An awkward, hot, and listless sensation rose in his body—a sense he did not belong. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the sensation. From youth, the uncomfortable heat had risen beneath his collar every time he’d come close to his mother. Since her declaration, the heat had been an almost constant presence. He closed his eyes, making a willful effort to recapture the calm sense of purpose he experienced when he held Katherine in his arms. But creating a sense of belonging without Katherine at his side proved futile.
Perhaps his desire to show his mother the license and ring, thereby provingsomeonewanted him, had been the folly that had carried him here. And just how did he expect his mother to respond? Just because Katherine had come to see him as something less than contemptible, did not mean his mother would finally recognize his value.
Then again, Katherine’s esteem was entirely built on his lies, wasn’t it?
He shuddered. He should have known better than to come. He swiveled on his heel and faced the street. A muted strain of feminine laughter rose above the sound of clacking carriage wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.
Immediately, he shrank.
Once again, he was a small child, hiding in the shadows of Bromton Castle’s breakfast room, listening to his mother laugh while the artists she’d invited to paint the grounds told amusing tidbits in foreign accents. On mornings like those, he’d grappled with a yearning so strong it had become a prayer:See me. Smile at me.
She had not seen him, of course.
And not one time after the day the marquess declared Bromton too old for a mother’s attention had she deigned to grant him her smile. “Giles” had disappeared. To her, and to everyone else, he’d become Strathe. Until the marquess had died, of course. Then, he’d become Bromton, or, simply, Marquess.
He hadn’t any true complaint until she’d damaged her social standing with her marriage. She’d provided proper introductions and presided over some of theton’smost exclusive events. In short, she’d carried out the duties of an aristocratic mother to perfection. But interactions between them had been as formal as a presentation to the queen. She would curtsey before they spoke.
Curtsey.
Never again had he felt his mother’s embrace. Not even after the marquess was no longer there to offer protest.
A yellow hackney rattled to a stop in front of the steps, horses bobbing their heads as they settled in for a rest. The sound of his mother’s laughter grew more distinct, traveling like a spider up his spine, touching each vertebra.Damnation. Had he not indulged in pointless reflection, he would have been gone by now. Nothing good awaited him here. They’d each said their piece in anger and accusation, and their relationship had then met its proper end.
His mother emerged from the carriage. He was unable to descend the steps, look away, or, for that matter, breathe. His muscles iced, rendering him still.
She appeared younger than the near half century she’d lived. Younger, in fact, than the last time they’d spoken.
He frowned, counting back the years—why, she couldn’t have been a year older than Julia when she’d given birth to him. Startling, that thought. Although it should not have been surprising. She’d been the marquess’s third wife and the only wife to bear a child who’d survived past infancy.
His frown had not faded when she turned.
Her laughter died. Saying nothing, she held his gaze, her own expression gradually reforming into a wary mask of defiance. Looking into her oddly hued eyes was like looking into his own, except her eyes reflected back a monster.
His heart lodged in his windpipe.Such a mistake.
“Bromton.” Another Goddamned curtsey.
“My lady.” He managed a curt bow.
She raised one brow in an expression he, too, had perfected. “Mrs. Blackwood will do.”
He’dnevercall her Mrs. Blackwood. She’d whored herself in order to propagate the title, broken him into pieces with the truth, and now she wished to make a mockery of both their sacrifices by refusing the honorific?
Mama!
He clenched his teeth.
How could she have retreated, leaving a helpless child in the marquess’s dark world? How could she have saddled him with the full weight of the Bromton name and then leave to make another life, erasing him yet again? Had she heart enough only for herself?
He lowered his head and stepped off the stair, narrowly missing evidence of horse. He stared down at the reflection of her yellow dress in his buffed hessians.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I will leave you in peace.”
He took a step away.
“Wait,” she said softly.
He hadn’t chosen to obey. Nevertheless, his feet stalled by her side. The scent of lavender perfume assaulted his senses, pricking like pins at the inner corner of his eyes.
