Chapter 29
“Shouldn’t you be with your wife?” Royland asked as he paged through one of the new books which had been added to the collection at Number 79.
Rob grimaced. “She’s gone down to the country.”
Raventon and Royland exchanged glances. Royland put his book back upon the shelf and gazed at him curiously.
Drake picked up the decanter of brandy and headed for the pianoforte. Sitting with a flare of his coat tails, he then danced his fingers over the keys and began a death march.
“Cease that,” Rob roared.
“Well, it feels like a funeral with you here, Rob,” Drake said as he transitioned into a sonata by Beethoven.
Rob sank further down in the leather chair wishing they’d just leave off. But then again, if that was what he really wanted, why had he come to Number 79?
“Come now,” Royland coaxed. “Tell us what is amiss.”
“We are your friends, after all,” Raventon said with a dose of cheer as he joined Drake by the pianoforte.
Rob shifted uncomfortably. “She wants children.”
“Is that all?” Royland laughed.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Rob replied honestly.
“Surely, you’ve had enough practice,” drawled Raventon.
“That’s not what I mean,” Rob snapped.
Drake’s hands paused over the keys. “What are you saying, old man?”
Rob’s throat tightened. It was so tempting to keep his secret. But he no longer could. Not if he wished to keep his sanity. “I made a vow to myself that I would not have an heir.”
The silence that met his words sent a veritable shiver down his spine for his proclamation, no doubt, sounded absolutely mad. He knew it. Perhaps his friends did, too.
Before he could say anything else, his friends suddenly resumed their activities as if nothing had occurred.
Royland poured brandy into three snifters and said, “She wants children?”
Rob gave a terse nod. “But I made a vow to myself and I have concerns—”
“You needn’t be concerned,” Raventon said, exchanging a barely noticeable glance with Drake and Royland.
“You think she will accept it?” Rob ground his teeth. “I don’t—”
“The solution is obvious,” Drake replied merrily.
“Is it?” Rob asked, straightening.
“Certainly,” Raventon agreed.
“What is it?” Rob looked from duke to duke, stunned that they had an answer at all.
Drake played a sprightly air. “It’s obvious and steeped in tradition.”
Rob grew wary, for he sensed suddenly that he had stepped into a trap. “What the devil are you on about?”
“I’d be happy to help,” Drake continued.
“Or I could do it,” Raventon said airily.
“I suppose I could, too,” Royland said with a sigh. “Once more into the breach and all that.”
“What the devil are you suggesting?” Rob growled.
“She wants a child, does she not?” Drake asked, his eyes surprisingly wide. “Any one of us could oblige.”
“Since you find the idea so upsetting,” Raventon added. “I’m sure one of us could find a way to close our eyes and think of England.”
“She’s not that bad,” Royland said, with exaggerated consideration. “Not bad at all, actually—”
“None of you are bedding my wife,” Rob roared.
“Not bedding,” Drake corrected as he played the pianoforte as if they were discussing port, not the bedding of Harriet. “Breeding, old boy.”
Red blazed past Rob’s eyes as their words slammed down upon him.
“That’s all it is to you, isn’t it?” Drake asked dryly.
“If you see it as simply passing along your bloodlines, any one of us would suit,” Raventon said. “We’re all excellent pedigree.”
“Well, not me exactly,” Drake drawled. “Though I am an excellent specimen. Except for the hitched tongue, of c-course.”
“You’re all utter arses,” Rob said, but then. . . Drake’s words began to sink in and he had a very bad feeling that he was being an idiot.
“We just wish your wife to be happy,” Raventon said with a devilish grin, the sort of grin which made half the London female population swoon.
“She’s my wife,” Rob bit out.
“And you’re a stud apparently. We all are, if your thinking is to be believed. We are just making little identical copies of ourselves with no will.” Drake gave him a hard stare, a stare which would have eviscerated most men. “Or do you actually believe the drivel that blood will out. B-because if you do, y-you’re not the man who sought me out in a hospital tent and made me his friend.”
Rob opened his mouth to protest, but as he looked at Drake with his perfect features, his body which looked like a gift from the gods, and thought of the stutter his friend worked so hard to hide, something happened to Rob.
It was as if a fog lifted. Breeding didn’t matter. Looking at Drake, hearing him, he understood that if he was to accept the idea of breeding, then he was accepting the idea that Drake was inferior.
“Bloody hell, what have I been doing?” Rob whispered, marveling at his own obtuseness.
“You’ve been a ponce,” Royland said brightly.
“Can’t be blamed, really,” Drake said with a touch of kindness. “I did meet your father, old fellow. Still, we can’t let you keep on like this. N-now, look at me, and tell me that you won’t have a baby because b-blood will tell. Say it. To me.”
Rob swallowed, struggling suddenly to understand how he could have been so foolish, so ignorant. “I could never say it Drake because it makes no sense.”
Drake gave a nod and played a dramatic chord. “Good. Now go to Devon and make your wife a happy woman. Twice. Hell, the whole month.”
Royland folded his arms across his broad chest. “We don’t want to see you at Number 79 for weeks.”
“And when you come back to London, with a grand smile upon your face, we’ll come to the funeral,” Raventon said firmly.
“Funeral?” Rob queried.
Drake arched a brow. “Where you bury the past, Rob. Where you bury the past.”
Rob nodded then headed for the door. As he walked, he lifted his head and squared his shoulders, feeling lighter than he had in years. When he reached the foyer, Yvette stood in the doorway to her private salon, her crimson gown skimming her body and she cocked a smile at him.
“You look different, cher. Do you know what you want then?”
He stopped. “It was you.”
“Moi?” she asked with a mock gasp.
“You gave her advice,” Rob said.
“Mais oui. It seems she took it.” She raked her cat eyes up and down him then smiled. “And it looks to me as if you have decided what you want.”
“Yes, Yvette, I have.” He started for the door then stopped and glanced at the French woman who had survived so much. “Thank you.”
“Bon chance, Monsieur le duc.”
Rob gave her a small bow then turned, and with each step he took, he knew what he was going to do. And he could not wait.