In spite of Ashcroft’s efforts to appear unmoved, Diana saw the color drain from his face. She couldn’t mistake his pain. And she inflicted it. She deserved to suffer the torments of the damned for this.
The eyes he turned on her flared with accusation. “What’s this about, Diana?”
She felt utterly sick. “Ashcroft, I told you I couldn’t marry you. I told you to leave. You don’t…”
Burnley stepped forward, leaning on his stick but looking heartier than he had for months. Clearly trouncing the earl so thoroughly improved his health. That and the news that she was pregnant.
She wasn’t sure yet, but her cycle was regular, and she was a week overdue. Her deepest instincts insisted the breathtaking passion she’d shared with Ashcroft bore fruit.
“No need to spare the fellow’s feelings, sweeting.”
Diana shuddered at the endearment. Burnley had never called her anything remotely affectionate in all their long acquaintance. She didn’t like it.
She cast a pleading glance at Ashcroft. “For the love of heaven, go, Ashcroft.”
“I agree with Mrs. Carrick.” Satisfaction dripped from Burnley’s words. “You’ve made your ridiculous marriage proposal. She’s refused. Any man with a modicum of backbone would remove himself to lick his wounds. You’re just like your mother, victim to sickly sentiment when everything indicates your attentions are unwelcome.”
Burnley must have eavesdropped for a while. Diana’s soul cringed at how Ashcroft would feel knowing such a private, vulnerable moment had a witness. A witness who felt only contempt for him.
“Ashcroft, you don’t need to hear this.” She reached out, but he shook her off as though she didn’t exist. She deserved the dismissal, but it still stung.
“What’s that about my mother?” Ashcroft asked sharply, stepping toward Burnley. His eyes were the same pale green as the famous celadon porcelain at Cranston Abbey. The inhuman coldness made her shiver.
Burnley’s mouth flattened. “Your mother was a brainless slut.”
Diana gasped even as Ashcroft stiffened. “You knew her?”
“Of course I did.” Burnley’s voice vibrated with derision. “All prim propriety and virtue until I tumbled her into bed. Stupid little jade. She gulled herself into thinking she was in love, and that excused anything she did. God knows why her husband took her back.”
“My father didn’t take her back.” Ashcroft’s voice retained that unearthly calm.
His gaze didn’t waver from the old man who visibly relished his rival’s humiliation. Because, Diana realized with nausea, that’s what Burnley had always considered Ashcroft. A younger, more virile version of himself over whom he must prove his superiority.
“He did the first time she kicked over the traces. Your mother was such a martyr to love, she didn’t stay. Not once she’d pupped you. Moronic bitch imagined I’d find a way to marry her.”
“Ashcroft, go, please,” Diana said brokenly, grabbing his hand.
He didn’t glance at her although his hand curled around hers so hard it hurt. All his attention fixed on the marquess. His expression was tight with abhorrence. And dawning understanding.
Burnley hardly needed to speak the next words. “Because of course I’m your father.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Ashcroft stared at this smug, evil old man, waiting for disbelief to overwhelm him. It didn’t. Burnley’s statement had a grim, inevitable air of truth.
He wasn’t a fool. He’d always suspected he might be a bastard. It explained so much about how his family treated him, as if he had no right to his place as head of the Vales. As if he was responsible for his father’s early death. As if his mother’s sins were visited on his head. He doubted details of his parentage were familiar to the wider family, but his aunts and uncles must know, and their dislike carried into the next generation.
“Tarquin, what does it matter?” Diana’s voice lowered to broken pleading. “You’ve lived your whole life without knowing he’s your father. It doesn’t make any difference to the man you are. He’s just out to score points against you. If you leave, you’ll deprive him of the pleasure.”
She clutched his hand as though she sought to bolster his courage. He hadn’t noticed until now. Briefly, he turned and looked into her beautiful, troubled face. She looked agitated. She looked frightened. One thing she didn’t look was surprised.
He ignored Burnley, who was incandescent with triumph. “You knew.”
She flinched as if he hit her, although he’d spoken calmly. She bit her lip, a sure sign of nervousness, and nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I knew.”
She sounded bitterly ashamed, and her shoulders slumped in misery. She wasn’t crying anymore, although the sticky trails on her cheeks testified to her distress. H
is brain stirred from its shock and sluggishly pieced together clues, hints that had kept his suspicions alive no matter how she lulled him into a sensual daze.