33. Realization Dawns on a Duke

Later that night, Weston Hall dining room

"Do you suppose he's been drinking brandy all afternoon?" Amelia asked, her attention on the piece of fish barely clinging to her fork.

Helena gave her daughter a quelling glance, her own gaze on her glass of wine. "There wasn't enough for more than a single glass in the decanter Pritchard took into the study earlier this afternoon," she said. "So I rather doubt it."

"Has he come out of the study since...?" Amelia dipped her head. "Since Violet did?"

Helena took a deep breath. "He has not." Her eyes widened. "Oh, dear." She stood from the table and rushed from the dining room.

Amelia watched her go. "Wait for me," she said, pushing away from the table at the same time a footman was attempting to deliver the next course.

Ignoring her daughter's plea, Helena hurried to the study, bursting in without knocking to discover Alfred still on the sofa where she had left him. He was no longer seated, though, but was sprawled out so his head was at one end and only one leg was up on the sofa. His eyes were hidden by an arm he had draped over them.

"Alfred?"

He moved his arm from in front of his eyes. "What is it?"

Helena took a deep breath of relief. "Dinner is served," she said, moving closer to regard him with worry.

He stared up at her. "I'm not hungry."

Amelia appeared in the doorway. "You will be in the middle of the night, and then it won't be edible," she said, her fists moving to her hips as she let out a ‘huff''.

"I'm not speaking to you," he stated, once again covering his eyes with his arm.

"Don't be like this, Alfred," Helena said softly.

"What? Miserable?" he countered sarcastically. "It has become my status quo," he added on a sigh.

"It doesn't have to be," Helena whispered.

"Especially when there is someone out there who loves you," Amelia added.

Helena inhaled sharply, her attention turning to her daughter. She was about to ask if Violet was who she meant, but Amelia gave her head a quick shake.

"I am not speaking to you," he repeated. "Please, you two. Leave me in peace."

Helena sighed. "Are you sure you won't have something to eat? I can have a tray?—"

"I ate all the biscuits and all the cake Pritchard brought," he said on an exaggerated sigh. "Trust me when I tell you I am not hungry."

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable in your bed," she suggested.

"Probably," he agreed.

Helena leaned down and placed a kiss on the top of his head. "I love you, darling. Even if you are a stubborn, arrogant man," she said on a long sigh. Without a look back, she straightened and took her leave of the study.

Amelia watched her go.

"Are you still there?" Alfred asked.

"I thought you weren't speaking to me."

"I'm not." There was a pause before he asked, "Did she truly, do you think? Or was it all a ruse to play me? So I'd give Crawford permission to marry you?"

Giving a start, Amelia scoffed. "She did love you, you idiot. Probably still does, even though she shouldn't."

He jerked and struggled to sit up. "Get out," he ordered.

Amelia shoved her arms down her sides, spun on her heel, and marched out of the study, pulling the door closed as she did so. The resulting slam startled Alfred, and he cursed softly. Rising from the sofa, he left the study as if in a daze, slowly climbing the stairs.

For several hours, the image of Violet's stunned expression replayed itself in his mind's eye over and over. He knew he had hurt her with his accusation. He had wanted to for those moments after learning she was Crawford's sister.

She had betrayed him, had she not?

She had withheld information from him when he had been so free with his.

He had told her his deepest secret—and in the process, made himself sound like a fool.

So why did his thoughts of her always go to the kiss they had shared in the gardens? To the way her body felt beneath his questing hand? To the way she had spoken with him when they were on the bench. Her words gentle.

Curious.

Not condescending.

Once he was in his bedchamber, he threw the bolt and made his way to the bed. He undressed without thinking about it, not even bothering to ring for his valet. When he was down to his smalls, he was about to remove them when he noticed his arousal.

Scoffing, he climbed onto the bed and lay back. How could his body betray him so?

How could it not?

From the time he had left the ball the night before until his sister had introduced Violet in his study, he had imagined a life with Lady Violet. Imagined her waking him in the mornings with a kiss to his cheek. Imagined her sitting across from him whilst he ate his breakfast. Imagined them admiring a tank of fish in his study as the creatures swam about in circles. Imagined her serving him tea in the late afternoon. Imagined her taking his member in hand as they dressed for dinner, her deft fingers teasing him into a quick and pleasurable release, and him doing the same for her until she cried out his name and clung to him for support, kissing and murmuring words of love and affection.

He hadn't even imagined what might happen over dinner or later, when it was time to retire, when he took his rigid cock in hand and brought himself to a quick release. The sensation wasn't nearly as satisfying as the one he had imagined with Violet. Nothing about his life was as satisfying as what he had imagined with her.

I never expected to fall in love with your brother.

She had been pretending. At least at first. He knew that now. But when had her feelings changed?

During the soirée? She seemed truly interested in him that evening.

During their ride in the park? If she was false with him, he certainly hadn't detected any falsity in her manner.

At the ball?

He remembered how excited he had been upon seeing her in the crowded ballroom. How she had watched him descend the stairs, her gaze locked onto his.

Perhaps it was when they kissed. Or when they were almost discovered—or were discovered, since his mother seemed to have guessed it was them in the gardens?

Surely it was before they spoke at length about his desire to be Fenwick's son. She would have had every right to be annoyed at hearing his suppositions. Every right to scold him for his beliefs given what she knew.

Instead, she had given him thoughtful responses. Given him every reason he couldn't be Fenwick's son.

Every reason he couldn't be her brother.

He suddenly sat up on the bed, his eyes blinking several times from the gaslight above the bed. The candle lamp on the nightstand had gone out at some point, and a quick glance at the clock on the mantel showed it was past two o'clock.

His heart beating a tattoo in his chest, he struggled to determine what had him waking so suddenly.

Violet.

Her words on the bench. So insistent he couldn't be Fenwick's son. He covered his face with his hands.

If he had been Fenwick's son, then she would be his sister. They couldn't be together as he had imagined, and she knew it.

"She loves me," he murmured out loud. He winced when the reminder of what he had said to her came to mind. Winced again upon remembering her look of distress. Groaned at the thought of the tears he had caused.

"I am a damned fool," he murmured.

Coming to his feet, he quickly dressed.