Marrying the Major. Victoria Bylin

his life, he had to stay strong for them. They had to learn they could live without him. The decision had seemed wise until Caroline skewered him by giving Dora the doll. He’d known how much his daughter missed her mother, but he hadn’t realized how alone he’d left his children. It took discipline to stay strong for them, but that’s what a father did … what an officer did. When everyone else succumbed to tears and flashes of temper, an officer kept his wits about him.

      At the moment Tristan’s wits were in tatters. He needed another dose of quinine, but he hadn’t taken the bottles from Bessie’s medicine bag because he’d been distracted by the children. Neither did he have easy access to the small supply he’d brought from The Barracks. It was upstairs in his bedroom, and he didn’t want to pass his house-guests in the hall. He’d wait, but only for a bit.

      To fortify himself, he picked up the letter that had been delivered before he’d left. Pennwright’s neat script was badly smudged, but he expected the man’s dry humor would be intact. He sliced the envelope with an opener, removed a single sheet and began to read.

       Dear Tristan,

       I’m writing to you with a heavy heart. Both of your brothers are dead.

      Tristan read the opening words again, then a second time. As the ramifications sunk in, his insides shook the way they did before weapons were drawn for battle. The shaking signaled danger and the loss of life … his life … the life in Wyoming he wanted for his children. With his brothers dead, he’d become his father’s heir and the next duke of Willoughby. The clock in the entry gonged six times, a death knell to accent Pennwright’s perfect script.

      As if surveying a battle report, he took in the rest of the letter. Andrew had died of cholera, and he’d left no sons or daughters. Tristan immediately thought of his widow, Louisa, alone and grieving without even children to comfort her. She’d broken his heart when she’d married his brother, but he held no bitterness. He only wondered why she jilted him and if somehow he’d failed her. Oscar had died a week after Andrew. Pennwright’s explanation chilled Tristan to the bone.

       He died from a gunshot to the head. Your father is calling it a hunting accident.

      Tristan knew his brother well enough to read between the lines. Oscar had called hunting the sport of fools. He didn’t like horses, exercise or perspiration. With a heavy heart, Tristan acknowledged what hadn’t been written. Oscar’s “hunting” accident had likely been suicide. Tristan viewed the deed as cowardice, but he understood why Oscar had done it. A man of little discipline, he’d have become the duke’s whipping boy.

      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.