strode to the
French doors.
Having gotten to his own feet, Jules offered,
“I take it I have displeased you, sir.”
“Can we not drop the damned formality,
Jules?” Artis gruffed and glanced aside at him. “Sit down or stand
if you like, but for God sakes, if we’re going to have a
conversation, stop bloody Your Gracing me. I’m your father.”
Never having had a dressing down because he’d
always been aware, thanks to his mother and others, of who and what
he must be, nor having seen anything akin to affection, warmth, or
anything else from the distant duke—
Jules held his stare through several tics of
the clock, before he drawled with coolness, “You’ll forgive me
then, if I need a moment to discern just what it is (that)
suggests, by your definition. Unless memory fails me, and I doubt
it does, there is nothing unusual in my…address to you. Nor, in the
fact that any of your sons lack some sort of— intimate
brotherhood.”
“Do not condescend to me, my boy,” the Duke
retorted, not harsh but rather tiredly. He came to stand close to
Jules and looked him right in the eye. “I know my failings and I
know what I gave up and sacrificed and allowed to take place in
your life, and your brothers.”
Discomforted and yet oddly held by the look
on his father’s face, the words he was speaking, the last thing
Jules expected was for the Duke to reach out and touch his arm.
He almost flinched from it, but his Grace was
saying, “There’s no need for me to explain your mother, we all
lived with her, but that doesn’t excuse my distance and lack of
affection towards any of you. All that I can say is that I am
sorry. I thought I did it for Raith…and I am sure you know that the
Duchess was not his mother. I thought that was why— but I am not so
sure that Matilda would have been any different had I never
fathered him.”
Jules had no reply. He had found his way much
too early in life, to his own island.
However, the Duke was persistent. He slightly
squeezed with those fingers resting on Jules’s arm. “Explaining her
doesn’t excuse me and my emotional isolation. I am damned sorry,
Jules. More than you will ever know. I am proud of you. Proud, that
despite the mess of a life I helped create, you turned into such a
well-respected and responsible man. A true peer.”
Jules felt tension crawl over him. When his
father dropped his hand, he made his way to the sideboard, pouring
a brandy whilst his Grace fetched his pipe.
Brandy in hand, Jules sat on the edge of the
desk, drinking half down, whilst watching Artis by the French
doors.
“I went to see Lord Coulborne yester
eve.”
Jules swallowed a mouthful. “Did you? I was
not aware his Grace was a great acquaintance of yours.”
“We had reason to trust each other…years ago,
and have found a comfortable friendship.” Those dark eyes
considered him through a waft of pipe smoke.
The tension increased although Jules was hard
pressed to define why. It was doubtless the blasted way his father
scrutinized him…and his own anxiety over being blackmailed.
“He informs me you intend to ask for his
daughter, Lady Caroline’s hand.”
“That was my intention?”
“Might I ask you to delay such a move?”
Jules stared at him sharply. “And why would I
do that?”
Artis turned completely and uttered, “Because
I want you to do something for me—for all of us, before you settle
down into marriage and your own family.”
Jules cocked his brow.
“I want you to go see Blaise, and invite him
here, and to find your brother, Raith.”
“Why—would you imagine I am interested in or
care to gather your scattered flock? I don’t remember either male
you speak of being particularly interested in being found—or being
in my presence.”
Artis seemed to flinch. “Are you really as
cold as you look, Jules. Are you as much like your mother as you
sound at this moment?”
Jules straightened from the desk, finished
the drink, and strode over to put
French doors.
Having gotten to his own feet, Jules offered,
“I take it I have displeased you, sir.”
“Can we not drop the damned formality,
Jules?” Artis gruffed and glanced aside at him. “Sit down or stand
if you like, but for God sakes, if we’re going to have a
conversation, stop bloody Your Gracing me. I’m your father.”
Never having had a dressing down because he’d
always been aware, thanks to his mother and others, of who and what
he must be, nor having seen anything akin to affection, warmth, or
anything else from the distant duke—
Jules held his stare through several tics of
the clock, before he drawled with coolness, “You’ll forgive me
then, if I need a moment to discern just what it is (that)
suggests, by your definition. Unless memory fails me, and I doubt
it does, there is nothing unusual in my…address to you. Nor, in the
fact that any of your sons lack some sort of— intimate
brotherhood.”
“Do not condescend to me, my boy,” the Duke
retorted, not harsh but rather tiredly. He came to stand close to
Jules and looked him right in the eye. “I know my failings and I
know what I gave up and sacrificed and allowed to take place in
your life, and your brothers.”
Discomforted and yet oddly held by the look
on his father’s face, the words he was speaking, the last thing
Jules expected was for the Duke to reach out and touch his arm.
He almost flinched from it, but his Grace was
saying, “There’s no need for me to explain your mother, we all
lived with her, but that doesn’t excuse my distance and lack of
affection towards any of you. All that I can say is that I am
sorry. I thought I did it for Raith…and I am sure you know that the
Duchess was not his mother. I thought that was why— but I am not so
sure that Matilda would have been any different had I never
fathered him.”
Jules had no reply. He had found his way much
too early in life, to his own island.
However, the Duke was persistent. He slightly
squeezed with those fingers resting on Jules’s arm. “Explaining her
doesn’t excuse me and my emotional isolation. I am damned sorry,
Jules. More than you will ever know. I am proud of you. Proud, that
despite the mess of a life I helped create, you turned into such a
well-respected and responsible man. A true peer.”
Jules felt tension crawl over him. When his
father dropped his hand, he made his way to the sideboard, pouring
a brandy whilst his Grace fetched his pipe.
Brandy in hand, Jules sat on the edge of the
desk, drinking half down, whilst watching Artis by the French
doors.
“I went to see Lord Coulborne yester
eve.”
Jules swallowed a mouthful. “Did you? I was
not aware his Grace was a great acquaintance of yours.”
“We had reason to trust each other…years ago,
and have found a comfortable friendship.” Those dark eyes
considered him through a waft of pipe smoke.
The tension increased although Jules was hard
pressed to define why. It was doubtless the blasted way his father
scrutinized him…and his own anxiety over being blackmailed.
“He informs me you intend to ask for his
daughter, Lady Caroline’s hand.”
“That was my intention?”
“Might I ask you to delay such a move?”
Jules stared at him sharply. “And why would I
do that?”
Artis turned completely and uttered, “Because
I want you to do something for me—for all of us, before you settle
down into marriage and your own family.”
Jules cocked his brow.
“I want you to go see Blaise, and invite him
here, and to find your brother, Raith.”
“Why—would you imagine I am interested in or
care to gather your scattered flock? I don’t remember either male
you speak of being particularly interested in being found—or being
in my presence.”
Artis seemed to flinch. “Are you really as
cold as you look, Jules. Are you as much like your mother as you
sound at this moment?”
Jules straightened from the desk, finished
the drink, and strode over to put
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