Crystal clanked against crystal as Pierce clumsily poured himself another drink, back still turned to Asher, which afforded him a few moments more to think of her.
So the lass wanted to be called Lady Guinevere, did she? He clenched his teeth on the desire to smile. She was just as bold—no, bolder—than she’d been when they had met. When he had come to London five years earlier because of his mother’s dying wish—and shockingly then his father’s, as well—that he meet the father who had abandoned him, about whom she had deceived him, Guinevere Darlington had hit him like a storm. He’d meant to court her simply because his father, whom he’d just met two days before, had told him not to, had tried to act as a parent when the man had no right to do so.
Instead, Asher had been shown just how deceitful the toffs who made up London Society were. It was a lesson he would never forget. Guinevere and her sharp wit, throaty laugh, and keen eyes that were as brilliant a green as the lushest hills in Scotland. Guinevere, who had charmed him and disarmed him, and then betrayed him by kissing Kilgore on a balcony, whom she had apparently desired all along. The irony that he had, at first, intended to use her, but it was she who had used him to lure Kilgore to her, no longer filled his mouth with a bitter taste.
Pierce wobbled back to the chair and fell into it once more, his liquor lapping over the edges of his glass again, this time dampening his coat. He didn’t seem to notice. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and took a long drink. “You’ll detest being the new duke.”
“Likely,” Asher replied as he studied Pierce’s sullen expression. It was very likely that Pierce resented Asher. Pierce had been raised to be their father’s heir, only to discover at twenty that he wasn’t. And more than that, Asher suspected that their father had made Pierce feel like a failure. In the time Asher had spent with his family in England, he’d seen the way the old duke had belittled or dismissed every effort Pierce had made and how it had affected his brother. He’d seemed almost desperate for their father’s approval. Undoubtedly that desperation was partly the reason for Pierce’s current distasteful state. He paused a moment but decided being blunt was the only choice.
“I imagine ye resent me. If our father had never claimed me, ye would now be the duke.”
Pierce laughed at that. “I never wanted the title.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “Look how bloody miserable it made our father.”
That was true enough.
“Now the fortune, I’d be a liar to say I would not like as much of that as possible.”
“At least ye’re honest,” Asher said, glad he had chosen to be blunt, and that Pierce was doing the same.
Pierce shrugged and then offered a smirk. “I do not possess many envious qualities anymore, but I have managed to hold on to my honesty.”
Was Pierce referring to the drinking and gambling? “Pierce—”
“I suppose you will want me out of the house immediately,” Pierce cut in, draining the remaining contents of his glass and then slamming it down on the desk.
“This is yer home, too, Pierce.”
“You should call me Talbot,” Pierce said, peering past Asher as if there were more to see than the wall. “Father always did, as if he did not know my Christian name. I asked him about it once, and he told me I was lucky to have his surname Talbot. He said—” Pierce paused, but did not look at Asher “—he said, given how disappointing I was, that if I had not been born a Talbot, I would be of no consequence whatsoever.”
Damn their father. “Pierce,” Asher started, but Pierce kept talking.
“You’ll find it hard enough to fill Father’s shoes, I’m certain. Perhaps if you act like him, the ton will be more forgiving of you.”
Asher pressed his lips together, thinking on how to comment. Pierce had just revealed something very personal, but Asher didn’t get the feeling his brother wanted him to comment. So, instead, he said, “Ye think people will hold it against me that I’m half-Scot?”
Pierce snorted. “Of course, they will. It’s the bloody ton. They’ll smile to your face but stick a knife in your back when you turn it.”
“I suppose I should never turn it, then,” Asher replied. He was struck, as he had been when he’d first visited five years ago, by how difficult it must have been to grow up here. His own childhood had been difficult, thinking himself a bastard and carrying that stigma for years, but at least the friends he’d had were true ones. And his mother had loved him. Pierce’s mother had died when he was young, and clearly their father had not been warm.
Pierce frowned before raking his fingers through his hair. “It will be difficult, but Father managed it winningly. Of course, he was superior to us all, as he told me often.”
Asher felt a pang of sorrow for his brother. He was obviously struggling, though to say so would undoubtedly make things worse than they already were. Pierce’s eyes met Asher’s. “Do you think he left me much? Perhaps a bit of unentailed property?”
Pierce was worried, as Asher had suspected he might be. He had grown up knowing nothing but luxury. It wouldn’t kill him to know hunger, to have to strive for what he had. It hadn’t killed Asher. Hell, he was proud that everything he had thus far he had earned, built, and sustained by wit and determination. And that pride was what had made it so hard to come here and accept money and land he’d done nothing for. But he’d done so for the sake of his employees and his company. Just because he was prideful didn’t mean he was a fool.
A knock came at the half-open study door before Asher could assure Pierce he’d not let him starve. Asher looked over to see the footman, Beers, standing at the entrance. “Your Grace, Mr. Benedict is here.”
“Show him to the study, please.”
With a nod, Beers departed, and the moment his footfalls no longer echoed in the hall outside Asher’s office door, Pierce said, “A duke does not say ‘please’ to a footman.”
“This duke does,” Asher replied.
“They’ll laugh behind your back if you act like a commoner.”
Asher shrugged. He knew by “they” Pierce was referring to the ton, Pierce’s set. Guinevere’s set. False people. Asher did not consider himself one of them, though he knew technically he was. “Ye assume I care, but I don’t.”
“How nice to have such a luxury,” Pierce replied. The envy in his voice was unmistakable.
“Ye’ve the luxury, too, Pierce. It’s a choice not to care.”
“A choice for one who knows he’s about to be incredibly wealthy,” Pierce replied, his tone tight.
“Your Grace,” came Beers’s voice once more before Asher could reply to Pierce.
The footman appeared in the doorway again, but now there was a short man with dark cropped hair, glasses, and an observant expression on his face. The man looked from Pierce to Asher as Beers announced him. Once the introduction was over, Asher waved his father’s—and, he supposed, now his—solicitor into the room and to a chair.
“Your Grace, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard a great deal about you over the years.”
The comment surprised Asher, and from the corner of his eye, he could see his feelings mirrored on Pierce’s face. “My father spoke to ye about me?”