“Hartwell raised Hart in his image. He ingrained his beliefs about status and worth and taught him to uphold the family’s honor above all else. The only thing Hartwell cared about was his heir. He saw Hart as an extension of him, just as Hartwell saw himself as an extension of all the dukes before him.”
Grief flowed over her, leaving her numb. Henry had been raised, not as a human with a heart, dreams, and feelings, but as an object.
Lord Cassian wasn’t anywhere near done breaking her heart.
“At the age of five, the late duke kept Hart to fourteen-hour workdays.”
Fourteen hours? Fleur’s eyes slid shut. She and her siblings, regardless of age, had played all manner of games and gotten themselves into terrible mischief. Even Dallin, as the Viscount Crichton and future Earl of Abington, took part in the McQuoid fun. Through it, Jeremy Tremaine, Linnie’s husband and Hart’s brother, had joined in their ranks.
And more, what had made the Duke of Hartwell this way?
She had marveled that Henry was related to a playful Jeremy. She had wondered what made him this way.
Now, she knew.
While children were out there being children, Hart had been stuck indoors at a desk, seated at the right hand of his cruel sire.
Her stomach turned over.
Here, she had mocked him for not being fun like Jeremy. Now she imagined him as a lad, near her nieces’ and nephews’ ages.
“He was just a babe,” she said in a whisper.
“He wasn’t, Lady Fleur. That is what I’m trying to impart to you—Hart was never a babe or child. He was born to serve one purpose and one purpose only—to serve the Hartwell line. That is all he knew. The idea of friendship and affection was foreign to him—until you.”
Until her…
Hope kindled in her heart—but only for a moment.
“Lady Fleur?”
She lifted her gaze.
“When he loves, he loves deeply. There’s only been one recipient of that gift—Tremaine—and Hart would deny it to even himself.”
Fleur drew an unsteady breath. “He cannot love me if that is what you’re suggesting.”
Lord Cassian bestowed a tender smile upon her. “You cannot undo in weeks what the last duke took thirty years to build.”
“There is Lady Angela—”
“Who is not his betrothed.”Yet. You are running out of time. “You need to tell him, Lady Fleur. If you don’t, you will regret it, and I have known Hart long enough to promise you he will too.”
Fleur searched her stare over his face, looking for indications that he knew she carried Henry’s bairn and found none.
“Thank you, Lord Cassian,” she uttered softly.
He bowed. “I am your servant.”
Fleur followed his retreat until he had gone. Then she moved over to the six-foot-long, gold-leaf frame containing a likeness of Henry’s father.
The roots ran strong between them. They shared the same hard, angular planes and dark coloring, but any similarity endedat their eyes. Not the shades of their irises, but the ruthless flash in the late duke’s punishing stare.
A cold fell over her, and she rubbed her arms to ward off a chill. Fleur ventured away from Henry’s father and took in all the other stoic ancestors around him.
Fleur stopped in her tracks and stood there, frozen, lost in another embellished frame.
From the way he held himself, to the hard look in his eyes, this Tremaine wore the same icy disdain as all the others before him, but for one exception—this Tremaine was a child. A lad.
