“You know nothing of my situation.” Her voice came out low, unsteady. “Nothing of what I have sacrificed, or why.”
“Then enlighten me.” Thaddeus spread his hands. “Tell me why a woman of your breeding and reputation—such as it is—would willingly subject herself to the scrutiny and scandal of residing in an unmarried man’s household. Tell me what possible motivation could outweigh the destruction of whatever standing you have left.”
The words pressed against her lips. The truth that would explain everything.
She drew a breath. Steadied herself.
“You wish to know my motivation, Your Grace? Very well.” She met his gaze without flinching. “My motivation is a four-year-old boy who cries himself to sleep every night in a house full of strangers. My motivation is watching him flinch from the one person who should make him feel safe. My motivation is knowing—knowing—that I can help him, that I can give him what he needs, and being told that I must stand aside because propriety matters more than a child’s broken heart.”
Thaddeus’s hands, which had been clasped behind his back, shifted. His fingers interlaced more tightly.
“Pretty words,” he said, but his voice had lost its edge.
“They are not words. They are facts.” Maribel took a step toward him, her fear giving way to something fiercer. “You asked me last night why I care so much about Oliver. I gave you an answer that was true but incomplete. You want the full truth? Then here it is.”
She paused. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Oliver is my nephew.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Thaddeus stared at her. The colour drained from his face, leaving his skin ashen in the morning light.
“What did you say?”
“Margaret was my sister.” The words tumbled out now, rushing past the dam she had held in place for so long. “My elder sister. She… Nicholas knew of the scandal, and still wanted to marry her, still loved her. We decided together… that society would not know she was my father’s daughter. She spent time abroad when the scandal happened and as such escaped most of the scrutiny. Instead it fell on me and I would take it all again, for I saw how she loved Nicholas and how happy she was… And because of her choice to hide her family from you and the likes of you, that boy exists.”
Thaddeus’s hand moved to grip the edge of his desk. His knuckles went white.
“You are telling me,” he said slowly, “that the boy I have taken into my home is the son of your sister. That you are his blood relation. And you did not think to mention this before now?”
“Margaret asked me not to.” Maribel’s voice cracked. “She wanted Oliver to grow up free of the taint of our family. She wanted him to be a Talbot, not an Ashcroft.”
Thaddeus turned away. His hand raked through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement. He crossed to the window and stood with his back to her, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat.
“This is—” He stopped. Drew a breath. “You should have told me immediately.”
“When? When I arrived to find him sobbing in your entrance hall? When you chased me away? Or when you ordered me to take him to his poor excuse for a nursery, where I watched him cry himself to sleep?” The bitterness escaped despite her efforts. “We have never seen eye to eye, Your Grace. I saw no reason to hand you additional ammunition.”
“Additional—” He turned back to face her, a vein pulsing at his temple. “This is not abattle, Lady Maribel. This is a child’s welfare we are discussing.”
“Then perhaps you should begin treating it as such.”
They stood barely three feet apart now. Maribel could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath his waistcoat, the tension in the cords of his neck. The scent of sandalwood reached her, and her pulse stuttered in a way she refused to examine.
“Why did they not tell me?” Thaddeus’s voice dropped, roughened. “Nicholas spoke of his wife’s family only once, and he said—” He stopped, closing his eyes.
“What did he say?”
“That they had rejected her. He did not say why, only that she had no contact with them and did not want to talk about them.” His eyes searched her face. “He never mentioned you.”
Maribel closed her eyes against the sharp pain of this admission. She had loved Nicholas—not as a woman loves a man, but asone loves a brother. He had made Margaret laugh until tears streamed down her cheeks. He had held her hand through Oliver’s birth, had wept openly when his son drew his first breath.
And he had never spoken of Maribel. Not once.
Still, she should have understood.
“Margaret was protecting me.” Her voice emerged barely above a whisper. “The same way she tried to protect Oliver. She… did not want to be known as an Ashcroft, and she knew the connection with Nicholas would reopen the scrutiny and have it aimed at me once more. She thought—” Her throat closed. She swallowed hard. “She thought she was giving us both a better chance. People had started to forget about the scandal, but if it became public that she had married Nicholas Talbot… She was trying to protect her family and… me.”
