Page 59 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

He tightened his jaw. Even after all those years, like her, he retreated to being a helpless little boy when his mind traveled to the past. He, the Duke that everybody feared and respected, was helpless under his wife’s touch, held hostage by memories.

“My mother was never present,” he said as coldly as he felt. “It seemed that her own world held greater interest than her own child. And I am not sure she even noticed when I left for Eton. She certainly wasn’t there to bid me farewell.”

“I am not even going to comment on motherly love.” Marigold lightened the mood with an ironic chuckle. “It seems that we both lucked out on this department.”

Brandon nodded in a conspiratorial way.

“You still had your father who treated you nicely, and you seem to genuinely love him in your heart,” Brandon observed.

“Am I to guess that this was not the case with you? Was he absent like your mother?”

“That would have been the better scenario in this situation.” Brandon looked away, almost ashamed.

Marigold’s fingers on his shoulders tensed, sensing the pain she was about to hear. For one moment, Brandon thought that his wife had endured enough. She had troubles of her own to think of and her own pain to carry.

But she squeezed his hands, forcing him to look into those golden eyes. For a second, he bathed in that light as Marigold nodded, assuring him that somehow, she still had the strength to carry his burden a little.

“My father… he noticed me,” Brandon said, his jaw tightened. “Especially when he wanted to watch me suffer. He never hit me, not physically, mostly because he was bored. But he made sure I knew I was unwanted and unworthy. I barely remember a day around him that I didn’t feel like a disappointment.”

“Not everybody who bears a child can call himself a parent,” Marigold commented. “But still, you said you lost someone. There had to be someone who shed a little light in your life and made you who you are now.”

Brandon smiled, a warmth brought forth from the depths of his memories. From inside the darkness, there was one little ray of light.

“Her name was Greta,” Brandon said. “She was my governess. My parents didn’t care too much about me, but Greta was different.”

“I am sure she was,” Marigold said softly.

“She was very, very young when she came to work for us. She was kind and looked at me as if I truly mattered. I am not sure how parents treat their child, but I believe that Greta really cared.”

He heard his voice go rough but knew he couldn’t stop. Marigold never shied away from the dark and ugly parts of her life, and he needed to be at least as brave.

“She didn’t only teach me how to read and write and speak French, which I truly hated.”

“I hate French too,” Marigold confided.

He chuckled.

“She was the only person in that empty house who loved me. She sat with me when I was sick and held my hand when I got too afraid of the darkness.”

“This sounds really wonderful.”

“One day, I was about eight years old, and I was playing out in the garden. I had begged her to take me to the part of the garden that my family kept for their parties. She could never say no to me. While I was not paying attention, I tripped and fell on the rose bed. My mother’s favorite rose bed. I completely crushed it.”

“You were just a child,” Marigold said.

“My mother was livid. Corporal punishment was not enough for her. She blamed Greta for what happened, saying that she was the one who was not watching me closely enough and allowed me to enter the garden.”

Marigold braced herself, realizing that he was getting to the end of his story, and yet she didn’t even know the worst part.

“Greta was fired on the spot. No references. Just gone.”

“I am so sorry,” Marigold muttered.

“She just knelt down and took my face in her hands and said that I was a good boy, that it was not my fault, and she left. But it was my fault. It was.”

“Brandon…”

Brandon looked away, out at the garden. He had torn apart that rose bed, that part of the garden that had cost him so much, but the pain didn’t go away.