“Do you know what a parish register looks like?” Thomas asked.
Jack shrugged and shook his head. He stretched his fingers, then flexed his feet as best as he could within the confines of his boots. His muscles were growing tense and jumpy, and everytime he tried to hold still, he realized that his fingers were drumming a frantic tattoo on his leg.
He wanted to jump out of his skin. He wanted to jump right out of his-
“This may be it.”
Jack turned. Thomas was holding a large book. It was bound in brown leather, and the cover showed signs of age.
“Shall we?” Thomas asked. His voice was even, but Jack saw him swallow spasmodically. And his hands were trembling.
“You can do it,” Jack said. He could not fake it this time. He could not stand there and pretend to read. Some things were simply too much to bear.
Thomas stared at him in shock. “You don’t want to look with me?”
“I trust you.” It was true. Thomas could not think of a more inherently trustworthy person. Thomas would not lie. Not even about this.
“No,” Thomas said, dismissing this entirely. “I won’t do it without you.”
For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join Thomas at the desk.
“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.
Thomas muttered something Jack could not quite make out and set the book down, opening it to one of the first pages.
Jack looked down. It was a blur, all swirls and dips, dancing before his eyes. He swallowed, stealing a glance at Thomas to see if he’d seen anything. But Thomas was staring down at the register, his eyes moving quickly from left to right as he flipped through the pages.
And then he slowed down.
Jack clenched his teeth, trying to make it out. Sometimes he could tell the bigger letters, and frequently the numbers. It was just that they were so often not where he thought they should be, or not what he thought they should be.
Ah, idiocy. It ought to have been familiar by now. But it never was.
“Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” Thomas asked.
“No.” But it was a small parish. How many weddings could there have been?
Jack watched Thomas’s fingers. They moved along the edge of the page, then slid around the edge.
And flipped it. And stopped.
Jack looked at Thomas. He was still.
He’d closed his eyes. And it was clear. On his face. It was clear.
“Dear God.” The words fell from Jack’s lips like tears. It wasn’t a surprise, and yet, he’d been hoping…praying…
That his parents hadn’t married. Or the proof had been lost. That someone, anyone, had been wrong because this was wrong. It could not be happening. He could not do this.
Just look at him now. He was standing there bloody well pretending to read the register. How in God’s name did anyone think he could be a duke?
Contracts?
Oh, that would be fun.
Rents?
He’d better get a trustworthy steward, since it wasn’t as if he could check to see if he was being cheated.
And then-he choked back a horrified laugh-it was a damned good thing he could sign his documents with a seal. The Lord knew how long it would take to learn to sign his new name without looking as if he had to think about it.
John Cavendish-Audley had taken months. Was it any wonder he’d been so eager to drop the Cavendish?
Jack brought his face to his hands, closing his eyes tight. This could not be happening. He’d known it would happen, and yet, here he was, convinced it was an impossibility.
He was going mad.
He felt like he couldn’t breathe.
“Who is Philip?” Thomas asked.
“What?” Jack practically snapped.
“Philip Galbraith. He was a witness.”
Jack looked up. And then down at the register. At the swirls and dips that apparently spelled out his uncle’s name. “My mother’s brother.”
“Does he still live?”
“I don’t know. He did the last I knew. It has been five years.” Jack thought furiously. Why was Thomas asking? Would it mean anything if Philip was dead? The proof was still right there in the register.
The register.
Jack stared at it, his lips parted and slack. It was the enemy. That one little book.
Grace had said she could not marry him if he was the Duke of Wyndham.
Thomas had made no secret of the mountains of paperwork that lay ahead.
If he was the Duke of Wyndham.
But there was only that book. There was only that page.
Just one page, and he could remain Jack Audley. All his problems would be solved.
“Tear it out,” Jack whispered.
“What did you say?”
“Tear it out.”
“Are you mad?”
Jack shook his head. “You are the duke.”
Thomas looked down at the register. “No,” he said softly, “I’m not.”
“No.” Jack’s voice grew urgent, and he grabbed Thomas by the shoulders. “You are what Wyndham needs. What everyone needs.”
“Stop, you-”
“Listen to me,” Jack implored. “You are born and bred to the job. I will ruin everything. Do you understand? I cannot do it. I cannot do it.”
But Thomas just shook his head. “I may be bred to it, but you were born to it. And I cannot take what is yours.”
“I don’t want it!” Jack burst out.
“It is not yours to accept or deny,” Thomas said, his voice numbingly calm. “Don’t you understand? It is not a possession. It is who you are.”