Page 7

He directed a lengthy look onto the street again, the muscle in his jaw working once more—a clue to the vexation he secreted. “My parents are in Australia. Father is shepherding a flock of convicts there.”

Her bewilderment must’ve shown, because he rolled a shoulder. “It’s a long, rather scandalous tale.”

One he, obviously, didn’t want to share with her.

“And your sisters?” She smiled at Mrs. Delaney as she set the milk and coffee spiraling with steam before her. “Thank you. It smells wonderful.”

“Turkish coffee. There’s nothing quite as flavorful. May I get you anything else, Your Grace?” She looked hopeful.

Regine’s stomach took that moment to spasm. A small repast wouldn’t go amiss. “Have you any maid of honor tarts?” She’d never been able to resist the treats, always a favorite of hers. Greek, melomakarona came a close second, however.

“I do.” A toothy smile splitting her dumpling cheeks, the proprietress gave an exuberant nod before hurrying into the kitchen.

A thick silence hung heavy in the air after her departure, like low fog rising from the Thames, and for a minute, Regine believed James meant to ignore her question about his sisters.

Hooking an arm across the back of his chair, he eyed her, slowly raking his focus from her tasteful bonnet to her bright boots, then making the reverse trip and lingering on her mouth for a jot too long. A nuance of something, evocative of when they’d been sweethearts, hooded his eyes.

Sensation pricked behind hers, and it took all of her forbearances to hold her tears at bay. Regret was an awful thing.

“My sisters have all married. Theadosia and Jessica to dukes, and Althea to an artist. Each is blissfully happy.” Rancor tinged his words.

We might’ve been blissfully happy, too, his unrepentant gaze seemed to accuse.

He was wrong, however. Regine couldn’t have—wouldn’t have—seized her happiness at the expense of others. His included, though, he might never understand or acknowledge that truth.

At two and twenty, in training to become a solicitor, he hadn’t had the means to support five women. He’d have been compelled to leave his position for better-paying employment and would’ve been obliged to take on a burden and responsibilities that weren’t his to bear on his young shoulders.

James had never wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and enter the ministry. Since he’d been a lad of ten and she a wee lass of six, he’d chattered on about becoming a lawyer. Such a prestigious future lay ahead of him. He would’ve had to have relinquished his life-long dream to provide for her and her family.

So, she’d done the only thing she could do. James might despise her for marrying the duke, but her motives had been pure. He mightn’t ever see it that way, however. Oh, she knew full well he thought she’d married for position and wealth. That pricked her pride more than a little.

Believing the chance quite remote, Regine hadn’t considered what to expect if she encountered him. Point of fact, solicitors—he had become a successful solicitor, hadn’t he?—and vicar’s sons didn’t regularly hobnob with the peerage.

Drawing her brows together, she bent her mouth downward. Well, he might do so now that his sisters were duchesses. Good, Lord. That made her sound like the worst sort of snob.

She wasn’t. Not in the least. Why, she didn’t even interact with le beau monde.

In her heart, she was still and would always be, the barefoot young girl from Colechester, sneaking kisses with James in the orchard not so very far from Reverend Brentwood’s parish. They’d held each other, pledging their love, and planning their future. Together.

“Althea has quite a brood, and Thea’s daughter is four or five months old.” He rubbed the right side of his nose. Just like he always had when pondering. “Or mayhap six? I’m honestly not certain. I anticipate the news Jessica and Bainbridge are expecting any day, as well.”

“I hadn’t heard.” Not secluded as she’d been, first nursing her husband, then observing the mourning period after his death. And then a mere six months after Heartwaite’s passing, she’d buried her mother and assumed the care of Juliet. “I’m happy for them,” she said quietly, not missing the emphasis he’d placed on dukes and artist.

His way of jabbing home his point once more. Though he needn’t do so. His condemnation and censure were paltry compared to what she’d conferred upon herself.

“Have you any children?” His wasn’t the casual question it appeared.

She shook her head while smoothing her gloves atop the table. “No.”

Regine wasn’t explaining Heartwaite’s impotence. He’d told her from the beginning theirs would be a marriage in name only, and she’d known she’d never bear his children. In truth, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Heartwaite had waited until they were married to inform her, denying her the right to refuse his suit for that very significant reason.

Father to five, he felt no burden to produce more offspring and had selfishly kept his physical incapability a secret until it was too late for her to deny his suit. She wouldn’t have. Her mother and sisters had no means of support, and James must finish his training.

Neither her family nor James knew the depths of sacrifice she’d made for them. They never would. That brought her some small satisfaction. Not that she considered herself a martyr by any means, but she’d spared those she loved angst and worry.

“How fares your family?” Politesse required him to ask the obligatory question.

“Christiana and Marian are married as well. Mama died just over a year ago, and Juliet lives with me now.” Unwilling for him to see the grief in her eyes from the loss of her mother, she stirred milk into her coffee.