How well she understood.
“He has spells there, too,” she said quietly.
Tremont turned to her. “I beg your pardon?”
She held herself steady in the wake of his stormy gaze, the tempest of frustration and anguish that he was clearly struggling to hold in check. Strangely, his potent emotions didn’t intimidate her. The knowledge that he didn’t want her—that she had nothing to lose in terms of his esteem—allowed her to speak with new freedom.
“Just now you said that Freddy has two to six falling spells even at your estate,” she pointed out. “What have you to lose by trying Dr. Abernathy’s treatment?”
“I’ll not raise Frederick’s hopes needlessly,” Tremont said, his tone curt. “He’s been through enough.”
“Do you think isolation isn’t a trial in itself?” Memories of being bedridden made her hands curl in her lap. Andshehadn’t been shut away. Even when she’d been too weak to leave the room, her siblings had come to her, amused her with stories and games. “Do you know that your son longs to have friends, to have someone to play with? He wants to be normal. Heneedsto be.”
“Well, he isn’t. He’ll never be,” Tremont said.
“Perhaps if you didn’t lock him away on your estate, he might have a more normal life. He’s stronger than you think. And he wants your approval more than anything.”
“What makes you think he doesn’t have it, Miss Kent?”
The hostility in Tremont’s voice goaded her to honesty. “He’s afraid of disappointing you, my lord. Of embarrassing you in public with his illness. All he wants is to be able to ride and play sports with you, to do the things other boys do with their papas.”
Lightning flashed in his eyes. “Three days has made you an expert on my son?”
“No. Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
“My wife did everything possible to cure Frederick. On her deathbed, Sylvia’s only wish was that I continue to keep him safe away from the dangers of the world.”
“He needs to be part of the world—not shut out from it,” Thea insisted.
“You are gainsaying the wishes of his own mama?”
He said it as if she’d contradicted the teachings of a saint.
Wrangling back impatience, she said, “I do not mean to step on toes; I am merely presenting an alternate point of view. Your wife might have been a paragon, my lord, butIhave been invalid.” Whoever thoughtthatwould be a source of confidence. “Trust me when I say I have intimate knowledge of what it is like to live with a condition beyond one’s control.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to interfere,” he said in arctic tones.
She teetered on a see-saw of embarrassment and anger. Why did the dashed man keep her off balance and disorder her feelings so? Before Tremont, she’d counted herself patient and even-tempered. She didn’t quarrel or provoke or invite conflict. Amongst her siblings, she often played the intermediary, grounded by her natural equanimity.
At the moment, however, her greatest desire was to pluck the vase from the mantel and smash it over Tremont’s head. She allowed herself to enjoy the image of him sopping wet, crowned by wilted flowers. Then she rose.
“If Freddy asks for me when he awakens, send word and I will return to keep him company.” She gave a cool nod. “Good day, sirs.”
***
That evening, supper was a strained affair.
Given his earlier behavior, Gabriel had expected no less. A part of him had wanted to avoid going down altogether. Thus far, however, he’d had his meals on a tray with his son and hadn’t yet dined with his hosts. Abernathy had been right about the headache passing, thank God, and Freddy had awoken after his afternoon nap feeling much recovered. Good manners dictated that Gabriel should make an appearance at the supper table.
As only the Strathavens, Thea, and he were dining, the long mahogany table had been set cozily at one end.
“No sense in shouting down the table,” the duchess said pragmatically.
The duke occupied the end chair, with the duchess to his right and Thea to his left. Gabriel had been placed on Thea’s other side. Tonight she looked more like a faerie tale princess than ever in an off-the-shoulder gown of light blue silk. As he cut into his filet of beef, he tried not to notice how the glow of the candelabra slid over her décolletage, kissing smooth, bare skin and creating an intriguing play of shadows. He picked up her sweet, subtle scent the way a bloodhound lifts it nose and scents a fox.
Beneath the table, something else lifted as well.
His lack of control was appalling. Not even the cold shoulder she presented him could dampen his physical reaction to her nearness. On the surface, she was all that was polite, yet the tension between them was downright Siberian and would have frozen a lesser man.
