The marquess gazed at Hetty, wondering just what the devil he could say to her. He strode over to her and sat down beside her, clasping her limp hands in his. “Hetty, my love, I wish to be here for you forever. And I will be. We will talk about this. It’s incredible. I suspect that my uncle Melberry is in just as deep as is your father. That he believes he saved your family from dishonor leaves my brain waving in the wind, but, Hetty, he believes himself to have behaved appropriately, to have behaved in the only way open to him.”
She looked at him, straight in the face. “I would rather you leave, Jason. This is a home of tragedy, of murder, and it’s the murder of a son by his father. It’s not a nice family, Jason. No, I want you to leave. I can’t marry you. I carry my father’s blood. Jesus, there’s nothing I can salvage from this. My father’s blind honor, it doesn’t surprise me all that much, but to kill his own son. His own son! You don’t want a wife who’s so tainted.”
His black brows met over his eyes and his hands tightened over her fingers.
“Poor Jason,” she said in a soft, singsong voice. “I’ve done naught but unearth old wounds and create new ones for you. How strange it is that you, whom I believed to be a vicious, cruel devil, are the innocent one. You who are the kind one, the man who wants to see justice done. But that’s not possible. Damien is long dead, rotted on that damnable battlefield, and my father killed him, no matter how you slice the bread, that’s what happened. You want to leave, Jason. You can’t want me for your wife now.”
She felt strong arms enclose her, and for an instant held herself stiff and unyielding. The tears that were not far from the surface welled up and she collapsed against him. He held her until the hoarse sobs became rasping hiccups.
He pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and pressed it into her hand. She clutched at him, burrowing against his shoulder. Finally she raised a tear-streaked face, her voice forlorn between the hiccups. “Whatever shall I do? I can’t remain in the same house with my father. Of a certainty, Lord Harry cannot challenge Sir Archibald to a duel.”
The marquess took the handkerchief from her unresisting fingers and efficiently wiped her face. “Of course, my love, I realize that you can’t wish to remain in this house. I want you to come with me, Hetty, for we can be wed as soon as I can procure a special license. It will take me just a day.”
To his utter bewilderment, she pulled away from him. “Listen to me, damn you. I told you that you won’t be held to your offer of marriage. I will have none of your pity, do you hear? I would now, your grace, that you leave and contrive to forget all that has passed here today. God knows I can’t do anything about it. God, how I wish it had been Filey.”
The marquess rose and clasped her arms, forcing her to face him. “That’s really quite enough, Hetty. You must have lost what few wits remain to you if you ever think I would take a wife out of pity. Hetty, can you not understand that I care very much for you? That I love you? That I held you on my lap and stroked you with my fingers until you gained your pleasure and cried out in my mouth?”
“No, don’t talk like that. How many women have you held like that, caressed like that? It can’t mean all that much to you. You have told me yourself that you felt no love for Elizabeth, yet, you offered her marriage. Wasn’t that from pity? From some sort of misplaced gentleman’s honor?”
“Damn you, it’s not the same thing and you know it.” He wanted to shake her. “Hetty,” he said, gentling his voice, “you must know how I feel about you. Stop being at cross-purposes with me, it serves no cause. We are what we are and Sir Archibald won’t change, ever. We must accept him. We must accept the situation. We will mourn Damien, the damnable waste of it, the tragedy of it, but we will do it together.”