Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
challenging him to deny it. ‘That last night we spent together. I found that I was carrying him when you had gone…’
‘My son.’ The meaning took hold, searingly bright, as the implications began to leap into sharp and painful focus. As Henry recalled, suddenly with a terrible clarity, the words that he had overheard her speak to the child, his child, in the small sunlit parlour. Before he had held the infant in his own arms. You can never know your father…you will never keep his image in your memory… And he had not known, not understood. How could he have held his own son and not have realised? But then he had not understood her meaning. The powerful tangle of emotions threatened to choke him, but his eyes were stark, austere even, all emotion effectively buried when he turned his gaze on the woman who stood before him. ‘Why did you not tell me? Why did I not know of this?’
‘I did not know how to reach you. I wrote to you, but received no reply. And then it was too late—I was married to Thomas and it would have done more harm than good to tell you. And…'But there were no excuses, really. She gave up, eyes still searching his face to determine his reaction.
‘Did Thomas know?’ Henry rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to make sense of the incredible confession. ‘When you married him, did he know that you carried my child?’
‘Of course he did!’ She grew pale with anger and not a little shame that she had put Thomas in such an invidious position. ‘Would you accuse me of tricking him? Of course Thomas knew that Tom was your son.’
Baxendale’s words returned to Henry like a blow to the gut. Your precious sister-in-law made sure that she ensnared your brother, did she not? This terrible scenario opening before him, revealed by the only woman whom he had ever loved, was even worse than the one painted by his enemy with such malicious intent. The shock wave rolled over him with remorseless power. It coated his next words with pitiless despair.
‘Or did you allow my gullible brother to think that the child was his? Was that why he married you, to give his name to his own bastard child? Poor Thomas always did believe the best of everyone. Did you indeed trap him into marriage? Baxendale did not realise how far from the mark he was. Even he did not imagine that you would be capable of such a depth of deceit and trickery.’
Eleanor drew in her breath at the deliberate and ruthless assassination of her character. The pain in her heart was tangible.
How could he accuse her of such dishonesty? What could Edward Baxendale have possibly said to cause this volley of spiteful words?
‘Why tell me now?’ Lord Henry demanded, lips curled in a snarl. ‘If you made so little effort to inform me two years ago, why now?’
She strove for calm in the midst of this storm of callous cruelty. There must be a way out of this maelstrom if only she could find it. ‘Because with Thomas’s death it has changed everything. The title is yours by rights. You should be Marquis of Burford. My son—your son—has no right to inherit before you.’
No! Oh God, no!
An icy hand closed inexorably round his heart with exquisite torture as he contemplated the one thing in life he did not want, had never wanted.
‘I do not want it.’ The denial was flat and instantaneous, disguising his fear. ‘Neither the title nor the estate.’
‘Perhaps not. But it would be wrong if you never knew, never had the knowledge to make the choice.’ She swallowed against the lump in her throat. ‘If you never had the choice to claim your son and recognise him as your own.’
‘Do you really expect me to believe all this?’ She would never have believed the flat denial in his eyes, in his voice.
‘Why not? Why should you not believe me?’ Anger began to replace shock in her veins and she lifted her head, drawing pride and dignity around her shoulders like a velvet cloak. ‘I could have let you leave next week—without ever telling you that you had a child. Why should I make up a situation that would compromise my own honour? I have nothing to gain from this confession other than society’s condemnation if it becomes known outside these four walls. It was my decision to allow you…intimacies without marriage. For that I certainly deserve censure. And how I paid the price!’ She stifled a sob. She would not shed tears over this. Never again! ‘I trusted you to marry me.’
Her accusation hit home, but he was too angry to give it credence, to contemplate it for more than a heartbeat. Even though a small part of his brain admitted that in all honesty she could not take all the blame for this. The child was the making of both of them in a moment of mutual love and desire. Hers had been the innocence on that occasion. How could he be so utterly selfish as to heap the blame on her? If the child was really his, of course, a nasty little voice insinuated in his mind. But he pushed away the uncomfortable thoughts and concentrated on the burning issue that raged, destructive and uncurbed, through his blood.
‘You ask why I should accept your words. Perhaps you think your timely confession to be in your own interests. I suppose that it is just conceivable that, given the glad news of a son and heir, I would fall at your feet in guilt for my past actions and in gratitude marry you. That would restore all your status and wealth as Marchioness of Burford. An achievement indeed! Instead of the power being held in trust and your own income limited to that from the widow’s jointure, however generous it might be.’
‘Do you think so little of me, that I would deliberately lie to you?’ Her cheeks were ashen, her eyes so dark as to be almost indigo as she regarded him with horror.
‘Perhaps not, in all fairness.’ The admission was forced from him. ‘But I would not put it past your mother to lay out such a campaign! Her ambitions for you are outrageous. Whether you are compliant in her schemes or simply ignorant, I know not.’
Eleanor could find nothing to say. Her body seemed numb to all sensation. Nothing could be worse she thought, watching herself objectively, listening to Hal’s harsh voice as if it were from a great distance, than this one moment in her life. She felt as if he had struck her, an open-handed slap, as indeed he had, with words if not with his hand. Her heart ached from the blow.
Lord Henry saw the effect of his attack. It had been devastating. It struck him instantly that he was in the wrong, but his disillusion was as bitter as gall, his wretchedness at being chained into a life that he detested was intemperate. Resisting the urge to enfold her close, to stroke and comfort, to fall on his knees to beg a forgiveness that he did not deserve, was almost beyond his power. Even though he raged against himself for his brutal insensitivity, Hal continued to lash out to cover his own hurt, his own vulnerability.
‘Are you sure that you really know whose child it is?’
She had been wrong, Eleanor thought. This was worse. She shook her head as she struggled to find an answer to such an impossible question. ‘I…I can’t…’
Self-contempt now lodged in his chest to reproach him for so offensive an attack, disgust that he should make such an unwarranted accusation. Seeing the rigidity in her whole body, he reined in his temper and tried for a more moderate tone. ‘Could you not have told me this any time before now, Eleanor?’
But Eleanor was beyond moderation. Fury leapt within her with all-consuming flames. She was past considering the effect of her words and struck out in her own defence. ‘When do you suggest, my lord? The moment you arrived back at Burford Hall?’ The sarcasm was biting, although she kept her voice low and admirably controlled. ‘Welcome home, Henry. Let me introduce you to your son?’ She laughed with a hint of hysteria. ‘It would have put Sir Edward’s news of an unknown wife, hidden away in the country, in the shade, I imagine. No, I could not. And I will tell you why. I was afraid.’ She all but spat out the words. ‘I was afraid to tell you. I knew that you did not want me. I could accept that—and have done so for two years. But I was afraid to discover that you would not want your son either. I thought that would break my heart.’
‘Eleanor!’ He had hurt her beyond measure.
‘And I was right, wasn’t I? You have no wish to know him or claim him and I cannot persuade