“Well, brother,” Charles Godwin marched through the entrance hall of the family manor and met his brother with a consolatory embrace. “It seems that the future of the Dukedom rests on my shoulders now. I can only hope that I may do our father justice.”

Andrew Godwin returned his brother’s greeting in kind, but he felt like his whole body was made of wood. Since his father had drawn his last breath, he had barely slept, by turns pacing the hallways and lawns of the manor and throwing himself into armchairs to stare moodily into the fire.

He had written a letter to Lady Rebecca Winterson because he knew he had to tell her everything he thought and felt about the death of his father, and the terrible impact of his father’s final words. Then he had realized that such a letter could never possibly be sent. It was too intimate, too open to misinterpretation, too ‘unseemly’.

He had thrown it on the fire, and instead, scrawled a brief, grief-stricken note, telling her that his father was dead but giving no more information. It was more than he would normally have expressed, his nature being given to holding back and his natural disposition being to obey social convention.

But at the death of his father, these inclinations were being shaken up.

“Welcome home, Charles,” he said, “or perhaps I should get used to calling you Duke.”

His brother made an impatient gesture brushing off the weighty implications of the title. “Do not be absurd, brother.”

Yet Andrew knew his brother too well to take him at face value and immediately saw that despite his protestations, he had enjoyed the formal salutation. He made a note to himself to never use it unless the occasion demanded it.

“So,” Charles began, leading them to their father’s library. He sat down in the leather armchair behind the great oak desk with an ease of entitlement that Andrew found a little disturbing, given their father had not yet been buried. “There is much to attend to.”

“Very much indeed,” Andrew agreed. He knew exactly what his brother was talking about, yet the very thought of it made his chest fill with such a shaking sense of anger that he could not bear to acknowledge it directly.

“First off…” Charles picked up his father’s pen from the inkwell, and he drew a sheet of ivory-colored writing paper towards him. “I will need to write to her to inform her of our father’s death.”

Neither of them needed to clarify who ‘her’ was.

“I’ve already done it,” Andrew said. The words had come out before he could stop them, but he could not say that he did not enjoy the look of fury slowly spreading over his brother’s features.

“You have already written to her?” Charles kept his voice calm, but Andrew could tell from his thunderous face that his actions had enraged his brother. Perhaps that was why he had done it, after all. “What right do you have, sir?”

“Forgive me, brother.” Andrew did his best to keep his voice neutral. “I was quite overcome by grief. You will understand that wishing to confide in a childhood friend — one whom I consider being a sister in all but blood — after receiving such a terrible shock is the most natural thing in all the world.”

Charles nodded. Despite his lingering childishness and sense of elder-brother entitlement, he had got better at controlling his temper in recent years. The red in his face was there, but not as much as it would have been.

“Of course,” he said. His voice started to shake in irritation, but he managed to keep it calm. “I have not yet said to you how sorry I am that you had to endure such a terrible ordeal alone. I should have been here.”

“But you were not,” Andrew said coolly. The judgment in his voice was obvious, but Charles chose to ignore it. “How was your hunting trip, by the way?”

Charles reddened again, this time with shame.

“Completely overshadowed by the tragic passing of our dear father, of course,” he said brusquely. “The time for such boyish diversions is over. I realize that now. I must assume my duties as a man.” He picked up the pen again, and blotted it, poising it over the notepaper to consider his first sentence. “And a married man, at that.”

“There is no rush,” Andrew said, perhaps a little too quickly. “The wedding cannot take place until the mourning period is complete, after all.”

“True,” Charles agreed. Though his speech seemed to be conceding the point to his brother, his hard gaze told a different story. “Yet I think that it is time that Rebecca started to accustom herself to the idea, do you not think? As soon as possible?”

Andrew drew in a breath. He did not trust himself to speak, so he merely nodded.

“Although,” Charles continued his voice a little too jovial for a man who had lost his father only a day previously. “Perhaps she will not need very long at all to get used to the prospect of our marriage. Perhaps I ought to hold off a little. Once she finds out about the plans that our parents have arranged, she is bound to become impatient for our union, wouldn’t you agree?”

He set the pen back down again. “There’s no need to unnecessarily prolong the period of waiting. I have no wish to make my future wife suffer.”

Andrew abruptly turned his back on his brother and walked over to the library fireplace. He removed his jacket and stood in his shirtsleeves. He leaned on the mantelpiece with an intense look that would be attributed to grief at the loss of his father if anyone had asked.

“I am very happy for you, brother,” he said nonchalantly. He had no wish to show his real feeling. That would be letting Charles win, and as the younger brother, he had a lifetime of experience making sure that was never the case. “I am sure that you and Rebecca will be very happy.”

“Lady Rebecca,” his brother reminded him, a slightly taunting note entering his voice. “After all, we’re young men and women now, Andrew. What would people think if they heard you talking in such a familiar fashion about my fiancée?”

Andrew could stand the taunts no longer. It was clear to him that Charles was enjoying every minute of this victory, and that the pleasure of it was far overshadowing the sorrow of their father’s death. He excused himself in the chilliest possible language and left the room.

“Andrew, dear…”

He looked up to see the black-clad figure of his grandmother making her slow progress down the hall, leaning on her jet-topped walking stick.

“Grandmamma Horatia.” He hurried to kiss her on the cheek. “Should you be up and walking, madam? Would you let me escort you back to your apartment?”

“I’ll have no such nonsense,” the old lady said briskly, her eyes twinkling. “I am perfectly well, and it does these sorrowful bones good to be put to exercise. If you take me back to my apartment, I shall have no other pastime than to ruminate over the death of my dear son-in-law.”

Though he had been present for the death of his father, he still scarcely believed what had happened, and the growing hollowness in his chest was a reminder of this loss.

“Why don’t we go for a walk about the grounds, my dear grandson?” She peered up at him scrutinizing his face. “I suspect that you have something that you wish to discuss with me. Am I correct in this assessment, child?”

He smiled at her ruefully. “You are always correct in your perceptions, Grandmamma,” he said. “Your instinct is second to none.”

She smiled. “You flatter me, my dear boy. It is only that I have been around for such a long time, and I have seen every different permutation of the trials and tribulations that young people experience.” She reached up and patted his cheek. “And from such a position I believe I am qualified to inform you that it will all come to right in the end.”

He nodded, not really believing her, and fell silent until they had left the Hall and were walking slowly across the wide front lawn, she was leaning heavily on his supportive arm.

Once they had put a little distance between themselves and the house, she said abruptly, “This is about your brother’s engagement, isn’t it?”

Andrew paused, his stop causing them both to stumble a little. Once his grandmother had been restored to proper balance, the cascade of deflections began.

“Not in the least,” he said hurriedly. “Why should I not be delighted at the news of my brother’s betrothal to Lady Rebecca Winterson? I do not believe there is a finer young woman in all of England, and I should be a poor brother indeed if I did not celebrate my brother’s marriage to such an excellent creature.”

“Except for the small matter that you are in love with her yourself,” Grandmama Horatia intoned gently, her bright blue eyes standing out sharply in the surroundings of her black feathered bonnet. “That seems as though it would be a good reason.”

“In love?” Andrew tripped over his words in his hurriedness to deflect the accusation. He hardly knew why he took the trouble to deny it. Grandmamma Horatia’s intuition had always been second to none, and she seemed to know him far better than he knew himself. “With Rebecca?”

Grandmama Horatia smiled, patting him lightly on the arm.

“What was the first thing that you did on the sad occasion of your father’s death? You wrote to the young lady, seeking out her comfort. That is the action of a young man in love, my dear Andrew. It’s all right,” she interrupted, seeing that Andrew was about to open his mouth and contradict her. “You do not need to deny anything, my dear. Not to me.”

Andrew let out the breath that he had been holding and took the kindly, wrinkled hand that his grandmother was offering to him.

He knew there was no sense in lying to his grandmother and denying what he felt, but there was no liberation to be found in admitting his true feelings. He could hardly even say what his true feelings were since he had spent such a long time denying them.

“Not at all, Grandmamma,” he replied, his lips tight and his voice distant. “I do not deny anything.”

His grandmother did not seem to take his denial to heart and squeezed his hand.

“I know that at present you do not know what to do,” she said, her kindness shining through each syllable. “But love has a wonderful habit of finding a way. I believe that it will all come right in the end for you and that sweet girl.”

They walked back to the Hall in silence just in time to see a footman departing with a letter in his hand. Though Andrew could not bring himself to ask, he was certain that the letter would be addressed to Rebecca’s father.

His grandmother might well say that everything would come right in the end, but at that moment, he was struggling to believe it.