Before his father could utter a word, she turned to Damian, “I expect no less from you.” And the comment pricked his pride. “As you both think it fair game to use me to score points, I shall take my leave in pursuit of finding less toxic air.”
The widow thrust her pretty nose high, turned on her heel and headed towards the terrace.
Any other time, and with any other woman, he would have said to hell with it and moved to pastures new. Yet the widow had slithered under his skin. Perhaps he lived in the hope of finding Scarlett—the caring soul lost beneath the hideous disguise. Perhaps he hoped her goodness would cure him of his sickening malaise, too.
Whatever it was, something made him turn to his father and say, “I’m sure you have more important guests in need of your attention.” He did not pay the lord the courtesy of inclining his head but merely turned his back.
“Why do you fight against the inevitable?” The marquis caught Damian’s coat sleeve, stalling him momentarily. “Parklands awaits its master. You only need marry a lady of my choosing.”
And Parklands could fall into rack and ruin for all Damian cared. Thankfully, his mother had been wealthy in her own right and so rarely accepted financial help from the lord.
“With the right alliance, society will forgive you anything,” the marquis continued.
Forgive him!
He wasn’t the one who had made a mistake. “You created a bastard, and you can damn well live with the consequences. Now remove your hand before I make a devil of a scene.”
“The aristocracy are governed by different rules.” The marquis’ hand slipped from Damian’s evening coat. “Complicated rules you wouldn’t understand.”
Damian glared down his nose, the same blasted nose he had inherited from this man. “If you’d loved her, you would have married her. What is so complicated about that?”
“You know nothing of the situation,” the marquis countered, but Damian was keen to put some distance between them and so marched away without a backwards glance.
Before heading out onto the terrace, he barged purposely into Jemima Steele, bowed over her hand and slipped her a note whilst making his apologies.
He found his widow outside, her body stiff and rigid, her palms resting on the stone balustrade as she stared at the rows of lanterns illuminating the manicured garden. No doubt he should offer an apology for his ill-mannered comments. And yet the only question that mattered hung like a ton weight from his tongue.
“How many times has the marquis tried to seduce you?” Damian breathed deeply to calm his racing pulse. The answer mattered more than he cared to admit.
She shrugged but did not turn to look at him. “Perhaps once or twice, but he behaves that way with everyone.”
“If he has laid a finger on you, I’m done here.”
She swung around to face him, her blue eyes wide. Once, the cyan pools had spoken of hope and honesty. Now, they carried the heaviness of grief, though not for her husband.
“Not that I have to explain myself to you, but I am not in the habit of bedding men to climb the social ladder. I am not in the habit of bedding men at all, let alone one who would do so just to prove his superiority.”
Damian stepped closer. “The marquis always gets what he wants.” Except for control over his illegitimate son. His only son for that matter.
“Then he will be sorely disappointed.”
Not for long. The marquis knew how to manipulate people to do his bidding. “Does your reluctance for a liaison have something to do with your scars?” Did the widow’s shame make her immune to his father’s charms?
“My scars?” she said incredulously. “Despite my no
torious reputation, Mr Wycliff, I still possess an ounce of pride.”
And yet she had sacrificed her dignity to reveal the hideous marks.
“And if the marquis makes another attempt to lure you into his bed, will your answer be the same?” He’d once thought he might forgive his angel anything, but he could not forgive that.
“To use your own words, Mr Wycliff, I am done here. The marks on my body tell the story of a woman who refused to cower and pander to a man. Having borne such suffering, I shall not crumble to my knees beneath the weight of your veiled threats.”
“You’re saying you no longer want my help?”
Panic surfaced.
The uncharacteristic feeling proved shocking.