She laughed.
“I’m serious. Don’t fob me off with your society manners, please.”
“I don’t know what you mean, darling. All is well, as you can see.” Cressida gestured with her arm in the direction of the dining room. “The venison was a triumph, and Mrs. Brenchley was duly set down.”
“Yes, well done, that,” Arthur mused, then scanned the room about them.
A footman was gathering empty glasses onto a tray. He caught the viscount’s eye, then removed himself without a word, leaving mother and son alone.
“Now see here, Mama. I won’t pretend this isn’t terribly awkward, but I gather…” Arthur blew out a sigh and set his drink aside. “I gather you and Papa were not a love match. I know you were never on the best of terms.”
That was putting it rather mildly.
What ought she say? The man was his father, after all. And Cressida had been young and naïve. Nearly as young as Miss Keene, with full-grown men slavering over her. Cruel, unfeeling men, not unlike her brother, Sir Frederick. Insecure little men like Bartholomew, the Viscount Caplin. He’d been nearly twenty years her senior. She’d hated him from that first night together, when he’d left her alone in a tangle of bloody sheets, aching and humiliated. Never again, she’d vowed on the detestable man’s grave.
Never again would she submit herself to a husband.
But she would never expose herself so completely—certainly not to her son, even if he was nearly a man grown.
“Whatever gave you the idea that marriage involved love? Most don’t, you know.” At the sight of his crestfallen face, she hastily added, “But I trust you shall make a better match than I. I beg you not to make an offer for any girl unless you’ve some feeling for her.”
The plea roused an unexpected emotion in her, and she looked away, lest he see the fear in her eyes.
The fear that her sons would end up as miserable as she had been.
Silence fell upon them, the only sound in the room coming from the crackling fire, and Cressida wondered if she should make her excuse and retire. But then Arthur spoke again.
“I had wondered if…” He sighed, and started again. “You’ve seemed quite happy this summer. Happier than I can recall.”
Before Cressida could refute this, Arthur continued.
“Henry mentioned it as well. He seemed to think, well…”
“Think what?” She whipped her head about, heart thudding heavily in her chest.
Arthur stared at her, his face open, vulnerable. In this moment, he was no longer the witty, rambunctious young Oxonian, but her wide-eyed babe with chubby cheeks and an infectious giggle.
“You needn’t worry about us so much, you know,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “If there’s some… something that would bring you happiness, don’t cry it off on our account.”
A flood of humiliation washed over her. He couldn’t know. Could he? It was a terrible thing, carrying on in front of one’s children. But she’d done her best to keep it secret, hadn’t she?
Had it not been enough?
“Arthur,” she said, mustering every ounce of self-control to force a placid smile. “I would never endanger your position. I care for nothing beyond your and Henry’s well-being.”
“But that’s the thing, Mama. We would be alright if you decided to—”
“Would you?” she cut in sharply before he said the horrible thing. “Would you trust my judgment, trust that I would make a socially acceptable match?”
Match. Even the word tasted awful in her mouth, recalling packs of elder women more closely resembling a council of war than mothers, grandmothers and aunts. Plotting out lives, sacrificing others to the promise of storied titles and untold riches.
“Socially acceptable? It’s not the thing anymore, Mama. Why, I should tell you about Midder’s cousin, who she’s gone and run off—”
“All the same,” Cressida said, her heart hurting, “I would never consider as much. It’s quite beneath me.”
Arthur watched her for a moment, then nodded, clearly relieved to put the subject behind them.
“If that’s it, then.”
