Ewan had always been a serious person. Baldwin understood why. Hell, he was a serious person, himself. But his new brother-in-law’s seriousness had come from something deeper. Born mute, he’d spent a lifetime being treated differently, even horribly. But now he looked…bright as he smiled at whatever his new bride had said. He tucked Charlotte’s hand into the crook of his elbow to guide her up the stairs.
“They are a handsome couple,” his mother breathed, putting words to Baldwin’s own thoughts.
He nodded. “Made all the more handsome by their happiness, I think.”
She glanced at him briefly, and he saw a flicker of sadness, of regret pass over her face. He ignored it, ignored the twist in his gut at the sight and the meaning of it. And his family reached the top step at that moment to save him from more of it.
“Mama, Baldwin,” Charlotte said as she slipped from Ewan’s touch and embraced first her mother, then her brother. Baldwin’s smile became less forced as she pulled away and looked him up and down. “Are you eating?” she asked.
Ewan grinned and pulled her back, signing quickly to her. While he generally communicated via writing, he and Charlotte had created their own hand language as children and that made things easier.
“I am not being too pushy,” Charlotte laughed before she stuck her tongue out at her husband. “Tell him I’m not pushy, Baldwin—I must have someone have my side.”
“Yes, you are,” Baldwin laughed. “But I miss your pushiness. Welcome back to London, come in before the skies open up and let’s eat so you stop pestering me about my weight.”
She swatted his arm gently and then turned back to her husband. They all entered the house and back into the sitting room where Baldwin had earlier been with his mother. The duchess gathered up her papers as Charlotte poured tea for everyone. Baldwin stood aside as his little family buzzed and interacted. He was happy for Charlotte and Ewan. They had not had an easy time coming to accept their love and their future. But here they were. And in fact, they were the fourth of his large group of friends, his duke club, that had found such powerful and beautiful love in the last year.
And here he was, preparing for a Season where he had to find a wife. Full stop—that was his only job for the next few months. And yet he wasn’t looking for love like Charlotte and Ewan had found. He would have no soul mate, no person he looked at like she was the only person in the world. No person who would love him for all his faults and failures, as well as for the title that hung around his neck.
No, he was looking for a mercenary lady who would fill his coffers for the benefit of being called “Her Grace”.
He resented that. In that moment, as he watched Ewan rest a hand on Charlotte’s lower back while they stood across the room with the Duchess of Sheffield, Baldwin resented it like hell.
But there was no way around it, it seemed. He had not set this ball to rolling down the hill, but he hadn’t stopped it, either. He had, in fact, added to its weight after his father’s death with his own bad decisions and equally bad impulses.
So if he did not get the happy ending of his friends and his sister, perhaps he deserved that.
Ewan met his eyes and tilted his head slightly. He signed something to Charlotte and then began to cross the room. “Bollocks,” Baldwin muttered, but he smiled as his brother-in-law came to his side. “Donburrow.”
Ewan dug into his pocket and withdrew a silver notebook and short pencil. Swiftly, he wrote a few lines and handed it over. “What’s wrong?”
Baldwin drew in a long breath. “You know, everyone keeps asking me that. Do I look so very terrible? I’m beginning to feel insulted.”
If he had hoped Ewan would smile at his jesting, he was disappointed. Instead, Ewan wrote, “I’m your friend. Can’t you tell me?”
Baldwin squeezed his eyes shut. How often had he wished to tell his friends about his position? Especially as the dire straights he was in became more and more clear. He knew he would find their support and sympathy if he spilled his secrets.
But he would also find their judgment. For how could they not judge him? He’d made things worse by acting just like his father. He didn’t want them to know that while he pretended to be honorable and decent and settled that he was a wastrel.
And beyond that, he also knew that if he whispered to Ewan the truth, Donburrow would immediately offer help—in the form of blunt. So would all of his friends. And that humiliation was perhaps worse than he could bear. To have his friends heap charity upon him, to have them talk about him behind his back in subdued, mournful tones, to owe them more than he did just for their friendship?
No, he had some pride left.
“It’s nothing, I assure you,” Baldwin said softly, turning his face so that Ewan wouldn’t press.
His friend let out a sigh, but if he intended to pry further, he was cut off when Charlotte called out, “Do stop glowering in the corner, you two, and come join us.”
Ewan gave Baldwin one last look. One that needed no written translation. A look that told Baldwin that Ewan was there for him. That he would help if it were needed.
Baldwin clapped him on the shoulder. “I know,” he said. “Now come on. You should know better than most that my sister will not be denied.”
Ewan’s face brightened a bit and they walked together to join the ladies for their tea. With great effort Baldwin shook off the resentments, he shook off the weight on his shoulders. The first ball of the Season was in two days. Until then, he was going to enjoy his last few hours of freedom.
Until then, he was going to do his damnedest to forget what the future held. And what he was bound to do in order to save it for them all.
Chapter Two
The Rockford Ball had been the launch of every Season for five years running. Lady Rockford took great pleasure in choosing themes and dressing her poor servants in livery to match them. This year she’d chosen a fairyland as her theme and had draped her ballroom in gauzy blues and greens. Her footmen were styled much the same, and from their frowns and blank expressions, they did not enjoy the small wings that had been affixed to their attire.
Baldwin might have smiled at the silly display, but at present he was surrounded by friends—married friends. The Dukes of Abernathe, Crestwood, Northfield and Donburrow were all waxing poetic about wives and home lives and, in James’s case, children.
“How is little Beatrice?” Simon, Duke of Crestwood asked. “I see you finally convinced Emma to leave her alone for a night.”
James, Duke of Abernathe, arched a brow. “You saw Bibi yesterday. She is little changed since then. Though she’s perfect, so thank you for inquiring. And I can see Emma watching the time even from across the room, but she frets for nothing.”
Baldwin followed James’s loving stare to find Emma standing with Charlotte, Simon’s wife Meg and Graham’s wife Adelaide. They were laughing together, fast friends. Would any woman he chose for her purse fit into their set? And if she didn’t, would he slowly be eased out of their circle?
“What are you frowning about?” Graham, Duke of Northfield, asked as he jostled Baldwin’s shoulder gently.