“Is that why you brought me back here? To tell me that I have some kind of debt to you?” She looked pointedly around the empty room. “Did you think I would fall to my knees and weep over your passing? Loyalty begets loyalty, and you have shown me none since the day I was born. If you thought I would mourn you, then you are mistaken. Had you humbled yourself before me, perhaps I would have found it in my heart to forgive you, but that is all.”
“Humble myself? Beforeyou?” He cackled, the sound wheezing. “We are only ever what we come from, my girl. I brought you here to remind you. Neglecting me? This is who you are.Iam who you are. And you can never forget it.”
She would never have grieved him precisely. More, she would have grieved the man he might have been, if addiction had not worn him thin and cruel. But now she felt nothing but numbness, deep in her stomach. His last act had not been one of kindness—it had been one of vicious anger. She had not sent him money, so he had brought her to his side to prove he could, and to remind her that she could not escape the blood that ran through her veins.
Still, she drew herself up. “You are mistaken, Father. I will forget you the moment I leave this room, and I will never think about you again.”
“Liar,” he called after her, coughing as he did. “Liar! But then, what else could I expect from a child who’s not even of my blood?”
Christiana halted just before the door, a bolt of emotion passing through her. The words were most likely her father’s last-ditch attempt to hurt her—and yet some part of her wondered if they could be true. Her mother had despised her father by the end; was it truly so outrageous to think she might have been unfaithful?
What did Christiana know about her mother, save that she was Society’s darling cursed with an ugly duckling of a child?
“That’s right,” her father said when she didn’t move, malicious glee in every syllable. “She lay with a stableboy. I almost pity the lad—he was infatuated with her, and she thought of him as nothing more than entertainment. And so you were born. Did you ever wonder why your mother couldn’t bear to look at you? You are the product of your own lowly birth. The shame almost killed her.”
Christiana’s hand shook as she reached for the doorknob, that odd numbness spreading from her chest down through her body, until she felt nothing but awful emptiness.
It didn’t matter whether it was true. What mattered was itcouldbe.
What mattered was her father was prepared to do and say anything to hurt her, even now. His hatred knew no bounds, and yet when she’d heard news of his illness, she had come running.
She was a fool. That ended now.
“You cannot have it both ways,” she said, relieved to hear her voice was clear and strong. “Either I am of your blood and cursed to die like you, or I am of lowly birth and not yours at all. Which is it to be?” She turned slowly, taking him in for the very last time. “Regardless, it has been a long time since I last considered you my father. Relinquishing the claim is the work of a moment.” Without hesitation, she opened the door and slammed it behind her. The entire house felt as though it rattled.
And Christiana ran as though the hounds of hell were chasing her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Fifty miles fromBarnsley Hall, Hugh stopped off at a posting inn along the Great North Road. He’d sent ahead to bespeak a private parlor, and on the morrow, he would arrive at Barnsley Hall and discover what awaited him. Most likely, an alive and vicious Lord Barnsley, and a grieving Christiana.
The innkeeper bowed obsequiously as he led Hugh to the parlor, already decked out with a table of refreshments and the promise of a full meal to come. The fire was roaring, banishing the chill that now came from some September evenings. Hugh dismissed the man with a curt word and pulled off his gloves. His ruined hand stared at him accusingly.
Monster, the voice inside him whispered—a voice that had been largely quiet since Christiana’s entry into his life; silent since she had first lain with him.
Blast it all. He reached for the brandy, then stopped. For so long, that had been his escape, but he’d had enough of seeking oblivion and finding only hollowness.
He put the glass back.
A disturbance outside the door made him pause. Banging and shouting. And then an authoritative voice reached him. “Youwill let me in,” Amelia commanded, “because he is my brother and I am Lady Amelia Westfield, and I will not be denied.”
“My lady,” the innkeeper tried to say, but the door burst open and Hugh’s sister, wearing a hooded cloak and an expression of cutting determination, stood on the other side.
Hugh rose immediately, concern and anger warring for prominence. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded, striding to her. It was an effort not to take hold of her shoulders and shake. “Has there been an emergency?” He glanced at the innkeeper. “Did she arrive with any servants?”
“A footman and a maid, Your Grace.”
At least there was that; she had not entirely lost her mind. “Then find a room for Lady Amelia and her maid immediately.”
The man paled. “But Your Grace, the inn is fully booked.”
Hugh raised a single brow. “Am I to understand you are incapable of granting my request?”
“I—” The man ducked his head. “I am certain arrangements can be made,” he muttered.
“Then make them. And bring some ratafia for my sister.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The man bowed himself from the room, closing the door quietly behind them.