Unfortunately, now was no time to exasperate his brother. Devon flattened his palm against the chair arm and leaned his head back to inspect the ceiling. “There might have also been some kissing. Her father discovered us, and now I have two options.” He rolled his head back round to stare Arthur full in the face. “Death or marriage.”
Arthur sat back down, his fists unfurling. “Quite right.”
“Quite right? Aren’t you indignant over my virtue?”
Arthur snorted.
Devon shot to his feet. “She kissed me back.” Ordered him not to stop, even.
Arthur snorted again.
“It’s true!”
“I happen to like Miss Clarke,” Arthur said. “How do you feel about her?”
Devon paced across the room and back, trying to piece together a variety of violent emotions concerning the woman. He stopped before his brother’s desk. “I liked kissing her.”
Arthur grinned.
Devon continued to pace back and forth, then stopped before the desk again. “I admire her beauty.” He paced. He stopped. “She’s damn intelligent. Makes me feel a right fool.” He paced. He stopped. “I used to hate her.”
Arthur’s brows shot up high. “And now?”
Devon sat back down with an exhausted sigh. “Iusedto hate her. I don’t think I do anymore. Though I still find it deuced diverting to irritate her.”
“Why did you hate her?”
Devon didn’t want to tell him about the letter. He dropped his head forward and raked his fingers through his hair with a heavy sigh. “I can’t support a wife. Not right now.”
“Why not? You’ve a hefty allowance and a sizable inheritance from both parents. You have a small estate from Mother’s family and—”
“None of it is mine, Arthur. I didn’t earn it. It was given to me.”
“That’s the highly privileged life you were born into, Devon. You should be thankful for it instead of”—he waved a hand at Devon’s face—“feeling whatever pitiful emotion that expression represents.”
Arthur would never understand. He saw the privilege he was born to as a responsibility. As firstborn, as heir and duke, he was right.
Devon’s life was different, had been since the day he was born. Just in case.
Arthur steepled his hands before him atop the desk, appraising Devon over the top of two fingers pointed up like pistols. “I assume Miss Clarke has a dowry.”
It was general knowledge that Mr. Clarke had settled a large sum on his daughter.
“I won’t live off my wife’s dowry,” Devon said.
“You don’t have to. You have your own inheritance. The inheritance is all yours, Devon. It’s not an allowance from me, nor money from your wife. It’s yours alone.”
“What have I done to earn it? I was born. That’s it. If I use my inheritance, then the foresight of Mother’s family and Father’s generosity will take care of my wife, not I. I want to do it on my own.” Doing so might give his life the meaning and value it had been missing since he’d decided to look for it, since he realized his only purpose in life was to wait, to replace.
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes tight. “I do not understand this fixation of yours.”
How could he help him understand? Devon leaned forward and tapped the top of the desk. “Brutus.”
“Uncle Brutus?”
“What does he do?”
Arthur’s brow dropped low, initiating a transformation from dapper duke to dangerous fellow indeed. “He… annoys me.” His voice rumbled like the displeasure of a god across the sky.
