Daniel refrained from answering. Making Griffin jealous had been a result of his continued pursuit of Alyssa, but it hadn’t been the principal reason behind it. He’d extended his pursuit of Alyssa in order to pass Colin and Jarrod’s test. Passing their test had been Daniel’s entrée into the Free Fellows League.
“You took a very big chance,” Miranda said. “Your plan might have misfired and Alyssa might have chosen you.”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at Miranda. “Not likely. She was far too sensible to want to be molded into society’s idea of what a duchess should be.”
“There’s always a chance you might find someone who would be happy to take on the daunting task of becoming the Duchess of Sussex. A lot can change in twenty years.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. In twenty years, she’d be too old to provide an heir to carry on the St. Germaine line or a ducal one. “For the better.”
Daniel nodded. “Or I may have even more responsibility in twenty years than I do now.”
He wasn’t being completely honest with Miranda or himself. Daniel knew that the war with France would be over long before twenty years passed. There might be other wars to fight, but the current Free Fellows would most likely be retired from active service, and there would be nothing to keep him from marrying and having a family. Nothing except the fact that Daniel dreaded the day he would look in his son’s eyes and realize that he was the only thing keeping his son from fulfilling his destiny. Because as long as the ninth duke drew breath, the tenth duke would be forced to bide his time and wait in the wings.
And the realization would start when his son became old enough to think for himself, old enough to figure things out and see the chinks in his father’s armor. Daniel had been seven when his father had begun to push him away and withdraw. His father had delighted in his company until Daniel had gone away to Eton. Daniel had continued to delight in his father’s company, but the eighth duke had grown colder and seemed determined to avoid Daniel, until the distance between them widened into a gulf that had increased with every birthday.
There was no question that the eighth Duke of Sussex had loved his young son, but for some unknown reason, he hadn’t been quite as enamored of the adolescent who would one day take his place.
Daniel didn’t understand why his father had changed. He only knew that he had. And Daniel never wanted to do the same to his own son.
“That is generally how it works, Your Grace,” Miranda reminded him. “The older we get, the more responsibilities we have. Until the day we hand our responsibilities and our titles to our heirs. Hopefully, those heirs will be the children we’ve borne and reared and prepared for the job ahead of them.”
“It’s not going to work that way for me,” he protested.
“Planning to live forever, are we?” She looked him in the eye. “Because if that’s your ambition, Your Grace, you’d best stay away from men who point firearms at you.”
“I don’t intend to live forever,” Daniel replied.
“From the looks of you, I’d say that was obvious.” Miranda lowered her gaze to the strips of bandages binding his ribs.
He didn’t appreciate the devil’s advocate role she’d assumed. “What’s your point, Miranda?”
“My point is that in twenty years, you’ll be two score and eight, older than my father was when I was born. He was two score and four,” Miranda said. “He didn’t inherit the title until he was forty, so he was compelled to marry a much younger wife. Just as you will have to do in order to get an heir.”
Daniel frowned. He could barely tolerate the young society misses intent on capturing a lofty title now. How would he manage in twenty years? Daniel had settled on twenty as the number of years because it sounded a long way off, but he hadn’t considered that the passage of time would change him physically or affect the way he chose his duchess. He was foolish not to have realized that the passage of time changed everything. He wouldn’t stay young forever, and neither would Miranda.
Ignoring Daniel’s mighty scowl, Miranda continued her story. “My father grew to love my mother, but they had almost nothing in common. And although my mother was fond of my father and respected him very much, she married him to please her parents, not because she loved him.” She met Daniel’s gaze. “My mother was ten and seven, and Father was over twice her age. So, they agreed that he wouldn’t trouble my mother with his conjugal visits once she had conceived and borne an heir. My mother did her duty when she conceived and gave birth to me. And because my father kept his word, he knew I would be his only child and his heir. But I was a female who hadn’t a prayer of surviving and prospering in a man’s world unless I learned to think and act the way a man would think and act. My father barely lived long enough to see me reach my majority.” She met Daniel’s gaze. “I certainly wouldn’t wish his way of life on you, Your Grace.”
“What way of life would you wish on me?” he asked.
“A long, happy, and healthy one,” she replied. “Surrounded by the people you love and the people who love you—with a wife and children who love you.”
Daniel recognized the sincerity in her eyes and tried to lighten the atmosphere. “With the way I feel at the moment, there is always the possibility that I won’t be here in twenty years.”
Miranda nodded, then reached out to press her palm against his forehead. “There is that.”
“What?” Daniel sounded alarmed.
“You may die reviewing the account books at your desk in the study at Sussex House at the age of five and thirty like your father. Or you may succumb to this fever,” she reminded him. “Your Mistress Beekins may not have gotten everything out of your wound. Or you may have damaged something when you pulled the stitches loose. Or I may have done something wrong or forgotten to do something when I restitched the wound. You could die from infection in this wound despite my best efforts to insure that you do not.”
“What do you intend?” Daniel was wary of the look in Miranda’s eyes.
“I intend”—she paused for effect—“to have my way. So, lie back and let me look at your injury.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds.”
—William Shakespeare, 1564–1616
Romeo and Juliet