“You may call me Lily,” Clay’s mother invited, her eyes assessing.
Ara replaced her wine goblet on the table. “Thank you, Lily.”
“You are the Earl of Wickham’s daughter, are you not?” Clay’s mother continued in a conversational tone as she returned her attention to her dinner, cutting a slice of veal.
Ara lifted her wine back to her lips for another healthy swallow. She was beginning to feel lightheaded, the dining hall swirling at the edges of her vision. Perhaps she ought to eat a bite, but she was at sixes and sevens. First, she had been stalked by a killer, then she had relocated to the country, Clay had made scorching, frantic love to her, and now she was faced with his mother whilst he hid himself only the Lord knew where.
The wine was strong. She needed more. Needed distraction. Fortification. Anything.
She took another sip.
Then another.
“Yes,” she forced herself to say at last. “I am the Earl of Wickham’s youngest daughter.”
It would be the height of impoliteness to point out she knew Lily had once been her father’s paramour. Or at least the paramour he had wanted for himself. She knew not the details, nor had she ever presumed to ask. She would not dare.
“I knew your father once,” Clay’s mother said softly. Almost sadly.
Ara glanced back up, shocked to hear the open acknowledgment. “Oh?” she asked politely. Noncommittally. For what could this woman possibly say that she needed to hear on the matter?
Nothing, she was sure.
“Yes,” Clay’s mother continued, surprising her. “We did not part on good terms, unfortunately.”
It was difficult indeed for Ara to picture her stoic father falling beneath the spell of a woman like Lily Ludlow, who was almost exotic looking, bold and beautiful, frank and unapologetic. Ara’s mother was nothing like her—an icy, pale blonde with a determination to be proper at all costs.
“I am sorry to hear that,” she said at last, worrying a slab of veal with the tines of her fork.
“It was your father’s choice,” Clay’s mother said, watching her with a shrewd gaze. “I do not think he ever forgave me.”
Ara did not know what to say, so she maintained her silence, cutting a bite of veal and raising it to her mouth at last. Nothing had ever been more tasteless.
“I am sure he must have,” she said at last with an attempt at a smile.
“No.” Clay’s mother shook her head slowly, her gaze stern and steady on Ara’s. “He did not. I know because of the way he treated my son.”
Clay.
Ara stiffened, wondering where this particular line of conversation would proceed. “In what way is that?”
Clay’s mother gave her a forlorn smile. “As if he did not matter.”
How bitterly familiar, for it was the same manner in which her father had treated Ara after he had learned she carried Clay’s child. She could still recall the twisted rage on his countenance. Could still feel the sting of his slap across her cheek. The vicious lash of his words.
No daughter of mine makes herself a bastard’s whore. You will go abroad and be rid of your sins, or you will marry. But whatever choice you make, know you will not be welcome within Kingswood Hall with your bastard’s bastard.
Ara’s fingers rediscovered the stem of her wine goblet, clenching on it. She had not forgiven her father. Was not sure forgiveness of a betrayal so deep was even possible. Edward had never met her family, and she was happy to keep it thus. Her mother cared only for her own entertainment, her father for his pride. Her brother had sided with their father, and her sister had died birthing her lover’s babe some six years ago.
She returned to the present with a jolt. Clay’s mother’s gaze remained intent upon her. Seeing far too much, she was sure. “Mrs. Ludlow, I do not wish to revisit the past.”
Revisiting it was far too painful, like a wound that had been sliced open all over again. She had not known, on the day she had discovered Clay had gone abroad, that she carried his child. But in the weeks that followed, her illness and lack of courses had spurred her lady’s maid into action. Mama had been summoned. Her father had been notified. She had been sent to live with Rosamunde, and it was through her sister that she had met Freddie.
“Please, call me Lily, my dear,” Clays mother urged again into the silence that had fallen between them. “Forgive me for broaching a painful subject. I did not intend to cause you distress.”
She raised her wine back to her lips, took another bracing sip. “My father and I have not spoken in years,” she admitted for reasons she could not fathom. She had not confided the rift with her family to anyone except Freddie in all these years. Why would she unburden herself now to Clay’s mother?
“Such a division in a family makes me sad, Your Grace.” The look Clay’s mother bestowed upon her was warm, sympathetic.
