WANTON (20 page)

“All right.”

Aaron must have appeared sufficiently glum, because his father said, “Cheer up, Aaron. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It feels like it.”

“Every groom suffers the jitters as the ceremony approaches. You weren’t eager to wed, and I pushed you into it. You’re chomping at the bit, rebelling against the notion that your bachelor days are over.”

“It’s more than a simple case of jitters. I can’t imagine facing her over the breakfast table for the next four decades.”

“Maybe she’ll die young and you won’t have to.”

“Father!” Aaron scolded. “Honestly!”

“Sorry, sorry...” Lord Sidwell waved away his horrid comment. “Look, go treat yourself. Find a nice, biddable girl and have a...
fling
for a few weeks.”

“That’s your answer? Have a fling?”

“Why not? Every man of our station does it. It’s practically expected.”

“I like to at least pretend I’m the sort of fellow who can be faithful.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” his father scoffed. “Marry Priscilla, but start hunting immediately for a mistress. If you don’t want a
nice
girl, find a doxy who can make you happy.”

“A mistress?”

“Yes, Priscilla need never know, and even if she eventually learns of it, what can she do, hmm? It’s not her business, so it’s not as if she could order you to desist.”

“This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had.”

“Why would you say so? Obviously, you have no idea how married men carry on. Have a fling. Buy yourself a trollop. But for God’s sake, stop moping! It’s unseemly.”

The butler took that moment to announce his father’s coach was ready. Lord Sidwell downed his brandy and said, “I wish you’d come with me.”

“No, thank you.”

“You’d feel better if you were out and about.”

“I doubt it.”

“You might meet the woman of your dreams, and you’d swiftly forget this drivel about Priscilla.”

Aaron sighed with exasperation. “Your carriage awaits, Father.”

“It certainly does.”

Lord Sidwell grinned and totted off.

* * * *

“I appreciate your attending me so promptly.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“As I am your father, no, you did not.”

George Drake stared across his desk at Lucas. They hadn’t spoken since the morning Lucas had stopped by to rail about Miss Hubbard. At the time, George had been sure he was witnessing signs of a burgeoning infatuation, and that Lucas would come to his senses and propose. But it hadn’t happened.

Lucas appeared to have a heightened attraction to Miss Hubbard but, evidently, it was no different than the one he shared with most of the females in the kingdom.

Miss Hubbard had not been able to sway him. George’s threat of disinheritance had not been able to sway him. The fact that Lucas was at loose ends since leaving the army had not changed his mind.

He was drinking, gambling, and loafing—as was his typical habit. George had no idea where Lucas was living, how he passed his days, or who he considered to be his friends other than that slattern, Nanette Nipton.

During Lucas’s last furlough, he’d disgraced himself with Mrs. Nipton in a dozen obscene ways. George had warned him to stay away from her, but as usual with Lucas, George’s admonitions had been ignored.

Numerous acquaintances had mentioned Lucas’s recent antics with Mrs. Nipton. George was regularly peppered with questions as to how he would rein in Lucas’s behavior, how George planned to keep Lucas out of trouble, and the queries were enraging.

People acted as if George could control Lucas, but Lucas was—and always had been—incorrigible.

George was weary of Lucas and his sour attitude and his constant scandals. With Aaron’s nuptials approaching, Aaron’s star was rising, and Lucas couldn’t be permitted to wreck his brother’s ascent.

He would walk the path George had arranged for him or he could get the hell out of George’s life forever.

“Your name has been linked to Mrs. Nipton’s,” he solemnly said.

Lucas sighed. “Is that why you summoned me? To scold me about Nanette?”

“I’m sure you recall our prior conversation about that hussy.”

“Yes, yes. How could I have forgotten?”

“I was very clear about you and her.”

“You were.”

“Then why are you fraternizing?” George bellowed.

“Lord Sidwell, I am twenty-five years old. I’ve spent the past decade in the army. I’m quite capable of choosing my own companions, and it’s exhausting to have you lecturing me.”

Lucas moved as if he’d stand and stomp out, and George bellowed again.

“Sit down, Lucas!”

Lucas eased back in his chair. “Really, sir, I’m in no mood for one of your rants.”

“I am your father, and by God, you will listen to me.”

“I’m listening, and half of London is probably listening too. My hearing is excellent, and I’m only a few feet away. There’s no need to shout.”

“You will never speak with Nanette Nipton again.”

“Or...?”

“Or you’ll finally learn the consequences of your disobedience.”

“Lord Sidwell, my very first memory as a tiny boy is of you threatening me with harm. My entire life, I’ve been threatened by you. Your warnings ring a bit hollow.”

“Is that what you suppose?”

“It’s what I know.”

Lucas stood, appearing impossibly grand, and George loathed how Lucas could be so calm and composed. He was handsome and dashing, and with his feats in the army, he was obviously brave and tough and strong.

In so many ways, he was better than George, smarter than George, wiser than George, and perhaps that was why George hated him so much.

“Sit!” George seethed again.

“I’ve truly had enough, sir. You’ve repeatedly sought to disassociate your marvelous self from me, and I’m amenable to a permanent separation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m happy to leave and never come back.” He slouched into his chair, looking lazy and insolent and sly. “It will cost you though.”

“How?”

“I’d like to sail to India.”

“For what reason?”

“A friend from the army is starting a venture there. James Talbot and I were hoping to join him, but James had issues arise so he can’t participate. I should like to travel there on my own, but I haven’t the funds.”

“You’re asking me to pay you to go away?”

“Yes. It’s what you’ve always wanted, and it suits my purposes.”

“You’d never return?”

“Not unless it was in a coffin.”

“How morbidly droll, Lucas,” George scoffed. “How utterly, morbidly droll.”

“I’m renowned for my wit, sir.”

They stared and stared, and George yearned to round the desk and shake him.

He and Lucas had a mode of interacting. Lucas misbehaved. George blustered and punished. Lucas misbehaved again. George raised the stakes: disavowal, disinheritance. Yet he never had to follow through, because neither of them ever pushed to the edge. Neither of them had ever jumped.

Apparently, Lucas was ready, but George wasn’t!

He didn’t want Lucas to vanish from their lives. He wanted Lucas to be deferential and courteous and submissive—as Aaron was. He wanted Lucas to mind his elders, respect his betters, and carry on as was demanded by their station.

Yet Lucas valued nothing that George valued. He cherished nothing that George cherished. But could George pay his way to India and never see him again? He didn’t think so.

Every father needed two sons—an heir and a spare—but what was the point of having two if one of them was totally unsuited for his responsibilities?

“What about Miss Hubbard?” George asked.

“What about her?”

“Why won’t you marry her?”

“I don’t wish to. You know that, and I can’t fathom why you persist with these ridiculous plans for me.”

“I’ve offered you the property in Surrey. You could be happy there.”

“I’m plenty happy now.”

He didn’t look it though. He looked weary and drained, as if his debauchery was finally wearing on him.

“You haven’t even considered it,” George fumed.

“Yes, I have. I’ve considered it and found it absurd. I told you: I won’t be a gentleman farmer.”

“But a
wife
, Lucas. It’s what a man requires for his life to be complete.”

“I’m a committed bachelor, sir, and I have no need of a leg shackle to feel better about myself.”

“Every man should wed,” George sternly said.

“As you did?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve always claimed that you hated my mother, yet you’d foist the same conclusion on me.”

“You might get on with Miss Hubbard—as I never could with your mother.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“You might. She seems good natured to me.”

“But if she turned out to be a shrew, I’d end up being as miserable as you were.”

George had just had a similar discussion with Aaron, and he was aggravated to have his choices denigrated. George had had no say in the disastrous selection of his wife. The match had been arranged by his father, and George had done what he was told to do—as an obedient child ought.

Why couldn’t Lucas admit that it was George’s job to decide what was best? Why couldn’t Lucas let George exercise his duty as a parent? George knew what Lucas needed, but Lucas was too stupid to realize it.

They stopped and stared, an excruciating silence stretching out.

Clearly, they were at a dangerous impasse, and George wasn’t certain how to maneuver past it without catastrophe occurring. George had never understood Lucas, could never make him behave, and George was at the limit of his patience.

Aaron didn’t wish to wed Priscilla, but he would because George had insisted. Aaron grasped his role, but Lucas never would. When George had a perfect son who would give George plenty of grandsons to carry on the family name, why continue to put up with Lucas? He only brought heartache and unceasing problems.

“I am ordering you to marry Miss Hubbard one week from today,” George commanded, but softly and without any display of anger.

“Lord Sidwell, I truly suggest that you have your physician check your ears for blockages. You can’t hear a word I say.”

George ignored the complaint and kept on. “You will propose at once, then move into this house and begin preparing for the ceremony.”

“No. Instead, I request that you fund my trip to India. I’ll go away, and you won’t have to fret over me.”

“No,” George tossed back at him. “I would see you wed to Miss Hubbard and living in England.”

“And I would see me as a bachelor on my way to India.”

“This is the last time I will ask you, Lucas.”

“And this is the last time I will refuse, Lord Sidwell.”

There was a deadly sense of inevitability in the air, and George studied Lucas, taking in every detail, for it definitely seemed that this might be their final conversation.

“One week, Lucas. You could be married, and we could avoid this rift.”

“Or tomorrow, I could leave England and achieve the same result.”

“If you walk out of here without tendering a vow to wed, I don’t want you to ever come back.”

George hadn’t meant to hurl the threat, but he had, and it hovered between them. For just a moment, either of them could have yanked it down and thrown it away, but they were both too stubborn.

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Absolutely.”

“As to the money, will you give it to me?”

“No.”

“I guess there’s naught else to say then, is there?” Lucas pushed himself to his feet.

“I guess not. We’re through.”

Lucas shrugged. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“In the future, when you’re out of options, don’t slither home. Don’t pester me about your troubles. Don’t write me when your creditors lock your sorry, penniless ass in gaol.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t bang my knocker when you have nowhere to stay and not a farthing in your pocket. I shall instruct the servants—here and at all our other properties—that you are not allowed inside. Should you try to enter, I will call the law and have you dragged out.”

“Fine.”

“I’m changing my will tomorrow. I’ll leave everything to Aaron. You’ll get nothing.”

“Well, I never expected anything, so if that’s your parting comment, you missed your mark by a fair distance. Goodbye.”

Lucas spun away, and George suffered an instant of panic.

“Where will you be?”

“I’m off to speak with James. He’s recently come into some money. He might loan me the funds I need.”

“And if he won’t?”

“I fail to see how my plans after that would be any of your business.”

Then he was gone, and a few tears of sadness flooded George’s eyes, but they quickly morphed to relief and even a hint of joy. He grinned, realizing that he’d never have to fuss over Lucas ever again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lucas lounged in a chair in Amelia’s sitting room, wondering if he’d gone mad.

After his quarrel with his father, he’d been in a wretched state, and while he’d like to blame his father for the distance that separated them, it wasn’t all Lord Sidwell’s fault. Lucas had too much of his mother’s blood running in his veins.

By all accounts—especially his father’s—Lucas’s mother had been incorrigible too, and had caused untold drama in his father’s house. His father seemed almost glad that he’d been widowed at a young age, that his wife had had the good grace to die and cease plaguing him.

But Lucas had taken her place, vexing George Drake in ways Lucas’s mother could never have managed. He and his father had been playing out their farce for twenty-five years, and clearly, they were both weary of it.

Lucas had figured Lord Sidwell would pay Lucas to disappear, but even the chance to be rid of Lucas once and for all couldn’t convince his father to pry open his purse. So Lucas would ride to Summerfield and ask James for the money.

With James’s fortune so recently acquired, he hadn’t come to grips with how wealthy he was. Surely he wouldn’t mind parting with a bit of it in order to save Lucas as he often had in the past.

If James wouldn’t loan the money, Lucas would try other acquaintances. His brother, Aaron, might even be persuaded to cough up the amount. But one fact was certain: Lucas was leaving England. If he had to sign on with the crew of a sailing ship to make the journey to India, then that was what he would do.