Chapter Twenty-Two A Duke Makes an Admission

Meanwhile, back in the ballroom at Reading House

"Weston," Violet said, dipping her head. She gave Alfred a tentative grin as she tried to assess his mood. For a brief moment, she had thought him angry.

Had he seen his mother and her father take their leave? He certainly hadn't seemed happy about the prospect of his mother marrying her father.

Or had he discovered she was Philip's sister?

"I came to claim our first dance," Alfred said, his manner more pleasant than his expression suggested.

Violet's eyes widened. She hadn't even noticed which dances he had claimed on her card. "Of course. I apologize I wasn't where I said I would be."

He offered his arm. "Crawford might have had the courtesy to escort you back there when this dance ended," he countered, his head jerking in the direction of where her brother had been a moment earlier. "But you're easy enough to find in this crowd."

Violet felt heat suffuse her face. "Crawford seems rather preoccupied this evening," she offered, her own attention distracted at seeing how the middle of the ballroom cleared so an oval was left for the dance. Couples had already begun pairing up for a waltz.

"In what way?" he asked, taking her gloved hand in his as he placed his other at the side of her waist.

Heat from his hand penetrated the fabric of her gown, and Violet inhaled sharply at the sensation. "He's... he's in love," she said with a shrug of one shoulder.

The first few notes of the music had already begun, but Alfred stood rooted to the ballroom floor. "With you?" he asked, his eyes blazing.

Violet blinked. "No, of course not," she replied, almost admitting he was her brother.

The relief she saw in his eyes had her inhaling softly. "Weston," she whispered, well aware they needed to move or a collision would be imminent.

Alfred gave a start and set them in motion. "If not you, then who?" he asked, once they were safely spaced between two other couples in the circle of dancers. Given the number of dancers, another, larger oval had formed around them.

"Before I answer that, will you tell me why it is he vexes you so?" she asked.

The query had his expression once again darkening. "An old argument is all," he replied. "We were in university at the time. I'm a bit older, and I..." He seemed about to admit something before he added, "It's nothing, really."

Violet angled her head to one side, which worked perfectly with the dance as he twirled her under his arm and recaptured her waist with his other hand. When she was once again facing him, she said, "And yet you are still bothered by him."

Alfred displayed a grimace. "It's not him, exactly. It's..." He shook his head. "It has more to do with his father."

Had she been able to stop, Violet would have, but the momentum of the waltz kept her in motion as did the duke's strong lead. "Lord Fenwick?" she whispered, her brows furrowing. "Has the marquess done something? Besides propose marriage to your mother, I mean?" For a moment, she thought Alfred might have seen the duchess and her father make their retreat from the ballroom.

Wincing, Alfred looked to his left and then to his right before he said, "I learned a long time ago from one of my grandfathers that Fenwick wished to court my mother. I think they had been secretly courting long before he asked permission," he explained.

Knowing the duke's assumption was correct, Violet said, "Go on."

"Well, my grandfather had already betrothed my mother to Harcourt Sheppard," Alfred said.

"Your father," Violet stated, not making it a question. From the odd expression that crossed Alfred's face, she once again relied on him to carry them through the next moves of the dance. "Before he inherited the dukedom. Am I right?" she asked.

Alfred's brows furrowed, as if he was struggling to find the right response. "Is he, though?"

Violet gave a start. "What do you mean?" She stared at him until the dance had her turning under his arm. When she was once again facing him, she understood his meaning. "You don't think Weston was your father?" Her eyes suddenly rounded in shock. "You think... you think Fenwick is your father?"

He didn't immediately respond, his gaze directed everywhere but at her. "Is it so hard to believe?" he countered, finally locking eyes with her.

For a moment, Violet thought he was playing her. She stared at him, her gaze taking in his facial features. The color of his eyes. The shape of his nose. The arch of his brows. The outline of his jaw. The shape of his lips. The color of his hair.

Nothing of his appearance would suggest he was related to her father or to her brother or to her.

"Yes," she finally replied. "You look nothing like him. Or Crawford, for that matter," she argued.

Instead of looking relieved at hearing her words, Alfred displayed a grimace. "Not even a little?"

Violet blinked. She blinked again upon replaying the query in her head. "Do you... do you wish you were Fenwick's son?" she asked in a whisper.

He shook his head. "I shouldn't have said anything," he announced, his gaze once again sweeping the ballroom and the other dancers around them. "Forget I ever brought up the topic."

"Weston," she said on a sigh. "Surely we can sort this. You must know your birthdate. Your mother and father's wedding date—"

"Don't you think I do?"

Violet's eyes once again rounded. "And?" For a moment, she thought she might be dizzy, and not just from having danced in circles for so long.

When the music suddenly ended, Alfred brought them to an abrupt halt. With her bell skirt still moving about her legs, she could barely remain standing. She left her hand on his shoulder and gripped it in an attempt to remain upright.

"Apologies," he said, keeping her hand in his another moment. "I shouldn't have told you."

Violet stared at him for several seconds, well aware the couples around them were moving to join the crush of onlookers as more couples were lining up for a longways dance. "Please, Weston, may we talk longer?"

He furrowed a brow before he quickly glanced around again. "Of course." With her hand still on his, he merely turned and led her toward the French doors. "Perhaps we can find a bench on which to sit."

The air was cool when they stepped out onto the pavers, chillier than it had been when they were out earlier that evening. Violet welcomed it, though, inhaling deeply in an effort to catch her breath and clear her head.

"What did you discover?" she asked, fearing his answer. From what her brother had told her, she was fairly certain her father and Helena had courted in secret long before he had asked the Duke of Woodleigh for permission to marry her. Perhaps her father had taken her virtue. If they had been intimate, it was possible the duchess had been left with child.

She glanced over again at Alfred before he led her to a stone bench at the edge of the garden. Despite the dim light from the Japanese lanterns, she was certain he bore no resemblance to her father.

He waited until she was seated before he flicked his tails back and sat next to her, his elbows left on his knees. His head dropped, and he scrubbed the side of his face with one hand before he said, "According to DeBrett's, Lord Harcourt married my mother in June of 1815. I was born in March 1816."

Violet considered his response, splaying out her gloved fingers as she counted quietly. "Nine months, which is perfectly reasonable," she said. "You were no doubt conceived whilst they were on their wedding trip."

"But what if...?" He sat back on the bench and huffed. "What if Mother was still secretly seeing Fenwick? Right up until she had to marry Lord Harcourt?"

Inhaling to answer, Violet realized she would be admitting not only how she knew, but also the identity of her father. "I do not believe that would have been possible," she began quietly. When he turned to stare at her, she added, "Since Fenwick moved to the country in 1814, and this is the first time he's returned to London."

"How do you know this?"

She swallowed. "Lord Crawford. He was born the same year as you," she stated. Ignoring how he turned to face her, she added, "Fenwick married his late wife in the autumn of 1814 at the country estate where they lived until..." She felt the telltale lump building in her throat and had to stop to suppress a sob. "Until she died," she managed to get out, hoping he couldn't see how tears had begun to collect in the corners of her eyes. "So, you see, there's really no way Fenwick could be your father."

Alfred continued to stare at her for several seconds, a myriad of emotions crossing his face.

"Did you want him to be?" she asked gently. Had that been the real reason her brother and Alfred had fought at university? Because Alfred had claimed they were brothers of different mothers and Philip had taken offense?

The duke's attention went to the dark sky above them as he let out a breath. "I think at one time I did," he murmured.

"Had you met him? Fenwick, I mean?"

He shook his head, his gaze still on the heavens. "No. But Crawford... we used to be friends. He spoke so highly of his father. It used to anger me when we were at school. Angered me more when I learned my mother had favored Fenwick at one time." He turned to face Violet again. "I was so jealous of Crawford."

"But why?" she asked.

He scoffed. "My father was..." He allowed the sentence to trail off. "Forgive me. I shouldn't be speaking ill of the dead, and I fear if I continue, I shall say words not meant for feminine ears."

"I would not mind," she replied. "Truly."

Her encouragement seemed to break a dam within him. "He was a cruel and pompous arse," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Your father was?" she asked quietly.

"Indeed. And when I learned he died, I rejoiced. I was glad until..." He stopped and briefly glanced away.

"Until what?" she prompted.

"I realized he had made me exactly like him. Pompous. Arrogant. Unwilling to—"

"Weston," Violet scolded in a whisper.

"—Accept criticism or offers of help. It's a wonder one of my middle names isn't ‘Stubborn'."

Unsure of what to do or say, Violet continued to watch him, expecting he would say more. When he didn't, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

He glanced over at her, obviously surprised by her act of affection. "So you can imagine why I wished Harcourt Sheppard wasn't my father."

Violet nodded her understanding. "You are not the only one who has ever wished for a different family, but..." She stopped when she realized what she was about to say. If they married, he could think of her father as his, in a manner of speaking.

That is, if he could ever forgive her for not admitting her relationship to the Marquess of Fenwick.

"But what?" he prompted.

She straightened on the bench. "Now that you know this... about your father... about the way you are. Do you realize you don't have to be like him? At least, if you don't choose to?"

He stared at her a moment. "You mean, I wouldn't have to be a pompous, arrogant arse if I didn't wish to be?" he asked rhetorically. When he noticed her enthusiastic nod, he scoffed softly. "I... I suppose I could try," he admitted.

"I think you've already managed somewhat," she said.

"What do you mean?"

She lifted a shoulder. "You haven't been pompous or arrogant the entire time I've been with you this evening."

Chuckling softly, Alfred dipped his head. "It's easy with you," he said quietly. His eyes suddenly rounded. "Oh, dear. How long have we been out here?"

Violet gasped softly. From the number of couples who were strolling through the gardens, it was obvious the longways dance had ended. Those who were overheated had sought refuge out of doors. "At least twenty minutes," she murmured.

"Come. Let's get back inside before your aunt misses you," he said, quickly coming to his feet. He turned and offered a hand.

Standing, Violet placed a hand on his arm. "Thank you," she said.

"It is I who should be thanking you," he countered.

"I meant... for trusting me," she murmured.

Alfred dared a glance around them before he lowered his lips to her forehead and kissed her. "I might say the same of you."

He was quiet until they reached the French doors. "I'll come find you when it's time for the second waltz."

She nodded and stepped in, not surprised when the duke remained outside.

Straight ahead, her brother stood with a hand on his hip and an expression of anger on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked as she hurried to face him.

"I've been looking all over for you," he replied. "Where have you been?"

"I was in the gardens. It grew terribly warm in here at the end of the waltz," she replied.

Glancing over her shoulder, she was fairly sure the Duke of Weston was watching her from just inside the door.

She could only imagine what he was thinking.

He thinks I'm playing him for a fool.