And of all places, it had happened at the Duchess of Willoughby’s ball.
While waltzing with the Countess of Grassley, he’d offhandedly complimented her perfume. Beaming with pride, the widowed lady had revealed that it was custom-made by a young woman who owned a small shop just outside of Mayfair.
The fragrance wasn’t the same as he’d remembered, but until then, Alastair had never known another woman to wear that particular blend of honeysuckle oil.
Fashionable ladies of theton, he’d discovered, preferred more common perfumes—blends of lavender, jasmine, and rose.
When he returned home that evening, he’d made the very unfortunate decision to confide what he’d learned to his uncle—along with the fact that he would go there—that he would meet with this soapmaker. Alastair had been bent on following a strong suspicion after so long with nothing, but Uncle Calvin must have known immediately that he was on the right track.
“I was going to find her. But you couldn’t allow that, could you?” His voice shook with both anger and pain.He’d trusted his uncle. “How could you?”
“Everything I’ve done has been to honor your father and the dukes who came before you.” His uncle tugged a second time on the bellpull behind him. “If you’d think beyond your own selfish desires for once, you’d see that you should be thanking me.”
For a decade, Alastair had lived in ignorance—believing Daisy was the one who left him, believing their love had simply not been meant to last.
But he had never let her go.
And neither, it seemed… had his uncle.
The memory of Daisy’s tortured expression flashed in his mind.
I was too ashamed to tell my father. He blamed himself for all of it.
Alastair’s chest burned.
Because he now understood.
Fate hadn’t torn them apart, nor had it brought them together again.
Their estrangement had been orchestrated by Alastair’s own flesh and blood.
Daisy had been right all along. And he hadn’t wanted to believe it.Damn my eyes.
“You’re mad,” Alastair said.
Alastair had been going to her shop when thebobbiesattacked. They had come out of the shadows, striking before he had time to react. The next thing he knew, he’d been dragged into a cellar and held there for what could have been days—weeks, even. And they had beaten him. Repeatedly.
Weakened but not broken, he had bided his time, feigning unconsciousness until an opportunity presented itself. When one of his captors grew careless, he fought through the pain, using every ounce of strength left in him to escape.
He’d been disoriented, had no memory of Lovington House or his own name. With nothing but an address he’d found in his pocket, he’d made his way there. He hadn’t known Daisy was there, but the shop had been his only hope.
In an attempt to shake his pursuers, he’d limped around to the back.
But they had found him anyway. Beaten him and left him for dead. Simply because of his uncle’s prejudice, his lust for control, and ultimately, power.
Bile rose in Alastair’s throat. There must be a special place in hell for his uncle and the men he’d paid off.
“You would kill me for… thehonorof a bloody title?”
“You forced my hand, Lovington!” His uncle leanedforward. “Because of the boy. You must know his very existence is a threat to the dukedom.”
“What boy are you talking about?”
“The boy who lives at the shop. Your son, of course.”
Alastair blinked. Was it possible? But no… It was not.
“I have not sired a son!” Alastair paced the length of the room. “The boy who lives in the shop is Daisy’sbrother,for God’s sake.” True, they had lain together once, but they had been interrupted. He had not ejaculated.
