“I’ll be changing to go out,” he said.

Go out where? a voice asked.

Damned if I know.

He glanced around the room as Hodgkins bustled about, getting his things. He hadn’t gotten around to redecorating the master bedroom after his parents died, and everything was done in his mother’s style, discreetly tasteful colors indicating just how very expensive it was. The only thing in the room that was truly his was his shaving kit, which his father had gifted to him on his sixteenth birthday. It was engraved with his initials, although they weren’t his initials any longer, were they?

But it was his, even if nothing else was.

Soon Sebastian was rigged out in his most ostentatious clothing—a gold patterned waistcoat, an elegant black necktie, slim trousers, and a blindingly white shirt—even though he had no place to be. He considered attending a party or five—there were plenty of invitations, but they were all addressed to the Duke of Hasford. Not Mr. Sebastian de Silva.

And he knew that the party guests, those of whom liked to gossip, which meant most of them, would take no time in reminding him he was a mere mister now.

“Damn it,” he said to himself as he descended the stairs. He took a quick left into his office, where he spotted the tray with the whiskey right away. “Thank God,” he murmured, pouring himself a healthy amount. He’d been spending a lot of time in this room, learning the estate affairs, taking meetings with the staff. Once he’d inherited the title from his father, it had felt crucial that he focus on his responsibilities rather than his pleasure.

He could return to pleasure now. But he didn’t want to. Nor would he have the privilege of doing so—he’d have to . . . work for his living now?

He’d never considered that possibility when he’d contemplated his future.

The enormity of the change hit him all over again. Nothing was his. Not his clothing, not this house, not anything. Not even the name he’d grown up with. He was Mr. Sebastian de Silva now. Nothing more.

He really needed whiskey, even though that wasn’t his either. He knew, however, that Thaddeus wouldn’t begrudge him a stiff drink.

He held the glass up to his mouth, then frowned as he spotted the signet ring on his right pinkie.

The signet ring that had belonged to his father, the Duke of Hasford. That was passed on to all the dukes in succession.

He put the glass back down on the table, yanked the ring from his finger, and flung it into the corner of the room.

“Your aim is improving.”

Sebastian heard Nash’s voice before he saw him. His friend was standing in the shadows, as usual, but emerged into the light, holding the ring, his usual grim smile on his lips.