Page 52 of The Duchess in His Bed
“Did you have boys?”
“I did.” Opening a door, she crossed the threshold into the library. “As I recall from your last visit, the earl neglected to offer you anything to drink so I don’t know your preference.” She glanced at him over her shoulder, a bit of teasing mirrored in her brown eyes. “I listened at the door. What may I pour you?”
“Scotch.”
Watching the efficiency with which she opened the decanter and poured the amber liquid into a tumbler, he imagined she’d done so for his sire a hundred times. She held the glass out to him, and he wondered if that hand had ever stroked his brow, if her arms had ever cradled him. Would she even know if he was her son? Shouldn’t some connection exist between them, so when he looked at her, he’d feel deep in his bonesthis is the woman who birthed me?
Taking her offering, he swallowed a good bit before asking, “Do you know what became of your boys?”
“Well, one is presently a viscount. I suppose in some manner he is your brother as well. I wonder if you would go to such lengths to save him as you did Finn.”
She truly had eavesdropped, not that he’d doubted her. Not that she’d have had to be at the door to hear what passed between Aiden and his sire. Much of what they’d had to say to each other had been shouted.
“He visited a few months back,” she continued as she walked over to the desk and leaned against it. “Broke your father’s arm—”
“He’s not my father.”
Her eyes widened at that; no doubt she was taken by surprise by his vehemence.
“I’m his bastard, I won’t deny that. But he is not my father. A father does not abandon”—but if he got Selena with child he’d be doing exactly that—“his child. He’s my vile sire, the blackguard who planted the seed, but he is no more to me than that.”
She held his gaze firmly, not flinching, not looking away during the battering of his harsh words, and he wondered if she was imagining the bastards that she’d brought into the world tossing the same words at her. “He can be quite charming when he sets his mind to it, especially when he was younger, more handsome, more virile. I actually loved him for a time.” She lowered her eyes to her satin slippers, the toes peering out from beneath her dressing gown. “Tell me, Mr. Trewlove”—she lifted her eyes, locked them on to his—“do you know when you were delivered to the baby farmer?”
So she was wondering the same thing he was. “The scapegrace dropped me into Ettie Trewlove’s arms on the twenty-sixth of February in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty.” With his pronouncement, her expression changed not one whit. He might as well have said the dawn of time. He wasn’t quite certain what he thought of this woman who had let the earl take children from her and then deemed herself in love with him enough to marry him.
“Is that date significant to you?” he prodded, the words tart and impatient. He wanted to see something from her other than cool reserve.
She sighed. “I fear not. Which is probably just as well. I suspect you hate the woman who allowed you to be taken from her.”
“I don’t know how I feel about her. Why would you marry a man who gave away your children?”
“I was seventeen, enjoying my first Season, when I caught Elverton’s fancy. I knew he was married, but I didn’t care. I loved him, and he promised to take care of me. So I became his mistress. My father, a baron, disowned me. I never held his actions against him, because I fully understood that I was a sinner, but his casting me aside did limit my options. A fallen woman with no skills. I couldn’t risk angering my keeper by insisting I be allowed to keep the babes. Perhaps your mother shared the same fate, Mr. Trewlove. For the most part, women have very little power. We do what we must to survive or to ensure the survival of those we love. Seldom are the choices easily made nor are they generally pleasant.”
He thought of Selena, the choice she was making, how he despised it. Yet she would soldier on, putting the needs of others before her own.
“When his wife died tragically in a boating mishap,” she continued, “I was all of twenty-one, still had my looks. And he knew I was fertile. I could provide him with the heir his wife had failed to. While it does not speak well of me, I did still love him and thought my sacrifices had earned me the right to be at his side, and to finally have access to everything—his household, his money, respectability. So I moved off Mistress Row—our informal name for the area because quite a few of the town houses on the street served as lodgings for the mistresses of lords—to a grand residence in Mayfair. And now I live every day with the memory of the weaknesses of my youth.”
“I’m not sitting in judgment of you,” he felt compelled to say. He knew the world was a harsh place for women. He and his brothers had come to the aid of many through the years.
“That makes you the only one in London.”
The echo of footsteps had the countess straightening away from the desk. “Your host arrives.” Her smile was self-mocking. “I shan’t listen at the keyhole this time. Good night, Mr. Trewlove.”
She began walking toward the door.
“My brother Finn.”
Stopping, she glanced back.
“He was brought to Ettie Trewlove on April eighth of the same year. Perhaps—”
She shook her head. “No, he is not one of my sons.”
The earl burst into the room, staggered to a stop. “Good God, Frances, what are you doing here?”
“Entertaining your guest.”
“Will you see to Polly? Her nerves are still rattled.”
