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He tilted his head. “Which are?”
“We are raised to remain silent. To not speak our minds. I was unhappy with how things stood between your father and me. I hated that he worked so much, that he had so little time, or energy, for me. Or for our family. So I left. I went to Paris, hoping it would make him take notice. Hoping he would change.
“But months passed. Then years. And nothing changed. Eventually, I gave up hope and resigned myself to being estranged from him, from you and from Pierce. The trouble was … I never tried the direct route.”
Julius struggled with his mother’s intimate confession about her relationship with his father. He had long suspected all that she had now revealed, but it had never been spoken aloud.
His mother had never been a typical member of the ton. She was lighter of spirit, less inclined to criticism, and unfailingly pleasant company. Lady Stirling was well-liked amongst the beau monde, despite her colorful fashion and irreverent manners, but she remained, always, a private person. She did not speak of personal matters. At least, never in his presence.
His lips had gone dry. He lifted his tea and took a sip to mask his unease.
“The direct route?” he echoed.
She smiled. “It was brave of you to speak your mind to your father. I could have spared our family a great deal of trouble had I done the same. But instead, I ran off to Paris. At the time, it felt like the proper move. In retrospect, I was being rather dramatic in an effort to avoid”—she shook her head, as though scolding her past self—“well, to avoid being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” It was the only word he could manage.
His mother laughed, the familiar, lilting sound stirring memories of a much younger Julius, when laughter had come more easily in the Trafford household.
“Melodramatic is more like it,” she said. “I never told your father I wished for change. Not directly. How could he be expected to alter his behavior if I never explained what I needed?”
Julius struggled to find his footing. His view of the world—of marriage, of his parents—had long been fixed, shaped like clay hardened in the sun. But now it was softening, shifting. He felt as though he were back at sea, the deck tilting beneath his feet, the air too close. His head was spinning. His mother’s nearness, her frankness, was throwing everything out of balance.
“But … do you not … regret being trapped in a marriage with Lord Snarli—Father?”
Lady Smiling pursed her lips, the mossy hue of her eyes clouded by reflection. Julius did not notice the tiny brown flecks within the green bands. Hers had always been harder to discern than his own. “Is that what you think of your father? That he is a snarling beast?”
“He is a beast,” Julius said, but the assertion lacked conviction.
“Your father shoulders an extraordinary number of responsibilities. More than one man ought to carry alone. Your … remonstrations over our family’s affairs have forced him to re-evaluate his priorities.” She paused, then added gently, “He has informed the King that he cannot continue in his official capacity. He is to make time for his other affairs. For us.”
Julius frowned. He dropped his gaze to his teacup, feeling uncomfortably like a boy who had been caught stealing from the pantry. It was awkward to have his criticism laid bare.
“Father has neglected you for years,” he said at last. “It is untenable … the way he abandoned you.”
He glanced up to gauge her reaction and saw his mother’s lean face etched with quiet regret. Her fingertips drifted over the rings on her hand as she contemplated him.
“Son,” she said softly, “I do not regret my marriage. I wish I had spoken with your father, tried to understand how to ease his burdens instead of adding to them. The mistakes were just as much mine as his. Instead of urging him to devote more time to his home, I walked away and left him to shoulder it all alone.” His mother sighed. “A simple conversation might have changed everything. Your words to him were taken to heart. And I regret … I regret that I was not more sincere in my own. I cannot expect him to know my grievances if I never spoke them aloud. That is why I admire you, Julius. You voiced what I did not.”
Hearing her accept part of the blame for the unraveling of their marriage was the very last thing Julius had expected, or wanted, to hear.
He had put her on a pedestal and laid all the blame squarely at his father’s feet. Blamed it on marriage itself, when the truth was far more complex.
Lord Stirling was a great man who had made mistakes.
His mother was a wonderful woman who was also flawed.
It had been easy to witness the stern countenance of his father and the merry mien of his mother and assume where the fault must lie. But now, if he understood her correctly, marriage was not a trap at all. It was a partnership, a living bond that required both parties to nurture it.
Julius dropped his face into his hands, uttering a low groan as the deck of his assumptions tilted beneath him once more. His thoughts reeled with the revelation he had been stubbornly refusing to admit.
He was in love.
There was not another soul on earth like his sweet, spirited Audrey.
How could he go on with his usual flirtations, entertain widows in the shadows, when all he wanted, all he thought about, was the remarkable woman who had stolen his heart?
His ghastly proposal … good heavens, what a mess! Audrey must believe herself unwanted, unappreciated, an afterthought to his freedom. And all because he had muttered something about possibly wandering off like a grubby child tempted by sweets.
