There was a strong sense of finality about this morning. There had been a flurry of weddings in the last two years, including those of all the Survivors and George’s nephew, all the people most dear to him in the world. Imogen had been the last of them—with the exception of himself, of course. But he hardly counted. He was forty-eight years old and, after eighteen years of marriage, he had been a widower for more than twelve years.
He was glad to see that the fire in the library had been lit. He had got chilled standing outside. He took the chair to one side of the fireplace and held out his hands to the blaze. The footman brought the tray a few minutes later, poured his coffee, and set the cup and saucer on the small table beside him along with a plate of sweet biscuits that smelled of butter and nutmeg.
“Thank you.” George added milk and a little sugar to the dark brew and remembered for no apparent reason how it had always irritated his wife that he acknowledged even the slightest service paid him by a servant. Doing so would only lower him in their esteem, she had always explained to him.
It seemed almost incredible that all six of his fellow Survivors had married within the past two years. It was as if they had needed the three years after leaving Penderris to adjust to the outside world again after the sheltered safety the house had provided during their recovery, but had then rushed joyfully back into full and fruitful lives. Perhaps, having hovered for so long close to death and insanity, they had needed to celebrate life itself. He was quite certain too that they had all made happy marriages. Hugo and Vincent each had a child already, and there was another on the way for Vincent and Sophia. Ralph and Flavian were also in expectation of fatherhood. Even Ben, another of their number, had whispered two days ago that Samantha had been feeling queasy for the past few mornings and was hopeful that it was in a good cause.
It was all thoroughly heartwarming to the man who had opened his home and his heart to men—and one woman—who had been broken by war and might have remained forever on the fringes of their own lives if he had not done so. If they had survived at all, that was.
George looked speculatively at the biscuits but did not take one. He picked up his coffee cup, however, and warmed his hands about it, ignoring the handle.
Was it downright contrary of him to be feeling ever so slightly depressed this morning? Imogen’s wedding had been a splendidly festive and happy occasion. George loved to see her glow, and, despite some early misgivings, he liked Percy too and thought it probable he was the perfect husband for her. George was very fond of the wives of the other Survivors too. In many ways he felt like a smugly proud father who had married off his brood to so many happily-ever-afters.
Perhaps that was the trouble, though. For he was not their father, was he? Or anyone else’s for that matter. He frowned into his coffee, considered adding more sugar, decided against doing so, and took another sip. His only son had died at the age of seventeen during the early years of the Peninsular Wars, and his wife—Miriam—had taken her own life just a few months later.
He was, George thought as he gazed sightlessly into his cup, very much alone—though no more so now than he had been before Imogen’s wedding and all the others. Julian was his late brother’s son, not his own, and his six fellow Survivors had all left Penderris Hall five years ago. Although the bonds of friendship had remained strong and they all gathered for three weeks every year, usually at Penderris, they were not literally family. Even Imogen was only his second cousin once removed.
They had moved on with their lives, those six, and left him behind. And what a blasted pathetic, self-pitying thought that was.
George drained his cup, set it down none too gently on the saucer, put both on the tray, and got restlessly to his feet. He moved behind the desk and stood looking out through the window onto the square. It was still early enough that there was very little activity out there. The clouds were sparser than they had been earlier, the sky a more uniform blue. It was the sort of day designed to lift the human spirit.
He was lonely, damn it. To the marrow of his bones and the depths of his soul.
He almost always had been.
His adult life had begun brutally early. He had taken up a military commission with great excitement at the age of seventeen, having convinced his father that a career in the army was what he wanted more than anything else in life. But just four months later he had been summoned back home when his father had learned that he was dying. Before he turned eighteen, George had sold out his cornetcy, married Miriam, lost his father, and succeeded him to the title Duke of Stanbrook himself. Brendan had been born before he was nineteen.
It seemed to George, looking back, that all his adult life he had never been anything but lonely, with the exception of that brilliant flaring of exuberant joy he had experienced all too briefly when he was with his regiment. And there had been a few years with Brendan . . .
He clasped his hands behind his back and remembered too late that he had told Ralph and Ben yesterday that he would join them for a ride in Hyde Park this morning if his cousins made the early departure they had planned. All the Survivors had come to London for Imogen’s wedding, and all were still here, except Vincent and Sophia, who had left for Gloucestershire yesterday. They preferred being at home, for Vincent was blind and felt more comfortable in the familiar surroundings of Middlebury Park. And the bride and groom, of course, were on their way to Paris.
There was no reason for George to feel lonely and there would be none even after the other four had left London and returned home. There were other friends here, both male and female. And in the country there were neighbors he considered friends. And there were Julian and Philippa.