The Rakehell of Roth (Everleigh Sisters #2) - Amalie Howard Page 0,84
with Isobel,” he snapped. “I never wanted to marry her in the first place. This whole farce has been the worst mistake of my life, and with what happened to Prue, that’s saying a lot.” His gaze shifted to the silent duke and then back to his brother. Something deep behind his ribs stung—the falsehoods stabbing into the heart of him like lethal needles—but he shoved those useless emotions down deep. His wife had been a means to an end. He had to believe she still was, for both their sakes. “I did it for one reason as you both very well know—because of that bloody codicil. That was your doing, don’t think I don’t know it.”
“It was in there for a reason,” Oliver said. “The duke could not have a wastrel for an heir. You needed to come up to snuff.”
“So you convinced him I needed to marry?”
Oliver huffed. “You were out of control, Winter. You lost sight of your duty and name, and you needed to be reminded of what was important in a way that would get your attention—your pockets.”
“Well played, brother,” Winter shot back. “So I did as I was bid and wed the chit. What does any of this have to do with her? I don’t even know why she’s here in town.”
“I warned you that your past would catch up to you one day. And now, because of you, this woman from your past is smearing our good name.”
Cursing under his breath, Winter walked over to the decanter and poured himself a drink, which he dispatched in one swallow. The brandy burned a path to his stomach, leaving clarity followed by no small amount of guilt in its wake. His brother was right. It was his own fault that he’d dallied with a woman of her vile nature in the first place, but he hadn’t made her any promises and there was never any child.
“I regret many of my actions, and until Prue’s death, I saw no reason to change,” he said with a sigh, raking a hand through his hair and pouring another drink with shaking fingers. “But answer me this, brother—why do you hate me so much?”
Oliver’s eyes flashed with resentment, though they darted over to where the duke sat for an infinitesimal moment. “No matter what I do, I can never measure up. Yet, you, the prodigal son, does as he pleases with no consequence. Hate doesn’t begin to cover it.”
“We are brothers.”
“Not so when you’re born on the other side of the blanket!” Oliver snarled.
Winter blinked, his brother’s odd reaction to being called a bastard suddenly making sense. Holy hell. Was Oliver a by-blow of Kendrick’s?
Their stares converged on the duke, who sat silent and ramrod still, his eyes showing no surprise whatsoever. Fuck, no. Winter felt a rush of resentment gather inside of him. What more indignities had his poor mother suffered at his hands! She’d confided in a young Winter, eyes glazed with laudanum, that the duke had never loved her and sought comfort elsewhere. But to bring his by-blow under the same roof? That was unconscionable.
“How could you do this?” Winter growled aloud. “To Mother?”
Two sets of eyes fastened on him—one full of regret, and the other laced with shame. “I did it for her,” the duke said and then turned to Oliver. “How long have you known?”
Winter frowned. For her?
Oliver clenched his fists. “Since I was a boy. She told me herself that you were not my father. I’ve had to live with that shame in silence for years, while he”—he spared Winter with a fulminating glance—“flaunted his name about like filth. A name I could never truly have.”
Winter’s rage ebbed and flowed in confusion. Stunned, he opened his mouth and shut it. None of this made sense. His father was the adulterer. At least, that was what his mother had always claimed. “You’re lying,” he said.
“About what, brother dear? About your conduct or the fact that I’m a bastard?”
“You’re my son,” Kendrick said. “Just as Winter is.”
Oliver laughed. “None of your blood runs in my veins, Duke.”
“Blood doesn’t always make a family. Loyalty does, choice and sacrifice.” The duke tilted his head back as his nose started to bleed anew, wheezing painfully. “And love, if you can be brave enough to earn it.”
The last hit Winter like a fist to the gut. Love—the thing that had sent his mother to madness and led Prue to her death.