Bile climbed into his throat. That was his worst nightmare. His eyes chased longingly over the map around the coast of Africa into the Atlantic Ocean. How easy would it be to replenish supplies and coal in St. Helena and change course? Head to France or Spain or even New York?

You want another family death on your conscience? Your mother’s this time?

His inner demons were right, curse the lot of them.

He had no way to know if his mother was pretending or was actually on her deathbed, but he hadn’t been there when his father and brothers had died. Despite his fractious relationship with his father, guilt over that had eaten away at him, mostly because of his brothers.

Though Roland had been a miniature replica of the duke, Rhystan had idolized Richard when they’d been children. He’d taken their deaths hard. All of them, even the duke’s. At the funeral, the desolation on his mother’s face had been a potent reminder of his failures.

Of the fact that he could never measure up.

On top of that, he hadn’t seen his nieces or his own sister in two years. He had spared them a thought or two, but no more than that. Last he heard, Roland’s widow had recently remarried and moved to Northumberland.

Clearly, Rhystan wasn’t and would never be of ducal caliber. And his father had known that, drummed it into him. Fate had buggered them both, it seemed. Because once he returned to London, his mother, in her dubiously ill state, would probably waste no time putting pressure on him to marry and secure the future of the dukedom. His legacy.

Rhystan had almost written to her and said, “Pick one.” He knew it wouldn’t matter to his mother who the future Duchess of Embry was as long as she was of the right bloodline and could carry the next ducal heir to term. His mother would have a list of eligible young ladies waiting for him, and then he’d be expected to do his ducal duty.

Hell.

Duty was an exacting master.

Rhystan loosed a breath, for the first time understanding what had possessed Sarani to marry another for the sake of court and country. It wasn’t enough to forgive her completely, but he wished she could have trusted him. Given him a chance to offer his own suit, to use his eminent family name for their sakes. But she hadn’t…because she hadn’t known. Because he hadn’t been honest with her from the start about who he was. Back then, he’d wanted nothing to do with the Duke of Embry.

Cursing, he slung back another two fingers of whisky, aware of the pleasant fog expanding in his brain. A vision of hair so black it absorbed light and a pair of laughing autumn-colored eyes danced in his mind’s eye.