“Enlighten me.”
“I don’t expect it to soften your heart toward me or my so-called plight.”
“I don’t have a heart. Speak.”
Alexandra tried to edge away from him, but she might as well have been attempting to move iron. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm and infinitely sure of itself. “Very well. My mother, Margaret Retting, fell in love with and married a painter. His grandfather was an earl, but he had no pretensions of living among the peerage or of being able to afford that life. My uncle had already inherited the dukedom, and as far as he was concerned, Christopher Gallant was a nonperson. He disowned my mother on the spot.”
Lucien stroked his finger along the back of her hand. “Continue.”
“Both of my parents insisted that I be well educated, as my birthright obviously wasn’t going to keep me fed. Two years after they enrolled me in Miss Grenville’s Academy, they both died of influenza. It…cost me everything I had to bury them and settle their few debts.” Her throat tightened, as it did whenever she remembered selling off her mother’s jewelry and her father’s beautiful paintings for a fraction of their worth.
“And your uncle was unwilling to assist you financially.”
It wasn’t a question, but Alexandra shook her head anyway. “I wrote him. I didn’t even have enough money to finish out the school year. He wrote me back, and the letter wasn’t even franked. I had to pay for it when it arrived. His Grace said he had warned my mother against her folly before she married, and he had no intention of paying for her mistakes after her death. I inferred that I was counted as one of her mistakes.”
“It’s always nice to know there’s someone in the world who’s more of a bastard than I am,” Lucien mused. His fingers stroked hers again, and she wanted to curl her hand into his. “It’s comforting, in a way. Tell me the rest of your tale.”
“There isn’t much else. Miss Grenville arranged for me to tutor students until I finished school, and then I hired myself out as a finishing governess or companion. And here I am, chatting with the Earl of Kilcairn Abbey in his very enjoyable rose garden.”
“What of Lord and Lady Welkins?”
With a shove she freed herself from his coat and stood. “That is another tale entirely, and one which has nothing to do with my feelings toward my relations.” That wasn’t quite true, but she’d given him enough ammunition to use against her tonight. And no one would hear that tale—ever.
He held her gaze. “So you won’t tell me anything about it?”
“No, I won’t.”
He stood, tall and solid as a statue, but much more alive. “Yes, you will. Eventually. When you trust me.”
“I will never trust you. You said yourself that if not for your father’s will, you would never have taken Rose and Fiona under your care—which, as far as I’m concerned, makes you very like my uncle.”
His eyes narrowed in the darkness. “You have a nasty streak yourself, Miss Gallant. And don’t put your private hatreds on my shoulders. Some of the facts are admittedly similar, but the circumstances are entirely different.” With a swirl of his greatcoat, he turned for the front door. “Good night.”
She stood looking after him. “Good night.”
Chapter 10
Virgil Retting yawned over a strong cup of tea and tried to keep his eyes focused. He hated rising this early in London. None of his cronies would be up and about for another five hours, and he still felt half fogged from last night’s attempts to drown out his encounter with the odious Earl of Kilcairn Abbey.
“If you were so anxious for my company that you had to barge in during my breakfast, you might at least say something. You look like a bloody intoxicated pigeon.”
“You told me not to speak to you.” Virgil eyed the imposing figure seated several yards away at the head of the huge oak table. “You make it very difficult, Father.”
The Duke of Monmouth finished off a honey-slathered biscuit. “I told you not to ask me for money,” he corrected, jabbing a table knife in his son’s direction. “If you have nothing else to speak about, then remain silent.”
Coal-black eyes viewed Virgil for a moment, making him feel like he was five years old and wetting his bed again. Finally the cold gaze returned to the morning’s newspaper. The duke had no doubt been awake since before dawn, calling in his London staff of solicitors, agents, and accountants, and settling into Retting House for the Season. The man never seemed to sleep, and had the blasted habit of knowing everything that transpired even during the rare occasions he did close his eyes.
That phenomenon had made Virgil’s early arrival at Retting House imperative—if someone else brought Monmouth the news, someone else would get credit for it. “I’m not here about money, Father. Must you always say such shabby things about me?”
“You continue to present me with nothing pleasant to discuss.”
“Well then, you should thank—”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, Lord Liverpool and Lord Haster are here for your morning meeting.”
“Splendid. Two minutes, Jenkins.”
The butler nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
