Page 9 of The Major's Mistake
“I am a marquess, lad.”
“A marquess?” repeated Justin slowly. “Do you have a grand castle with turrets and towers and dungeons. Is it near here?”
Julian laughed. “No, my main estate is far away, and even that might prove a sad disappointment to you. No ghosts, no chains, no drawbridge.”
The boy did indeed look slightly disappointed. “Then I should prefer to be a Major?—”
A call from inside the stalls interrupted his words. “Justin! Where have you gone off to?”
“I’m here, Mama. With the major. He said I might have a ride on his horse and?—”
Miranda came outside and stopped short on catching sight of the little boy in conversation with the marquess. “Justin!” she repeated rather sharply. “Please go up to the house.”
“But Mama?—”
“This instant, young man.”
The boy shot a last longing look at stallion and the marquess, then set off with a reluctant step, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket.
Julian stared at the retreating form, feeling a strange tangle of emotion begin to knot inside him. “I was not aware you had a child,” he said tightly after some moments of silence. “Aunt Sophia never mentioned it in any of her letters. He must be nearly of an age to be …” As he spoke, his gaze darted down to take in her roughened fingers, devoid of any ring. Before she could make any reply, he blurted out. “Why didn’t you marry whoever the father was, once you were free?”
An inscrutable expression passed over her face before she regained a measure of control. “Justin’s father didn’t want me for a wife.”
The marquess furrowed his brow. “I thought—” Suddenly he stopped and his throat became so tight he could scarcely speak. “What are you saying?”
Miranda drew in a deep breath and looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
She started to follow her son, but his hand reached out to take her arm. “Oh, but I think it matters a great deal.” His fingers clenched like a vise. “Am … am I … his father?”
Miranda went very pale but made no answer.
“For God’s sake, tell me. I have a right to know.”
There were several long moments of silence before she answered, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes.”
He swallowed hard. “You are … sure?”
She fixed him with a look of utter contempt. “It isyouwho are the bastard, milord, not my son. She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he kept a firm hold. “Let go of me!”
“No. We must talk?—”
“I have nothing more to say to you.”
“It is imperative we discuss his future?—”
“Is something wrong, m’lady?” The hulking figure of Angus appeared from behind the stable door. His shirtsleeves were rolled up around his massive forearms and a large pitchfork was dangling from one hand. He took a deliberate step closer to Miranda.
“His Lordship was just taking his leave,” she said. “If he needs assistance, you may heave his well-tailored rump into the saddle for him.”
Angus narrowed his eyes. “Auch, with pleasure, m’lady.”
Julian slowly released his hold. There was little point in pressing things any further at the moment—indeed, his mind was still reeling from the stunning revelation that he had a son.
“Very well, I shall take my leave for today. But rest assured, you have not seen the last of me.”
Miranda bit her lip, then, with an abrupt turn, she hurried off toward the manor house.
Angus glowered at the Marquess and took another step closer. Julian met the other man’s eyes without a waver. His lips set in a grim line as he thrust his boot into the stirrup.
