Page 78 of The Notorious Lord Knightly
Inwardly, he cursed yet again, this time a string of coarse epithets a gentleman should never use. He considered, instead, heading out the door leading onto the terrace and from there disappearing into the shadows of the garden where his mother would never find him—remembering a time when he was five and had done just that. But shehadfound him then, and hesuspected she would tonight as well. While they had barely a dozen years of memories, the seven before she was taken from him and the five since she’d been returned, some innate instinct existed between them, bound them together. Picking up his glass, he strode over to the chair opposite hers, lowered himself into it, and took a large swallow of the scotch, relishing the burn.
“Anonymous is the woman who was here the other night,” his mother said. “Miss Leyland.”
Bollocks. How had she figured it out? But where was the harm in admitting it? She made no morning calls, and no one called on her. She’d made no contact with any friends she may have had before. He wondered if she was embarrassed to admit she’d been locked away. Still, he couldn’t give voice to the confirmation, but it must have been visible in his features because she nodded. “And you love her.”
“Why would you think that?”
She gave him a small, indulgent smile. “Although it has been some years, I do remember what yearning looks like.” She studied the flames licking at the logs. “Your father stole twenty years from me, twenty years of watching you grow up, seeing you at school, helping to shape you into the man you would become. He stole from me the few years remaining to Francis. Perhaps if I’d been there, the accident wouldn’t have happened.”
“You can’t blame yourself for Francis’s death.”
“I don’t. If anything, I blame my husband because how are we to know what actions taken lead to specific outcomes.” Her eyes came back to rest on him.“How many years with Miss Leyland did he steal from you?”
After a quick shake of his head, he took another long swallow of the scotch.
“Was she the price for my freedom?”
“Mother—”
“Was she?”
She was usually not so assertive. She’d picked a hell of a night to be so, to begin overcoming her fears. He was not going to burden her with guilt for the duke’s actions. “We did not suit. She is soon to marry another. With him, she will have the happiness she deserves that I couldn’t have given her.”
She took a slow sip of her brandy, closing her eyes as though relishing the flavor. But when she opened them, they contained the faraway look he remembered from his boyhood when she’d seemed to have traveled elsewhere in her mind. Then she shook it off, but he noted a lingering remnant, of a memory perhaps. “He told you of my wickedness, I presume. And that you are not of his loins. Perhaps he even forbade you to marry. He was always so deuced proud of his bloodline. Do you hate me for it?”
“No.” The word came out quickly and unfettered, filled with conviction. “Nor were you wicked. He was not an easy man to have as a father. I cannot imagine he was any easier as a husband. I very much doubt yours was a love match.”
“But that does not justify infidelity, does it? I took vows, didn’t I? I had intended to uphold them, to be a good and proper wife. I was seventeen when we married. Three years later, I still had yet to conceive, toprovide him with his heir. He became increasingly unkind, abusive really.” She waved a hand. “Not with his fists, but with words. Oh, they could hurt, agonizingly so. His anger was driven by his frustrations, I supposed.”
“That does not excuse his behavior toward you.”
She shook her head. “No, I quite agree. Still, I was so terribly young and feeling... insufficient. My friends were having children. Why not I? One winter night, he was particularly horrible, said some horrendous things, and stormed out. Went to the nearby village to visit his mistress—made no bones about telling me where he was going. I was overwhelmed with such despair. In spite of the cold, I began wandering through the garden. A full moon lit my way. I came across a solitary white rose in bloom, among the brambles and thorns. I fell to my knees and wept. That was how he found me.”
She looked back toward the flames, and Knight shifted slightly to the edge of the chair, placing his elbows on his thighs. “The duke?”
His mother slid her attention back to him and smiled softly. “No, the gardener. He was kind and warm. He took me to his cottage and made me feel like the rose. Something so pretty that could exist among such ugliness. It was only ever the one night. He quickly found employment elsewhere—horrified by what had transpired between us, I think, or fearful the duke might discover our... duplicity. Soon after, I realized I was with child. Convinced myself it was the duke’s and merely coincidence that...” Her voice trailed off.
“Francis had blond hair and brown eyes—like the duke.”
She nodded, arched a brow, and lifted a shoulder. “And like the gardener. After Francis was born, three years passed, and I again didn’t conceive. Do you know your father boasted that his mistresses were wise enough to take precautions and never burden him with any bastards? I began to suspect that wasn’t the case at all. That perhaps he couldn’t sire children. That the failure of which he accused me rested instead with him. Oh, but he wanted his spare. Life became quite miserable again, because I wasn’t carrying out my duties.” Her lips formed a gentle smile of reminiscence. “Then I met John. And he gave me you.”
He was struck with a sense of wonder at her radiant expression that encompassed all the love she held for not only him but the man who’d sired him. He felt the tiniest of pinpricks behind his eyes, feared he might be on the verge of weeping, no doubt a result of all the various emotions that had been bombarding him throughout the evening. “Who was he?”
His voice was rough, scratchy, and raw. Until that moment he hadn’t realized how desperately he wanted to know who had sired him.
“He was a tenant farmer on the ducal estate. I would deliver baskets of goods at Christmas. That was how we first met. I began taking Francis on picnics near the fields where John toiled. He was tall and broad of shoulder. Dark hair and the bluest eyes. Sometimes, if I searched long enough, I could find a swath of the blue of his eyes in the sky. You look very much like him, andwhen you came to get me, at first, I thought you were him. He was so very kind. He had a beautiful smile, and the most wonderful laugh. And he could make me laugh. I loved him, Arthur, and he loved me. I’ve no doubt of that. But what we had was illicit. The guilt gnawed at us. One day, he simply left. Without saying goodbye. However, he did hold you once. You were only a couple of months old. Of course, I claimed you were the duke’s child, but I think he knew the truth of it. I believe that made it difficult for him to stay. But not a single day goes by that I don’t think of him. I miss him, but I wish him well and hope he found love elsewhere.”
Knight was having a difficult time absorbing it all, particularly the irony that even the heir his father had loved so well had probably not carried his blood. But he also felt like a great burden had been lifted. “I was born of love, then.”
“You were, yes.”
“Bishop’s wife is an inquiry agent. I could ask her to find him if you like.”
She shook her head. “After all these years, I’d rather just hold on to the memories. And I’ve created a story for him in which he’s acquired great happiness. But if you want to know him...”
“I prefer your memories of him, I think.”
“What of your memories of Miss Leyland, Arthur? Are you going to be content to live the remainder of your life with only those?”
