thing to alter the course of one life and end another one.
West had impulsively challenged Jeremy’s elder brother David, the Marquess of Willingham, to a race, during which the curricles overturned on a sharp corner, killing David instantly and shattering West’s leg. He was bedridden for months, and in the days following the accident had been gripped with a fever that had very nearly killed him.
When he was well enough to rejoin society—though society had a rather difficult time recognizing the formerly reckless and charming Marquess of Weston in the somber gentleman who had taken his place—it was to find that his beloved Sophie had married West’s childhood friend Fitzwilliam Bridewell.
Three years later, Lord Fitzwilliam was dead—killed in battle on the Continent. Lady Fitzwilliam was a widow at the age of twenty-four. Through all of this—the six years that spanned West’s long recovery, Sophie’s marriage, her widowhood, her mourning, and her reentrance into society—James had never once heard his brother utter her name.
Until now.
“I would ask what the hell is wrong with you, but I’m certain there are too many correct responses to select only one.”
James looked up—it was the following morning and he was at home in his study, his head full of numbers involving competing offers for a mare in his stables whose foals tended to grow into exceptionally fast runners. For a second, he merely blinked up at his brother, who stood in the doorway, hat and gloves in hand. It was such an incongruous sight, West here in his house, that for a moment he wasn’t able to process it. By the time his mind had caught up with his eyes—something Violet had once remarked was uncommonly difficult for the entirety of the male species—West had crossed the room and was towering over him. James could sense waves of anger rolling off of him.
Christ. It was going to be that sort of day. First Jeremy last night, now West—he supposed that once he’d dealt with his brother, he should take himself upstairs and submit to whatever verbal lashing Violet was no doubt saving for him. Might as well get it all over with at once. At least this time, he was the one sitting behind the desk.
“West,” he said, rising respectfully—West was, after all, still his elder brother, and a future duke at that. “What can I do for you?”
“What is this nonsense I’m hearing about you at my club?” West demanded, crossing to the sideboard where James kept a decanter of brandy and several cut-glass tumblers. He raised the decanter, uninvited, and poured himself a healthy splash. He did not ask James if he cared for a drink as well.
“I’m not entirely certain I know what you mean,” James said, though he in fact had a fairly good idea.
“It seems that you had a lengthy conversation with Lady Fitzwilliam in the park yesterday,” West said, his fastidiously correct use of Sophie’s title making the words sound extra stiff.
“Do you have spies?” James asked.
West looked at him sharply over the rim of his glass as he took a sip of his drink. “The fact that I’ve already heard of this should indicate how much gossip there has been, James. I’m not some old biddy swapping the latest news over tea, you know. But a man displaying blatant interest in a woman who is known to be linked to his best friend—”
“Not widely known, I shouldn’t think,” James muttered, watching his brother closely. It was clear that his suspicions had been correct—West likely knew every move Lady Fitzwilliam had taken in the years since they’d been close, even if he hadn’t so much as uttered her name.
“Widely enough,” West replied curtly, clearly in no mood for splitting hairs. “James, I know that we’ve not been on the best of terms these past years”—an understatement, James thought, but West always had been polite—“but as your brother, I can no longer sit by and watch you make a mess of your life.”
“Funny,” James said acidly. “You didn’t seem to mind overmuch when Father made a misery of it time and time again.” This was a slight exaggeration—James hadn’t been abused or mistreated, merely neglected. Now, as an adult, he realized that he had been rather lucky, all in all. As a boy of six, or eight, or ten, however, he’d been unable to see anything except a father whose love and attention were reserved solely for the elder brother he rarely saw, so much time did West spend in