Page 29 of Yours Truly, the Duke
“And I’ll end up throttling both of you,” Hurst answered. “I would rather not have to stop another duel between my best friends.”
“That was years ago,” Wyatt reminded him.
“And for a good reason.” Rick nodded in agreement. “We were deep in our cups.”
“No reason is ever good enough. And neither of us will ever bet against you again be it bow, pistol, blade, or a young lady’s attention.” Hurst grinned for a second before adding, “The tables are always an exception, Rick. Wyatt has the edge there. A slight one.”
“You bloody—”
“Your Graces,” Grant Fenway greeted them, walking up and giving them a questioning look. “I hope you don’t mind if I interrupt for a moment. I can see each of you another time if you wish.”
“No, join us,” Wyatt said, and then added under his breath, “before I have to ask Hurst and Rick to step outside so I can remind them who the best pugilist is.”
“Ah,” Grant said knowingly. “Sounds as if thebestof the Brass Deck Team are arguing who isbestagain.”
They all chuckled.
Grant was relatively short for a man, barrel-chested, soft-spoken, and often wore a timid smile. He wasn’t in line for a title, nor did he have a wealthy allowance, but he never made a nuisance of himself about it or anything else. The trio of dukes had always considered him a part of their extended group whenever he was around.
“You were tied up greeting everyone when I arrived. I didn’t get the chance to thank you for hosting this party in honor of Priscilla.” He looked specifically at Wyatt. “Having a duke show my sister much attention is making all the eligible bachelors take notice of her. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be married to a young lady who has a duke for a friend?” He smiled and looked hesitantly at Hurst and Rick. “Three of them in fact. I’m indebted to all of you for showing her such kindness tonight and through the years.”
“Nonsense.” Wyatt shook his head. “It’s her beauty, poise, and sweet nature that has all the gentlemen giving her attention. Her successful debut has nothing to do with who’s giving this party or how many dukes are in attendance. I know the Season has just started, but does she have her eye on anyone in particular?”
“Not that she’s indicated,” her brother said with a worried expression as he scanned the crowded room. “Soon, I hope. Though I will tell you again, she pouted for days after she heard you’d married. I believe she hoped you’d wait for her.”
Wyatt chuckled. “There’s not a chance in Hades she was pouting about that. She thinks of me as just another brother, and you know I treat her as the sister I never had.”
Grant smiled, nodded, and then glanced from Rick to Hurst with interest.
“She’s like a sister to me as well,” Hurst offered, laying his hand over his heart. “I could never look at her any other way.”
“Likewise,” Rick added on the heels of Hurst’s last word. “If I had a sister, I would never allow her to marry someone like me.”
“Nor would I,” Wyatt and Hurst said at the same time.
Grant laughed and lifted his glass in a toast to the three dukes.
Wyatt winced silently. Memories flooded to his mind while the others continued to talk.
Beneath Grant’s white cotton glove, Wyatt could see the misshapen form of Grant’s right hand. The knuckles had been splintered and broken years ago at Eton. The seriousness of the injury was neglected far too long and the bones mended badly. His first three fingers were left with no feeling. Headmaster Buslingthorpe said the damage had come from a fight with other boys and that Grant had hidden the injury until it was too late to set the bones properly.
It was a lie. The damage was inflicted by Buslingthorpe’s stick and Wyatt’s fault. That morning Wyatt couldn’t remember the lines of poetry he was to recite in the classroom. It infuriated the headmaster:“I can’t strike the son of a duke, but perhaps you will make more of an effort to learn your lines for your friend’s sake.”
Wyatt still remembered the loud crack of Buslingthorpe’s thick birch hitting Grant’s hand. The headmaster often carried the wood under his arm while walking around the classroom whispering his favorite refrain,“Discipline, son, discipline.”Wyatt had hated poetrysince that day, and he never missed learning his lines again.
Wyatt had never forgiven himself for not speaking up about Buslingthorpe’s abuse, for not telling his father and insisting the man be dismissed from the school. Countless times, Wyatt had wondered how many other boys had been disfigured by the stick the headmaster carried.
Now it was too late to say or do anything. Buslingthorpe had passed on years ago. Wyatt’s anger hadn’t. Guilt for not doing more when he could have had Wyatt doing things for Grant now, hoping in small ways to make amends for Grant taking the punishment due Wyatt. Buying his drinks, offering to lend him money to gamble, and hosting this party for his sister.
Grant wouldn’t accept more from Wyatt and seemed to hold no animosity toward Buslingthorpe. That was all right. Wyatt had plenty for the both of them. And it was renewed every time he saw Grant’s hand or remembered the nights he’d heard boys crying in their beds. They weren’t all crying because they missed their families. Some were in pain.
“Your Graces,” Priscilla said, beaming as she sidled up between Wyatt and her brother, taking the time to smile at each of the four men. “Please forgive me for interrupting, but when I saw all of you together I wanted to come over and ask what you think of Mr. Fergus Altman. He’s definitely the most handsome gentleman here tonight. I almost lost my breath when he looked at me.”
Wyatt immediately scanned the room. The young man she was referring to watched her, obviously interested. Wyatt only knew enough about him to say the important things. “He knows how to hold his cards and his drink and has a decent reputation in the clubs.”
Rick and Hurst immediately nodded.
“I’ve heard that as well,” Grant added.
