Her Convenient Husband's Return. Eleanor Webster
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the year prior to my birth. Apparently his activities were not limited to capturing my mother’s likeness.’
‘He fell in love with your mother?’
‘Something like that,’ Ren said, although he doubted love had had anything to do with it. In fact, he rather doubted love’s existence.
‘But Lord Graham loved you so—’ She stopped. ‘He didn’t know?’
‘Not until the untimely return of the portrait painter. We rather resemble each other, you see. Me and the painter. Most unfortunate.’
‘Oh.’ She placed her hand on the top of his desk as if needing its support.
She would despise him now, he supposed. He waited, unconsciously bracing himself as though for physical assault. But her face showed only a dawning comprehension and compassion.
‘So that’s why everything changed,’ she said softly. ‘You must have been so sad and...shocked when you learned.’
‘Not so much. I was more intent on not drowning.’
‘Lord Graham tried to drown you?’
‘No.’
Lord Graham had flogged him. Ren hadn’t known why until Jason Barnes had blurted it out while the other boys had held his head under the water pump that the school used for the horses.
He remembered the boys’ faces, their mockery, the jeers and hard words. It had hurt and yet had also brought peculiar relief. At least he knew the reason for his father’s sudden hatred.
‘Who?’
‘The boys at school.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated. Tears shimmered in her sightless sky-blue eyes.
Where he had expected...rejection, he saw only sympathy. He reached forward, touching a tear’s glistening trail as it spilled down her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth.
‘It’s ancient history. Not worth your tears.’
‘When Lord Graham found out, he sent you to school early? That is why you left so suddenly and why you don’t paint?’
‘Yes.’
‘And never came back for holidays?’
‘Lord Graham did not want me.’
Another tear brimmed over. ‘I’m so sorry. I did not think he could be so cruel.’
‘I do not blame him. What man would want his wife’s bastard?’
Her brows drew together at his words. She straightened, her cheeks an even brighter crimson. ‘Well, I do. Cruelty is never warranted. I blame your mother. I blame the painter. But not you. You are blameless. You were a child.’
He shrugged. ‘Opinions may differ on that score, but now you see why I must give the land to the Duke.’
Surprisingly, she shook her head. ‘No. He is still vile.’
‘Agreed. But he is my father’s nearest blood relative.’
‘It cannot be right or honourable to give the land, and therefore the tenants also, to a man who is dishonourable.’
‘It certainly is not honourable to keep property to which I have no right. I am not the true heir. You cannot argue with that.’
‘Jamie says I can argue about almost anything,’ she said, her lips twisting into a wry grin. ‘Did Lord Graham ever disinherit you? Did Edmund?’
‘Lord Graham died before Edmund’s wife died. He had every reason to expect that Edmund would have many children and live to a ripe old age.’
‘But Edmund? He knew before he went to war that he might not come back.’
‘Edmund was one of the few people who did not know the truth,’ Ren said.
‘You said the resemblance was obvious.’
‘He was at school when the painter came and then went to Oxford the next term. His attitude towards me never changed.’
‘But you said the students knew at school?’
‘I suppose they kept it to themselves. They liked Edmund.’
Edmund was the sort of boy who had fit in well at boarding school. They had understood him: strong, sizeable, not overly bright but good at sports and fishing and hunting.
In contrast, Ren was not. He had been an undersized runt, too bright, poor at sports and fishing and hunting.
A misfit.
* * *
Beth paced Ren’s study. Her thoughts whirled, a confused mix of comprehension, anger, pity and myriad other emotions. Her fingers trailed across the top of the desk, touching the familiar objects, the smooth metal of the paperweight which Ren had picked up from the floor, the leather portfolio, the edges of the inkstand and pen.
Then she turned, shaking her head. ‘It still is not right to give the land to the Duke. There is more than one kind of honour. I know Edmund would not want Ayrebourne to have it. He loved this land, almost like Jamie loves the land. He cared for the tenants.’
‘The Duke has a right to the land,’ Ren repeated in dull tones, like a child reciting lines.
‘And the tenants?’
‘I am sorry about them, but I cannot change facts. The tenants have no rights. They do not own the land.’
‘They have lived here for generations, for centuries. That doesn’t give them rights?’
‘No.’
‘It should.’
‘So now you plan to change society?’
She shrugged. ‘Why not? If I had acted the way people said I should, I would not be walking about this land. I would not be independent—’
‘Beth—for goodness sake—this is not about you. It is totally different. We all know you are independent and have done things no one else could do. But this is not the same.’
‘I—’ His tone hurt. ‘I haven’t.’
‘No? You have always been on a crusade. You always wanted to demonstrate that you were not inferior, that you are independent. You never wanted to marry because of that very independence. Likely you want an annulment for the same reason. Well, we’re agreed, you are the equal to any woman. But that doesn’t change the fact that this land is not morally or honourably mine. I must give it to Edmund’s closest relative. I am honour bound.’
‘Then it is a peculiarly cruel breed of honour.’
‘You can have that opinion, but my decision must stand. Anyhow Allington is completely independent and profitable so this should have a limited impact on the running of your affairs.’
‘What?’ Anger exploded like scalding water, pulsing through her veins, unpleasantly tangled with the fear she always felt when she considered the Duke.
She turned on Ren, hands tightened into fists. ‘Weren’t you even listening to me? These people, your tenants, are my friends. They will be kicked off land they’ve farmed for centuries. Or they will pay exorbitant rents so that they’re unable to feed their own children. I will feel gaunt faces, arms like sticks and the bellies of bloated babies. And I will know that the man who was once my friend and sort of husband is to blame.’
‘I am your friend and what sort of husband would you have me be?’
‘One that is not so—so self-righteous and honourable. You want to punish yourself because you are illegitimate. Fine, drink yourself into an early grave. Gamble yourself into oblivion, but don’t punish people far weaker than you and call it honour.’
* * *
Perhaps