“Does it matter,” Oliver asked, “if I want it very, very badly?”

“What is it you want?” his father asked.

I want you to be proud of me. I want to do everything you dreamed of and deliver it at your feet.

Oliver reached out and pulled a twig from the dirt, rolling it between his fingers. There were uglier wants, too, ones that made him feel almost uncomfortable.

I want them to pay.

Instead he shrugged. “Why did you do it? Give up everything to raise another man’s son?”

His father did look up at that. “I didn’t raise another man’s son,” he said sharply. “I raised my own.”

“You know what I mean,” Oliver said. “And that’s precisely what I am talking about. Why claim me? Why treat me the way you have? It must have been an enormous struggle deciding what to do about me. I know you loved Mother, but—”

“You were as much my salvation as your mother was,” his father interrupted brusquely. “You were never a burden that I had to grow accustomed to carrying. It was quite simple. If I could make you mine, in defiance of blood and biology, it would mean that I wasn’t his.”

“Whose?” Oliver asked in confusion.

“My own father. If you were mine, I wasn’t his.”

Oliver leaned back and watched the ripples on the river. He knew—vaguely—that his father’s father had not been a good man. His father had made a few curt remarks about it over the years, but he spoke little about it.

“Claiming you was like claiming myself,” his father said. “It was that easy.”

Oliver shut his eyes.

“So what is this thing you want so badly?”

“I want to be someone,” Oliver breathed. “Someone…who matters. Who can make things happen. Someone with power.” Someone who would never be shoved around again. Bradenton had it right; he had power, and Oliver had wants. That was a balance that begged for reversal.

His father didn’t say anything for a while. Finally he spoke. “Of all my children, you and Free are the most like me. It’s a gift, and like all gifts, it comes with a sting.”

“Odd,” Oliver said quietly, “that I should take after you more than the older girls.”

His father made a noise of protest in the back of his throat, but didn’t speak.

“I know,” Oliver said. “I know. I don’t mean to imply that you’ve been less than a father to me. It’s just that… The son of Hugo Marshall shouldn’t consider the offer I’m toying with. I might be the son of the Duke of Clermont. I have it in me.”

“Hmm,” his father said. “You have an odd view of me. I’ve done a great many things I’m not proud of.”

“Me, too. There are times I’ve been quiet. There are times I’ve spoken when I shouldn’t, just to keep myself from the effort of fighting.”

“That doesn’t make you into a man like your sire,” his father said. “It just makes you into a man.”

Oliver’s line had floated too far. He shook himself and reeled it in before the lure could tangle in the brown weeds on the far side of the stream.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Oliver said, “suppose that there was a man—a marquess—who promised me his vote on a very important issue. And all I would have to do in exchange…” He took a deep breath and looked away. “All I would have to do was humiliate a woman. Nothing physical, mind you. She wouldn’t be ruined. Just…”

He glanced up into his father’s eyes, and that was all he needed. There was no just. He knew Jane’s situation. He knew how she felt, what it would do to her to have Oliver hurt her.

She wouldn’t be ruined, but I could shred her spirit.

“We’re speaking hypothetically?” His father snorted.

“If the issue in question was important enough, would you…”

“You’re ten years a grown man,” his father countered. “If I still need to tell you what to think of a proposition, I’ve done a poor job raising you, in which case my opinion shouldn’t count for anything.”

“But what if it is a very important issue? What if it would mean a very real difference for everyone, and it’s just one woman who would suffer?” God. He couldn’t even bring himself to spell out the personal consequences.

“No, Oliver. Keep your moral dilemmas to yourself and your university friends. You can’t shunt that burden off to me. I refuse it.”

“You’re annoying. You always act as if everything is so easy. ‘Well, Oliver, it seems to me that your choice is either to quit or continue,’” he mimicked, remembering his father’s advice when he’d been on the verge of leaving school.

The other man only smiled. “I’m your father. It’s my job to annoy you.”

It was not the season for fishing, and unsurprisingly, they hadn’t caught anything.

“When does it stop being one woman?” Oliver finally asked. “And when does it start being…a disgusting thing to ask in the first place?”

“Here’s what I know,” his father replied. “No fish will swim up and leap at your lure three feet off the ground. Cast.”

Oliver flushed and did so. Once more, his lure and sinker hit the pool with a splash.

“What does it say about me that I’m still considering it?”

His father shrugged.

“You’re useless,” Oliver accused. “I thought you were going to tell me what to do.”

“I’m not here to be used. I’m here to fish.”

Oliver contemplated his fishing line for a moment longer. “You know,” he said contemplatively, “I think you’re a fraud. You act as if you’re so wise, and what you mostly do is make idle comments about fishing and expect me to figure it out myself.”

His father let out a guffaw. “That comes as a surprise? I taught you that trick years ago. When you keep quiet, people fill in their own most intelligent thoughts on your behalf.”

After another forty minutes of silence, in which they’d managed to catch one four-inch trout, which was tossed back without comment, Oliver finally spoke.

“When I’m not here, do you fish alone?”

“Free usually comes with me.”

“I didn’t mean to displace her. Is she angry with me? She scarcely spoke last night before disappearing behind a book.”