“She tells me that she is four years of age.”
It was as if Brandon had been dealt a vicious punch directly to the gut. The breath left him. He gasped for a moment, trying to suck in air, to make sense of everything he had just learned. The timing certainly suggested, along with Grandmother’s description, that he was indeed the father of the girl who had been deposited at her house yesterday.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Surely not.
Surely it was impossible.
Surely he could not be anyone’s father.
“You…you spoke with the child.” He swallowed hard.
“Of course I spoke with the child.” Again, his grandmother’s lip curled. “Despite her rude origins, the girl appears polite and well-mannered. But I will warn you, Brandon, that I will not lower myself to playing hostess to your illegitimate children. You must tend to your responsibilities as you see fit. I’ll not concern myself with them.”
The world was spinning madly about him. How much wine had he consumed last night? Was it the news or was it the despicable after effects of too much indulgence that had him feeling as if he were about to cast up his accounts?
“Her name,” he managed. “What is her name?”
Not that it mattered one way or the other. But if he was to be a father, then he might as well know what to call her. Somehow, that seemed of grave importance.
“Her name is Pandora,” Grandmother informed him archly. “It seems uniquely appropriate.”
Pandora.
He had a daughter. Quite possibly. An illegitimate one.
And she had a name and his eyes and nose.
He patted his nose absently, thinking it perhaps a bit too sharp for a girl. “Where is she now?”
“In the absence of a proper nurse for the child, I’ve left her under the care of my companion, Miss Heale, at my town house,” she informed him icily.
He nodded, wondering what the devil he was meant to do with a child. “I suppose I must have her collected, then.”
“Yes, you must,” Grandmother said, stern. “I’ll not be responsible for her. It is time you bore some duty upon those strapping shoulders of yours.”
He stiffened at the judgment in her tone. “Idohave a great deal of responsibility.”
And by that, he meant that he put rather a tremendous amount of effort into being an excellent host. His social gatherings were the stuff of legend. As the founding member of the Wicked Dukes Society, he took pride in his prowess.
As if hearing his thoughts spoken aloud, his grandmother clicked her tongue. “Hosting scandalous routs is not a responsibility, Brandon. When have you seen to any of your estates recently?”
“I correspond with my steward regularly,” he defended, even if that was an exaggeration.
In truth, the more recent letters he had received from the man remained stacked and unopened somewhere in the clutter of his study desk. He was far more concerned with Wingfield Hall than the entail.
“How regularly?” she demanded.
“It is none of your concern,” he countered. “With all your disdain for the former Duke of Brandon, I wouldn’t think you should worry yourself over the present one.”
“I do when the present one is my grandson and appears to be intent upon beggaring himself.”
He took umbrage at that. “I am hardly beggaring myself.”
“You depend upon the vast fortune you will receive from me when I die.”
God, she was too damned clever. It wasn’t that he anticipated Grandmother’s demise. For all that she was as hard-shelled as a tortoise, she was a part of his mother. And Brandon had adored his mother, who had died in childbirth when he had been but a lad of eight.
