Blake stood up. "Do not let father do this to you, Devon. Do not let him put guilt on your shoulders and use it to steer you where he wants you."
Vincent gestured toward Devon with a wave of his hand. "That's not what's happening here."
"And what do you think is happening?" Blake asked, while Devon merely waited in silence for his brother to state his opinion.
"What's happening is that he is manipulating things to make everyone forget what he did three years ago. Instead we will all grovel with gratitude because he came back to save us all from utter ruin." He glared at Devon. "Maybe we should both just drop to our knees right now and thank you. What a martyr you are-the good son who sacrificed so much for his younger brothers. Someone get me a bucket so I can retch."
"Vincent," Blake said. "For God's sake, is that really necessary right now?"
"It's all right, Blake," Devon said, holding up a hand. "Let him speak his mind."
Vincent pointed a finger at the table. "Our father said it plainly. We are all named in the amendment to his will, and I have no intention of losing my inheritance, so I, too, shall marry."
"You never fail to surprise me," Devon said.
There was no warmth in Vincent's eyes. "I suppose, if we're going to be dragged by our ears to the altar, we should at least make it interesting. What do you say? I, for one, will fare better if I can call it a race."
Blake pinched the bridge of his nose. "God help us all."
"I will not play that game," Devon informed him.
"Why not?"
"Because I will not compete with you, Vincent, just to feed your hunger to knock me about. Besides, such a challenge hardly leaves room for romance, does it?"
"Then a swift seduction it will have to be," Vincent replied, "with the first decent-looking female who crosses my path. Speaking of which…" He stood up and strolled to the window. "Didn't I see Helen of Troy driving up with a coachload of bags this morning? How very convenient."
Without so much as a mere second to think about the finer implications in all this, Devon heard himself say, "Stay away from that one, Vincent. She is mine."
Vincent eyed him shrewdly. "Is that a fact? I didn't think you paid any heed to boundaries where women were concerned."
Devon's gut turned to ice at the sudden memory of that letter he had carried in his pocket three years ago.
"Do you already have an arrangement with Lady Rebecca?" his brother asked.
"No," Devon replied. He had lied to his brother once before and paid the price. He would not do so again.
Vincent laughed at that. "Well, I don't see why you get to have first choice."
"I have not yet made my choice."
"It sounds like you have. You just said she was yours."
Devon stopped for a minute to consider his intentions. Did he actually mean to choose Lady Rebecca as a bride without even considering Lady Letitia, or without taking a look around at the other young ladies who were sure to be in London for the first ball of the Season? He barely knew the girl. And that's what she was-a girl. She'd been out in Society for what, a day?
And what of Lady Letitia? he wondered. She would certainly appease their father.
"I have known Lady Rebecca for quite some time," he explained nevertheless, "and I have met her father. For that reason, there is some connection between us."
God help him, even now, some deep, guilt-ridden part of him was pushing him to step aside and let Vincent have first choice-because he owed him that. Didn't he? He certainly owed him something.
But could he step aside?
He thought about it, and found himself growing tense.
His brother stared intently at him. "Have you no interest in Lady Letitia? She is the daughter of a duke, and from what I understand, Father handpicked her."
Devon made no reply.
Vincent turned away, waving a dismissive hand. "All right, all right, you can have the Trojan. Perhaps I shall consider Lady Letitia, just to make Father happy because I adore him so." He faced them again and spread his hands wide. "What a noble son I am."
Vincent left the room, and Blake seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, while Devon merely squared his shoulders, going to refill his coffee cup and preparing himself for the week ahead, as it appeared he was suddenly in the market for a wife and had already voiced his preference for one woman in particular.
Who would ever have thought he would find himself herded into a future so soon after returning home? Who would have thought he would give in to the pressure to take a wife in such a swift, calculated fashion?
But what did it matter, he supposed as he stood next to the sideboard and sipped his hot coffee, when all was said and done? He'd always known he would marry one day, and he had come home to make amends and fulfill his duty as heir. He had never been eager to combine marriage with love. Love brought a fleeting, temporary joy, then it inevitably soured into a lifelong hell. He'd seen it countless times before. His parents were no exception, and he'd experienced it quite plainly for himself.
What he needed and what he must look for was someone uncomplicated. Someone who could be a proper duchess, provide heirs, and run this household. Lady Rebecca had been running the house at her father's estate for years, and he was most certainly attracted to her, which would at least make the duty of producing an heir a pleasant one. Unlike Lady Letitia, she had not been out in society for long, so she was a clean slate, so to speak, and would be easily molded to fit into his life at the palace the way he wanted her to. She had no scandals in her past, no other gentlemen sniffing around. Outside of Vincent, that is.
And she was here, which was convenient above all else.
Ease and convenience was all he could ask for, really, for everyone knew his opinions about undying love and fairy-tale endings. They were contemptuous at best.
Maximilian Rushton had just pressed his stamp into a sticky bead of red wax to seal a letter, when a knock sounded at his door. Irritated by the interruption when he had other letters to write, he set the stamp down and shouted across the room, "What the devil is it?"
The maid answered him uncertainly from the other side of the door. "You asked to see the room, sir? When it was prepared?"
He stared at the door for a brief moment before he slid his chair back and stood. A few seconds later, he was walking into the bedchamber that would belong to his bride. He stood in front of the fireplace and let his diligent gaze pass over everything-the fresh bed coverings, the thickness of the pillows, the quality of the very expensive rug beside the bed. He assessed the color and design of the wallpaper he had chosen, as well as the drapes and upholstery on the chairs. The white bassinet with gilt trimmings in the corner was spectacular. It would be an effective reminder of his wife's duty in this room, and would likely give her some pleasant dreams, imagining a child of her own one day.
She would be happy here, he decided. At least until her father was dead, at which time she would no doubt be pleased to return to her childhood home as Countess of Creighton, with the Creighton heir. His own son. Maximilian would be pleased to relocate there as well. He had been waiting a long time.
Turning toward the fireplace, he inspected the interesting knickknacks he had selected for the mantel. He had chosen ornaments his mother would have approved of-a tiny, ceramic statue of a dog and a delightful fabric box covered in seashells. She'd had a seashell collection of her own, he remembered.
He also had found a small, framed print of a sailing ship. She had always wanted to travel abroad. He was especially proud of the ebony jar designed to hold hatpins-his mother had owned dozens of them-and the sterling silver puff box.
Yes, it was a lovely room for a lady. A bride. A mother. He turned to look at the bassinet, and his gut began to roll with hunger. Tomorrow. She would arrive tomorrow.