The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(5)

Robert shifted in his seat. “Yes, well, she will do.” The last state he cared to speak on was his marital one. His marriage would be one based on practicality and proper connections; a cold union that offered the only true honesty afforded to the peerage. As such, Lady Diana would do . . . as well as any other well-bred lady. Their marriage would unite two ducal families with a history of friendship that went centuries back. Hearts wouldn’t be involved. Instead the match would be built on structured arrangements of land and money. It was a situation that the current duke thoroughly approved of.

“Robert . . . ?” For a brief moment, pain contorted the older man’s features, twisting them with so much regret and sorrow that Robert had to look away. “I am sorry about Lucy Whitman,” he continued in hushed tones. Most dukes would never offer words of compunction. Certainly not the last man who’d held the Somerset title.

That simple apology softened the edges of Robert’s stoicism. The current duke had never been like any of those other lords. An affectionate father, a loyal and loving husband, a devoted brother, he’d demonstrated an idealistic way life should be lived. Yet, he’d also been weak . . . as had been evidenced by the late duke’s manipulation of Robert. I would have never been so weak. For his someday children, Robert would slay dragons, and certainly never allow a villainous bastard like the late duke mastery over his family.

His father stared intently at him, and Robert shifted under that probing regard. “There is nothing to apologize for,” he said tightly. At one time, he’d possessed an equally strong resentment for his father having allowed himself, his son, and all the Denningtons to be so controlled by the late duke. With the passage of time, he’d let go of his anger and considered himself fortunate to have been saved from a mistake he would have regretted the whole of his life. Now his sole living parent would drag up years’ worth of resentment and bitterness?

“There is everything to apologize for.”

Yes, there was.

Inside, he chafed at the pity glinting in his father’s eyes. He didn’t need pity for having given his heart to a woman and having it ripped from him in that very shameful display his grandfather had subjected him to. “It was better I knew her intentions.” And that was the rub of it. Had he not stepped into that office twelve years ago, he’d have married a woman with lies on her lips and ruthless aspirations the only thing in her heart.

“You misunderstand me,” his father amended. He set down his paper, and neatly folded it, then smoothed his palms over the surface. “I was pleased the day you noticed her because it spoke of a gentleman who saw beyond the titles and saw to a person’s worth.”

A cynical chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I showed a remarkable lack of judgment,” he said, wanting to say nothing else, wishing he’d never stepped inside this dining room, wishing his father had left that day long buried. Preferring it when he’d moved through life believing his father knew nothing about any of it.

“Yes, you did,” his father conceded.

It was a mistake Robert would never again make. Not in the name of that fickle, false emotion of love.

“But,” the duke said, lifting a finger. “You also showed remarkable judgment in desiring love and respectability above even rank.”

This time a sharp bark of unexpected laughter exploded from Robert. His father was the only peer in the realm who’d be praising his son for loving beneath his station.

His father frowned, and fixed a stare on him that was very much the late duke’s practiced look. “You have, however, shown an even more remarkable lack of judgment since.”

Ah, at last, the lecture. All dukes inevitably worried after the state of the title, and at three and thirty years of age, Robert had taken many more years for his own pleasures than most noblemen, and no doubt all dukes. “I’m not reckless,” he said through tight lips. “I wager no more than most gentlemen. I keep one mistress and I’m careful to never beget a bastard on those women.” Through his methodical list, his father’s frown deepened. “I visit White’s and Brooke’s, and hardly ever the more scandalous clubs.” Though in truth, he did frequent several of those establishments and always on this particular day.

There was something about intentionally taking a risk on the anniversary of the day that had cost him everything that kept a gentleman grounded.

His father leaned forward further, and his seat groaned in protest of the shifting weight. “What you fail to realize,” he said quietly, settling his elbows on the table, “is that I’m not worried about you being the same as other noblemen.” He paused. “I worry about you setting yourself apart from them.”

Unnerved by the powerful glimmer in those blue eyes nearly identical to his, Robert returned his focus to his coffee, blowing into the already cooling brew. He’d never sought pride or praise from anyone. Rather he’d been content with the person he’d become. He didn’t litter the countryside with his bastards and had considered himself a devoted brother, and respectful son. To have his three and thirty years called into question so abruptly shook him in ways he despised.

“I am not disappointed with you,” his father added when Robert still said nothing.

“Thank you.”

Did his father hear the wry edge to those two words? Or mayhap it was that he didn’t care.