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She almost gasped when she saw the raw, but quiet pain in his eyes when they met hers once more. In that moment, she knew that he was not speaking of her father alone, but also of himself.

Rosamund took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She had made up her mind. She could not protect herself from the past and the truth all the time.

“Tell me about Henry,” she whispered. “Not generally, as would people know him from afar. But specifically.”

Surprise made the Duke lift his brows. Then, something in him further softened. It was like Rosamund found ways to make him more pliant.

“Henry was terrible at fishing,” the Duke began, chuckling. “Then again, he was only a boy, and he was still learning. We spent hours on the river bank behind the west meadow the summer he turned twelve. He had tangled his line in different things, but not fish. Weeds. Tree trunks. Anyway, he might have been constantly frustrated, but he refused to give up. He would wait until he caught something.”

“He was always my hopelessly stubborn little brother,” Rosamund murmured, giving the Duke a watery smile.

“Someone might say it was typical for boys to be the way he was, but I knew he was brilliant,” the Duke continued fondly. “He would ask three questions in a single breath without waiting for answers. His hands were always busy, touching things to know more about them. He wanted to learn how to ride a wild stallion, even buying himself a black stallion when he was secretly terrified of my mare.”

Rosamund spluttered a laugh, tears spilling down her cheeks. She wiped at them furiously.

“Also, he called me Perry! He might have been formal in correspondence, but he had a warm heart.”

“I would never have thought anyon would dare call the Duke of Westbourne such a ridiculous name!” Rosamund exclaimed, still caught between tears and laughter.

“Only Henry was permitted to do so,” the Duke declared.

“And you did not mind it at all?” she asked curiously.

“I did not,” the Duke replied. “Someone at least chose to see me as a friend and not as a Duke.”

“W-what about the promise you made to him? How did that arrangement come to be?” she could not help but ask.

“After the scandal broke and your father had left Ashbourne to face court battles,” the Duke said, suddenly very grave, “Henry visited me. He was very young and still small, but very much like the young Earl he was meant to be. He asked if Ashbourne would disappear like everything else in his life.”

Something tightened in Rosamund’s chest.

“I swore to him then that Ashbourne would not fall, and that no matter what happened in court, I would keep the estate intact until he was old enough to return and take the keys back.”

Rosamund’s eyes were again filled with tears. Her little brother had been so brave. He knew he was, but not to this extent. The boy had fought for Ashbourne.

“Did he know that the estate technically already belonged to you, even then?” she asked.

“He did,” the Duke replied, “but he also knew that I intended to give it back to him as soon as he becomes of age.”

“You carried the promise of ryears, even through all the gossip. But why did you never tell me, Your Grace? I know you wished to protect me from my father’s faults, but it does not make sense to me to keep all of these a secret.”

The Duke was silent for a moment. Then, he hung his head. The gesture was surprising in its humility.

“Because I was ashamed,” he admitted.

“Ashamed?” she echoed.

“When Henry died, the future that I was holding Ashbourne temporarily for was gone. I no longer knew what to do with the estate, and the terrible acts that I committed for the sake of Ashbourne could no longer be justified, then. When Henry was gone, the future was gone. I was left with an estate that did not really belong to me. Keeping the estate was easier than admitting that none of could have been worth the cost.”

By this time, Rosamund’s tears were running freely down her face. For years, she had thought of Ashbourne Hall as her monument of grief. However, looking at the Duke of Westbourne now made her realize that it was his own, too.

Without thinking, she reached out her hand to his. The Duke looked at her small, trembling hand, and offered his own, palm upward. His long fingers closed around her own. There were no jokes to break the tension, and neither pulled away for a while.

Twenty-Six

“Take a look at this,” the Duke said, his long index finger marking a spot in the yellowed parish register they had laid open on a wooden desk.

Rosamund leaned over his shoulder, the ribbons of her bonnet touching his coat. Her eyes were focused on the elegant handwriting.