A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,43
like it here.”
“And how are you paying for this little sojourn?”
That made him smile. “It seems I have excellent credit in these parts.”
“Not after today,” the duke replied coolly.
Simon’s smile slid from his face. “You bastard.”
“How long are you going to do this, Simon? How long will you insist on thwarting me?” For once, Wyndham did not sound as cool as a January wind. Instead, he sounded like a man who was nearing forty and rapidly losing what little patience he had with an heir who refused to marry and propagate.
“I guess I’ll do it until I’m thirty-five.”
“Not without money.”
Simon felt his features twist into a sneer that he knew to be twice as unbecoming thanks to his injuries. “I might not have money, but I have plenty of possessions I can sell. I can live long enough on the proceeds of those sales. My existence for the next ten months won’t be luxurious, but I will survive. Trust me, your grace, living above an inn is paradise compared to being on campaign. I can wait you out.” By the end of his soliloquy Simon was beginning to enjoy himself. But then his brother reached inside his immaculately cut coat and drew out a battered and filthy piece of paper.
“What the devil is that?” Simon asked.
“Everything you have is in my name—or have you forgotten?”
“What?”
Wyndham’s eyebrows arched. “Don’t you recall? When you were ill—delirious with fever—you signed this.” He tossed it to Simon.
Simon opened the folded piece of paper and read the brief contents. It was like a punch in the face. He had no memory of writing the words on the page, but it was undeniably his handwriting.
He crumpled up the paper and threw it at his brother, who easily caught the projectile. “You bastard,” he said through gritted teeth. “You know I only wrote that because I thought I was going to die.”
Wyndham gave an elegant, ducal shrug. “It is too bad your letter does not say that. It only says all of your worldly possessions are mine.”
“No magistrate would believe that.”
“That might or might not be true. However, the word of a duke will suffice until I have liquidated all your possessions—all your horses, including that lovely new mare you just purchased. By the time you get the issue before a magistrate—provided you can find the money for such a legal action—everything will be gone.”
It took Simon three gulps before he found adequate air. “You fucking bastard.”
Wyndham nodded, untouched by Simon’s venom. “Perhaps, but it still doesn’t alter the fact that you don’t have a penny to your name.” The duke sighed, looking unspeakably weary. “Come home, Simon. Marry a respectable woman of breeding, produce two sons, and then you may do whatever you wish.” He waved a hand, his heavy gold signet glittering on his smallest finger. “You may live above a taproom, cavort with serving wenches, breed horses, set up an entire houseful of mistresses—anything you desire once you have done the one thing I ask. I will not only release your inheritance early; I will put all the wealth of the dukedom at your disposal.”
Simon shook his head. “That really is all that matters to you, isn’t it—the dukedom? An heir. You don’t give a damn about anyone else.”
“I give a damn about hundreds of people, Simon. It is my duty to give many damns—and it will one day be yours, and then your son’s.” His eyes glinted. “I am the Eighth Duke of Plimpton. Our line has been unbroken for hundreds of years.” He leaned slightly forward, his taut posture more telling than his cool expression or tone. “Do you even know how singular that is?” An almost fevered look spread across his cold, emotionless features. “Do you?” He did not wait for an answer. “Because of me and my inability to get an heir this may be the first break in hundreds of years. If the title goes to Raymond—”
He didn’t need to finish his thought; Simon knew what he meant. Raymond had always had a problem when it came to cards. Simon had given him hundreds of pounds over the years and he knew Wyndham would have done the same. Putting the dukedom in the hands of an inveterate gambler was, indeed, a concern.
But it was not Simon’s concern. Besides, he would do his duty during his lifetime and be a responsible steward. But did he have to dance to Wyndham’s tune for the cause?