October 1884, London

Henry found himself compelled to permit the valet to assist him in donning his mourning attire, as his trembling hands were scarcely capable. It was not merely the result of the spirits he had imbibed; indeed, he had taken but a modest amount from the decanter he brought to his former bedchamber. However, drinking on an empty stomach had certainly done him no favours.

Then there was the profound sense of grief. Henry was not one to shed tears; in his family, the display of emotions was considered a mark of frailty, or even offensive, should one allow them to eclipse reason, as he had regrettably done with Caro the other day.

Also, the physical pain persisted, striking his nerves within his very skull, his stomach revolting from all the poison he had ingested, and his legs feeling as heavy as two logs. He dared to request the valet to bring him some sustenance, only to retch it out a few minutes later. His forehead was clammy with sweat, and his eyes watered from the ordeal.

He felt utterly wretched, almost as miserable as the day his brother attempted to dispatch himself to the Almighty, but now it was much worse, given that his brother had succeeded.

When he at last joined the funeral procession, he saw Her Majesty already in attendance, accompanied by her daughter, Princess Helena, who was four years his junior. After greeting both women, Queen Victoria inspected him from head to toe, saying,

"My dear Lord Clarke, allow us to extend our most sincere condolences upon the passing of your esteemed brother, the Duke of Grantchester. Lord Andrew was a respected peer of the realm, and we trust that you will soon join us at Buckingham Palace in his stead."

Henry nodded and replied, "Your Majesty, I am profoundly grateful for your support on this most grievous day. I have yet to receive the formal invitation from the Lord Chamberlain's Office, but I hope to fulfil my duties with the grace and dedication that my brother exhibited."

Though the words he uttered twisted his stomach with their insincerity, he knew that honesty with the monarch was a luxury he could ill afford if he wished to maintain a peaceful life free from enmity.

Victoria nodded solemnly as Henry bowed and took his leave. He intended to join his mother at the pew on the other side of the chapel, for the funeral sermon was about to commence. However, as he glanced at Regina, he changed his mind and approached the display where his brother's body lay.

His brother's body was now ensconced within a casket that shielded the mourners from a ghastly sight and as Henry's hand touched the smooth wood, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead, despite the chill in the drawing room. His reason compelled him to evoke a memory of a moment when Andrew had returned from Bedlam, that fleeting moment of a few weeks when everything seemed normal... blast it, his brother even appeared happy, but anyone who looked closely into Andrew's countenance could observe that happiness never reflected in his eyes, that his smile was hollow, devoid of genuine mirth.

„How do you feel after your... sojourn?" young Henry inquired of his brother carefully, ensuring his tone would not upset him by any means.

If anything, his brother had not been at Bedlam; he had merely been on a retreat with family, as their parents had arranged.

"Glad I've been there, truly! They aided me tremendously. Now I comprehend myself better and can govern my diso—" Andrew did not complete his sentence. He merely shook his head and smiled at Henry with a broad grin. Yet, it was in his eyes—the unmistakable void that unsettled the younger sibling. It seemed almost as if Andrew was already dead behind that façade of life.

Later that same day, as Henry was passing by his older brother's chamber, his curiosity was piqued by the door, which was not fully closed. He saw Andrew standing before a mirror, engaged in some activity, and in his innocence, decided to enter and inquire.

"What are you doing, Andrew?"

The question startled the elder brother, causing him to recoil, and the sound of an item dropping onto the carpet echoed through the chamber. Andrew swiftly tucked his white shirt into his trousers.

"Henry! This is my room, leave at once!"

Henry regarded him with astonishment, perplexed by his brother's peculiar behaviour, yet he remained rooted to the spot. His gaze fell upon a growing crimson stain on Andrew's shirt, its intensity deepening with each passing moment.

"What is this?" Henry inquired, his index finger directing attention to the spreading blotch just above Andrew's hip.

Andrew cast a quick, apprehensive glance at the stain, muttered a curse under his breath, and then swiftly moved to usher his brother out of the room.

"Shoo! Begone! How dare you enter without knocking, you fool!" Andrew reprimanded in a hushed, yet urgent tone.

Henry hesitated at the threshold, his hand clutching the door frame. "What is wrong with you, Andrew?"

This inquiry seemed to strike a nerve, for Andrew's eyes widened with a fleeting expression of panic before he regained his composure and delivered a final, forceful shove. Henry stumbled backwards, his countenance twisted in indignation.

"You-you cannot fathom!" Andrew cried out. "There are matters beyond your understanding, beyond the comprehension of our parents... beyond anyone!"

He then closed the door with a loud thud, leaving his younger brother perplexed and filled with worry.

The sound of a cough brought Henry back from his walk among memories.

"Your Grace, may I ask you to take your seat? I would like to commence the sermon for your brother. However, should you require more time, I could certainly postpone," said the elder clergyman.

"No, you may begin," Henry replied, slowly returning to his intended seat next to his mother, Regina.

She herself seemed lost in contemplation, her gaze betraying no regard for anything in particular, not even her younger son. Her lips were pursed as was her wont, but Henry clearly discerned her clenched jaw. It was more than certain that the dowager was deeply suffering her loss, though she would never show it outwardly.

Letting others know about the state of one's soul was an act of cowardice. Vulnerability was reserved for one's own conscience.

Henry contemplated touching her arm or taking her hand as a sign of support, but such a gesture would bring her paper-thin walls down, and that was something she wouldn't forgive him for a very long time. Her walls did tear a little themselves, as confirmed by two wayward tears escaping her eyes during the sermon. But did the mother mourn the loss of the heir or her son? Henry dreaded to inquire directly, fearing he would learn something he would rather not, despite what she had said earlier about being glad that he became the duke.

Henry's gaze was fixated upon the casket as he listened to the holy word, as though he were a devout Protestant gentleman, though he seldom visited the church. His devoutness lay elsewhere, particularly in archaeology, his books, and his teaching. And two paramours on occasion, but while he could retain the women, he had to bid farewell to the rest of the things that brought him great contentment in life.

After the sermon, six men took upon themselves the task of carrying the casket to the family's mausoleum, situated on the estate. For the entire duration of the procession and until his brother was placed in his eternal repose, entombed by a stone slab bearing his name and the dates of his birth and death, Henry's unwavering gaze followed the wooden casket.

Only the thud of the stone being sealed made him snap back to the bitter reality that it was final.

His brother was no more.

While the rest of the mourners slowly proceeded back to the house, Henry remained in place, staring at the stone slab.

ANDREW CLARKE

1838 — 1884

As he closed his eyes, tears finally traced his cheeks, and he realised a myriad of feelings, mainly of hurt and relief tugging at his heart, yet intertwined with dread of what was expected of him in the days to come.

He could not loiter in the mausoleum for too long, for his presence was required in the house, as many were interested in the newly minted duke. Henry swiftly wiped his face and turned on his heel to briskly approach the rest of the mourners.

Though it seemed to Henry that the funeral repast extended for an eternity, it scarcely lasted more than three hours. Once Her Majesty had departed, he swiftly resorted to a cup or two of spirits; the task of recounting joyous tales of himself and Andrew would have been insufferable otherwise, particularly the ones involving other companions, in which Henry substituted a friend with his brother to cast the deceased in a more favourable light.

After all, one should speak only well of the departed.

Fortified by his libations, Henry conversed with nearly everyone at the gathering, save for perhaps one individual. Caroline Clarke glared at him with marked disdain, yet he cared little for the opinions of the embittered bitch or anyone else for that matter.

Later, ensconced in his chamber, weary to the point of exhaustion and with a glass of scotch in hand, Henry exhaled a long sigh of relief. It had been an arduous day, and he anticipated the morrow would prove no different.

Suddenly, he heard the door open and close, though he paid the intruder no immediate heed. He had no need to, as the figure of his sister-in-law materialised before him, clad only in a thin chemise.

"What do you want, Caroline?" he inquired in a languid tone, settling himself more comfortably in his high-backed chair. "It does not befit a widow to visit another man so soon after her husband's interment, do you not agree?"

"You are well aware that I spoke only the truth," she replied composedly. "You could not bear the sight of your brother, and whenever faced with a difficult decision, you chose to flee and avoid it altogether."

"I departed because someone had to uphold the family's reputation," Henry retorted sternly, to which she responded with a derisive chuckle.

"Tales for the public, indeed. You departed because it was convenient for you. You could not commit to Lady Reed, just as you could not behold your brother. Neither held any significance for you."

Henry scoffed as he observed her pouring herself a glass of brandy and downing it in one go. "Of course, you know me best and understand all that transpires within my mind and my relations," he replied with a touch of irony.

Caro set the glass down on the table. "I, too, made an error in matters of commitment. I pledged my life to a man unworthy of my attention."

"Did you, indeed?"

"Yes. It was I who insisted on marrying your brother when it should have been you, Henry," she said, stepping closer to him.

In the flickering light of the candelabra, he could discern the outline of her hardened nipples through the thin fabric.

"I would never wish you as my wife," he retorted, though he could not deny the stirring within him. "I would never so much as touch you."

Caro laughed softly and shook her head. "Why these falsehoods, Henry? You ardently desired me until you learned I was promised to your brother. But before that revelation, the lust in your eyes was unmistakable. And I remain a beautiful woman, even after all these years."

She reached out and touched him in his nether region, her hand finding his hardness through the fabric of his pants, eliciting a gasp from him.

"You shouldn't be doing this, Caro," he said in a hushed voice, his tone thick with desire that he struggled to conceal. "Your husband was only just put in the place of his eternal repose."

"Contrariwise, I should have done it a long time ago," she replied, unbuttoning his front flap with the determination of a hunter stalking his prey. "All you had to do was to ask and I'd allow you to breed me as many times as you wanted."

Caro then pulled off her chemise, revealing a beautiful, slender frame with perky tits. Henry dug his fingers into the armrests, but when she sat on his lap and began to rub her cunt against his thick shaft, he lost the remaining fibres of self-preservation.

His mouth found one of the nipples and his hands grasped her hips rather tightly, certainly bruising her skin. She began to moan softly and when he toyed with the other nipple to her satisfaction, she arose a little, allowing him to aid her in taking his member deep inside her intimate core. They both sighed in delight once she accommodated his entire length without hesitation.

Caro then employed a rocking motion, holding on to the back of the high chair for support. Her moans intensified, as did Henry's breathing, but neither of them was overly concerned with the possibility of being overheard. There was only the scorching desire present, the urge to release all the pent up sentiments amassed in the past days. Caro tensed, still being forced to move by Henry's firm and relentless grasp, holding her breath momentarily and gazing at the ceiling as a cry, signalling her climax, escaped her lips.

With quick breaths, she composed herself after a minute, her lips finding Henry's and locking them in a fervent kiss. Caro then released his cock from her pussy by getting up from the chair, yet nothing was concluded just yet - her head appeared between his legs as she knelt and took his member in her hand. Henry was compelled to shift forward in the chair to allow her to take him in her mouth.

There wasn't much left of his will to not come as her sucking and toying with his ballocks slowly shoved him closer and closer to the edge until she took him deep into her throat. It was then that he gave up and burst in her mouth, leaving him throbbing wildly and feeling a rather generous amount of semen being released.

The bitch swallowed it all, except for a small amount that trickled down her chin.

"If you desired to be bred, why did you suck me off?" he inquired between breaths.

Caro smirked and wiped his semen from her face using her fingers, then licked it off. "It wouldn't befit a widow to become expectant within a year of her mourning, would it?"

She then rose from her seat, retrieved her chemise from the floor, attired herself, and departed his chamber without speaking another word.

It took Henry quite some time to compose himself once more.

What the fuck just occurred?!

He realised that the glass of Scotch was still in his hand. But how could it be when he could have sworn that he had helped Caro to straddle his cock with both hands?

And was it truly Caro with him, or merely a phantasm brought on by meagre sustenance and excessive spirits?

His front flap remained unbuttoned, though he could have availed himself earlier. Yet to do so would require a cloth to betray his deed, and none was present.

Henry sighed deeply once more, muttered a curse, and placed the glass upon the mahogany table. It was painfully apparent that his circumstances were deteriorating swiftly. And while he might not yet forsake drinking, he certainly ought to take precautions against the vultures who sought to exploit his vulnerability, such as Caro.