“Bravo,” he said ironically. “It’s still not yours.”
Her lips flattened at his jibe. “It will be.”
“He’s sick, dying, isn’t he?”
She cast another glance at Burnley, who looked increasingly irritated. “Yes. And he’s…”
“Impotent. I’m his only chance of a child in the direct line. Because of the fire at Deshayes.”
She looked like he tortured her. Ridiculous, really, when all her dreams came true, and he was the one on the rack. “I’m sorry, Ashcroft. You’ll never know how sorry. I was wrong to involve you. By the time I realized how wrong I was, it was too late.”
“Yes, clearly you couldn’t tell me,” he said scathingly. “In all those hours we spent together, you found no opportunity for confession.”
“Don’t…” She drew a shuddering breath. “By then I’d lost my honor. I couldn’t go back to what I was. And you’d have tossed me out on my ear if you had known the truth.”
Would he? He didn’t know. What he did know was that finding out this way was worse than having his flesh sliced away inch by inch.
“I’d probably have fucked you one last time,” he said snidely because he was just so damned angry with her. Even as he ached to sweep her into his arms and carry her far away and pretend she was the woman he wanted her to be.
Her lips thinned as if she held back pain. “Stop saying that…that word.”
“Why? It’s something short and sharp and animal to match what we did. I can’t conjure a more suitable term.”
“It wasn’t like that for me.” She flushed but stared at him squarely. “Naturally, none of that matters. You hate me, and you never want to see me again. I understand that. It’s how anyone would feel. I tried to save you from finding out, but it was cowardly. I should have told you when you came to Chelsea.”
“You should have told me long before that.”
“No, I should never have started this.”
He gathered courage to ask the question burning on his tongue since his world had fractured. “Are you pregnant?”
She released him. He tried not to miss her touch. Her touch lied. It always had. “I don’t know. It’s too early.”
A nice, sensible answer, except he could see she believed she was. The wave of possessiveness was an unwelcome revelation. He summoned rage as his only defense. When it was already far too late to raise bulwarks against this ruthless, beautiful invader.
“How do you know the child is a Fanshawe? Was I your only lover?”
Her eyes darkened with what he could only read as hurt. Oh, cruel and clever jade to make him feel the villain. “I didn’t lie about everything, Ashcroft. Although I can’t blame you for thinking I did. You are my only lover since my husband’s death eight years ago. Trust me or not, but it’s the truth.”
He almost believed her, even if that made him the biggest numbskull in Creation. “You’re not Burnley’s mistress?”
“I told you…”
“He hasn’t always been impotent.”
She spoke through stiff lips. “No, I’ve never shared Lord Burnley’s bed.”
“How can you be sure I’m his son?” He’d already accepted his heritage. It was like a part of him had known before Burnley told him.
“Your birthmark,” she said reluctantly.
“So once you saw my brand, I was ready for breeding.” His tone was abrasive.
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked, and she tensed brittle as dried grass. She seemed to have reached a state of anguish beyond mere tears.
“Mrs. Carrick, I believe it’s time for Lord Ashcroft to leave.” Burnley sounded as though he owned everything in sight. He did. This was his estate, and clearly he’d bought Diana long ago.
She drew herself up and fought for composure. She didn’t shift her gaze from Ashcroft’s face. Her voice grated with despair. “I did you wrong, and I sincerely beg your pardon. Even though I know you’ll never grant it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”