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Standard disclaimer.
After a measureless interval, awareness returned by slow degrees.
Gwen stirred, aware of a brief murmured conversation and retreating footsteps, and the relentless patter of rain on the roof.
Irritably, she turned her face away from the sounds, wanting to drowse a little longer.
Something soft and warm, touched the crest of her cheek, lingering gently, and the feel of it teased her senses awake.
Her limbs were heavy and relaxed, her head comfortably supported. And she was held firmly against a solid surface, that rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
With every breath, she drew in a fragrance of horses and leather, and something fresh, like Vetiver. And she had the confused impression that it was morning..but that didn't seem quite right...
Recalling the storm, she stiffened.
A warm breath tickled her ear.
"You're safe. Rest against me."
Her eyes flew open.
"What...?" she faltered, blinking. "Where...? oh."
She found herself staring up into a pair of dark blue eyes.
A little pang, not entirely unpleasant, pierced somewhere beneath her ribs, at the discovery, Arthur was holding her.
They were on the floor of the saddle room, on a stack of folded horse blankets and rugs.
It was the warmest, driest place in the stables, located close to the stalls for easy access.
An overhead skylight illuminated the rows of saddle racks, affixed to the white pine walls and rain streamed over the glass, sending dappled shadows downward.
Deciding that she wasn't ready, to confront the sheer awfulness of how she had just behaved, Gwen closed her eyes again.
Her lids felt itchy and swollen, and she fumbled to rub them.
Arthur caught one of her wrists, easing it away.
"Don't, you'll make them worse." He pressed a soft cloth into her hand, one of the rags used for polishing tack. "It's clean. The stable master brought it a few minutes ago."
"Did he...? I hope I wasn't...like this." she said, her voice thin and scuffed.
"In my arms, you mean? I'm afraid so." He sounded amused.
A moan of distress trembled on her lips.
"What he must have thought..."
"He thought nothing of it. In fact, he said it would benefit you, to do a bit of 'screetin,' as he put it."
The Yorkshire word for bawling like an infant.
Humiliated, Gwen blotted her eyes and blew her nose.
Arthur's hand slid into her tumbled hair, his fingertips finding her scalp and stroking gently, as if she were a cat.
It was wildly improper for him to touch her in such a way, but it was so shockingly pleasant, that she couldn't quite bring herself to object.
"Tell me what happened," he said softly.
Her insides turned hollow. Her body was as limp as an empty flour sack. Even the effort to shake her head was exhausting.
His soothing hand continued to play in her hair.
"Tell me."
She was too exhausted to refuse him, she realized.
"It was my fault," she heard herself say. Tears leaked from the outside corner of her eye and disappeared into her hairline. "I'm the reason Liam is dead."
Arthur was silent, waiting patiently for her to continue.
Then, the words came out in a shamed rush.
"I drove him to it. We had been quarreling. If I had behaved the way I should, if I'd been kind, instead of spiteful, Liam would still be alive. I had planned to ride Ahmad that morning, but he wanted me to stay and battle it out with him, and I said no, not when he was in such a state. Then, he said he would go riding with me, but I told him..."
She broke off with a wretched sob, and continued resolutely.
"I said he wouldn't be able to keep pace with me. He had been drinking the night before, and he still wasn't clearheaded."
Arthur's thumb stroked across her temple, through the trail of salt water, ever so gently.
"So he decided to prove you wrong," he said after a moment.
Gwen nodded, her jaw trembling.
"He dashed out to the stables, half drunk and in a fury," Arthur continued, "And insisted on riding a horse, that he probably wouldn't have been able to control, even sober."
The tiny muscles of her face spasmed.
"Because, I didn't manage him as a good wife would have..."
"Wait," Arthur said, as a hic-cupping sob escaped her. "No, don't start that again. Hush, now. Take a breath."
His hand slid from her hair, and he propped her higher in his lap, until their gazes were almost level.
Taking up a fresh cloth, he blotted her cheeks and eyes, as if she were a child.
"Let's consider this rationally," Arthur said. "First, as to this business of managing Liam...a husband isn't a horse to be trained. My cousin was a full-grown man, in command of his own fate. He chose to take a stupid risk, and he paid for it."
"Yes, but he'd been drinking..."
"Also his choice."
Gwen was struck by his blunt words and matter-of-fact manner. She had expected him to blame her, perhaps, even more than she blamed herself, if that were possible.
No one could deny her culpability...it was too obvious.
"It was my fault," she insisted. "Liam wasn't in command of himself when he was angry. His judgment was impaired. I should have found a way to appease him, instead, I pushed him over the edge."
"It wasn't your responsibility to save him from himself. When he decided to act like a hotheaded fool, no one could have stopped him."
"But you see, it wasn't a decision. Liam couldn't help it, that I set off his temper."
Arthur's mouth twisted, as if she had said something ridiculous.
"Of course he could."
"How do you know that?" she asked.
"Because I'm a Pendragon. I have the same damned evil temper. Whenever I yield to it, I'm perfectly aware of what I'm doing."
She shook her head, unwilling to be pacified.
"You didn't hear the way I spoke to him. I was very sarcastic and unkind. Oh, you should have seen his face..."
"Yes, I'm sure you were a perfect little hornet. However, a few sharp words, weren't sufficient reason for Liam to dash off in a suicidal tantrum."
As Gwen considered that, she realized with a start, that her fingers had slid into the thick, closely shorn locks of hair, at his nape.
Her arms were around his neck. When had that happened?
Blushing furiously, she jerked her hands from him.
"You have no sympathy for Liam, because, you didn't like him," she said awkwardly, "But..."
"I haven't yet decided, whether I like you either. That doesn't change my opinion of the situation."
Gwen stared at Arthur with wide eyes. Somehow, his cool, unsentimental assessment, was more comforting than sympathy.
"They ran to fetch me, after it happened," she found herself telling him. "Liam was lying on the ground. His neck was broken, and no one wanted to move him, until the doctor arrived. I leaned over him and said his name, and when he heard my voice, he opened his eyes. I could see that he was dying. I put my hand on his cheek and told him that I loved him, and he said, 'You're not my wife.' Those were the last words he ever spoke. He was unconscious by the time the doctor arrived..."
More tears sprang from her eyes.
She didn't realize she was twisting the polishing cloth in her fists, until one of his hands settled over both of hers, calming the agitated movement.
"I wouldn't dwell on Liam's last words," Arthur said. "One could hardly expect him to be sensible. For God's sake, his neck was broken."
His palm passed over her knuckles, in a repeated caress.
"Listen, my little watering pot, it was in my cousin's nature, to do something rash at any given moment. It always would have been. The reckless streak in the Pendragon family, has persevered for centuries. Liam could have married a saint, and he would have lost his temper, regardless."
"I'm certainly not a saint," she said woefully, ducking her head.
"I knew that, within the first minute of meeting you." Amusement rustled through his voice.
Keeping her head down, Gwen stared at the hand over hers, elegant but brutally strong, with a faint scattering of hair on the back of it.
"I wish I had it to do over again," she whispered.
"No one could blame you for what happened."
"I blame myself."
"Let her cover the mark as she will," he quoted sardonically, "The pang of it, will always be in her heart."
Recognizing the words from The Scarlet Letter, Gwen glanced up at Arthur miserably.
"You liken me to Hester Prynne?"
"Only in your aspirations to martyrdom. Although, even Hester had a bit of fun before her comeuppance, whereas, you've apparently had little."
"Fun?" Despair gave way to bewilderment. "What are you talking about?"
His gaze was intent on her face.
"I would think, that even a proper lady, might find some pleasure in the conjugal embrace."
She gasped in befuddled outrage.
"I...you...that you would dare bring up such a subject..."
He had been so gentle and comforting, and now, he had changed back into the insufferable cad he was before.
"As if I would ever discuss that with anyone, least of all you!" she grated. As she writhed and began to crawl from his lap, he held her in place easily.
"Before you charge away in righteous indignation," he said, "You might want to refasten your bodice."
"My what?"
Glancing down at her front, Gwen saw to her horror, that the first few buttons of her dress and the top two hooks of her corset, had been undone.
She flushed.
"Oh, how could you?"
A flare of amusement lit Arthur's eyes.
"You weren't breathing well. I thought you needed oxygen more than modesty."
After watching her frantic efforts to re-hook the corset, he asked politely,
"May I help?"
"No. Although, I'm certain you're quite accomplished, at 'helping' ladies with their undergarments."
"They're hardly ever ladies." He laughed quietly, as she worked at the placket of the corset, with increasing panic.
The strain of the afternoon had left her so enervated, that even the simplest task was difficult.
She huffed and wriggled to pull the edges of the corset together.
After watching her for a moment, Arthur said brusquely,
"Allow me."
He brushed her hands away and began to hook the corset efficiently.
She gasped, as she felt the backs of his knuckles brush the skin of her upper chest.
Finishing the hooks, he started on the row of buttons at her bodice.
"Relax. I'm not going to ravish you. I'm not quite as depraved, as my reputation might indicate. Besides, a bosom of such modest proportions...albeit charming...isn't enough, to send me into a frenzy of lust."
Gwen glowered and held still, secretly relieved, that he'd given her a reason to hate him again.
Nimbly his long fingers worked at the buttons, until each one was neatly secured in its small silk loop.
His lashes cast brindled shadows down his cheeks, as he glanced along her front.
"There," he murmured.
She clambered out of his lap, with the haste of a scalded cat.
"Careful!"
Arthur flinched, at the heedless placement of her knee.
"I have yet to produce an heir, which makes certain parts of my anatomy, more valuable to the estate, than the actual family jewels."
"They're not valuable to me," she said, staggering to her feet.
"Still, I'm quite fond of them." He grinned and rose in an easy movement, reaching out to steady her.
Dismayed by the deplorably rumpled and muddy condition of her skirts, she whacked at the bits of hay and horsehair, that clung to the black crepe fabric.
"Shall I accompany you into the house?" Arthur asked.
"I prefer to go separately," she said.
"As you wish."
Straightening her spine, she added,
"We will never speak of this."
"Very well."
"Also...we are still not friends."
His gaze held hers.
"Are we enemies, then?" he asked.
"That depends..." She took a wavering breath. "...What...what will you do with Ahmad?"
Something in his face softened.
"He'll remain at the estate, until he can be retrained. That's all I can promise for now."
Although it wasn't precisely the answer she'd wanted, it was better than having her horse sold right away.
If it could be retrained, he might at least end up in the possession of someone who valued him.
"Then...I suppose...we're not enemies."
Arthur stood before her in his shirtsleeves, with no necktie or collar in sight.
The hems of his trousers were muddy. His hair needed combing, and there was a bit of hay caught in it, but somehow in his disarray, he was even more handsome than before.
She approached him with abashed tentativeness, and he held very still, as she reached up, to pull the little wisp of hay from his hair.
His blonde locks were invitingly disheveled, and she was almost tempted to smooth it.
"How long is the mourning period?" he surprised her, by asking abruptly.
Gwen blinked, disconcerted.
"For a widow? There are four mourning periods."
"Four?"
"The first one lasts a year, the second for six months, the third for three months, and then, half mourning lasts for the rest of one's life."
"And if the widow wishes to marry again?"
"She may do so after a year and a day, although it is frowned upon to marry so quickly, unless she has children, or lacks income."
"Frowned upon but not forbidden?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
Arthur shrugged casually.
"I'm merely curious. Men are required to mourn only for six months...probably because, we wouldn't tolerate anything longer than that."
She shrugged.
"A man's heart is different from a woman's."
His gaze turned quizzical.
"Women love more," she explained. Seeing his expression, she asked, "You think I'm wrong?"
"I think you know little of men," he said gently.
"I've been married, I know all I wish to." She went to the threshold and paused to look back at him. "Thank you," she said, and left before he could reply.
Arthur wandered to the doorway, after Gwen had gone.
Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the frame and expelled a controlled sigh.
Dear God, he wanted her beyond decency.
He turned and set his back against the match-boarded wall, struggling to understand what was happening to him.
A euphoric, disastrous feeling had invaded him. He sensed that he'd undergone a change, from which there was no return.
He hated it when women cried. At the first sign of tears, he had always bolted like a hare at a coursing.
But as soon as his arms had gone around Gwen, in one ordinary instant, the world, the past, everything he'd always been certain of, had all been obliterated.
She had reached for him, not out of passion or fear, but the simple human need for closeness.
And it had electrified him.
No one had ever sought comfort from him before, and the act of giving it, had felt more unspeakably intimate, than the most torrid sexual encounter.
He'd felt the force of his entire being, wrap around her, in a moment of sweet, raw connection.
Arthur's thoughts were in anarchy.
His body still smoldered, with the feeling of Gwen's slight weight in his lap.
Before she had fully come back to herself, he had kissed her silky cheek, damp with salt tears and summer rain. He wanted to kiss her again, everywhere, for hours.
He wanted her naked and exhausted in his arms.
After all his past experience, physical pleasure had lost any trace of novelty, but now, he wanted Guinevere Pendragon, the countess of Winchester, in ways that shocked him.
What a damnable situation, he thought savagely.
A ruined estate, a depleted fortune, and a woman he couldn't have.
Gwen would be in mourning for a year and a day, and even after that, she would be out of his reach. She would never lower herself, to be any man's mistress, and after what she had endured with Liam, she would want nothing to do with another Pendragon.
Brooding, Arthur went to pick up his discarded coat from the floor.
He shrugged into the rumpled garment and wandered from the saddle room, back to the stalls.
At the far end of the building, a pair of stable boys talked, as they cleaned a box stall.
Becoming aware of his presence, they quieted instantly, and all he could hear, was the rasp of the broom and the scrape of a shovel.
Some of the horses in the row watched him curiously, while others affected disinterest.
Keeping his movements relaxed, Arthur went to the Arabian's stall. Ahmad turned his head sideways to view him, his teacup muzzle tightening in a sign of unease.
"No need for concern," Arthur murmured. "Although, one can't blame you for wrinkling your nose at a Pendragon's approach."
Ahmad shuffled and swished his tail nervously. Slowly he came to the front of the stall.
"Look sharp, milor'," came Mr. Bloom's calm voice, from somewhere behind Arthur. "The lad's a biter...he may take a nip of tha, if he doesn't know tha. He prefers a lass' company to a man's."
"That shows your judgment is sound," Arthur told the horse. He extended his hand, palm-up, as he had seen Gwen do earlier.
Carefully Ahmad sniffed, his eyes half closed.
Working his mouth, he lowered his head in submission and pressed his muzzle against Arthur's hands. Arthur smiled and stroked the horse's head on both sides.
"You're a handsome fellow, aren't you?"
"And well he knows it," the stable master said, approaching with a chuckle. "He smells her ladyship on thee. Now he'll take to thee like ha'penny sweets. Once they know they're safe with thee, they'll do anything tha asks."
Arthur ran his hand along the horse's graceful neck, from the narrow, refined throat-latch down to the sturdy shoulder. His coat was sleek and warm, like living silk.
"What do you make of his temperament?" he asked. "Is there any danger to the Lady, if she continues to train him?"
"Nowt a bit, milor'. Ahmad will be a perfect lady's mount, once he's trained right. He's not obstracklous, only sensitive. He sees, hears, smells everything. The fine ones are canny like that. Best to ride 'em wi' soft tack and gentle hands."
Bloom hesitated, idly tugging on his white whiskers.
"A week before the wedding, Ahmad was brought here from Leominster. Lord Pendragon came to the stables to see him. 'Twas a mercy, that her ladyship wasn't here to witness...Ahmad nipped at him, and his lordship delivered a hard clout to his muzzle. I warned him. I told him, if he use a fist against him, he may earn his fear, but not his trust."
Bloom shook his head sadly, his eyes moistening.
"I knew the master since he was a dear little lad. Everyone at the Priory loved him. But none could deny he was a fire-flaught."
Arthur gave him a quizzical glance.
"What does that mean?"
"In Yorkshire, it's what they call the hot coal, that bounces out of the hearth. But it's also the name for a man who can't bide his temper."
The horse raised his head and delicately touched his muzzle to Arthur's chin. Resisting the urge to jerk his head back, Arthur held still.
"Breathe soft into his nose," Bloom murmured. "He wants to make friends wi' thee."
Arthur complied.
After blowing back gently, the horse nudged his chest and licked his shirtfront.
"Tha has won him over, milor'," the stable master said, a smile splitting his round face, until his cheeks bunched over the cottony bolsters of his whiskers.
"It has nothing to do with me," Arthur replied, stroking Ahmad's sleek head, "And everything to do with her ladyship's scent."
"Aye, but tha has a good touch wi' him." Blandly the stable master added, "An' wi' her ladyship, it seems."
Arthur sent him a narrow-eyed glance, but the elderly man returned it innocently.
"Lady Pendragon was distressed, by the memory of her husband's accident," Arthur said. "I would offer assistance to any woman in such a state." He paused. "For her sake, I want you and the stablemen to say nothing about her loss of composure."
"I told the lads I'd flay the hide off them, if there's so much as a whisper of it." Bloom frowned in concern. "That morning...there was a scruffle between her ladyship and the master, before he came running to the stables. I worried she might fault herself for it."
"She does," Arthur said quietly. "But I told her, that she is in no way accountable for his actions. Nor is the horse. My cousin brought the tragedy upon himself."
"I agree, milor'."
Arthur gave Ahmad a last pat.
"Good-bye, fellow...I'll visit you in the morning before I leave." He turned to walk along the stalls to the entrance, while the elderly man accompanied him.
"I suppose, rumors ran rife around the estate after the Earl's death."
"Rumors? Aye, the air was fat wi' them."
"Has anyone said what Lord and Lady Pendragon were arguing about that morning?"
Bloom was expressionless.
"I couldn't say."
There was no doubt that the man had some idea, as to the nature of the conflict between Liam and Gwen.
Servants knew everything.
However, it would be unseemly, to persist in questioning him, about private family matters. Reluctantly, Arthur set aside the subject...for now.
"Thank you for your help with her ladyship," he told the stable master. "If she decides to continue training Ahmad, I'll allow it, on condition of your oversight. I trust your ability to keep her safe."
"Thank you, milor'," Bloom exclaimed. "Tha intends for the lady to remain at Hampshire Priory, then?"
Arthur stared at him, unable to answer.
The question was simple on the surface, but it was overwhelmingly complex.
What did he intend for Gwen?
For Liam's sisters?
What did he intend for Hampshire Priory, the stables and household, and the families that farmed the estate?
Could he really bring himself to throw them all upon the mercy of fate?
But damn it, how could he spend the rest of his life, with unimaginable debt and obligations hanging over his head, like the sword of Damocles?
He closed his eyes briefly, as the realization came to him...it was already there.
The sword had been suspended above him, from the moment he'd been informed of Liam's death.
There was no choice to make. Whether or not he wanted the responsibility that came with the title, it was his.
"I do," he finally said to the stable master, feeling vaguely nauseous. "I intend for all of them to stay."
The older man smiled and nodded, seeming to have expected no other answer.
Exiting through the wing of the stables, that connected to the house, Arthur made his way to the entrance hall.
He had a sense of distance from the situation, as if his brain had decided to stand back and view it as a whole, before applying itself to the particulars.
The sounds of piano music and feminine voices, drifted from one of the upper floors.
Perhaps, he was mistaken, but he thought he could hear a distinctly masculine tone, filtering through the conversation.
Noticing a housemaid cleaning the stair rails of the grand staircase, he asked,
"Where is that noise coming from?"
"The family is taking their afternoon tea in the upstairs parlor, milord."
Arthur began to ascend the staircase with measured footsteps. By the time he reached the parlor, he had no doubt that the voice belonged to his incorrigible brother.
"Arthur!" Will exclaimed with a grin, as he entered the room. "Look at the charming little bevy of cousins I've discovered."
He was sitting in a chair beside a game table, pouring a hefty splash of spirits from his flask, into a cup of tea.
The twins hovered around him, busily constructing a dissected map puzzle.
Sliding a speculative glance over his brother, Will remarked,
"You look as though you'd been pulled backward through the hedgerow."
"You shouldn't be in here," Arthur told him. He turned to the room in general. "Has anyone been corrupted or defiled?"
"Since the age of twelve," Will replied.
"I wasn't asking you, I was asking the girls."
"Not yet," Bia said cheerfully.
"Drat!" Athena exclaimed, examining a handful of puzzle pieces, "I can't find Luton."
"Don't concern yourself with it," Will told her. "We can leave out Luton entirely, and England will be none the worse for it. In fact, it's an improvement."
"They are said to make fine hats in Luton," Bia said.
"I've heard that hat making drives people mad," Athena remarked. "Which I don't understand, because, it doesn't seem tedious enough to do that."
"It isn't the job that drives them mad," Will said. "It's the mercury solution they use to smooth the felt. After repeated exposure, it addles the brain. Hence the term 'mad as a hatter.'"
"Then, why is it used, if it is harmful to the workers?" Bia asked.
"Because, there are always more workers," Will said cynically.
"Athena," Bia exclaimed, "I do wish you wouldn't force a puzzle piece into a space, where it obviously does not fit."
"It does fit," her twin insisted stubbornly.
"Cassandra," Bia called out to their older sister, "Is the Isle of Man located in the North Sea?"
The music ceased briefly, as Cassandra spoke from the corner, where she sat at a small cottage piano.
Although the instrument was out of tune, the skill of her playing was obvious.
"No, dear, in the Irish Sea."
"Fiddlesticks." Athena tossed the piece aside. "This is frustraging."
At Arthur's puzzled expression, Cassandra explained,
"Athena likes to invent words."
"I don't like to," she said irritably. "It's only, that sometimes an ordinary word doesn't fit how I feel."
Rising from the piano bench, Cassandra approached Arthur.
"Thank you for finding Gwen, my lord," she said, her gaze smiling. "She is resting upstairs. The maids are preparing a hot bath for her, and afterwards, Cook will send up a tray."
"She is well?" he asked, wondering exactly what Gwen had told Cassandra.
She nodded.
"I think so. Although she is a bit weary."
'Of course she was. Come to think of it, so am I.'
Arthur nodded and turned his attention to his brother.
"Will, I want to speak to you. Come with me to the library, will you?"
Will drained the rest of his tea, stood, and bowed to the sisters.
"Thank you for a delightful afternoon, my dears." He paused before departing. "Athena, sweetheart, you're attempting to cram Portsmouth into Wales, which I assure you, will please neither party."
"I told you," Bia said to her sister, and just like that, the twins began to squabble, while Arthur and Will left the room.
"Lively as kittens," Will said, as he and Arthur walked to the library. "They're quite wasted out here in the country. I'll confess, I never knew that the company of innocent girls, could be so amusing."
"What if they were to take part in the London season?" Arthur asked.
It was one of approximately a thousand questions, buzzing in his mind.
"How would you rate their prospects?"
Will looked bemused.
"At catching husbands? Nonexistent."
"Even Lady Cassandra?"
"Lady Cassandra is an angel. Lovely, quiet, accomplished...she should have her pick of suitors. But the men who would be appropriate for her, will never come up to scratch. Nowadays no one can afford a girl who lacks a dowry."
"There are men who could afford her," Arthur said absently.
"Who?"
"Some of the fellows we're acquainted with...Gwaine, or Harcourt..."
"If they're friends of ours, I wouldn't pair Lady Cassandra with one of them. She was bred to marry a cultivated man of leisure, not a barbarian."
"I would hardly call a department store owner a barbarian."
"Richard Harcourt is vulgar, ruthless, and willing to compromise any principle for personal gain...qualities I admire, of course...but he would never do for her. They would make each other exceedingly unhappy."
"Of course they would. It's marriage," Arthur mumbled.
He sat in a musty chair, positioned behind a writing desk, in one of the deep-set window niches.
So far, the library was his favorite room in the house, paneled in oak, with walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, that contained at least three thousand volumes.
One bookcase had been fitted with narrow stacked drawers, for storing maps and documents.
Agreeable hints of tobacco, ink and book dust, spiced the air, overlaying the sweetness of vellum and parchment.
Idly Arthur reached for a wooden cigar holder on the nearby desk and examined it.
The piece was carved in the shape of a beehive, with tiny brass bees scattered on its surface.
"What Harcourt needs most, is something he can't purchase."
"Whatever he can't purchase isn't worth having."
"What about an aristocrat's daughter?" Arthur asked.
Will wandered passed the bookshelves, perusing titles. He pulled a volume from a shelf and examined it dispassionately.
"Why the devil are we talking about arranging a match for Lady Cassandra? Her future is none of your concern. After we sell the estate, you'll likely never see her again."
Arthur traced the pattern of inset bees, as he replied,
"I'm not going to sell the estate."
Will fumbled with the book, nearly dropping it.
"Have you gone mad? Why?"
He didn't want to have to explain his reasons, when he was still trying to sort through them.
"I have no desire to be a landless Earl."
"When has your pride ever mattered?"
"It does now that I'm a peer."
Will gave him a sharply assessing glance.
"Hampshire Priory, is nothing you ever expected to inherit, nor desired, nor prepared for, in any way whatsoever. It's a millstone tied around your neck. I didn't fully grasp that, until the meeting with Tottenham and Forsythe this morning. You'd be a fool, if you do anything other than sell it and keep the title."
"A title is nothing without an estate."
"You can't afford the estate."
"Then I'll have to find a way."
"How? You have no bloody idea how to manage complex finances. As for farming, you've never planted so much as a single turnip seed. Whatever you're qualified for...which isn't much...it's certainly not running a place like this."
Oddly, the more that his brother echoed the doubts that were already in his mind, the more stubborn Arthur became.
"If Liam was qualified, I'll be damned if I can't learn to do it."
Will shook his head incredulously.
"Is that where this nonsense is coming from? You're trying to compete with our dead cousin?"
"Don't be an idiot," Arthur snapped. "Isn't it obvious, there's far more at stake than that? Look around you, for God's sake. This estate supports hundreds of people. Without it, many of them won't survive. Tell me you'd be willing to stand face-to-face with one of the tenants and tell him that he has to move his family to Manchester, so they can all work in a filthy factory."
"How can the factory be any worse, than living on a muddy scrap of farmland?"
"Considering urban diseases, crime, slum alleys, and abject poverty," Arthur said acidly, "I'd say it's considerably worse. And if my tenants and servants all leave, what of the consequences to the village of Hampshire itself? What will become of the merchants and businesses, once the estate is gone? I have to make a go of this, Will."
His brother stared at him, as if he were a stranger.
"Your tenants and servants?"
Arthur scowled.
"Yes. Who else's are they?"
Will's lips curled in a derisive sneer.
"Tell me this, oh lordly one...what do you expect will happen when you fail?"
"I can't think about failure. If I do, I'll be doomed from the start."
"You're already doomed. You'll preen and posture as lord of the manor, while the roof caves in and the tenants starve, and I'll be damned if I'll have any part of your narcissistic folly."
"I wouldn't ask you to," Arthur retorted, heading for the door. "Since you're usually as drunk as a boiled owl, you're of no use to me."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Will called after him.
Pausing at the threshold, Arthur gave him a cold glance.
"I'm the Earl of Winchester," he said, and left the room.
Stay safe!