“Here?” he said blankly.
“At Hawkridge Manor, my lord. Your father is here at Hawkridge Manor.”
Chapter Twenty-One
His father washere.
Of anywhere Weston would have preferred the Marquess of Dorchester to be–the ground being one of them–this was the worst place, and the worsttime, his father possibly could have chosen to finally make an appearance.
Like a shark smelling blood in the water, had he known, somehow, that his only son and heir was on the brink of happiness? Or was he here for some other purpose?
There was only one way to find out.
“Send him in, Mr. Stevens,” Weston said grimly, and then he sat behind his desk to wait.
When Jason Weston, Marquess of Dorchester, entered the study, the first thing Weston noted about his father was howoldhe appeared.
Maybe it was due to the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in person for over a year. Or maybe it was simply because children always tended to view their parents through a lens that was unchanged by days, or months, or even years. Whatever the reason, it was clear that the marquess had aged considerably since they’d last occupied the same room.
Jason’s hair, once as black and thick as his son’s, was thinning and gray. His face had more creases. The back of his hands, when he removed his leather gloves, had more veins running through them. His mouth was thinner. Flatter. His forehead more pronounced. But his eyes…cold, piercing, and gray…his eyes were exactly the same.
“Son,” he said bluntly as he crossed the study and helped himself to a generous pour of scotch. “You appear healthy enough. A bit pale, perhaps. You should get outside more.”
Five seconds in, and Weston’s teeth were already on edge, his hackles raised, his hands knotted underneath his desk.
“Father,” he replied just as curtly. “What are you doing here?”
“Thisisthe annual house party, is it not?” Jason settled himself in an oversized chair and crossed his legs at the knee. “I presumed my attendance was expected.”
“Expected, yes. Counted on, no.” Weston forced himself to take a deep, even breath. Their last discussion had ended in an argument. Which wasn’t a surprise, in and of itself. But it was the topic of that argument, namely, his father’s American mistress, Anne Thorncroft, which had him proceeding with extreme caution. “You must have heard by now that your daughter and her sister have come to England.”
“Joanna and Evelyn Thorncroft.” The marquess glanced into his scotch before he raised the glass to his mouth and took a liberal swallow. “Yes, I am aware. It has also come to my attention that Jacob Thorncroft was killed during the War Between the States, leaving his three daughters and mother on the brink of destitution. I’ve already made arrangements for my solicitor to reach out to Joanna and settle a modest sum of ten thousand pounds in her name, to be used at her discretion.”
A fortune, by anyone’s standards.
And no less than what Joanna deserved.
Just a few weeks ago, Weston wouldn’t have thought so. He’d have been angry–furious, even–that his father was bestowing a sizable inheritance upon an illegitimate daughter he’d never recognized, nor even met. But time (and Evie) had changed his perspective. And in his newly unfrozen heart, he wanted Joanna to get every penny. Even though…
“She may not accept it,” he remarked.
“Of course she’ll accept.” Jason snorted into his scotch. “It’s free money.”
“Money cannot make up for a lifetime of anonymity.”
The marquess’ eyes chilled. “You know as well as I that Anne chose to raise her daughter in America, with another man as her father. It was not my decision. I merely honored it.”
“Jacob Thorncroft died over six years ago. Had you loved Anne as much as you claim, then you’d have kept aware of–”
“Howdareyou question my devotion,” Jason snarled, slapping his hand on the armrest of the chair. “I did love Anne. I loved her so much that I let her go, and I ensured our daughter’s future financial security by giving Anne that blasted ring. Had you not taken it back, the Thorncrofts would have had wealth in perpetuity.Youcaused this. Not I.”
As Weston met his father’s steely, scornful gaze, he resisted the urge to shift in his chair. At five and twenty, how was it that he could still feel as if he were a lad of twelve, desperate for the marquess’ approval…and withering beneath his contempt?
“I did nothing but return something to our family that never should have been bestowed outside of marriage,” he said evenly. “Regardless of how strong your feelings were for Joanna’s mother, the ring was not yours to give away. There were other means you could have used to provide for her and your daughter. Had you married Anne–”
“Do you think I didn’ttry?” Without warning, the marquess hurtled his empty glass of scotch across the room. It struck the wall and shattered, bits of glass exploding in a shower of crystal. “I asked her to marry me a dozen times. But she couldn’t live in this life, and I couldn’t leave it. So she left. With our child in her belly. And then…even then, I held out hope…” His countenance ravaged by desolation, Jason tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. “But she died of scarlet fever, and my hope died with her.”
Weston stared at his father, stunned into speechlessness. Never, in his entire life, had he seen the marquess display this much emotion. He hadn’t even known Jason wascapableof feeling this strongly. But apparently, he was. Apparently, for his deceased mistress, he’d felt everything…until Anne’s death robbed him of all compassion.
