Chapter 7
Now that he held her, he didn’t want to let her go. Hartley’s instinct had been to follow his son, regardless of the consequences. He knew he couldn’t rush into the house and steal the boy from the woman they’d summoned to imprison him. But there were other ways of dealing with such an intruder. He’d learned enough of modern man to understand the role a governess would play in Donal’s life, and he did not intend to let the woman transform him into a well-trained lapdog.
But as he felt the softness of Eden’s arms through the muslin of her sleeves, heard the pulse beat so quickly in her graceful neck, his compulsion struck a new course. He saw sadness and confusion in her eyes, and his anger evaporated.
He had never felt so strong an urge to kiss her. Give up the game, claim her in such a way that she would recognize him, surrender, and beg his forgiveness.
“Eden,” he said roughly.
She stiffened with affront. “How dare you.”
He released her as if she had turned to Iron. Her indignation demanded an apology, but he could match her in outrage. “You gave the boy to another woman,” he said.
Her eyes blazed with anger. “You astound me, Shaw. What do you know of governesses, or of the kind of life Donal was meant to lead?”
“I know more than you guess,” he said. “I know that your kind give your own children away to be brought up by strangers. And you are deceiving yourself by agreeing to such an arrangement.”
She laughed. “Your impertinence has no limits. This is what comes of letting Donal befriend a servant.” She backed away. “Well, that has come to an end.”
He answered her with a humorless smile of his own. “You will discharge me?”
“You have done your work well enough, and I still owe you a debt. But Donal will be too occupied from now on to follow you about like a… like a lost puppy.”
“Not quite a puppy. But he has been lost, hasn’t he?”
“What… what do you mean?”
“Isn’t it true that the boy was raised in Ireland, and he came to be with you only a fortnight ago?”
“It is true, and common knowledge,” she said. “My uncle sent him—”
“Did he? Are you ashamed of Donal, Eden? Is that why you tell everyone that he is not your son?”
She went stock-still. “What did you say?”
“You are his mother, Lady Eden Winstowe. Do not deny it. He is your son, but he never lived with you in London.”
With careful steps she moved back until she reached the garden wall. “How did you… find out?” she whispered. “Who told you this?”
“Never fear. It is not general knowledge, and clearly you wish to keep it that way. Why?”
“I cannot explain. Not here.”
“Why did you send him to Ireland?”
Her voice shook. “My son’s past, and mine, are none of your affair.”
Hartley pursued her, positioning himself so that his body formed a second wall to prevent her escape. “It’s that simple, is it? You allowed your son to be raised by others, deny he is yours, and now you give him to someone else? Is that what you call love?”
The last thing he expected from her was tears. Indeed, she fought them, but they pooled in her eyes as if she had been holding them back all along.
“You do not know…” She averted her face so that all he could see was her profile.
He touched her chin with his fingers, turning her back to him. “Tell me.”
She seemed beyond further outrage, exhausted by his persistence and her own interior struggle. “You have no claim on my son.”
He wanted to shout, “I am his father!” He wanted to cry out, “You are mine.” He did neither.
“I have the claim of affection,” he said, showing mercy. “His for me, and mine for him.” He let her go. “Why did you send him away?”
She leaned her weight against the wall. “I did not send him away. I did not even know where he was.”