He shook his head but didn’t answer. Reading the set of his jaw, Priscilla guessed he’d said all he was going to say about the man who’d sired him.
But then he proved her wrong.
“The estrangement was not long enough,” he answered.
Priscilla studied him—the lone son, responsible for not only an entire estate but also his mother and sisters.
“So he isn’t missed at all?” It had seemed odd to her that none of his sisters, nor his mother, nor any of their guests had made any mention of their father—not even once. No references to mourning or loss. The only evidence that he’d existed was a portrait hanging in the family gallery.
“No.”
“You resemble him.” She winced when, for the first time since becoming acquainted, he stared at her, his expression cold—and dark.
“If you had known my father, you’d realize the extent of your insult.”
“Tell me then.” Priscilla wondered at her audacity.
But the more she knew of this man, the more curious she was to learn more.
“You don’t want to know.”
And then Priscilla did something she probably shouldn’t have. She shrugged. “I’d like to know as much as possible about the man I’m considering…”
His swift glance proved she had said the wrong thing—or the opposite of the wrong thing, in this particular situation. Because he nodded, looking thoughtful.
“My father,” he finally said, “was a thief, a… womanizer, and in the end, addicted to opium. We were relieved when he took up permanent residence in the home of one of his mistresses.” He cleared his throat. “He could be violent.”
Guilt and shame transformed Emerson’s demeanor, and even though he quickly dismissed it, the fleeting posture spoke volumes. This man, the man she was coming to know, would have done all he could to protect the females in his family. However, with his father an earl, that would have been nearly impossible.
Titled men were known to have gotten away with murder more than once—especially when the victim was a mere female.
Such information would give any potential bride reason to pause. It was not unheard of for sons to take after their fathers.
“Do you sense similar demons in yourself?” She had to ask, for Allison’s sake. Even if the suggestion angered him.
But he did not seem to take offense but instead merely shifted in his saddle as their mounts climbed the gentle rise of the meadow.
“It’s a valid question,” he finally said. “For my potential bride to ask.”
Guilt pricked the back of her neck. What was the last thing Chloe had said to her before she’d left the chamber they shared?
Don’t give him hope. And definitely, no more kissing!
“I’m not easily angered.” Emerson sounded resigned to this topic. “Aside from a few tussles with school chums, I’ve never hit anyone.”
Priscilla believed him.
Her first opinion of him remained unchanged. If anything, it had improved upon familiarity.
But as much as she ached to offer reassurances in this regard, she couldn’t tell him that, could she?
Don’t give him hope.
And yet…
“If you were like your father, you never would have saved Fiddlesticks.”
His throat moved, and when he looked over, warmth blossom in her chest.
