake. “And be more like
him
? No thank you. And you would do well to steer far clear of him too, James. That man is trouble.”

Cayton’s face went hard, his chin lifted. Rebellion gleamed hot and sure in his eyes. “You may be the next duke, but you’ll not dictate to me.”

Justin had to turn away, watch the approaching steam engine, and draw in a deep breath until his blood calmed. Was this what his father had been like as a young man, before he married and settled—somewhat—in Monaco? Had he chafed always against his family?

Perhaps so. But Father, at least, had never lacked for charm, making it all too easy to overlook his failings. Not so Cayton.

But they were family, and he had so little family left. Grandfather, whom they all knew was dying. Aunt Caro, his uncle Edward’s widow—and also his mother’s sister. Aunt Susan, Cayton’s mother. Cayton himself. That was all. All the family he had left in the world. Four people, soon to be three unless Grandfather surprised all his physicians.

He shifted closer to his cousin even as the noise of the train covered the babble of the people around them. “Can we not be friends, James? Please.”

Cayton kept his face toward where the engine would chuff to a halt. “Since when do you need me for a friend? You have
Thate. And now your little would-be princess is here. They have always been enough for you.”

“But you are my cousin. I will be under your roof as long as Grandfather wants to stay in Yorkshire.” Justin tried on a grin, though it felt strained. “And you can come with me to Whitby Park for visits. It sounded as though Lady Melissa will be in residence for some time to come.”

Cayton sent him a quirked brow. The hostility had faded from his eyes, and a smile finally teased the corner of his mouth. “Are you trying to buy my friendship with the promise of fair company?”

“Will it work?”

There, a genuine laugh. “Perhaps.”

The strain left Justin’s smile as he turned to watch the train pull into the station, his gaze traveling its length until he found the duke’s private carriage. A stride toward friendship, he hoped. The kind they had enjoyed as boys, those few times Mother had brought him to England before her death. Before James became an earl at the age of nine, when his father died. Before Uncle Edward’s death meant Justin was heir apparent to the duchy, after his father. Before they grew into such different men.

“Justin.” Cayton shifted closer as the
whoosh
of the train’s brakes sent steam billowing out around them. “I am sorry about your father. I didn’t get the message in time, but I wanted to be there. Know that.”

It wouldn’t have helped, not then. But knowing Cayton had
wanted
to come soothed now. “Thank you, James.”

They said no more, just made their way to the end of the platform and the door that one of Grandfather’s servants opened. He would travel with a whole retinue. Not because he needed anyone but his aging valet, but to keep up appearances. To make this crowd of onlookers take note and realize someone of import had arrived.

They looked. They whispered. When someone recognized the crest on the side of the car, they exclaimed.

Perhaps Father had the right idea while he’d hidden in Monaco—ignore the station, ignore the title, ignore the expectations. Be whomever he wanted to be. Justin would never have that luxury. But neither did he intend to make such a fuss wherever he went.

He drew in a long coal-dusted breath and clenched his teeth against another onslaught of emotion when Grandfather stepped down. He managed the two stairs with only the assistance of his silver-tipped cane, but the servant was there to make sure he didn’t fall. His valet materialized behind him with concern etching his brows. Both of Justin’s aunts soon rushed out to flank him.

The duke’s clothes hung on him, evidence of another bout of too-quick weight loss. His face had gone gaunt. His hair—brown two years ago, grey two months ago—was white as the chalk cliffs.

Justin sucked in a breath to keep the pain of it from his face. “I was only gone a few weeks.”

His cousin jerked a nod, his face tight with worry too. Of course it would be. Having spent most of his growing-up years at Ralin Castle after his father died, Cayton was even closer to Grandfather than Justin was. The duke was more father to him than grandfather. Did he ever resent that Justin was heir to the duchy, just because Cayton was born to the duke’s daughter rather than one of his sons?

Grandfather looked up once his footing on the platform was sure, and he gave them a smile. “My boys. You both made it—good. I worried we had not given you enough notice.”

“Of course we made it.” Cayton leaned over to kiss his mother’s cheek and grip Grandfather’s free hand. “Your favorite room is ready at Azerley Hall. We can—”

“Soon.” The duke’s gaze went over Cayton’s shoulder, to Justin. He lifted snowy brows. “We will stop at Whitby Park first, for tea. I will meet this princess of yours before I die, Justin.”

He knew not whether he should smile at the mention of Brook, sigh at how Cayton bristled at being dismissed, or shake his head at the mention of Grandfather’s death. He settled for a nod. “Baroness—Whitby is certain she’s his daughter. She is eager to meet you as well, sir.”

When the duke took a step forward, they all moved with him, a careful ballet set in time to his faltering stride. “What conveyance have we? Did you bring your new automobile, James?”

“I did,” his cousin replied with a smile in his voice, “as it is large enough for us all.”

Justin fell in beside Aunt Caro. With her silver-and-gold hair, her bluer-than-sapphire eyes, she was what he imagined his mother would have looked like now, had she lived. He smiled. “I accepted Whitby’s offer of a carriage. Though wait until you see the Rolls-Royce that Fa—” His throat closed off. His nostrils flared.

Grandfather sent a quick look to Cayton, then focused on Justin. “I will ride with you to Whitby Park, Justin. Then we will all proceed to Azerley Hall together after tea.”

Aunt Caro patted the duke’s arm. “I will join you. It will give Susan time to question James on which young ladies he intends to keep in contact with now that the Season has ended.”

Justin forced the pain of his father’s memory back, down, away, and dredged up a grin. “I believe he has set his sights on Lady Ramsey’s younger daughter, Lady Melissa.”

Aunt Susan lifted her brows. “Is that so?” She tucked her hand into the crook of her son’s elbow. “When did you meet her, dear? She is not out yet.”

Cayton sent Justin half a glare, though its force was negated by the amusement in it. And the flush in his cheeks. “When I
went with Justin to Whitby Park last month. And I accepted Lord Whitby’s invitation to dinner a fortnight later.”

“Well.” Aunt Susan’s smile was equal parts pleasure and . . . relief? “She would be an excellent match, to be sure.”

The servants had cut a path for them through the crush of other passengers coming and going, through friends and family greeting or sending off one another.

Brook would be glad they were coming again so soon—or angry. A definite possibility, what with her passions reigning with Mediterranean abandon. He glanced down at his aunt Caro, over to his grandfather, to his other aunt, his cousin. All with pleasant masks over their thoughts.

So unlike the families he knew in Monte Carlo, who greeted with a shout, with a kiss—who could roar in fury one moment and with laughter the next.

His gaze drifted in Whitby Park’s direction. And he found himself praying that the English rains wouldn’t dim Brook’s fire.

“You seem quiet, Justin.” Aunt Caro spoke in a volume to match her observation as the Whitby carriage came into view. “I hope you know I have been praying for you. Every hour, every day.”

“I know.” Swallowing did little to relieve the lump in his throat. “I was trying to convince Father to come home. I thought the urgency was here, not there. Had I known it was our last conversation . . .”

His aunt tipped her face up to study his. “Would you have done things differently? I daresay not. It is your nature to try to hold your family together.”

“And was it his to stubbornly cling to separation?”

Something shifted in her eyes, went distant and cold. “He had his reasons. I pray you do not judge him without knowing them.”