Chapter Eighteen
Father was an overstatement.
A father, in James’s opinion, was supposed to provide things for their child—clothes, shelter, food, love…more than anything, love. All the Duke of Sheffield had provided was his seed.
He didn’t want to talk about his absent father, but the pressure of Eleanor’s hand on his back urged him on. He felt it like a brand. He felt it in a way that he shouldn’t.
“My mother was the daughter of a drover on his estate. She caught his attention. He caught hers. She loved him, I think.” That was hard to admit, even to himself. “He might have loved her, too, once. But a Highland lass wasn’t the right sort of mistress for a duke, or that was what he thought, at least. He left for London, she had me. I don’t know what happened, then. I don’t know if she ever reached out to him or not. But she moved to Edinburgh after her father died, and you know what our lives were like after that.”
Eleanor was silent for a moment. He could sense her mind whirring in that empty space, and it was oddly comforting.
“How did you find out?”
“She told me when she fell ill. She spoke of him with wistfulness…I thought there was something there, so I went to him.” He took a deep breath before he continued. “I went to his country estate to bring him back to her, so she could see him before she died. I forced my way into his study—he wasn’t even going to let me in,” he said with a bitter laugh.
“And he looked at me…he looked at me like I was nothing, like my presence alone was an insult. I tried to ignore that. Even if I wasn’t anything to him, that didn’t mean my mother was nothing, too. But whatever he felt for her was long buried. He didn’t flinch when I told him she was dying. And when I asked if he’d come visit her, he said, ‘Why would I go anywhere with you?’”
Eleanor drew in a tremulous breath behind him.
“I returned alone, and at that point, my mother didn’t even recognize me anymore.” He lifted his shoulder in a light, careless shrug, as though these were things that hadn’t weighed him down for years, things that didn’t still threaten to break his heart in two, late at night, when he was unguarded.
“He sounds horrible.”
“He was horrible—and rich and immaculate and cold and untouchable. I’d never been so cowed in my life. I was such an idiot on that journey. I kept thinking of the things we might say to each other. What we might find in common. It didn’t cross my mind that he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”
His foolishness hadn’t even been the worst part. But he’d told Eleanor everything else, he might as well tell her the thing that still gnawed at his gut. And maybe, maybe when he told her, she’d see the kind of man he truly was, and whatever that kiss had been would fade as quickly as it had appeared. “I want to hate him. I wanted to hate him then and I want to hate him now, but I couldn’t, and I can’t.”
“Because he’s your father.”
“No,” he said harshly. “Because I admire him. Because I had nothing for so long and he had everything, and he makes you feel like he deserves a golden throne and you deserve to grovel in the dirt. I don’t hate him, I want to be him.”
The pressure of her hand slipped from his back and he missed it, God, he missed it, but he didn’t move. She stepped around him so they were face-to-face. Her brow had a deep furrow line as she studied him, and he resisted the urge to smooth it with his fingertips.
“You think being like him will bring you happiness? But you don’t even know that he’s happy.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
That line in her forehead dug in even deeper. “How can you say that?”
“Because it doesn’t. I never said I wanted happiness.”
“How would your mother feel if she heard that?”
It was a knife’s blade slipped between his ribs. His mother. The woman who’d done everything in her power to make him feel safe and happy and loved, when she’d barely had a shilling to her name. The woman who’d been dying when he’d been dreaming of a different life, and idolizing a far different person.
“You’re hitting below the waist, Cecil,” he said softly.
She frowned at him again. “What does that mean?”
“In boxing, it’s illegal to hit a man below the waist. Unsporting.”
She narrowed her eyes, and he was struck again by how expressive they were, alternating between sharp intelligence and cool appraisal and sometimes uncertainty and sometimes desire.
He found himself wishing that she was elegant, popular, charming, all of the things Society coveted. That she knew exactly what to say and when to say it, that she would never dream of dressing as a man or studying mating beetles. That she was the type of woman who’d lift him as high as he could go. But then, if she was, he doubted he’d like her so much.
It’s about more than happiness.
“Is it unsporting if it’s true?”
“It’s probably more unsporting if it’s true.”
She snorted. He fought back a smile. He liked being around Lady Sarah, but she didn’t amuse him quite so easily. It was a shame. A goddamn shame.
“People like their lies, Cecil.”
“Don’t try to be philosophical. It doesn’t suit you,” she said. “And stop calling me that.” But there was no heat in her reprimand anymore.
A new expression had crossed her face, something he couldn’t quite interpret. He could tell she didn’t exactly understand him, but why would she—she’d never been desperate, never wondered if there was enough blunt to pay for dinner, never stood, shivering, in a graveyard all night waiting to do something that made him sick to his stomach simply because it was the fastest way to make money, and if he didn’t do it he and his mother might lose the roof over their heads.
She’d never watched swells walking by with wide eyes and wondered what strange, glittering world they’d tumbled out of. She was part of their world. On the fringe, maybe, as Stephen had pointed out, but part of it, all the same.
She’d never been ravenous for all the things she didn’t have.
The lives they’d led were as far apart as heaven was from hell.
He hoped she didn’t pity him. He could take her aggravation, he could even take her disdain, but he couldn’t take her pity.
He met her unflinching gaze. Georgina had told him her sister was reserved, but he couldn’t imagine her ever being reserved, even when he’d seen her, sitting with the wallflowers, avoiding people’s gazes. He couldn’t reconcile Society’s Eleanor with his Eleanor.
No, not his. Bad choice of phrasing.
He broke first. “What are you thinking?”
She cocked her head. “I’m thinking that you don’t need me anymore.”
Something sharp and bitter jolted through him.
“You’ve danced with Lady Sarah. It would be appropriate to call on her tomorrow. There’s not much else that I can do to further your acquaintance.”
“But I might need you,” he said, his voice edged. “I might have questions. You cannot just disappear.”
She lifted her eyes skyward. “And I shall be here, all Season—it’s not as though I have much choice—but I still don’t think you’ll need me.”
“Our agreement—”
“I haven’t forgotten our agreement. How could I with you holding it over my head all of the time? Do you think I take ruination lightly?” she snapped.
He nodded, a little stupidly. “Good.”
Her lips pursed. They stared at each other. Finally, she said, “Good night, James. I hope you get exactly what you’ve been looking for.”
He watched her move toward the door, a little amused, a little annoyed, a little wary. He wondered if she’d meant her parting words to sound like that…not like a sincere wish of his success, more like a curse.