The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(15)

Miss Pursling disappeared around the corner, and Robert shook his head. She was a problem—and a pleasure—to be dealt with on some other occasion.

Oliver gave his spectacles one last swipe and then looked over at him. “Well,” he said. “Perhaps it was because I knew precisely how much it is worth to be a duke’s son. You weren’t the only one.”

“But when I met you, I was a complete ass.”

“True,” Oliver said.

Their friendship—or whatever it was they shared—hadn’t come easily. When he’d first met Oliver, he’d made an enemy of him, encouraging the other boys to rile him up. Not as if Oliver had needed much encouragement on that score.

One day, Oliver had told him—quietly, matter-of-factly—that they were brothers. And Robert’s entire world had turned upside down.

“Why all this introspection?” Oliver asked. “It was simple. We fought; brothers often do. We took a little time to get to know one another. Then…” A shrug.

“Your memory is terrible. We didn’t ‘take a little time to get to know one another,’” Robert said. “I egged the other boys on, encouraging them to pick on you. And even once we declared peace, I had the devil of a time coming to terms with what you told me.”

He’d spent months pondering the inevitable, awful arithmetic—one that subtracted nine months from his brother’s age and came up with a date two months after Robert’s parents’ had married. His mind kept trying to manufacture some perfectly good reason why his father had sired a son out of wedlock and then abandoned him with no financial support. Robert built elaborate explanations based on messages that went astray, lies that were told, servants who happened to go on leave…

“I only stopped making excuses for my father’s behavior because I asked him what happened.”

I don’t care what she says, his father had growled. She wanted it. They always do.

This reflexive denial of a crime he’d not been accused of had made everything painfully clear. Robert had found Oliver directly after the holidays.

I’m not my father, he’d said, his voice shaking. I’m not my father, no matter what anyone says.

And Oliver had simply grinned at him. I know that, he’d replied cheekily. I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out.

I know you’re not your father. Over the years, those words had meant more to him than any of the flattery that so often came his way. A don at Cambridge had looked him in the eyes, and said, “My God, you’re the spitting image of him.” When he reached his majority, men slapped him on the back and told him how much he looked like the old Duke of Clermont. Every time they complimented him on his heritage, he heard his father’s plaintive lament. She wanted it. They always do.

Robert was taller than his brother by two inches. He was the elder by three months. And—the only thing that really counted—he was the legitimate child, the one who’d inherited a dukedom from his father and a vast fortune by way of his mother. Nobody would have blinked if he had put his brother in his place—somewhere far, far behind him.

Which was why Robert never would. I won the first toss, therefore I win everything from here on out did not make a satisfying battle cry. Especially when he’d only won that first round because his father had cheated.

Since that day, every reminder of his privilege—of his father’s wealth, his father’s station—had rankled. It reminded him of the moment when he’d discovered what it meant that his father was a duke. It meant that nobody questioned him, no matter how wrong his actions were. It meant that he would not be held to account for his crimes, no matter who paid the price. It meant that if Robert followed in his father’s footsteps, nobody would blink an eye.

Men, after all, had their needs. And women wanted it. They always did.

In all his life, only one person had ever looked at him and said, “You don’t have to be your father.”

One, and… Robert’s gaze slid out the window once more. One and a half.

Because Miss Pursling had just walked into his home, given him that handbill, and told him that he’d written it. It had taken all of his power not to glow with pride and ask her what she thought. Was it persuasive? Did you like it?

Instead, he simply wrinkled his nose. “Our father was an ass.”

Oliver grimaced. “Your father,” he said sharply. “The Duke of Clermont didn’t raise me. He didn’t take me fishing. He’s my sire, not my father. He was never my father.”

By that standard, Robert had been raised by teaspoons and blades of grass.

“I wasn’t speaking as a matter of history,” Robert said stiffly. “Just biology.”

Oliver shook his head. “Family isn’t a matter of history. Or biology,” he said softly. “It’s a matter of choice. And don’t look so grim. You know what I meant. Just because I refuse to let that man be my father doesn’t mean you can’t be my brother.”

“If only everything were that easy.” Robert put his hands in his pockets and looked away. “I had a message from my mother this morning.”

“Ah.” Oliver reached over and touched his shoulder. “Indeed.”

“I know,” Robert said, with a hint of what he hoped came out as wry amusement. “And I saw her in London only two months past.”