Marrying The Major

Pennwright’s next words carried no surprise, but they jarred him nonetheless.

You, Tristan, are now heir to your father’s title and holdings. He wishes you to return to England immediately to assume your duties.

If Tristan had been healthy, he might have gloated at the irony. The son his father had dismissed as worthless now had value to him. But Tristan wasn’t well … Chances were good his father would outlive him, and Freddie would fall under the man’s influence. The thought chilled Tristan to the bone.

The duke could issue whatever orders he pleased, but Tristan wouldn’t snap mindlessly to attention. He had to protect his son. The duke had turned Andrew into a pampered poodle and Oscar into an alley cat. Tristan refused to be paraded like a pet, nor would he allow Freddie to be turned into Andrew or Oscar.

In the same breath, he recognized the profound responsibility of being a duke. He’d been born a third son, but he’d become a leader of men. By blood and British law, he had a duty to the people of Willoughby and wanted to fulfill his obligation with honor.

But he was also a father and he had to protect his son. Tristan was the only defense between Freddie and the duke. He refused to allow his son to be used and manipulated. Dora would suffer, too. His daughter would be valued solely for her worth as a future wife, not for the charming little girl she was. As long as Tristan and his father were both alive, he had time to come up with a strategy. There was no need to rush back to England, at least not yet.

Weary to the bone, he left Pennwright’s letter on the desk and headed to his room. After supper he’d speak to Jon about ways to protect Freddie. Tristan was a good strategist, but Jon had a more creative mind. First, though, he needed quinine.

He entered his suite and shut the door with a click. He took the dose of medicine, then washed his hands and changed into attire befitting a meal with the new governess and her sister. The women would talk throughout supper and so would his children. Jon would be charming, and Tristan would be stoic. With a bittersweet longing to be well again, he headed for the dining room, wearing the stiff upper lip he was so very tired of maintaining.

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