“Poor relations, my dear. There’s nothing like poor relations for being a nagging bother for the rest of one’s days. Your father saw that coming and put a stop to it before it began. They receive a most generous sum every month.”
“You don’t think he did it out of kindness?”
Mother’s gaze narrowed. “And that’s what I savedyoufrom.”
Dread crept through Artemis. “What did you save me from?”
“Poor relations.”
Her stomach turned over. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
Though, she was.
But some part of her wanted—needed—to hear Mother say it.
Mother exhaled a delicate, yet exasperated sigh. “Lord Branwell Mallory, Artemis.” She placed her teacup and saucer on the table and sat forward, her tone low so her words wouldn’t carry beyond the two of them. “If you had married that man, and if you’d had a child with him, there would’ve been no end to it.”
“No end to what?”
“That brother of his, of course. No matter that he’s an earl.”
“Are you speaking of the same brother you encouraged to ask for my hand in marriage ten years ago?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t have allowed the wedding to proceed,” said Mother, blithely waving the idea away. “Stoke is an utter wastrel and will meet with a bad end. Trust me, Artemis, you don’t want any part of that family.” She nodded, thoughtfully. “The sister, however … I’ll admit she has possibilities.”
Artemis couldn’t take anymore. She shot to her feet, forgetting the cup and saucer on her lap, and tea splattered across her white muslin day dress.
“Oh, Artemis,” tutted Mother, “you’ve ruined that lovely gown. And it was one of your better suited ones, too. I’ll write to Madame Boucher right away and instruct her to make another exactly like it.”
After the conversation they’d just had, it was the ruined dress that was Mother’s primary concern?
“I feel a megrim coming on,” said Artemis. It was both an excuse and very likely the truth. “I’ll have a hot bath and take the evening meal in my rooms tonight.”
“Artemis,” said Mother, “you’re the daughter of a duke. You can have your evening mealinthe bath—and have a servant feed it to you if you like.” The last was said on a light trill of laughter.
Perhaps Mother expected her to express gratitude for having ensured she would be the daughter of a duke and could have meals spoon-fed to her in the bath.
Instead, she set her empty teacup down with a discordant clatter that would grate on Mother’s nerves—Mother couldn’t beardisharmony of sound—and fled the drawing room, her mind racing faster than her feet in a confusion of emotions and facts.
One fact, in particular.
While Mother had only acted in what she considered her daughter’s best interests, the fact remained that Bran had been wronged.
And while, for the ten years between then and now, Artemis had been unaware of that fact, she was aware of it now.
And yet, she was still keeping the entirety of that truth from him.
Bran didn’t know about their lost baby.
He didn’t know about Selena.
Which placed her in a strange, uncomfortable position.
She was now in league with Mother.
And yet another fact remained—one she tended to forget when in the presence of Bran.
A fact that demanded to be faced squarely when she was alone.
