Page 2 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“Do not bother delving deep. I let no one in,” Damon replied as he absently nibbled on the biscuit.

The duchess eyed him askance but gave no reply to his dismissive statement. “Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way regarding your father. Inasmuch as I detest the man, it is time I discussed him. It was not a love match at first,” she stated matter-of-factly. “But God help me, I grew to love him most desperately. Or it was more of a wild infatuation. Why? Perhaps it was his breathtaking golden looks. I was that young and shallow once. Oh, how he took advantage of that vulnerability. He was cruel, the devil incarnate. I assume he still is.”

“What, handsome and a devil? Yes, and he has only worsened with age. And yet, you left me in his care. Abandoned me to that overt cruelty,” Damon accused. “And his cold indifference.” So much for keeping his emotions hidden.

The duchess frowned. “I tried to depart and take you with me. Reach back in your memories.”

He sneered. “I banished all memories as far as you were concerned.” Perhaps a harsh taunt and not all that accurate, but Damon said it anyway. It appeared he acted as a sullen child, after all. He often lashed out and said things he really did not mean.

His mother visibly winced. “Yes, you were always adept at pushing away and hiding horrible reminiscences. I envied you for that. Even at a young age, I watched how deftly you tucked away your emotions. Hiding them, denying them, just like your father.”

“Stop comparing me to that wretched bastard,” Damon snapped.

“Not hiding the emotions now. Think, you were 7 years of age. We traveled as far as Euston Station before your father, and his men dragged us back, and he thrashed us both for good measure.”

The buried and hauntingly disturbing memory pushed its way through the protective haze and returned in full force. Yes, he recalled it, just as his mother described. His father beat him, the only time he had done so, then made him watch as he battered his mother and—worse.

“Damn you for making me recall that,” he whispered dangerously.

“Forgive me. I will not speak of our shared past under your father’s harsh and corrupt rule. You see why I departed in such haste? And why I couldn’t take you, even if I wanted to? I sent numerous letters, but the duke returned them unopened. So, I waited until you reached the age of majority. I honestly believed that you were lost to me, that you are your father’s son.” The duchess reached across the table and took his hand. “Are you—his son?”

Was he? It was a chilling thought.

Partly, perhaps, but not deep down. At least, Damon hoped that was the case. What was the decades-old proverb or idiom? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?

“I don’t want to be,” he whispered. Damon gave his mother an affectionate squeeze of her hand, and tears welled in her eyes. This was the first time he had admitted this to anyone.

“I am glad to hear it. Avoid emulating the duke in any way.” Releasing his hand, the duchess dashed away the tear trickling down her cheek. “Let us change the subject. Why do you wish to trace your half-siblings?”

“Guilt. To know some children have been tossed aside—picks at my conscious. Yes, Mother. I have one, impaired though it may be.”

She sipped her iced tea thoughtfully. “And have you taken care of your own dealings?”

“I would never act as recklessly as the duke. That is all you need to know.”

“What have you discovered so far?”

Damon stared out over the serene scenery, squinting at the bright sun. “Two half-sisters, or so the claim goes. One refused to meet, and considering the source, I believe the statement was untrue. I have met Olivia Durham. There is no denying it, as she has the same blue eyes and golden hair I imagine all his spawn possesses. We are going to attempt friendship. Perhaps, in time, think of each other as brother and sister. Perhaps we are starting to do so already.”

His mother smiled warmly. “I am glad to hear it. Is that the baby adopted by the country vicar and his wife?”

Damon could feel the blood drain from his face. “You knew of her?”

The duchess nodded. “And more besides. I found out about these children after my wedding. Your father took great pleasure in bragging about his perfect progeny. You had best pour us a drink, my son. You will need it. And so shall I. There is Brandy de Jerez over on the side table.”

Damon rose but gripped the table to steady himself as his legs shook. Such revelations, such unfamiliar sentiments. He wondered if coming here was a terrible blunder. There was something to be said for staying removed from family drama and well above the fray. He would be picking at threads best not pulled.

Well, he had come this far.

After pouring the drinks, he handed one to his mother.

She took a sip, then sighed. “You have an older half-brother by three years; last I heard, he is with the Metropolitan Police. You have a younger half-brother working as a footman at Chellenham Park.”

The mouthful of brandy Damon had taken sprayed across the flagstones.

A copper—and a footman? A footman at the country seat?

Damon searched his mind for recollections of a blond-haired footman, but he never stayed at Chellenham Park, and he barely even looked at the staff the few times he did.