Her cheeks flushed scarlet, and he immediately regretted his words. What demon made him cut his mother when he wanted nothing more than to matter to her?
Yes, he’d been the one to oust her from his home, but she’d wanted to wed.
It had been unthinkable for him to allow the Marchioness of Bromton to become plain Mrs. Blackwood, wife to a working artist. When he’d told her as much, she’d threatened elopement. In response, he’d reduced her funds. Money was insignificant, she’d declared. She was in love.
She was in love? What did Her Coldness know of love?
It was then she’d used her secret as a cudgel.
“You must not enter into marriage on false pretense.” She paused, teeth clenched as she internally debated. “Not only is such an alliance cruel, it will destroy you both.”
He took a step back. “You,” he said harshly, “left me no choice.”
“I left you no choice?” The blazing fire in her eyes dimmed. “There is always a choice…something I should have learned sooner.”
He turned his gaze away from the pain vibrating like a plucked string in her eyes and toward the ancient sycamore lording over the park. His attempt at reconciliation had become a tangled mess—not unlike the chaotic branches of the multihued tree. The air restricted, as if hands had wrapped around his throat.
“Please, Bromton,” she said with broken sincerity, “do not become your father.”
His head snapped back. “Little chance,” he lowered his voice, “since I do notknowmy father.”
“The marquess raised you,” she hissed. “I gave upeverythingto fulfill his wishes.”
“Everything?” Bromton asked with a snort. “Everything but your lover, you mean.”
A frightening chill entered her eyes—a glacial cold beyond anything he’d ever seen. “I will see myself home. You are no longer welcome to call.” She lifted her chin. “I pray for the poor child you intend to wed.”
She retreated with slow grace, every inch the haughty marchioness. His hands hung limp at his sides—the anger and shame welling up like a great tide, as if he were a scolded child.
Once, his mother’s tales of chivalrous knights had provided a heartbeat beneath armor melded by the marquess. Why had she abandoned him entirely to the marquess’s care? And after he’d become the man the marquess expected, why had she used the truth to cut him down?
Answers could not be shaken from a barren tree, nor scraps begged from the penniless.
Nor did the truth remain intact, buried beneath three decades of decaying deception.
…
Bromton urged his horse to a standstill and rubbed his hands. Smoke from the chimney of the coaching inn swirled up to the heavens in a beckoning dance of warmth. If he pressed on, he could be back at Southford within a quarter hour.
He imagined Katherine greeting him with a shy, knowing smile. He’d feel, at once, renewed. Everything would be just as if he’d never left.
The wind slapped the collar of his greatcoat against his face, stinging his cheek.
His mother’s warning had been ominous and sincere—his betrothal was cruel and would destroy Katherine.I pray for the poor child you intend to wed.He could not shake the sensation of having been cursed.
The happy, domestic image he’d created disintegrated.
Everything would never be as it had been before he left. Meeting his mother had stirred darkness within his heart, leaving his head as muddied as his boots and his coat. Yet, he refused to break with Katherine based on the predictions of a woman who had twice delivered him to hell.
A sign proclaimingThe Pillar of Saltsqueaked as it swung in the increasing wind. He glanced toward the heavens. The scent in the air was ripe with impending storm.Shelter. He needed shelter.
He’d had a decent meal here after hunting with Markham, and he was lured by the promise of a room with a basin and rag to wash away the road, and a pint—or ten—to rinse the residue from his mind.
Katherine was too vigilant. If he returned to Southford, she would notice his change in his spirit, and the last thing he wanted was for her to attribute his change to his having second thoughts.
He stabled his horse and then entered the low-ceilinged cave of a room that served as lobby and dining hall. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. An oversized hearth with a smoking fire cast the greatest light. At a table next to the hearth, a few grizzly looking men enjoyed a pint and a laugh. Their conversation ceased as he shrugged off his coat.
He saw himself through their eyes—anothertufttoo wealthy and stupid to understand one did not waste good clothes on a dirty ride. They judged him not worth their time.
