Thomas examined her eldest son’s painting and then the one of her son who yet lived.
Thomas could not remember any particular occasion where he’d met the man, and yet his eyes seemed familiar. And the set of his jaw.
“I cannot help thinking, as Sophia and the others prepare for Christmastide, that the season is supposed to represent hope.” She shook her head and pressed her free hand to her chest. “I cannot seem to shed this hopelessness inside.”
His own heart weighed heavy upon her words. “Why do you think that is, Duchess?” He’d hoped for more than he ought. Hope was a fickle friend indeed.
Releasing his arm, she stepped closer to the painting of Harold. “Harold loved the Christmas festivities more than any of us. It was his enthusiasm that drove the decorations and the feasts and the gift giving. I ought to have appreciated him more. I ought to have appreciated him for who he was.”
Thomas held his peace. No one had the ability to draw guilt from a person like one’s children could.
“I was so happy when he married Sophia. Ecstatic when I believed he’d changed his ways and fallen in love with her. So very foolish of me. He’d loved his valet for years. I refused to accept that part of him.”
“You were afraid for him, I’d venture.”
“Terrified. There were rumors. Prescott knew what was required to hush them.”
“A wife.”
“Oh, yes. Sophia. I think she was a great friend to him in the end. But nothing more.”
“So, he did not perish off the cliff. He must have had conspirators then.” She obviously needed to speak of this with another person. It had been festering in her for over a year now.
“Prescott and Sophia.” At his raised brows, she rushed to add, “They would not have encouraged him. I believe Sophia did her best to stop him in the end. She was quite distraught, so much so that I truly believed she grieved his death… when in fact he’d gone to the docks. I do not know his destination. I only know that he is safe and content.”
Thomas studied the portrait with narrowed eyes.
The docks… A vague recollection gnawed at him.
* * *
She’d wantedto seek Thomas Findlay out and yet at the same time hoped never to see him again. If he had departed, then she wouldn’t have to turn him away. If he wanted to continue their affair, that was.
She couldn’t bring herself to wish for more.
How could she, herself, pursue happiness, when her one living son had been denied the same? Not that she could change public matters, but she could have done something.
Couldn’t she? Something to keep him at home, something to keep him from giving up his birthright. Perhaps if she’d loved him better, unconditionally.
If there was such a thing.
Thomas watched her intently with those stormy eyes of his. Ah, but she craved his touch already. She’d craved it every night since returning to Eden’s Court.
He’d introduced her to her own needs, and then fulfilled them one by one. Such a man deserved a woman who would love him wholeheartedly.
She didn’t believe that woman could be herself. She’d already failed at love dismally.
Her nature was too tied into the aristocracy.
He was of low birth. He had not an ounce of nobility to him. Loretta didn’t trust herself to accept him for who he was.
And yet she wanted to walk into his arms.
Who was she now?
The question that had been haunting her for months reared its ugly head again. Was she only part woman? Must she sacrifice feminine wants for the title she’d taken on years ago? She was still the Duchess of Prescott, and yet she was also an imposter.
Her Prescott lay in the ground.
