a wry grin. ‘Did Lord Graham ever disinherit you? Did Edmund?’
‘Lord Graham died before Edmund’s wife died. He had every reason to expect that Edmund would have many children and live to a ripe old age.’
‘But Edmund? He knew before he went to war that he might not come back.’
‘Edmund was one of the few people who did not know the truth,’ Ren said.
‘You said the resemblance was obvious.’
‘He was at school when the painter came and then went to Oxford the next term. His attitude towards me never changed.’
‘But you said the students knew at school?’
‘I suppose they kept it to themselves. They liked Edmund.’
Edmund was the sort of boy who had fit in well at boarding school. They had understood him: strong, sizeable, not overly bright but good at sports and fishing and hunting.
In contrast, Ren was not. He had been an undersized runt, too bright, poor at sports and fishing and hunting.
A misfit.
* * *
Beth paced Ren’s study. Her thoughts whirled, a confused mix of comprehension, anger, pity and myriad other emotions. Her fingers trailed across the top of the desk, touching the familiar objects, the smooth metal of the paperweight which Ren had picked up from the floor, the leather portfolio, the edges of the inkstand and pen.
Then she turned, shaking her head. ‘It still is not right to give the land to the Duke. There is more than one kind of honour. I know Edmund would not want Ayrebourne to have it. He loved this land, almost like Jamie loves the land. He cared for the tenants.’
‘The Duke has a right to the land,’ Ren repeated in dull tones, like a child reciting lines.
‘And the tenants?’
‘I am sorry about them, but I cannot change facts. The tenants have no rights. They do not own the land.’
‘They have lived here for generations, for centuries. That doesn’t give them rights?’
‘No.’
‘It should.’
‘So now you plan to change society?’
She shrugged. ‘Why not? If I had acted the way people said I should, I would not be walking about this land. I would not be independent—’
‘Beth—for goodness sake—this is not about you. It is totally different. We all know you are independent and have done things no one else could do. But this is not the same.’
‘I—’ His tone hurt. ‘I haven’t.’
‘No? You have always been on a crusade. You always wanted to demonstrate that you were not inferior, that you are independent. You never wanted to marry because of that very independence. Likely you want an annulment for the same reason. Well, we’re agreed, you are the equal to any woman. But that doesn’t change the fact that this land is not morally or honourably mine. I must give it to Edmund’s closest relative. I am honour bound.’
‘Then it is a peculiarly cruel breed of honour.’
‘You can have that opinion, but my decision must stand. Anyhow Allington is completely independent and profitable so this should have a limited impact on the running of your affairs.’
‘What?’ Anger exploded like scalding water, pulsing through her veins, unpleasantly tangled with the fear she always felt when she considered the Duke.
She turned on Ren, hands tightened into fists. ‘Weren’t you even listening to me? These people, your tenants, are my friends. They will be kicked off land they’ve farmed for centuries. Or they will pay exorbitant rents so that they’re unable to feed their own children. I will feel gaunt faces, arms like sticks and the bellies of bloated babies. And I will know that the man who was once my friend and sort of husband is to blame.’
‘I am your friend and what sort of husband would you have me be?’
‘One that is not so—so self-righteous and honourable. You want to punish yourself because you are illegitimate. Fine, drink yourself into an early grave. Gamble yourself into oblivion, but don’t punish people far weaker than you and call it honour.’
* * *
Perhaps it was that cool disdain lacing the words she spat out as though they were noxious. Perhaps, for once, his anger could not be contained behind trite words and calm façade. Or maybe it was none of this but merely an impulsive, instinctive surge of lust.
His hands reached for her. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her tight, needing to feel her, to feel something. She stiffened, her shock palpable. Her hands pushed against his shoulders, ineffective like fluttering birds.
He didn’t care. Her futile movements fuelled the angry molten heat.
Her head moved, angling away as she twisted from him. He caught her lips, kissing her with a hard, punishing kiss.
Her fury met his own, her balled fists pushing him away.
Briefly, it was all fire and heat and rage. Then something changed. She no longer pushed against him; instead, her fists opened, her hands reaching upwards to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. Her clenched jaw relaxed, her lips parting as anger eased, morphing into something equally strong. His kiss gentled. Her fingers stretched across his back, winding into his hair. He held her tight to him, hands at the small of her back.
The anger, the pain, the hurt drained away, pushed aside by a growing, pulsing need. He had wanted this woman for ever—long before he had known about want or lust or need. And she was here now, warm, willing, pliable and giving beneath him. He explored the sweetness of her mouth, shifting her backwards, pushing her against the edge of his desk. He stroked the column of her neck, the smooth line of her spine, the curved roundness of her bottom under the soft muslin gown.
He wanted—he needed—to fill her, to find forgetfulness in physical release, to make her his own. He wanted her to cling to him, to need him and desire him and to forget that annulment was even a word.
One hand pushed at her neckline, forcing the cloth off her shoulder so that his fingers could feel her skin and the fullness of her breast. With growing urgency, his other hand pushed up at the fabric of her skirt, his hands feeling and stroking the stockings she wore over shapely legs.
She said his name.
Something fell.
He stilled. He stared down at her flushed cheeks, tousled hair and bodice half-undone.
Disgust rolled over him.
What, in the name of all that was good and holy, was he doing? He moved from her so suddenly that she almost lost her balance, striking the lamp.
It fell, splintering against the hearth.
‘Ren?’
Self-loathing
