Victor glared. “She needed time to think.”
“And why exactly does she need time?” Lionel asked pointedly.
Victor looked away sharply. For several moments, only the rustling hedges filled the silence between them. He could havelied. Normally, he would have. Yet exhaustion weighed too heavily upon him now.
Finally, he muttered, “Because I told her I do not want children.”
Lionel blinked once in surprise. “Ah.”
Victor resumed pacing immediately. “She was upset.”
“I imagine she was,” Lionel replied carefully.
Victor exhaled harshly through his nose. “I told her I wished everything to remain between us only.”
Lionel frowned. “And why is that so terrible to you?”
Victor stopped again. “Because everything I possess will be inherited by you, and I am fine with that.”
Lionel stared at him blankly. “What?”
Victor laughed bitterly under his breath. “You were always meant to inherit, and I always meant to not have heirs.”
Lionel looked utterly bewildered. “Victor, what nonsense are you speaking?”
“You should have had our parents longer than I,” Victor snapped suddenly. “You should have grown up with them.”
Lionel went completely still.
“Instead I…I took them from you,” Victor said.
Silence settled heavily between them.
Victor moved toward a nearby stone bench and sat down hard upon it, suddenly exhausted. The confession left him feeling strangely hollow. Lionel slowly sat beside him without speaking at first.
Finally, he said quietly, “Victor.”
Victor stared ahead toward the gardens. “Do not.”
But the words were already coming now after years buried beneath silence.
“That summer I came home from Eton,” Victor said lowly. “And you were gone visiting Grandmother.” Lionel listened quietly. “I wanted to see you.” Victor swallowed hard. “Father was busy. Mother tried convincing me to wait.”
He laughed bitterly. “But I kept insisting.”
Lionel’s face softened with dawning understanding. “Victor…”
“I begged them,” Victor admitted hoarsely. “For days.” His hands tightened together painfully. “Eventually Father relented.”
The memory rose sharp and merciless before him.
Rain upon carriage windows. His mother was smiling tiredly across from him. His father is reading correspondence. Then horses screaming.
Victor shut his eyes tightly.
“The carriage overturned,” he whispered. “I remember glass breaking.” His voice roughened further. “Then nothing.”
Lionel stared at him with visible grief. Victor laughed hollowly. “When I woke afterward, they were dead.” His throat tightened painfully. “And I lived.”
