“I’m sorry.” His voice emerged soft. Dangerous. “Would you care to repeat that?”
Hastings flushed crimson. “Your Grace, I merely meant?—”
“You merely meant to disparage my ward. The son of my dearest friend. A boy of four who’s endured more loss than you’ll experience in your entire pampered existence.” Each word fell like a blow. “You suggested his bloodline makes him unsuitable. Complicated. Limited by circumstances of birth.”
“I—that is—one must consider?—”
“One must consider,” Thaddeus said, voice dropping to a register that made everyone lean closer, “that the boy is undermy protection. His future is mine to determine. His worth is not subject to th =e opinions of men whose greatest accomplishment is having been born into families marginally less mediocre than the general population.”
The garden went silent.
Maribel could hear her own pulse, feel Eleanor’s hand gripping her arm. She couldn’t look away from Thaddeus—from the cold fury radiating from him, the tremor in his clenched fists.
“Your Grace,” Hastings stammered. “I intended no offence?—”
“Then you failed spectacularly.” Thaddeus stepped closer. Hastings retreated. “Let me be clear. Oliver Talbot is my ward. My responsibility. My family. If I hear anyone—anyone—questioning his suitability, his breeding, his place in my household, they will answer to me personally. Do I make myself understood?”
It wasn’t a question.
Hastings nodded mutely. Thaddeus held his gaze one more terrible moment, then turned and walked away.
The garden erupted into whispers.
“Did you see—” Eleanor breathed.
“Yes.”
“He defended the boy. Publicly. That wasn’t a performance, Maribel. That was real.”
“I know.”
Maribel watched Thaddeus disappear into the house. He’d just painted a target on his back for Oliver’s sake. Chosen protection over propriety.
“I need to—” She pulled free of Eleanor’s grip.
“Maribel, wait?—”
But she was already moving.
She found him in the library. Of course. Men like Thaddeus always sought refuge among books.
He stood at the window, hands braced against the sill as though it alone kept him upright.
“I suspect the gossips will be occupied for weeks.”
He didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge her beyond a slight stiffening.
Maribel closed the door and crossed the room. “You defended him. In front of half of London, you defended Oliver.”
“He’s my ward. What else would you have me do?”
“Exactly what you did.” She stopped close enough to see his white-knuckled grip. “Though I didn’t expect it. You’ve maintained such careful distance. Then Hastings made one remark, and you?—”
“He called the boy unsuitable.” Barely contained fury. “Suggested he was limited by circumstances beyond his control. As though a child’s worth could be measured by accidents of birth rather than—” He stopped.
“Rather than what?”
His hands tightened. “Rather than the person he is. Will become, if given half a chance.” He turned, and his expression stole her breath—naked, anguished. “Nicholas loved that boy. Loved him with everything he was. I will not allow society’s cruelty to define what Oliver can become.”
