"Good afternoon, my lord," Caleb said formally. "May I present to you Miss Lee Durant."
The marquess smiled. "Yes… I can see that she is indeed a Durant. And there is no doubt that she is Angelique's child."
Angelique's child, not his. The marquess started toward her and she stiffened, certain he meant to deny his parentage, to accuse her mother of lying.
"You look so much like her." He stopped just in front of where she stood, pale blue eyes assessing her from head to foot. "Your mother was perhaps a little taller, her hair a little brighter shade of red. But you are her daughter and of an age that you could only belong to me."
The admission stunned her. She knew she should speak but the words refused to come. What did one say to a father she had never seen? She thought to feel nothing but hatred but what she felt was far different than that.
"I loved her, you know," he said. "I loved her more than my own life. I gave her up because I thought it was the only thing to do. Because I worried about social dictates and I listened to the people around me. I should have fought for her. I should never have let her go. I've regretted it every day of my life for nearly twenty years."
Her eyes burned. She hadn't expected that, for him to admit that he loved her mother. That he ached for her loss as she had ached.
"My mother loved you," Lee said. "She was never interested in any other man. She whispered your name with her last dying breath."
Something glittered in the marquess's eyes. It took a moment for her to realize it was tears.
"She must have loved you greatly," he said. "She wanted a child very much. And I can see that you still love her."
She was aching inside. She wanted to turn and walk out of the room, to leave the painful memories behind, to forget the past, forget this man she wanted to hate but somehow couldn't. She wanted to flee the pain his words caused but her feet refused to move. She felt Caleb's hand settle solidly at her waist and the ache eased a little.
"If I had known about you," the marquess said, "I would have brought you into my home the day she died. I would have raised you as my own."
A sob escaped. She couldn't help it. Caleb drew her closer and she could see he was fighting to keep from pulling her into his arms.
"It isn't too late," the marquess said. "You're young yet. I'm the one who is losing the battle with time. Say you'll at least give me a chance to know you. Say that you will consider staying at Kinleigh—at least for a while."
She wanted to say no. That it was impossible—inconceivable—for her to stay. She told herself to say the words. Told herself she owed it to her mother to deny him, reminded herself this man had abandoned her, abandoned them both. But when she opened her mouth, different words spilled out.
"I… would like that," she said. "I would like that very much."
He was standing closer than she realized. She hadn't expected him to reach for her, to pull her against his chest and simply hold her. She hadn't expected she would rest her head against his shoulder and simply hang on.
But that is what she did.
It was evening at Rotham Hall. The boys were in bed and the hour grew late. Elizabeth sat alone by the fire in the small salon she favored at the back of the house. Outside a summer storm had blown in, rustling the branches on the trees, tugging at the leaves. She hadn't seen Charles since supper, since he had joined her in the dining room as had become his custom of late.
She tried to tell herself it meant nothing, that he was simply being polite, but each time he arrived to take his place at the head of the table, each time he smiled at her and inquired after her day, listening to some small accomplishment the boys had made as if he actually cared, another tiny piece of the ice around her heart melted away.
She had begun to look forward to the evenings, to the time they spent together. She had begun to imagine that Charles felt something for her beyond duty, and a traitorous part of her had begun to hope that they might reconcile, as Charles seemed to want, and make their marriage more than one in name only.
As she sat on the sofa in the drawing room, her slippers off and her feet tucked up beneath her, those thoughts swirled around in Elizabeth's head. She wasn't a coward. And in truth, she still loved him—though she had tried to deny it for nearly ten years.
She loved him and she wanted him. She wanted him to be her husband and she wanted to be his wife.
And so when the letter had come, she had been crushed more deeply than she ever could have imagined. Because she had begun to believe in him again. Because she had begun to trust him.
Her hand shook as she reread the message that had arrived just after supper, a note for her, penned in a feminine hand. A note unsigned, but the author did not matter.
Your husband loves another. Do not be deceived again. It was signed simply, A friend.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. She didn't hear Charles come in, didn't realize he was standing there in the drawing room until she heard his voice.
"You're crying. Darling, what is it? What's happened?" He strode toward her, was there by her side in an instant, gently drawing the note from her shaking hands.
His worried gaze left her face and fell to the sheet of paper. He read the words and his expression turned as black as the night outside. "This is a lie! A terrible, vicious, savagely cruel lie!" He waded the note up in a shaking fist and tossed it violently against the wall.
He went down on his knee in front of her, reached for her hand, gripped it between his own. "I was afraid she might do something like this. I should have warned you. I should have said something. I was afraid of what you would say… what you would think. I wanted your trust. I've tried so hard to win it. Now…" Charles shook his head.
Elizabeth swallowed past the knot in her throat. "Who wrote this?"
"There is only one woman vicious enough to do something like this. Moll Cinders wrote it. She came to see me in London several weeks ago. She told me she wanted more money than the amount I had settled on her when I ended the affair."
Elizabeth couldn't look at him. "I thought… I thought you did that some years back."
"Quite a number of years, in fact. Apparently, she is desperately in need of funds. She heard that I intended to reconcile with my wife. She came to see me, demanded more money. I refused. I had been more than generous already." He hung his head. "I should have paid her. If I had known what she intended—"
"You're telling me this note is a lie?"
"God, Beth. I love you so much. I don't want any other woman. I was young then, foolish. I rebelled against my father's dictates and the fact that the marriage was arranged. It took years before I realized what I really wanted… what a treasure I had already lost. I love you, Beth. So very much."
She sat there stunned. He had never mentioned love. Not ever. Not in the beginning, not in the weeks he had been pursuing her. She didn't know what to say.
The corner of his mouth curved up. "I've surprised you, haven't I? That isn't an easy thing to do. You didn't know? You couldn't guess the way I felt?"
"If you loved me, why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think you would believe me. I thought that perhaps… once we were no longer estranged and living again as man and wife, you would be able to see the truth."
She thought again of the note. "I want to believe you, Charles. I want that more than anything in the world, but—"
"But you don't." He stood up, towering over where she sat on the sofa, his expression hard now, oddly determined. Lamplight gleamed on his fine, sandy hair. He was so unbelievably handsome. "Moll Cinders means nothing to me. Nothing! I am a lot of things, Beth, but I am no liar. I haven't been with another woman in more than two years. I haven't wanted anyone else." He paced away from her, walked back. "You're my wife. If I can't convince you with words, perhaps there is another way, something I should have done weeks ago."