“Yes, well, I suppose that’s necessary, and we all do appreciate the effort.” Appreciation was undetectable in her voice. “But how can you stand to look at it directly? It’s sovulgar.”
Blazing anger slipped its lead and ripped through Artemis. She took a long, deep breath. She must rein in this startling feeling before she spoke. “It’s not vulgar, Mother.”
The lift of Mother’s brow only fanned the flame of Artemis’s anger. And now that it was out in the open, it had more to say. “When I see the scar on Lord Branwell’s face, I see valor and courage. Courage for the necessary fight—and courage for the life beyond.”
Mother’s gaze slid away as she took a sip of her tea.
Artemis blinked.
This was the first time she’d ever been in this position in a conversation with Mother.
As the victor.
Emboldened, she took up another subject that needed to be aired. “About Lady Gwyneth.”
Mother’s gaze lifted. The blade of steel within returned. “Lady Gwyneth will give my words a good, long think, and she will make the correct choice.” She exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Look around you, Artemis. Rake’s title …yourtitle … this lovely estate … your lovely estate in Yorkshire … all your lovely racehorses and all your pitiable animals, too … Everything you and Rake have is becauseImarried correctly.”
Artemis didn’t doubt this—theydidhave it all—yet Mother’s earlier words returned to her and she had a question to ask. “Why did I never meet your family?”
Mother flicked a dismissive wrist.
“Were they nice people?”
“In that provincial way, yes, I suppose they are.”
Are.
Artemis felt her brow gather. “They are still living?”
“Last I heard.” Mother tapped an exquisitely manicured forefinger against pursed lips. “Yes, they must be, because the monthly stipend is still being paid out.”
“Don’t you ever think about visiting them?”
“Why would I do that?” She looked genuinely perplexed. “It’sCornwall, Artemis.”
“To demonstrate your caring, respect, and love?”
“I suppose sending them heaps of blunt all these years demonstrates that sufficiently.”
“But don’t you?—”
Mother held up a hand, staying the question in Artemis’s mouth. “That is the wonderful thing about beingfroma place.” A beat. “You don’t have to return. Now,” she continued, “their daughter married a duke. A duke who didn’t care about a dowry, and who, instead, insisted on making their lives very comfortable by setting aside monies to support them for the rest of their lives.”
Artemis loathed it when Mother spoke about Father in that impersonal way—as if he’d been an object to be used.
However, she’d caught upon something. “It wasn’tyouwho insisted?”
“Pardon?”
“It wasn’t your influence on Father that compelled him to support your family?”
“Oh, that was all Terence. But over the years, I’ve come to appreciate his wisdom and forward thinking.”
“How so?”
“Oh, Artemis, how protected from the realities I’ve kept you.”
“Meaning?” The condescension within Mother’s tone grated across her nerves like glass-paper.
