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“Listen to me, James—”
“I’ve listened my whole life.” James raised his voice deliberately. “A Pemberton keeps his vows. You broke a vow, a sacred vow. You forfeited my respect and obedience. I came here intending to bid you farewell. I came here intending to tell you I’d write next from Spain.”
His father met him in the middle of the room. “You are not going to Spain.”
“I’m not.” James stood taller. “My intentions have changed. But I have something else to tell you.”
“You’ve said enough, I think.”
“I’ve just begun. Your loathsome betrayal gave me the excuse I’d been wanting to defy your authority. But nothing excuses selfishness and egoism. Someone helped me see my plan for what it was. I have no interest in causing unnecessary pain to gratify my ego, or to punish you either. I’m not going to Spain. And I’m not going to challenge you to a duel.”
“A duel?” His father made an incredulous sound.
James stared into his eyes. “I am going to challenge you to look inside yourself. Is this what you want? Secrecy. Lies. Treachery.” He shook his head. “You taught me better. So let me tell you this. I will be a man who loves as he lives, with integrity, even if you are not.”
A rustle in the hall alerted James to the approach of a third party. A woman’s floral scent preceded her into the room.
“Henry, darling, I forgot to—” The woman’s voice cut off abruptly.
James went completely still. He was still staring at his father, who raised his brow, the angle insultingly superior.
Was this what Tib meant by that look?
“James?” said the woman.
“Mother?” James spun. “Mother. You’re supposed to be with Aunt Georgina.” He drew a breath, redolent of violets. “Why do you smell like a French perfumery?” He blinked. “What are you wearing?”
His mother’s dressing gown was a confection of pink ribbons, white lace, and lilac ruffles.
James felt his ears go hot.
“You didn’t invite him, did you?” His mother addressed his father, her tone marrying bemusement and reproach.
“No, he invited himself.” His father spoke dryly. “I shared your fervent wish for privacy.”
James smiled weakly. “The two of you . . . wished for privacy. Fervently.” He cringed. He hadn’t felt like such an irredeemable dolt since . . . well, since he’d tumbled semi-nude into Tib’s tree, which, despite all that had transpired, wasn’t exactly the distant past.
Perhaps doltishness was his lot in life.
“The last time your father and I stayed at Castle Lyon alone we were still celebrating our honeymoon.” His mother rustled over to his father. The small smile they shared made James’s ears go hotter.
Dear God, if this continued, his damned ears would set his hair on fire.
“With all the recent strain and worry, and separation, we had the idea for a second honeymoon. It was your father’s idea, really.” Her mother’s sigh fluttered her ribbons. Then she reached out and tapped her husband’s nose with a playful fingertip.
James recoiled. He knew well that his mother’s animation increased with her distance from London. At Castle Lyon, she sometimes burst into spontaneous song. But there was no fluttering. No nose tapping.
And his father. His father was gazing down at her, dark eyes melting.
James plucked at his collar. “A second honeymoon. That’s . . . That’s . . . ”
“Our concern,” said his father, lifting a colder gaze to James.
“Yes, well,” James muttered. “You didn’t have to lie.”
“We wanted something just for us.” His mother laid her hand on his father’s arm, the gesture tender and protective. “No explanations. No speculations.”
“No reports of curricle accidents.” His father frowned. “No interruptions.”
