All for him.
Such scorn.
“What did Shaw tell you, hmm? Did he paint me a murderer?” Morbid curiosity should not be indulged in, Roland knew.
But then, neither should mantel clocks be hurled, nor volumes of poetry burned, nor curtains scorched. A man should not stay up all night, plagued by a past he could not change and a woman who would never love him. Yet Roland was guilty of each one.
When had he ever done a blasted thing which had been prudent or made sense in relation to Pippa Shaw?
Never. His father had blamed Roland’s inadequacies upon his Mama’s tainted ancestry. But Roland had always been deuced glad he had half his mother’s blood running through his veins. The good half. Thebesthalf.
The old pang which never failed to accompany thoughts of his mother returned.
“Why should I tell you when you must know the truth already yourself?” Pippa asked coldly. “Surely you, more than anyone else, is aware of your sins.”
His greatest sin had been believing George Shaw, the scoundrel who had inveigled an invitation to Auntie Mil’s country house party, did not stand a chance against him. Arrogance, he supposed.
Yes, that was his greatest sin. Because the black-haired lad with the American mother and ancestry that was a source of endless scorn and whispers had become a celebrated hero. For a time, Roland had forgotten the part of himself which could be brought low. Had believed himself, for a foolish, reckless period, untouchable.
And he had lost her as a result.
That he had been able to strong-arm her into his salon for tea after all these years was not cause for celebration. It was a means to an end. And why was he prolonging it, truly?
Her continued presence and stony silence only added to his misery.
Yet…
“Mayhap you ought to innumerate my sins,” he suggested. “What lies did Shaw tell you about me?”
“No lies at all. My husband was a man of honor and integrity.”
“By that logic, so was the devil himself.”
It was unkind of him to be so blunt, and he knew it. Roland could not seem to help himself. He had not brought her here to quibble over the past, to argue, or trade barbs. He had not brought her here so that he might at last have the peace of knowing what detestable untruths she had believed about him. To understand why, all those years ago, she had chosen The Honorable Mr. George Shaw instead of the Duke of Northwich. The only time in his life when the cursed duchy ought to have made a difference for him, and even then, it had not.
It would seem, however, that Pippa had endured enough of their conversation. She placed her saucer and cup upon the tea service with an indecorous clatter, then seized the gloves lying idle in her lap.
“I have endured all I can bear of this dialogue,” she snapped. “Show me the letters now, if you please.”
He supposed he had pushed her enough for one day. With a calm that belied the furious emotions roiling turbulently within, he settled his cup and saucer back on the tray as well. “No more civil conversation, then?”
“If this discourse was civil, I should not like to be a member of your circles, Your Grace.” Her shoulders were stiff as she swept to her feet, still clutching the ivory gloves in her small, dainty fist.
Much as she had his handkerchief the day before. For a brief, foolish moment, he wondered what had become of the scrap of cloth. Had she thrown it into the dustbin? Had she decided to keep it?
The answers did not matter, of course.
He stood as well, for this stalemate between them had proceeded for long enough. She had not stopped hating him. He had never ceased loving her. They were doomed to dwell in the murky land of misunderstanding. Fate had other ideas for them. It was just as well.
“Come,” he bid her. “The letters are in my study. I will leave you to read them all in peace.”
“In peace?” she asked, suspicion creeping into her dulcet voice.
It was mellifluous as ever, even steeped in dislike. Her singing voice had been clear and beautiful, a true soprano. For a moment, he caught himself wondering if she still lost herself in song as she once had, before the piano or the harp. She had been a talented musician in her own right.
But it was not for him to wonder.
That part of his life was forever lost to him, the chapter of their relationship firmly closed. He must not forget the many reasons why it was thus.
