What he had not realised until now was how much he envied Loxwell.
Alexander Balfour, at a younger age and with much less experience, had a great number of blessings that Malcolm lacked. He was respected politically, where Malcolm was compared unfavourably to an iron-fisted father. He was capable of hard work and unwavering diligence, where Malcolm favoured flash-in-the-pan strokes of brilliance which were as unreliable as they were dazzling. Loxwell always seemed sure of himself, even in his earliest days as a duke. Malcolm had felt the nag of inadequacy since he first heard those fatal words, “Your Grace”.
And now he saw that Loxwell was a family man, peaceful and contented in the bosom of a loving crowd composed of wife and siblings and, soon, an heir.
His father’s words came to mind. First, seek out your enemy’s weakness. Malcolm was still his own worst enemy, and envy was a weakness indeed.
“I hope you know how fortunate you are, Loxwell,” he said, idly swirling his brandy. Loxwell raised an eyebrow.
“We are both fortunate, I’d say.”
“A family like yours is worth my wealth ten times over.”
Loxwell glanced downwards, as though both puzzled and flattered. “I never took you for the sentimental sort, Caversham.”
“Oh, I’m as surprised as you are.” Malcolm wondered whether he had found a way to investigate the question that had been needling at him. The matter of Selina, and her insistence that she would not marry. “It must be a relief to have two of your sisters settled. I imagine they are quite the weighty responsibility.”
Loxwell shook his head ruefully. “You know me, Caversham. I must always feel responsible for something. But I don’t feel that it’s my place to hand my sisters off to any man who asks for them. They must be free to make their own decisions.”
“Very wise.” Did he dare press any further? Loxwell did not seem at all suspicious, but he had always been hard to read. “Lady Selina, in particular, would object to being handed off, I think?”
He had gone too far. Loxwell fixed him with a look that advised extreme caution.
“Selina would object to being discussed at all in that regard.”
“Of course.” Malcolm cleared his throat. “I meant nothing by it.”
“Of course.” Loxwell got to his feet. “Shall we join the ladies?”
As Malcolm rose, his host hesitated.
“Selina’s happiness is a cause very dear to my heart,” he said, finally. “But she is a much better custodian of that happiness than I am. She knows her own mind.”
And that mind was dead set against marriage in general, marriage to a duke in particular, and marriage to Malcolm most of all. The implication was clear. Malcolm was in no doubt that Selina had expressed her distaste for him to her brother.
The scene they broke upon in the drawing room was touchingly domestic. Lady Isobel sat at her harp, a dreamy expression on her face as her fingers pulled effortless music from the strings. Lady Ursula reclined with her feet propped on a footstool, chattering happily as the duchess listened and smiled.
Selina was sitting where the candlelight glowed brightest, a basket in her lap filled with skeins of wool in pastel colours. She barely looked up as he entered. Watching her felt like intruding upon something intimate.
Ladies often took it into their heads to display their finer accomplishments whenever Malcolm happened to be nearby. They would recite poetry, or offer to sketch his profile, or start speaking in Italian. But Selina did not care for his attention enough to make a peacock of herself. She took up a soft blue ball of wool and began casting on. Malcolm took a step towards her, but Lady Ursula caught his eye and patted the seat beside her.
“Sit with me, do! I am telling Daisy a story from my youth, and you would benefit from hearing it, too.”
“My aunt has taken a shine to you, Caversham,” murmured Loxwell, keeping his face absolutely straight. “Beware.”
Malcolm gave the elderly lady his most charming smile. “I hope you are not trying to reform me, Lady Ursula. I am a hopeless case.”
“I suspected as much,” said Ursula. “Your trouble, dear boy, is that you grew into your looks at too young an age. Good looking men are nothing but trouble. I have always said so.”
“Auntie,” the duchess admonished fondly. Malcolm pulled up a chair and sat close beside them.
“I wish I’d had you to teach me the error of my ways earlier, my lady. Imagine how much better I’d have turned out!”
“Dear boy,” said Lady Ursula fondly. “Now, Daisy, where was I?”
“You were telling me about the American entrepreneur and the talking parrot,” said the duchess.
With that prompt, Lady Ursula embarked upon a lurid tale of treachery and flirtation. Malcolm suspected that at least half of it was true.
Though Ursula’s autobiography was extraordinary enough to hold anyone’s attention, Malcolm’s ear was more than half caught by the peaceful click of Selina’s knitting needles. Their rhythm was hypnotic. The strangeness of seeing Selina taking up something as simple and homely as knitting, even more so.
The conversation had lulled for a moment too long before Malcolm realised Lady Ursula was waiting for him to speak.
“Forgive me,” he said, wrenching his attention from Selina. “I was… distracted by the music. What piece is Lady Isobel playing?”
“One of her own composition,” said the duchess. Malcolm was genuinely surprised.
“It’s fit for a concert hall!”
“That is what I am always telling her,” said Lady Ursula. She let out a great yawn. “Now, I have educated you children long enough. I have reached the time of life when even a handsome duke cannot persuade me to stay up past my bedtime.”
The duchess pressed a hand to her rounded stomach, an odd expression coming over her face. “I think I will join you, Auntie. I am not quite…” She seemed to recollect that Malcolm was listening. “I expect I am simply a little tired. Do
