Page 56

He rubbed his hands together, much like a villain celebrating his crime.

With a disinterested sniff, Werner closed his eyes once more, effectively dismissing his grandfather. That was a first. Usually, he groveled like a sycophant toady to please the domineering old sot.

“Except,” Werner drawled. “It won’t make any difference when I wed.”

He laughed, a half-demented, half-derisive chortle that raised Aston’s nape hairs.

“What’s that?” He had their grandfather’s attention and Aston’s too. “What twaddle are you blathering now, Werner?”

“It seems, dearest Grandpapa, I have the creeping paralysis and am as sterile as the gelding I ride. Caught the French pox years ago from some faceless whore I cannot remember.”

Sweet Jesus on Sunday.

He released a humorless laugh. “Didn’t even know I was infected. The physician says that’s the case sometimes. I’ve waited too long for treatment.” He flicked his fingers near his groin. “These loins won’t be producing any future viscounts.”

Though he’d brought the calamity on himself, Aston’s heart wrenched for his cousin.

Werner covered his eyes with a bent elbow.

To hide his shame? Tears? Remorse?

An oppressive, pregnant silence descended, cocooning the study in despondency.

His mind balking at what Werner’s confession meant, Aston clasped his hands behind his back, the nails cutting half-moons into his palms.

Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks!

He couldn’t even permit his mind to formulate the truth.

The godawful, horrendous truth.

“I don’t believe you,” Grandfather blustered. “You are bluffing. You’re fabricating poppycock, Werner, so that you don’t have to wed.” He pounded the desk with his fist, rattling the inkwell. “I shan’t have it. I’ll have you examined by my physician.”

“I already did,” came Werner’s muffled response due to his arm partially covering his face. “This is one time, old man, that you cannot bend me to your will.”

“How dare you?” the viscount seethed, yet something near panic flashed in his watery eyes.

Werner lowered his arm and leveled their grandfather an acrid stare. “My days are literally numbered, and I am not doing your bidding any longer. I intend to live the remaining scant days of my life in peace.”

Good for you, cousin.

He pushed to his feet, moving like a ninety-year-old arthritic decrepit instead of a man just past his thirtieth year. Eyes red-rimmed and cheeks hollow, he faced Aston and fashioned a wan smile.

Aston’s gut clenched in sorrow and pity.

“I have always admired you for standing up to him.” He jerked his head toward their thunderstruck—no, fuming—grandfather. “Don’t ever stop, Aston. Don’t ever become a malleable, spineless sot like me. He’ll destroy you like he did your parents, my parents, and me.”

With that, he left the room on unsteady legs, leaving the door gaping open behind him.

The clock tick-tocked three times before the viscount cleared his throat, then cleared it heartily again.

Werner had put the old goat off his stride. Bless him for having more courage than he gave himself credit for.

“Well then, Aston, my boy, it’s up to you to ensure the title doesn’t die out.” Grandfather’s countenance transformed into beguiling solicitousness. “I have just the bride for you. I’ve spoken to her parents, and they are most eager for the match. She’s—”

“No.”

“No? No?” His voice rising in pitch on the last word, Grandfather spluttered and turned crimson. “What do you mean no? It’s already been arranged. I cannot go back on my word.”