with her flippant dismissal of their kiss and being called a “fusty country parson.” He was certain, however, that he had not lost his heart to Miss Sinclair. This…turmoil was nothing like what he’d felt with Rosalie. Randolph’s hands closed into fists at his sides. He saw Robert notice, and forced his hands to relax.
“Anyone in the room who was paying attention knows that,” added Robert.
“Don’t tease Randolph,” said Sebastian, going elder brotherly.
“Why not? You all teased me about Flora.”
“You have a thicker skin.”
Randolph and Robert stared at him.
“He’s sensitive. Chafing rolls off your back like water off a duck.”
“Well, thank you very much,” said Robert. But he looked amused.
One could drift into thinking that Sebastian was an amiable dolt, Randolph observed. Sebastian had often applied the label to himself. He wasn’t anything of the kind though, and since his marriage, he seemed to realize it. “I didn’t tease you about Flora,” Randolph said to Robert. “I did my best to help you.”
“It’s true, you did. Shall I return the favor?”
“I’m not doing anything. I don’t need any help.”
“Don’t you?”
“Says he doesn’t,” replied Sebastian. He nodded at Randolph. “But if you find you do, just say the word.”
And they would rally ’round, Randolph thought. If he needed them, Nathaniel would come down from the country and Alan from Oxford. James would sail home from halfway across the globe if word somehow reached him. They’d join a phalanx of Gresham brothers against the world. The knowledge was touching, and a little daunting. Like owning Aladdin’s magic lamp, a power to use sparingly. “I’m perfectly fine,” he said. “No help required.”
From another corner of the large, overheated chamber, the Duke and Duchess of Langford watched three of their offspring converse. “I’m worried about him,” said the duchess.
After more than thirty years of marriage, they usually understood each other without much explanation. The duke merely said, “Randolph? Why?”
“All of them learned the veneer that’s so useful in society. But underneath, Randolph takes things harder than the others.”
“Things?”
“If his heart should be broken.” The duchess shook her head. “Again.”
“You’re thinking of Miss Delacourt?” The duke had heard the story of Rosalie after the fact. The delay had rankled a little at the time, but he was resigned to the knowledge that his duchess received confidences from their sons that he was denied. He supposed he knew things she didn’t as well.
“Her loss brought him very near despair. To lose your love right on the verge of marriage—”
They looked at each other, their eyes mirroring the knowledge of what it would have meant to them.
“He struggled back to a kind of happiness,” she continued. “Indeed, I’m sure he’d say he’s very happy. To me, he has never seemed the same.”
“Have you been fretting all these years?” her husband asked with concern.
“I’d feared he’d never fall in love again. Now I’m worried that he will…unluckily.”
“Miss Sinclair?” The duke looked and found the young lady with the bright hair and lovely voice. “Is music the key there?”
“As much as any one thing ever is in mysteries of love.”
The duke nodded. “They seem very harmonious together.”
Though she smiled at his word choice, the expression was fleeting. “I can’t make out how she feels. We were talking of James at one of their rehearsals—”
“She knows James?” he asked, surprised.
“No. But she came alive all at once when we were speaking of him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I.” The duchess shook her head. “I only know that I couldn’t bear to see Randolph as he was after Rosalie Delacourt’s death. I don’t know what I’d do.”
“We would step in.”
She looked up. She couldn’t count the times she’d been thankful to have a partner she could rely on absolutely. “We agreed not to interfere in our sons’ private affairs.”
“And we were right. Look at how well they’ve all settled.”
“Except Randolph.”
“The exception that proves the rule.”
“But what would we do?”
“That will depend on circumstances.”
One brief glance was enough to forge a silent agreement. The duchess immediately felt better, recalling all the occasions when her husband had known best.
Nine
Walking through the London streets toward Olivia’s house, accompanied by her borrowed footman, Verity was conscious of a slight…melancholy? No, that was ridiculous. Not the right word at all. She never brooded.
She admired a froth of pansies in the window box of a stone house they passed. The June morning was balmy. She was on her way to see a friend. She was to attend a soiree that evening and her first grand ball in a