he didn't want to be known as Franklin Drake's bedroom substitute.
********
Sleeping in, Grant gave plenty of time for his note to be delivered before making his way to his father's townhouse. The duke of Bedford, Heath Montgomery, was a bitter man well within his sixties. His health was stable, but he had been declining over the years. It appeared that even as rich and powerful as the man was, none of that would matter when the Reaper came calling.
Grant recognized that most of his father's bitterness stemmed from his fear of death. He'd managed to avoid watching his wife's slow decline by keeping himself in London nearly full time. Grant's mother had been sent to one of the many country estates, out of sight, out of mind. His father's time would come, but Grant wasn't sure if that would make him happy or sad. He had no desire to spend any time with the old man, but on the other hand, his brother was even less likely to be generous with him. Reginald had always thought of him as lazy and inconsistent. Little did either man know of the true Grant, who was fairly resourceful and highly intelligent.
Approaching the house on foot, Grant was reduced to having to knock and be announced. It mattered little that he'd lived in this very house as a child, on the rare occasions his father had allowed him to join him in London. It didn't matter that he was still technically the spare heir. What mattered was that Bedford kept up his appearance as the commander of his own ship, making everyone else his minions.
The butler answered promptly, allowing Grant entrance into the foyer without waiting. It was probably the only concession Grant would be given by his father's staff. No refreshments would be offered. The stodgy, old butler would take his coat and hat, and he would return them upon Grant's departure. Other than that, Grant was afforded no other courtesy.
“Lord Grant, your father awaits you in his study.”
“Thank you, Jennings,” Grant muttered as he made his way to the rear of the house. The butler would not even announce him, as his position did not warrant it. He was, after all, the second son.
Knocking lightly, Grant opened the door and entered without permission. His father did not even want to waste his breath speaking unnecessarily. As a man in his thirties, Grant had learned all he needed to know about his father. Everything Grant did was to keep his father in the best spirits the man could achieve, which was never high in the best of circumstances.
Without looking up from his work, Bedford motioned for his son to sit in one of the small chairs that flanked his large desk. The set-up of his office was a study in power. Bedford sat in a large chair behind a large desk, leaving only smaller pieces of furniture for his guests. It was like standing before St. Peter at the gates of heaven, hoping to be recognized and given entry. For all his well-placed furniture, Grant knew his father was no god and he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of treating him as such.
“Where have you been all this time?” his father said off-handedly, still not looking up.
“I was invited to several house parties over the holidays. I was most recently at Lady Emerson's estate.” Short and sweet was the best way to answer Bedford.
“Lady Emerson, huh? Whatever would she want with you?” Finally, Bedford looked up, if only to reinforce his sarcasm.
Grant remained silent, just as his father intended. They both knew that Grant was a favorite among the less happily married in the ton, which was just about everyone. Instead, Grant cocked his head to the side in a quizzical stance.
“You are wondering why I summoned you. There is no point in beating around the bush. Your sister-in-law is with child again. There is every chance that it is a boy and you will be cut off.”
With the power of ten men, Grant remained stoic. They played this game every time Alexandra became
********
Sleeping in, Grant gave plenty of time for his note to be delivered before making his way to his father's townhouse. The duke of Bedford, Heath Montgomery, was a bitter man well within his sixties. His health was stable, but he had been declining over the years. It appeared that even as rich and powerful as the man was, none of that would matter when the Reaper came calling.
Grant recognized that most of his father's bitterness stemmed from his fear of death. He'd managed to avoid watching his wife's slow decline by keeping himself in London nearly full time. Grant's mother had been sent to one of the many country estates, out of sight, out of mind. His father's time would come, but Grant wasn't sure if that would make him happy or sad. He had no desire to spend any time with the old man, but on the other hand, his brother was even less likely to be generous with him. Reginald had always thought of him as lazy and inconsistent. Little did either man know of the true Grant, who was fairly resourceful and highly intelligent.
Approaching the house on foot, Grant was reduced to having to knock and be announced. It mattered little that he'd lived in this very house as a child, on the rare occasions his father had allowed him to join him in London. It didn't matter that he was still technically the spare heir. What mattered was that Bedford kept up his appearance as the commander of his own ship, making everyone else his minions.
The butler answered promptly, allowing Grant entrance into the foyer without waiting. It was probably the only concession Grant would be given by his father's staff. No refreshments would be offered. The stodgy, old butler would take his coat and hat, and he would return them upon Grant's departure. Other than that, Grant was afforded no other courtesy.
“Lord Grant, your father awaits you in his study.”
“Thank you, Jennings,” Grant muttered as he made his way to the rear of the house. The butler would not even announce him, as his position did not warrant it. He was, after all, the second son.
Knocking lightly, Grant opened the door and entered without permission. His father did not even want to waste his breath speaking unnecessarily. As a man in his thirties, Grant had learned all he needed to know about his father. Everything Grant did was to keep his father in the best spirits the man could achieve, which was never high in the best of circumstances.
Without looking up from his work, Bedford motioned for his son to sit in one of the small chairs that flanked his large desk. The set-up of his office was a study in power. Bedford sat in a large chair behind a large desk, leaving only smaller pieces of furniture for his guests. It was like standing before St. Peter at the gates of heaven, hoping to be recognized and given entry. For all his well-placed furniture, Grant knew his father was no god and he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of treating him as such.
“Where have you been all this time?” his father said off-handedly, still not looking up.
“I was invited to several house parties over the holidays. I was most recently at Lady Emerson's estate.” Short and sweet was the best way to answer Bedford.
“Lady Emerson, huh? Whatever would she want with you?” Finally, Bedford looked up, if only to reinforce his sarcasm.
Grant remained silent, just as his father intended. They both knew that Grant was a favorite among the less happily married in the ton, which was just about everyone. Instead, Grant cocked his head to the side in a quizzical stance.
“You are wondering why I summoned you. There is no point in beating around the bush. Your sister-in-law is with child again. There is every chance that it is a boy and you will be cut off.”
With the power of ten men, Grant remained stoic. They played this game every time Alexandra became
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