“That’s right.” She nodded and then paused as if she were waiting for him to say more. When he remained silent, she said, “But you are not a man who cares for those discrete services, are you?”
Sorrow engulfed Oliver, rendering him unable to respond. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of another woman after his Beatrice died.
“Lord Knox, it is no secret that I arrange marriages, so I was wondering if you chose to frequent my establishment in the hopes of finding a new bride?”
Here it is. Thank heavens. Now, I can put an end to this conversation.“I’m aware of the services you provide, but I’m afraid I am not here for that reason. I have no intention of remarrying.”
She cocked her head. “Were you and your wife blessed with children, Lord Knox?”
He shifted in his seat. The widow’s questions were starting to stab at his heart like knife wounds. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. “No,” he said abruptly.
“Then your wife was barren?”
This time the knife plunged deeper into his chest. “My wife was a perfectly healthy woman—a perfect woman in every way,” he said, his throat tight.
“But eight years and no heir? Clearly, she was—”
He held up his hand to stave off her words. He could not tolerate his wife’s memory being defiled so. Beatrice had not been at fault. It was him—he was flawed. He could not let this stand!
“The fault didn’t lie with my wife,” he blurted.
The widow remained silent behind her veil, no doubt.
He sighed. “She’d been married once before. During that union, she conceived and birthed a healthy daughter. But both her husband and child perished when their carriage overturned. A year later, she married me, and in our eight years together I failed to give her a child.”
“You can’t be certain about that. Your wife could have developed a problem that wasn’t present in her younger years. The fault could still have been hers.”
“It wasn’t her fault!” he said. His heart clenched like a fist as the memories of Beatrice’s tears assailed him. “For eight years, Ifelt my wife’s pain as she waited in vain to hold her own babe in her arms. I won’t do it again.”
The widow nodded.
He had a strong urge to leave the room. Why was he here discussing his most painful and private life with this woman? How dare she speak to him about such matters? He ought to leave this club and never return.
“I apologize if this conversation upset you, Lord Knox. That was not my intention. I do have good reason for my inquiry, and the situation is quite delicate.” She leaned forward. “Are you willing to hear my proposal?”
Oliver’s anger softened in response to the widow’s apology. She obviously had good intentions, no doubt believing she could pair him with some young woman and bring him happiness again. He eyed her black attire and wondered why she chose to dress thus when she’d been a widow for several years. Did she still mourn her husband? Why hadn’t she taken her own advice and remarried? People said she was married to her work, and that seemed to be the truth. She was a formidable woman who ruled her club with an iron fist. Still, she understood loss—that much was obvious. Mayhap, it would behoove him to listen to what she had to say.
“Go on.” He nodded.
“A young woman was just in my office. She came to see me because she has an urgent problem that needs solving.”
Doleful eyes.Oliver straightened, suddenly eager to hear more.
“You see, she was betrothed to a young man. It was a love match.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, the young man died unexpectedly, leaving his betrothed in a rather delicate situation that requires her to find a husband immediately.”
“Do you mean that she’s with child?” Oliver said.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon nodded. “There are no outward signs yet. No one would know the child wasn’t yours.”
Oliver put down his brandy glass. “What are you saying? Are you suggesting that I”—he shook his head—“I already told you that I have no intention of remarrying.” He stood, intent on leaving.
“If what you have told me is true, this could be your only chance to have a family—and an heir.”
Oliver stiffened. “Are you suggesting that I pass on my title and estate to a child who’s not my own?” He bristled at the notion—not because of some archaic law, but because he could not endure the thought of raising a child with another woman. “As opposed to some distant cousin you know nothing about?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stood, retrieved Oliver’s empty glass from the table, and went to pour him another brandy. Clearly, no matter what he thought, the conversation wasn’t over. Especially when she turned to him and said, “A child you raise from birth and love as your own—a child who calls you ‘papa’—becomes your child. Blood is not what makes a parent.”
He wasn’t able to dispute her logic. Instead, he accepted the brandy she handed him and peered into its amber depths.
Then he returned to his plush armchair. “It wouldn’t be right,” he said, finally taking a sip of the brandy. “My title will pass to the next in line. Whomever that may be.”
