The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(86)

If not for the duke’s lesson that day, Robert would even now be wed to Lucy Whitman, and there never would have been a Helena Banbury.

Holding the duke’s gaze in the portrait, Robert gave a slight nod. Thank you . . .

As much as he’d hated his grandfather for his treachery, how could he not be grateful at having found the gift of Helena? Robert resumed his walk.

And for the first time since he’d strode this same path, he smiled.

He paused outside the heavy oak panel, and lifted his hand to knock when a strangled paroxysm penetrated the door. Robert shoved the door open, and paused. Seated behind his desk, his father held a kerchief to his mouth. His cheeks flushed red from the force of his coughing, and his frame shook.

Alarm skittered around Robert’s insides as he closed the door and stalked forward. “Father?”

His father waved his hand, and continued choking until he drew a jerky, raspy breath. He brushed the back of his hand across his damp brow. “Robert,” he said weakly, dabbing at his mouth with the white kerchief.

Robert’s gaze went to that fabric and he stilled as Helena’s observation crept into his mind. Your father appears . . . strained . . . He remained transfixed by the stark crimson stain upon that scrap. His father followed his stare, and gave him a long, sad look.

The energy went out of Robert’s legs as he sank into the nearest seat. He tried to drag forth words, opening and closing his mouth several times. No. Robert shook his head. He’d faked his illness to see he and Beatrice found respectable matches. He wasn’t truly ill.

The duke assembled his lips into the semblance of a smile. “Surely you know I’d never have the bad form to fake my own death?” he wheezed, and stuffed that bloodied cloth into the front of his jacket. “I am not my father, Robert.” His father closed his eyes, drawing in slow and uneven breaths.

Agony spiraled through him, and Robert dragged a hand through his hair, searching about. Where in bloody blazes was Hanson. “Dr. C—?”

“Has gone for the day.” Which implied the doctor attended his father daily.

He searched his gaze over his father. These past months he’d seen precisely what he wanted to see. Having been manipulated by so many before, he’d been blinded to the truth. Now he forced himself to look at that which he’d failed to note. The drawn lines at the corner of his father’s mouth. His haggard eyes.

“No.” That word rung deep from a place where in speaking it, he willed it to be.

His father nodded. “Yes.” There was a gentle insistence that came from a man who’d come to accept his own eventual fate.

Robert gripped the arms of his chair. “I don’t . . . I thought . . .” He curled his hands so tight he dug the flesh from them. What a bloody fool I am. Tears filled his eyes and he blinked back the useless sheen.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Robert,” his father said softly.

“I did everything wrong,” he said in harsh, guttural tones. He’d been precisely the self-centered, pompous bastard his father had all but pointedly accused him of being. And if it hadn’t been for Helena, how blind he still would be to everything that mattered. Robert scrubbed his hands up and down his face.

“I spent months resenting you,” he said, blankly. Shame, agony, and despair all twisted around his insides.

“And do you know why you did?”

A strangled sob worked its way up from a place where regret lived, and he shook his head.

“I was not the father you deserved, Robert.”

An agonized protest formed on his lips. Where most lords had cold, pompous bastards as sires, Robert’s father had loved his children. He’d not been driven by cold, powerful connections, but rather by the happiness of those children. And Robert had spent years secretly hating him, for allowing the late duke to control their family.

His father dissolved into another fit, and withdrew another kerchief. Robert surged out of his chair, but he waved him back to his seat. Closing his eyes, the duke laid his head along the back of his chair. “The thing about dying, Robert, is that you do not have time for lying to yourself or others. My father destroyed the happiness of so many. My sister and her husband.” He opened his eyes. “You.” A sad smile formed on his lips. “That is my greatest regret, that I wasn’t there more for you. I knew about Lucy Whitman.”

He groaned, making a sound of protest. “Stop,” he entreated.

“I knew you cared for her,” his father continued, giving his head a regretful shake. “I also knew my father was aware. And given what he’d done to his own daughter predicted what he was capable of. Particularly when his grandson, a future duke, showed less than suitable attentions for a nursemaid.” His last living parent leaned forward in his seat, and settled his arms on his desk. “I spoke to you recently about setting yourself apart, and not being like everyone else. I spoke from a place of knowing, Robert. I spoke to you as a man who never found the strength to defend his sister.” He held Robert’s gaze. “My son.”

Robert shoved forward in his chair and matched his father’s pose, leaning forward. “We are not responsible for the crimes of another. The duke was incapable of love and changing, and nothing you said or did would have ever swayed him. You were never to blame.” He implored him with his eyes to see that truth.