While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(7)

Since he’d moved to London a year ago, he’d made discreet inquiries, even frequented places where his half brother would be. All so he could glimpse the son their father wanted. It was curiosity, nothing more. He certainly didn’t crave a bond with one of his few living relations.

Upon first arriving in Town, he’d discovered that his father was dead. A disappointment, to be certain. He would never have that sweet moment where they came face-to-face. He’d envisioned many scenarios. The moment they would bump into each other at a ball or soiree. Or at the duke’s club—which Struan had made certain to gain access to. There was nothing money could not buy, even entrance to White’s. Especially when Struan possessed vouchers from some of the most admired and important men in England—men, unlike him, who didn’t know when to quit. Men who played until they’d wagered everything. Their fortunes, their estates, the very clothes off their backs.

Struan had amassed a fortune in the years since his mother’s death. He’d started out chasing dice in back alleys. Even without proper schooling, he had a knack for numbers, for knowing how to quickly tally them and manipulate them so that they made sense. Numbers, unlike most things in life, were reliable. They never betrayed one.

That skill helped him beat the odds at horse racing and other games of chance. By the age of twenty he’d risen from gaming in back alleys. He’d won horses and phaetons. He even once won a pair of kangaroos. Soon there was property, estates. At two and twenty, he’d won his first gaming hell. From there his empire only grew. Aside from land and houses in Scotland, he’d gained properties in the Cotswolds and the Lake District. And then came London.

Doors that had forever been shut to him magically opened, and he’d begun to fantasize about meeting his father . . . of showing him what he had become with no help from him. In these fantasies, he was in possession of a highborn wife to sweeten the pot. Someone coveted not only for her rank but her beauty. And so, that ambition had been borne.

He left for London with one clear goal: marry the most attractive, bluest blue-blooded English rose he could find and rub his father’s nose in it. He would make old Autenberry rue the day he ever rejected him and called him a lowborn bastard.

Once he arrived and discovered his father dead, he continued his quest mostly out of habit. Moving through long-ingrained routine. As though he could still reach his father in the grave and prove to him that he’d been wrong—that Struan Mackenzie was somebody even though the Duke of Autenberry refused to acknowledge him as his son.

The hack hit a slight rut and the girl quickly reached across the space to clasp Autenberry’s shoulder, steadying him and keeping him from falling off the seat. He felt his lip curl at her attentiveness to Autenberry.

She was a fierce little thing. Not a beauty, but there was a certain something to her. He wondered, not for the first time, if his dear brother was shagging her. There were only a few females whose skirts his brother had not lifted, after all.

She’d actually possessed the temerity to attack him. He was twice her weight. He could crush her single-handedly and yet she’d come at him as though he were her match. What had his brother done to earn her stalwart protection? He stifled a snort of derision. He knew the answer to that. Autenberry had a way with the fairer sex.

He studied the slim line of her beneath a dress that had seen better days. He knew his brother favored his females on the curvy side, and she was a far cry from that.

Satisfied her patient would not roll off the seat, she settled back against the squabs. “You look like him a little,” she admitted grudgingly. “I see it now.”

“I know.” He’d observed the resemblance upon their first meeting. They might look similar, but his father had claimed and doted upon Marcus. A sentiment that went both ways if the rage his brother exhibited upon first meeting him signified.

The young duke despised Struan. He was convinced that Struan wanted only to destroy the remaining Autenberry family and, like a papa bear, he was determined to protect his family. To be fair, Struan did not entirely blame him for the impulse. He might feel the same way if their situation was reversed. If he had anyone left in the whole world that cared about him. But he didn’t. He had no one.

As though she couldn’t resist, she leaned across the space once again, her slim fingers gently pushing a lock of hair off the duke’s forehead. It was a tender move that made his chest clench uncomfortably.

Of course she doted on him. Autenberry was a duke. And handsome. Even without that to recommend him, he was charming, as well. Everyone said as much. There couldn’t be too many handsome, charming dukes around. It was a bitter bit of irony that the unconscious man she gazed at with total adulation had only moments ago called Struan’s dead mother a whore and him a liar before taking a swing at his face. Despite their resemblance, Autenberry liked to pretend that his father had not committed adultery and had not fathered a son he then abandoned to poverty.

It wasn’t the first encounter Struan had with his half brother, but each confrontation only grew more contentious. The young duke believed Struan was after him for mercenary reasons. As though he didn’t have wealth enough of his own. He could buy and own Autenberry’s estate twice over—the land, his homes, the servants, his fashionable clothes and possessions. It was a pittance for him.

The first time they came face-to-face, Struan had the foolish notion that they could perhaps be actual brothers to each other. Since they were. Well, half brothers, anyway. It annoyed him to reflect on that moment now. The stupid boyish optimism he had felt. He should have known better. Had his father’s rejection taught him nothing? His mother was dead. The only creature on this earth who had ever given a damn about him. He would never have anyone love him unconditionally again. Nor did he need anyone. He was fine on his own. Rich. Respected by many. Feared by the rest. He had women to warm his bed whenever he wished it.