he next two days passed for Victoria in a state of utter bliss. She and her husband lingered in bed mornings and afternoons alike, making love to each other until she knew every inch of his body and he hers. It was all very much like a dream from which she had no intention of waking. Ever.
But their idyll wasn’t meant to last, it seemed.
The duke had arrived, and his first order of business was an audience with Victoria. The summons came as a surprise to both her and Will. Afternoon light filtered into her chamber as she prepared for the undoubtedly uncomfortable meeting to come. Keats was putting the finishing touches upon her hair.
“Do you think my dress too forward?” She frowned at her reflection as she asked the question of Will, who had joined her in her chamber, similarly concerned by his father’s odd request.
The duke had refused to greet either of them at his arrival. Instead, he had demanded luncheon in his rooms and a nap, in that particular order. She and Will had been secretly relieved by the respite, but now it appeared they would no longer remain so fortunate.
“I think your dress is splendid,” Will drawled, meeting her gaze in the looking glass. “And if the old codger doesn’t like it, he can bloody well go to hell where he belongs.”
“My lord,” she scolded, aware that as much as she respected and trusted Keats, they ought to at least hold up the pretenses. The duke was Will’s father, after all. “You mustn’t speak thus of His Grace.”
He shrugged. “I don’t like him, and I don’t care who knows it.”
She sighed, her nervousness threatening to get the best of her. Perhaps, she’d reasoned to herself, if she could earn the duke’s respect, she could ease the troubled relationship between father and son. Perhaps there would be a peace between them, or at least a tentative melting of their mutual ice.
“I want to do well by you,” she told her husband. “It wouldn’t do if he thought me an uncouth American bumpkin.”
“There’s no danger of him thinking that, my dear,” Will assured her, his visage grave. “None at all. I disapprove of his monarchal decree that you dance attendance upon him, you know. You needn’t heed him.”
“You could accompany me,” she pointed out, made hopeful by her inner aspirations of reuniting father and son in semi-harmony.
His expression hardened. “No. Give the devil his due. If it’s an audience with my wife that he desires, it’s an audience he shall get. Never let him say we didn’t bend to his whims.”
She wished she could ask him why he’d grown so very serious and bitter, but she was ever aware of Keats’ presence. Instead, she continued her preparations in silence, feeling as if she were the lamb being readied for slaughter. It was most disconcerting.
The duke awaited her in the drawing room. Wilton announced her with a severity she’d supposed only reserved for funerals. Indeed, there was something somber about the entire affair, she thought as she entered the room.
After having spent so much time in her husband’s presence, she noted the similarities between Will and his father at once. They had the same dark mane of hair, though gray dusted the heavily greased strands of the duke’s. His eyes were as blue and probing. The way he carried himself was stiffer and yet still reminiscent of Pembroke, with a signature aura of arrogance. The elder’s whiskers, however, were quite pronounced, his mustache so large it nearly took on the appearance of a small creature.
The effect was almost laughable. She tamped down an inappropriate giggle bubbling up within her throat. Dear heavens, she couldn’t make light of the august man. He held so much of her future within his age-spotted paws.
The duke made an imperious gesture that she supposed meant she ought to sit. Gingerly, she lowered herself to the edge of a particularly uncomfortable settee. The drawing room seemed somehow more imposing with his mere presence. She fussed with the fall of her gown, attempting to hide her nervousness.
“Lady Pembroke,” he said formally when he too had taken his seat once more. “I understand you’ve flourished here at Carrington House.”
She was under the impression only plants flourished, not people, but she wisely kept that opinion to herself. “I’ve merely done my duty.”
“You have not, my lady.” His voice was stern, unforgiving.
His assertion startled her. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” she was bold enough to question him, perhaps a character trait that was down to her proud American heritage. She had worked wonders upon the estate, and with an absentee husband no less. How dare he suggest she had somehow fallen short of his expectations?
“You are to provide an heir.” He impaled her with an impenetrable glare. “You have not done so.”
Goodness. She hadn’t been prepared to speak of such a delicate matter with him. She’d never grow entirely accustomed to the English and their odd notions. She took care in crafting her response. “Your Grace, if you must be so indelicate, then so shall I. The fault of this does not entirely belong to me.”
“I’m well aware of Pembroke’s shortcomings,” the duke growled. “It’s his mother’s blood he has running through his veins. But that’s neither here nor there. I understand that he obeyed me for the first time in his misbegotten life and has returned to share the marital bed with you.”
Victoria stilled. Will had obeyed the duke? Her entire body tensed as though preparing for a blow. She became hyperaware of her surroundings in that moment—the heavy breathing of the duke, the faint footsteps of servants beyond the closed drawing room door, the ticking of the gilded mantle clock. Tick, tick, tick.
She found her voice at last. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You heard me aright,” he snapped. “The earl has begun sharing the marital bed with you as I’ve asked. ‘Tis half a year too late, but I’m counting myself fortunate that it’s better late than never. I’ll not have the duchy going to my cousin’s spineless, wastrel fop one day if Pembroke doesn’t sire a son. You’ll do your duty until I’ve an heir, by God.”
Her mind stumbled to sift and make sense of what the duke had just said. Pembroke had come to her because of an edict given by the duke? He’d obeyed, the duke had said. That meant everything she and Will had shared—every kiss, every moment of passion, every promise—had all been maneuvered by the hateful man before her. How many times had Will told her he had returned a changed man, that he wanted a new beginning, that he’d returned for her and her alone?
Surely he couldn’t have been lying to her the entirety of the time they’d spent together?
Or could he have? She pressed her fingers to her suddenly throbbing temples. The room seemed to spin around her. She didn’t know if she was going to faint or scream. Will’s words shuffled back through her mind like a deck of cards.
Victoria, I’ve missed you.
I’ve come back to Carrington House because I want to start anew.
I love you.
Had everything been a falsehood, a fabrication meant to woo her into allowing him to provide the duke with a required heir? Dread skewered her. Yes, of course that was possible. He was the same man who had courted and abandoned her, the man who chased after lightskirts and ignored her with practiced nonchalance. She shouldn’t be surprised by the duke’s disclosure. She should not have fallen for her husband’s handsome looks, charm, and knowing hands.
But she had.
“You appear startled, my lady,” the duke observed. “Pray forgive me my plain speaking, but I’ve never been one to mince words. The plain truth of the matter is that Pembroke needs a male heir, or when he and I pass on to our rewards, the man next in line is an unsuitable country fool who will run the estates to ruin. Our family has possessed these lands for centuries. For them and the title to go to anyone other than the rightful heir would be a sacrilege.”
She swallowed, trying to calm her madly beating heart and assuage the awful sense of betrayal overtaking her. “I do understand the need for an heir, Your Grace. You said Pembroke obeyed you. May I be so daring as to ask you what you meant?”
The duke’s eyes narrowed in what she assumed was suspicion. “Forward lot, you Americans.” He sighed, apparently put out by her lack of manners. “I’ve discovered that Pembroke requires an impetus for everything. I threatened to cut him off unless he returned to you and carried out his family obligations.”
If her heart had been a finely cut crystal goblet, it would have been dashed into hundreds of infinitesimal shards in that instant. She wasn’t so fortunate. Her heart wasn’t an object, and it hurt with an intensity that blindsided her. She wanted to leave the drawing room. Her lungs felt as if they could no longer hold air.
This was far worse than Will’s original abandonment of her. He’d told her he loved her. Lies, all of it. He’d connived and betrayed her all in the name of money. Her stomach gave a surge and she feared she’d embarrass herself before the duke.
“I’m led to believe Pembroke didn’t share his motivations for suddenly returning to play husband,” the duke unkindly observed.
She took a steadying breath. “He did not.”
“Ah.” He paused, considering her. “Surely you realize what sort of man he is, my dear. As I said, his mother’s blood flows through him. He isn’t to be trusted.”
It sickened her that the duke spoke so frankly and with such disdain for his own son. Of course, it would appear that Will deserved it, but she found that notion comfortless. Little wonder he detested his father. The sentiment appeared to be a mutual one.
“I fear I’m unwell, Your Grace.” She stood, her legs shaking beneath the layers of her silk afternoon dress. “Please excuse me?”
He watched her in stony silence, his gaze still sharp as rapiers. “You’d be wise not to allow your womanly sensibilities to impede your common sense. Pembroke will get an heir on you because he must. It doesn’t matter how it’s done, simply that it is.”
If she’d been nearer to him in proximity, she would have slapped him, propriety be damned. She was shaken to her core, disgusted by Pembroke as much as she was his father. She understood his reaction to the duke now better than ever. The man was a toad who disparaged his own flesh and thought of nothing other than his crumbling empire.
She raised her chin, forcing herself to be strong and not allow the duke the last word. “You are wrong in that, Your Grace. There will be no heir, for Pembroke will never touch me again.”
With that, she turned and beat a hasty retreat from the room. The duke called after her, but she ignored him. She’d had all the audiences with the awful man that she intended to have. Indeed, she wished very much that she’d never laid eyes upon him and Pembroke both.
Mere days ago, she’d vowed not to let anyone come between them again. How bitterly ironic that the only person who could come between them was the same man who always had. Pembroke himself.
It wasn’t until after she was safely on the other side of the closed door that she allowed the tears she’d been withholding to fall. She hurried past Mrs. Morton, whose benevolent round visage plainly showed her distress. Pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs, she rushed to the privacy of her chamber before she humiliated herself any further.
Later that evening, the expected knock came at her door. She had deliberately avoided Will and hadn’t gone down to dinner, pleading a headache. He’d spent the bulk of the afternoon off riding—no doubt an attempt to placate his conscience after his endless deceptions. Of course, that supposed he even possessed a conscience.
“Are you well, my dear?” he asked from his chamber, his tone concerned.
She didn’t answer. Nausea churned in her stomach. A cold sheen of sweat drenched her entire body. She stopped in the act of pacing her chamber, hoping he would simply go away. She didn’t think she could bear to see him just now.
“Victoria?”
Before she could even form a response, the door creaked open, revealing her husband. Of course he would have a key at the ready after last time. She hadn’t thought of that. He wore a dressing gown, belted at the waist, and a worried expression marred the masculine beauty of his face.
It was God’s idea of a cruel jest, she thought again, giving a man with a black heart the looks of an angel.
“Whatever is the matter? It’s not like you to miss dinner.” He started across the chamber, but she held up a staying hand.
“Don’t come any nearer to me.”
He stopped, a look of surprise replacing the distress. “What’s wrong, my love?”
“I’m not your love.” She took a deep, bracing breath, attempting to muster up the strength she would need to go to battle with him. The duke’s revelation had left her shaken and weak.
“What are you on about?” He started forward again.
She retreated, eyeing him warily. “The duke told me the real reason you’re here at Carrington House. I wonder that you sent me to meet him without fearing that he would. Perhaps you believed he would uphold your deceits for you, but it seems yours is a mutual enmity. He told me he threatened to cut you off if you didn’t get me with child. That you’re here with me out of obedience to him. I know that everything has been a lie.”
Her voice broke on the last sentence, but she refused to cry before him. She clenched her fists at her sides, feeling dreadfully impotent. He tried to come to her, take her in his arms, but she pushed at his chest, refusing to be embraced. His face said everything she needed to know. It was true. All of it. He’d deceived her over and over again. I promise. I love you. Dear God, and he’d never meant a single word. The anguish was almost too much for her to bear.
“Victoria, I can explain.” He held up a placating hand.
“No you can’t. I don’t want to hear any more of your falsehoods.”
“I came here for the wrong reasons,” he said, gripping her arms to force her into stillness. “But I stayed for the right ones. I love you, more than I ever thought possible.”
“You only love your own selfish gain,” she snapped. “Unhand me.”
“Calm down, love,” he commanded. “By God, you’ve got to listen to reason.”
Victoria tore herself from his grasp. “No. I won’t listen to you. Get out now, or I’ll scream and bring all the servants down upon us.”
“You wouldn’t.” He reached for her again, this time taking her icy hands in his. “I should have told you myself, and for that I apologize. Surely one misunderstanding can’t erase all that’s happened between us.”
“It wasn’t a misunderstanding, Pembroke.” She searched his gaze, trying to comprehend. “You deceived me from the first moment you came here. You said you were here because you’d been remiss as a husband. You said you missed me. I even asked you if you were here because the duke cut you off, and you denied it.”
“What was I meant to say, Victoria? It’s true that the duke cut me off. It’s true that I returned here with the intention of bedding you and going back to London at the first opportunity. I had no choice when I wed you. I had no choice when I returned here. At least, that’s what I bloody well thought, and I resented you for it. But I see now that I’ve always had a choice. My choice is you.”
“Your choice is my marriage settlement. It always has been, and it always will be.” She balled her fists into her skirts to keep him from seeing how badly they shook. “There was one reason for your return, and it was so you could keep living your wastrel life. God, I can’t believe how foolish I was to believe you after everything.”
His grip on her tightened. “I don’t give a damn about my old life. All of this, all of what we’ve shared, has been real, Victoria. This last fortnight has been the best of my life. Don’t toss it away now over this, I beg you.”
“It’s you who has tossed it away.” Bitterness laced her voice. She hadn’t thought it possible to feel the depth of pain slicing through her now. He had promised not to hurt her again, but he had, and worse than ever before. “I trusted you, did everything a proper wife ought to. I ran your household, loved you, believed you when you told me Signora Rosignoli’s arrival was a mistake. Even when I caught her in your arms, I still allowed you to persuade me it was all innocent. What a fool I was. Did you go to her after we made love?”
“Good Christ, of course not,” he denied. “You’re the only woman I want in my bed and you know it.”
“No.” She shook her head, tears streaming shamelessly down her cheeks. “I don’t know anything any longer, for everything I thought I knew was a farce.”
He released her, seemingly defeated. “I haven’t been a good husband to you. I’m sorry. Sorrier than you know. I don’t blame you if you hate me, Victoria. All I ask is that you not leave me. I can’t bear that.”
She stared at him, refusing to make a promise she couldn’t keep, unlike him. Leaving him was exactly what she must do for her own sake. “Please vacate my chamber. I don’t want you here.”
“Very well.” He offered her an abbreviated bow. “I won’t linger where I’m not wanted. But listen to what I’ve said. I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him, watching as he walked away, leaving her well and truly alone.
Early the next morning, it came to Pembroke’s attention that there was a vast assemblage of trunks being loaded onto his carriage. Still shaken from his confrontation with Victoria the night before, he stalked out into the grayish dawn light to determine what was in the works.
Footmen tramped in and out of the house bearing wieldy valises. His wife was overseeing the packing along with Mrs. Morton. Victoria was dressed to perfection, as usual, wearing a plum-and-black silk dress buttoned up to the neck, adorned with dyed lace and jet beads. His little American had blossomed into a true beauty to rival any English lady, and he didn’t deserve her. He’d never deserved her, just as petite souris had never been a fitting description of her. She was fierce and kind and giving and trusting. All of the bloody things he wasn’t.
Her gaze caught his. She didn’t bother to offer any deference. Instead, she excused herself from the housekeeper and crunched to him across the stone drive. Her dashing hat made her seem taller. He affixed his stare to the plume of ostrich feathers pointing to the heavens. Christ. This couldn’t be what he thought it was.
“I’m leaving you, Pembroke.”
Or perhaps it could be after all. Bloody hell.
The wind blew ever so gently. Orris root. Her mere scent affected him. His jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to hers. Her expression was tight, her lips drawn into the imperious frown he knew so well. She was leaving him. Forever. His gut clenched, as if he’d just woken from a bout of all-night whisky drinking and he needed to cast up his accounts.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m returning to New York.”
New York was an ocean away. He couldn’t speak as the implications of her announcement became clear to him. She didn’t plan on coming back to England. She no longer wanted to be his wife. Jesus, the thought left him cold.
“Then you shall be free to live life without the encumbrance of a wife,” she said, interrupting his troubled musings. “Your family will, of course, keep everything. I’m only taking my trousseau. You may inspect the trunks if you like.”
He didn’t want to inspect the bloody trunks. He wanted to have them hauled back into his home, damn it. “What are you on about, Victoria? You cannot simply run off to New York.”
“Of course I can.” Her voice was quiet, tinged with an emotion he couldn’t define. “You don’t want me anyway, and you never have.”
“Damn you, that’s not true.” He realized that in his agitation, he was nearly hollering at her, and lowered his tone. “Not precisely. Initially, it was different between us. I’ll own I resented you and treated you worse than a dockside doxy. But I’ve come to admire you. I cannot change what’s happened in the past, but I can make the future what it ought to be. I want to be a true husband to you, Victoria.”
Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “I’ve realized that you are nothing but a liar, ready to spin whatever tale gets you what you want in the moment. Even your own father says as much. But I’m no longer your fool. You wouldn’t even begin to know how to be a true husband.”
He knew he’d lost the right to her respect. The man he’d been wouldn’t have noticed the loss. In truth, the man he’d become was rather disgusted with the man he’d been, so embittered by his past that he’d been willing to use and hurt anyone to exact revenge. He didn’t blame his wife for her poor opinion of him. He’d earned it.
“I’ve never claimed to be a good man. But I do love you.”
She stilled. He held his breath, hoping his feelings would mean something to her. “Do not speak of love to me ever again,” she all but spat, dashing his optimism. “You know nothing of it.”
“You don’t belong in New York.” He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling utterly impotent as he never had before. “You belong at my side, as my wife.”
“I don’t want to be your wife any longer, Pembroke.” She tilted her chin, her expression taking on the stubbornness he’d come to expect from her. “I want to go back to my true home, and this time I won’t be dissuaded.”
Deuce it, why wouldn’t she listen to reason? They shared a deep passion together. He loved her. She’d said she loved him too. That had to mean something to her. Christ, but he’d bollixed this up.
“I know I should have told you the truth,” he admitted. “I’m every manner of bastard the duke told you I am. Indeed, I daresay worse. But never doubt that I love you, damn you.”
“Stop. Don’t say another word.” She shook her head as if she were trying to dispel his words from her mind. “I won’t be your pawn. You may as well cry defeat.”
He took her hands in his, determined not to allow her to run away from him. Their gazes clashed. He was as drawn to her as ever. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you go.”
A lengthy silence settled between them.
“I don’t love you,” she said at last, but she looked beyond him at the façade of Carrington House. “There, now unhand me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She tore away from his grasp as if his touch disgusted her. “I don’t care if you do or if you don’t. It no longer matters. I wish you a happy life, Pembroke. Truly, I do.”
She turned and gave him her back, clipping back across the drive to Mrs. Morton’s side. Another crashing wave of nausea smacked him in the gut. He was going to be sick, and Victoria was stolid, unwilling to be persuaded. He’d imagined that somehow he could convince her to see reason, for she couldn’t leave him. Not now when they’d merely begun.
He turned on his heel and stalked away before he embarrassed himself by losing last night’s supper in front of the wife who was leaving him and the servants who assisted in her flight. He only made it to the front entry before he lost the fragile grip he’d had on his control.
He’d simply allowed her to go. Victoria turned back for one last glimpse of Carrington House before the carriage ambled around the bend in the drive that would render it impossible to see. The imposing edifice stood stark against a graying sky, as arrogant as its owner. She’d come to think of its every tower, leaky roof and smudged window as hers to watch over. Over her months there, Carrington House had truly begun to feel like home.
Of course, if she were honest with herself, she’d acknowledge that it hadn’t felt like a home until Will’s return. But his return had been cloaked in lies, made only for his own gain and not out of any wish to be at her side. She turned to face forward, knowing there was no use in dwelling upon his betrayal. If she did, it would only devastate her.
Foolishly, she’d been hoping he would do something dramatic, perhaps chase after her, keep her from leaving. Instead, he’d merely stalked back into his sprawling country house without a backward look. A fitting end, she supposed, for a marriage that had begun and ended in deception. He didn’t care. He never had.
Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away as best she could. Her lady’s maid Keats sat opposite her as the carriage swayed, an awkward silence stretching between them. She knew it wasn’t done to speak openly of private matters with one’s servants, but Victoria had also come to realize that belowstairs knew far more of the comings and goings of its masters than the lords and ladies ever supposed.
“I’m leaving his lordship,” she told Keats. What did decorum matter anyway? She’d had enough of the odd world of the English aristocracy. She longed for New York, for familiar faces, her younger sisters, her parents. She didn’t belong here, and she knew that now more than ever.
“Oh dear, my lady.” The kindly Keats appeared genuinely concerned. “I’d heard whispers that something was amiss between you and his lordship, but I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Nor did I.” She swallowed a sob rather than allow it to escape and further humiliate her. “However, I’m afraid he’s left me with no choice.”
They were off to London. Staying one more day beneath the same roof as him and the duke had been insupportable. She’d sent word ahead to her friend Maggie of her impromptu arrival. After all, she hardly wanted to take up residence in the Belgravia house where he’d kept his paramour. Even if she only intended to linger a few days while she planned her passage back to America, she wanted no reminders of her husband’s indiscretions and intolerable behavior.
“Everyone belowstairs said he’d changed so much because of you, my lady,” Keats offered. “He even took an interest in the running of the estate and gave raises to the servants who’d been at Carrington House for five years or more. My dear mother always said love is like a stocking that always needs darning. Are you very certain that whatever’s happened can’t be repaired?”
Victoria hadn’t known he’d begun making changes of his own. That he’d cared enough to reward loyal retainers came as a shock to her. When she’d suggested it, he hadn’t seemed to take the notion under much consideration. She knew too that he’d been poring over the ledgers and looking into repairs that were required in the east wing.
But learning a sense of responsibility for his land and people did not mean that he was a faithful, trustworthy husband. Though it was hard indeed, she had to keep that first in her mind. She thought of her maid’s assertion that love was like a stocking and summoned up a sad smile. “You know, Keats, I do believe your mother was right. Love is like a stocking, but eventually it becomes too worn and you simply can’t mend it any longer. Once it reaches that point, all you can do is toss it away.”
If only tossing her love for Will away was as easy as that. She turned her attention to the slowly passing scenery, a muddle of pastoral beauty and lush green that was lost upon her. As the carriage swayed on, the clouds finally opened and unleashed a torrent of thunder and rain.
Will was devoting himself to the business of getting completely and thoroughly foxed. After he’d embarrassed himself by casting up his accounts all over the front hall, his pride hadn’t allowed him to chase after her. No, instead, he’d found a bottle of fine whisky and had drained it to the last drop. He woke the next morning on the floor of the music room with an aching head and stiff back, still wearing his clothing from the previous day. Wallowing in self-disgust, he’d discovered a bottle of brandy in his study and begun all over again.
He tossed back the contents of his glass and stared with grim intent at the cuts in the crystal. She didn’t want him. She’d finally had enough, and she’d gone. He couldn’t blame her either. Damn it, he should have told her the truth when he’d first begun to have feelings for her. Telling her and making amends would have been so much easier before he’d allowed it to go too far. Maria’s unexpected arrival had not helped matters, but he didn’t fool himself on that score. The duke had been behind Victoria’s departure. Damn the old meddling bastard to hell.
As he poured his third glass of brandy and soda water, the duke abruptly burst into his study. His blue gaze, so like Will’s own, was cold as always, his face a mask of disdain.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re getting inebriated again,” his father drawled, his voice laced with condemnation.
It was a tone he’d become accustomed to from the duke, but he wasn’t in the mood to be harassed. He was a powder keg. One more spark, and he’d explode. He stiffened, trying to calm himself before he responded. Allowing the duke to see how deeply he affected him would not do. It was precisely why he’d been avoiding his father.
“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head but refusing to stand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your illustrious company?”
“You have disappointed me your entire life, but this goes beyond the pale.” The duke stalked across the carpet, stopping at the escritoire to slam his fist upon its polished surface. “You have had one duty in your miserable existence, and somehow you’ve managed to fail at it. I have it on good authority that you’ve bedded half the tarts of London and yet you won’t bed your own countess.”
“For once we’re in complete agreement,” he acknowledged tightly. “My wife wants to return to America. You can keep her gold in your blasted coffers, but you’ll not be getting your heir.”
“Nonsense. There won’t be a divorce. I won’t allow it.” The duke slammed his fist again. “How was I to have known you’d lied to the chit? By God, you’ve never done anything properly. I should have simply married that American lightskirt myself.”
The urge to land a solid punch to his father’s haughty face had never been stronger. He stood, pinning the duke with a deadly glare. “Never insult my wife. If you even so much as speak her name ever again, I’ll thrash you as I should have a long time ago.”
The duke had a large stature as well, but his muscled form had withered with age. There was no doubt that in a physical match, Will would be the victor. His father knew it. He stilled, surprise evident in his expression. It was the first time Pembroke had ever stood up to his father. The weight he’d carried with him his entire life lifted. He felt light. Liberated.
“You dare to threaten me?” The duke raised an imperious brow.
“I dare much where you’re concerned,” he assured him, a new sense of confidence soaring within him. “You’ve done enough damage here. I’ll right the wrongs I’ve done, and if I have anything to say about it, you’ll have your blessed heir. But that’s only because I want to start a family with Victoria. I’ll not countenance any more meddling or disrespect, not from you or anyone else.”
“Who do you think you are to speak to me thus?” the duke demanded, sputtering.
“I’m your bloody son.” Something that had bothered him for years returned to him then in that moment of rebellion, and he had to know. “Whilst we’re throwing all the wood onto the fire, tell me one thing, Your Grace. Who killed my puppy? I was a stripling and my only comfort in the world was that damn dog.”
His father’s expression clouded with uncontrived confusion. “Puppy? I haven’t the time to worry about your mongrels, Pembroke.”
It had been his mother, then. After all these years, he had the truth. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, but the revelation made his mouth go dry. He thought of the six-year-old boy he’d been, longing for affection from a broken, angry woman. That boy was now a man who’d treated his wife every bit as poorly as he’d once been treated. How could he have willingly visited that pain upon another? Shame was a breathtaking thing.
A new resolve overcame him. He’d spent his time enraging the duke with one scandal after the next. He’d wasted years on hollow retribution. But revenge didn’t matter. He’d never change his father, never undo the damage of the past. But he could move forward. He could choose love instead of hate. The time had come for him to be a man. He had to win back Victoria. Without her, his life was an empty husk.
His mind made up, he strode past his startled father.
“Where the devil are you going?” the duke called after him, clearly consternated.
“To get my wife,” he returned over his shoulder, not bothering to glance back at his father. The past was where it belonged, and the only future he wanted had Victoria in it. He had to earn her trust again. There was no other course.