Page 40
“I’ll bid you a good day, Your Grace,” Rayne said to him. “I shall sketch the wisteria another time.”
Dammit.
His mother’s vindictive arrows had hit their intended target.
Rayne picked up her basket and, with her lashes lowered, moved past him. The brave darling stopped before his mother.
“I am not His Grace’s mistress, and I resent the implication. You saw the maid who accompanied me, and even now, two footmen assigned by my guardians are standing in the garden to ensure propriety. I am only here because I agreed to draw a scene for the previous owner.”
A snide smile curved his mother’s mouth.
“La, could you not come up with a better excuse than that?” Once more, she took Rayne’s measure, and her slightly curled upper lift indicated she’d found her wanting. “I suppose you are pretty enough if one likes ordinary and unrefined.”
“Enough, Mother,” Fletcher snapped, each syllable icy and cutting.
He’d throw the vicious bitch out himself if she didn’t shut her cruel mouth.
She leaned forward, resting both hands atop the parasol’s scrimshaw handle. “You do know, do you not, Miss Wellbrook, that my son has vowed to only marry a Scotswoman and never, under any circumstances, an Englishwoman? That is how I am certain you mean nothing more to him than a common harlot would.”
“Enough!” he roared thunderously.
Must she pollute everything good and pure with her toxic venom?
Rayne recoiled as if struck and swung an agony-filled glance in his direction. A blink later, she masterfully donned a mask of disinterest. If Fletcher hadn’t seen the hurt and accusation in her pretty eyes, he’d never have believed the regally composed woman staring his harridan of a mother down had shown any such emotion.
“As I have never entertained any idea of marrying above my station, the duke’s preferences for a bride are of no interest to me, Your Grace. I’m the daughter of a soldier and an opera singer. I know my place, and it is not amongst the upper ten thousand. I am grateful my birth prohibits me from joining the ranks and spares me the company of such vile persons as yourself.”
At the insult, his mother’s jaw sagged to her chest, and she blinked rapidly.
Well done, Rayne.
She’d done the impossible—rendered his mother speechless.
With quiet dignity, she turned toward the door, and it struck Fletcher with the force of a claymore to the ribs.
He loved her.
God and all the saints, he loved Rayne Wellbrook. The garden nymph with her burnished hair and eyes, berry red lips, and the purest, kindest heart of any living being.
And his mother may have ruined any chance of their happiness, just as she’d intended.
“Rayne.” He started after her but drew to an abrupt halt.
Goddammit.
He couldn’t say what he wanted to say with his mother smugly looking on. He fisted his hands and clenched his jaw until he thought the bones might crack.
Look at me.
Dinna leave like this.
Please, let me explain.
Spine straight and proud, Rayne glided from the room without a backward glance.
“’Tis for the best, Kincade,” his mother said in the patronizing manner she always adopted when she believed she’d won an argument. “She’d never do. Surely you were aware a woman of her breeding could never be the next Duchess of Kincade.”
“Her breeding? This coming from a malicious, immoral adulteress who abandoned her children and husband? Rayne Wellbrook is far superior to you in every way, madam.”
