knuckles bled, but this tiny woman laughed in the face of his rage.
‘Perhaps I should explain to you what my lifestyle has become. Even the fringes of polite society avoid me.’
‘Which is too bad as you can be excellent company. However, I do not frighten easily. Jamie used to have some terrible tantrums,’ she added.
And now he was being likened to an angry child. It made him want to laugh.
‘Right.’ He stepped around to the front of the desk, bending to scoop up the fallen canvasses, candlestick and paperweight with businesslike swiftness. ‘You are right. I could never hurt or even frighten you. And really it doesn’t matter whether you stay or go because I could stare at these childish chicken scratches for ever and my decision would remain unchanged.’
‘But why? I want to know. Doesn’t even a wife in name only deserve that much?’
Her tone seemed laced with distaste and derision as she said the words ‘name only.’ My God, he could have made her more than a wife in name only. He could have dragged her to London or to the marriage bed if he hadn’t respected her so damned much, if he hadn’t known about her aversion to marriage and her need for independence.
‘And why Ayrebourne?’ she persisted.
‘Graham Hill is his birthright.’ He ground out the words between clenched jaws.
She shook her head. ‘What utter tosh. It is your birthright.’
‘Not so much.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Likely because it is none of your business.’
Two bright crimson spots highlighted her cheeks and her breathing quickened. They stood quite close now, in front of his huge oak desk. She shifted so that she was square to him, her hands tightened into fists, her chin out-thrust.
‘That is where you are wrong. You can marry me and then ignore me, but this is my business. I have been here. While you were in London, I was here. I helped Edmund after Mirabelle’s death. I organised village events, teas and fairs. I cooed over babies I could not see. I advised on how best to treat a bee sting and a—a boil which was on a place I cannot mention. Mirabelle was dead. Edmund was mourning. Jamie was Jamie. Your mother never came. You never came. I made this estate my business. I made the people my business. I helped Jensen run the place. I kept things going. I am sorry Edmund is dead, but if you are going to absolve yourself of this responsibility, I deserve to know why. You are Lord Graham’s second son. You are the heir.’
Out of breath, she fell silent. After the flow of words, the stillness felt intense. He heard a clock chime from the library and a gardener or stable hand shout something outside.
‘Actually, I’m not,’ he said.
‘Not what?’
‘Lord Graham’s son—second or otherwise.’
‘Lord Graham was not my father.’
‘That is not possible.’ Her face blanched, the hectic red of anger now mottled.
‘Given my mother’s personality, it is,’ he said.
‘But...but who?’
‘A portrait painter. He came to paint my parents’ portraits in the year prior to my birth. Apparently his activities were not limited to capturing my mother’s likeness.’
‘He fell in love with your mother?’
‘Something like that,’ Ren said, although he doubted love had had anything to do with it. In fact, he rather doubted love’s existence.
‘But Lord Graham loved you so—’ She stopped. ‘He didn’t know?’
‘Not until the untimely return of the portrait painter. We rather resemble each other, you see. Me and the painter. Most unfortunate.’
‘Oh.’ She placed her hand on the top of his desk as if needing its support.
She would despise him now, he supposed. He waited, unconsciously bracing himself as though for physical assault. But her face showed only a dawning comprehension and compassion.
‘So that’s why everything changed,’ she said softly. ‘You must have been so sad and...shocked when you learned.’
‘Not so much. I was more intent on not drowning.’
‘Lord Graham tried to drown you?’
‘No.’
Lord Graham had flogged him. Ren hadn’t known why until Jason Barnes had blurted it out while the other boys had held his head under the water pump that the school used for the horses.
He remembered the boys’ faces, their mockery, the jeers and hard words. It had hurt and yet had also brought peculiar relief. At least he knew the reason for his father’s sudden hatred.
‘Who?’
‘The boys at school.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated. Tears shimmered in her sightless sky-blue eyes.
Where he had expected...rejection, he saw only sympathy. He reached forward, touching a tear’s glistening trail as it spilled down her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth.
‘It’s ancient history. Not worth your tears.’
‘When Lord Graham found out, he sent you to school early? That is why you left so suddenly and why you don’t paint?’
‘Yes.’
‘And never came back for holidays?’
‘Lord Graham did not want me.’
Another tear brimmed over. ‘I’m so sorry. I did not think he could be so cruel.’
‘I do not blame him. What man would want his wife’s bastard?’
Her brows drew together at his words. She straightened, her cheeks an even brighter crimson. ‘Well, I do. Cruelty is never warranted. I blame your mother. I blame the painter. But not you. You are blameless. You were a child.’
He shrugged. ‘Opinions may differ on that score, but now you see why I must give the land to the Duke.’
Surprisingly, she shook her head. ‘No. He is still vile.’
‘Agreed. But he is my father’s nearest blood relative.’
‘It cannot be right or honourable to give the land, and therefore the tenants also, to a man who is dishonourable.’
‘It certainly is not honourable to keep property to which I have no right. I am not the true heir. You cannot argue with that.’
