A crease appeared between her brows. “But you have yet to forgive yourself.”
He shook his head no. “How could she want someone like me? I have nothing to offer. The marquess made me what I am.”
His mother sighed deeply. “Youwerethe son of his—I’d say heart, but I am not fully certain he possessed a heart, in the usual sense.”
“Such bitterness lives inside in your words.”
She raised her brows. “Yes, I know. Decades of fear leave acid residue.”
“He hurt you. Physically.”
She sniffed. “He did.”
He’d never considered that she, too, had been huddling in fear. Not when she’d moved with grace and confidence, with a smile for everyone but him.
“I am sorry I did not protect you,” he said.
“How could you have known I needed protection?” Her lips trembled. “I never allowed anyone to see.”
They held each other, for a long, silent moment. The comfort penetrated the layers of regret and pain.
“Did you love him?” he asked.
“The marquess? Of course not. My father arranged our marriage.” She wiped tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hands. “And the marquess did not improve with a longer acquaintance.”
“Not the marquess.” He forced the words. “My real father.”
She sent him a guarded glance.
What did she think he’d do? He hadn’t the power to cut any longer. He hadn’t any power at all.
“Is it your husband?” he asked.
She scowled. “Do you think the marquess would have allowed a man of lesser rank to father his heir?”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Itoldyou. The marquess insisted I conceive by any means.”
“No,” he said, slowly. “You saidyouhad to conceive by any means. Are you telling me the marquess knew I was not his child?”
Her spine stiffened. “Of course, he knew,” she said. “He arranged for the beddings. Above all else, he wanted his heir.”
Giles closed his eyes, an attempt to stop the pounding. “Did—did my real father know I was his son?”
She pursed her lips and then sighed. “I imagine he did and does, though he has been too discreet to mention so to me.”
He was reeling. Once again, everything he thought he’d understood had been wrong. This time, he would not attempt to claw his way from the mire.
“You said the marquess would not have allowed a man of less rank than his own to father his heir—that leaves dukes and the royal family.”
His mother’s wince contained the truth, though the secret of his father’s identity hovered between them like a ghost.
“Do you truly wish to know?” she asked. “Would knowing change how you feel?”
One word from her, and his uncertainty would be silenced. One word, and he’d know. He’d know, but he’d never be able to acknowledge. In the eyes of the law and the world he would forever belong to the marquess.
He thought of Katherine. Of the future he wanted. Of the future he’d believed he did not deserve. Would knowing his father’s name—his rank—give him anything of value to offer his wife? Would it make him, at last, a gentleman?
