He’d make her so very proud of him.

He was the only male child of the Duke of Westbury. He’d study harder, push himself to excel in all things, be the best duke’s heir in the world.

He must be stern and strong to win his father’s respect.

Two months later, the babe arrived. But it wasn’t another sister. It was a healthy baby boy, with all his fingers and toes, and a great lusty wail that no nursery wall could contain.

The duke’s elation reverberated throughout Westbury Abbey. He provided a sumptuous feast for the staff in celebration. Everyone was smiling and singing and congratulating each other on the birth of the second son; the spare heir.

When Brandan received the summons to attend his father in his study that evening, he dared to hope that perhaps some of the general mood of expansive goodwill might extend to him.

A visit to his father’s study was usually a terrifying occurrence. Brandan would stand in silence in front of the desk, which seemed as wide and uncrossable as an ocean, and listen to his father lecture him on all his faults and failings. He tried to bear it manfully, but when the inevitable beating came, the blow of a hand, lash of the switch, or cut from a cane made his knees knock together and his teeth chatter.

“Stop that shivering, boy,” his father always said with contempt. “The punishment is for your own good. You must learn that life is no bed of roses. Especially for one as wicked as you.”

But today, in celebration of the birth of another son, his father might smile upon Brandan, as he’d smiled upon even the scullery maid, or so she’d told the cook incredulously when Brandan had snuck an apple tart from the kitchens.

Down the long corridor, heart thumping with every step. Back straight, shoulders back. Stride with purpose, as father walked. Meet him man-to-man. Whatever happened, show no sign of weakness.

The door to the study was ajar. A fire crackled in the grate, doing little to dispel the gloom of dark wood paneling and oil portraits of dour-faced ancestors.

His dour-faced father sat behind his desk, staring out the window. For one moment it seemed to Brandan that his father was already a painting, hung by a hook on the wall, immobile and all-seeing.

“Good day, Father,” Brandan said.

The portrait creaked to life. The dark blue, hooded gaze found him. His upper lip curled. “It is a good day. A very propitious day, indeed. I finally have the child I’ve wanted for so long.”

Brandan’s spirits elevated and his knees stayed sturdy and strong. “What is my brother’s name, please?”

“His name is Bertram.”

“That’s your name, Father.”

“It is.” Another curl of his lips. Not to be mistaken for a smile. This was the cruel and disdainful expression Brandan knew so well.