“Truly?”
“Truly.” He smiled, his green eyes glinting into hers with sensual intent. “And I cannot wait to peel you out of this gown later.”
“You mean that you approve of it?” She glanced down at herself again, taking in the way the bodice clung to her, the relative transparency of the gossamer fabric of her skirt, which was a perfectly lovely Pomona green just as she had asked. “I’ve never worn a gown so revealing before.”
“That is because you’ve been hiding your glorious curves in dowdy, shapeless sacks given to you by some distant, ailing relative who squandered everything and left you with her castoffs,” he pointed out.
Not incorrectly, even if his assessment of Lady Andromeda was rather harsh.
“Lady Andromeda was kind to me,” she felt compelled to defend. “She chaperoned me through five Seasons.”
Five failed Seasons.
Never mind that, for it, like so many other parts of her past, still stung.
“She gave you her old rags and then abandoned you when it suited her, leaving you to the mercy of others, earning your bread as a governess,” he countered, his voice bearing an unusual harsh edge.
“She hadn’t a choice,” Elizabeth insisted. “She gave me a roof over my head and the opportunity for a Season for years.”
“According to my mother, it’s common fame that Lady Andromeda was a dreadful gambler who lost her entire fortune through her own vice. And, I suspect, funds which were rightfully yours as well.”
Elizabeth shifted, feeling disloyal for even acknowledging the truth in the dowager’s words, delivered by Torrie. “She did have a propensity for making wagers, but I fail to see what funds of mine she could have spent. I had nothing and no one. What she did for me was more than I could have asked of anyone. My parents left me with a pittance, not even enough to pay for my care by the time she took me in.”
His expression changed, hardening. “Is that what she told you?”
Elizabeth frowned, thinking of that long-ago day when she had found her way to the last of her distant familial connections, at least a London cousin this time, and gentry too. “She said there was nothing left by the time I came to her. I had been staying with my mother’s cousin and her family before that.”
“My solicitor advised otherwise. It was hardly a pittance that your parents settled on you. I made some inquiries on your behalf before we married.” His tone gentled, his hand cupping her face. “Look at me, love.”
She did as he asked, holding his gaze. “You’re saying that Lady Andromeda lied to me?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone lied to another for their own gain, and nor will it be the last,” he said softly. “Your trust provided for you according to Lady Andromeda’s demand, and considering there had been a not-insignificant sum settled on you by the Marquess of Buxton, you should never have been reduced to rags. Not ever. By all accounts, your trust still possessed hearty funds when you went to Lady Andromeda.”
His words brought more confusion rather than explanation. She struggled to make sense of what Torrie had just told her.
“The Marquess of Buxton? But why would he place any funds in trust for me? I’ve neither met the man nor heard of him.”
His countenance shifted again, his jaw tensing, a flicker of something like surprise flaring in his vivid eyes. “You didn’t know then, Bess?”
“Didn’t know what?” She searched his gaze, trying to understand how the man she had only recently married could know more of her past than she did, when he didn’t even recall his own. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Ah, Christ,” he muttered, his thumb running over her cheekbone in a gentle sweep. “I thought you knew. I’m sorry, love. If I’d had an inkling, I wouldn’t have told you now, not like this.”
“You wouldn’t have told me what?”
“That your father was a by-blow of the marquess,” he explained patiently. Kindly. Painfully. “Buxton apparently settled a significant sum on his son, which rightfully became yours after his death. The funds were held in trust. But it would seem that you were passed from one relative to the next, each of them culling every last ha’penny they could from you, until there was nothing left.”
Elizabeth reeled. She was utterly astounded by this revelation, for her father had never spoken of the Marquess of Buxton. Not once. Nor, as she thought of it now, had he spoken often of his own father, aside to say that he had died. Before that, once, when she had been a very small girl, a man had paid a fleeting call to them. His carriage had born a crest, she remembered now, and she had watched from a window in awe at the sight of the matched horses pulling that tremendous conveyance. It had been apparent from the way in which her mother and father had welcomed him that the stranger had been someone important. A lord.
My God, had it been the Marquess of Buxton? Could it be true that her father was his illegitimate son? And if so, why had no one ever told her? And if there had been funds aplenty for her care, why had she never had a chamber with wood in the grate and a fire with which to warm herself? Why had her slippers always been threadbare, her dresses castoffs from others? Why had she spent miserable winters sleeping in attic garrets, often playing the role of chamber maid for her mother’s cousin until the family had grown too much in size, according to Mrs. Pettigrew, and she had been sent away?
“Bess? Say something. You’re frightfully pale.”
Torrie’s voice intruded. She blinked, and he was there, his face concerned and sinfully handsome as he hovered over her. His thumb had never stopped stroking her cheek, and she found herself leaning into that touch now, taking comfort from his compassion, his concern.
“I never knew,” she admitted, feeling foolish.
And utterly shocked.
