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“I had no idea whom I had welcomed under my roof,” the viscount said, putting a hand on the back of the settee to prop himself up. “I knew that corrupted blood—”
Fiennes cut in. “Either you shut your mouth, or I strike you again.” Lines bracketed his mouth; Ella had the idea that his next blow would slam her uncle into the next room.
The viscount opened and shut his mouth a few times, apparently considering his options. Finally, he must have decided to take Fiennes at his word, because he glowered and spat out, “You are not welcome here.”
“Yes, I am.”
The viscount’s chest swelled until it seemed to Ella that he would surely burst buttons already strained by padding. “I’ll thank you to remember that this is my house, and I am the master of it!”
“Are you?”
A curious hardness in Fiennes’s tone made Ella blink. She glanced at him and winced, swallowing hard with pure longing.
His expression was somber but calm. He held himself with all the inherent grace of a powerful man who knows the strength of his own body and, even more so, his worth. And that of the women in his life.
Fulvia was so lucky. So horribly, truthfully lucky.
Ella gave up the idea of finding her own husband. If she couldn’t have Fiennes, she didn’t want anyone. She would move to Spain.
Somewhere far, far away. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t bear to see Fiennes’s babies. She couldn’t bear to see him again.
She was in love, a coupe de coeur, as the French had it. A blow to the heart from which one never recovered.
“I fail to see your point!” the viscount snarled. In comparison to Fiennes, he looked stagnant and vicious, the glare in his eyes habitual.
“My point was that you spent most of your daughter’s debut ball in the library playing cards for high stakes.”
Ella began trembling again. “No.” The word barely escaped her lips. A warm hand landed on her lower back. Fiennes’s touch flared through her with the warmth of a blanket.
“Leave,” the viscount thundered.
Fulvia cleared her throat. “Lord Peregrine is my future husband, and as such, he is welcome here. His concern for our reputation is as strong as mine.”
Ella drew in a breath and moved.
Fiennes’s hand fell away.
“I wish to point out,” his daughter added, “that when you cast aspersions on my mother, you taint that family name.”
“Family name, family name,” the viscount said pettishly. “What do I care for the future when my present is so vile? When my own wife has played the strumpet?”
“How lucky you are that your dear wife may well be carrying the heir to your title,” Fulvia stated.
“You reference my shame with the lightness of a woman of no heart,” her father retorted. “You are clearly a maiden of no sensibility. One who has no respect for her aged father, cuckolded in the prime of life.” His voice caught dramatically, and he moaned, “No more of that.”
Fiennes nodded. “Your wife’s child, if male, will inherit the Northern lands, your title.” He paused. “This house.”
The viscount’s eyes shifted, and Ella’s heart sank.
“You gambled the house!” she cried.
“The devil I did,” the viscount said. But there was a curious flatness in his voice.
“I can’t believe you lost the house,” Ella gasped. “Who owns the house now?”
After a silence, he spat, “Thomas Tyrwhitt.”
“Familiarly known as ‘Clod,’ ” Fiennes put in with evident disgust. “How on earth did you manage to lose to him?”
