Page 25 of A Daring Desire

“And what does he want now, precisely?” her father demanded, his silver eyes glittering with such cold fury she almost took a step back.

“To get better, I should think. He very nearly died, Papa.”

He snorted, pacing to the window. “A pity he didn’t do you the favour of carrying it through.”

Cat gasped, never having heard her father say anything so callous and unfeeling in all her life. Though the world saw him as the ice-cold Marquess of Montagu, to her he’d been a source of unconditional love, comfort, and security. He was a man who would never let her down, who would fight dragons and burn the ton to the ground to protect her.

“How can you say such a thing?” Her voice trembled with a combination of fury and sorrow, and he turned back, staring at her in dismay.

“Don’t tell me you still care for him?” he asked, incredulous. “After everything you’ve been through?”

“Everything I have been through was not his fault!” she shouted. “I did it, Papa! Me. He gave me his name, and he left me alone, which, at the time, was precisely what you wished for him to do.”

“Yes, and I wished he would have stayed gone and had the decency to allow his lifestyle to kill him as everyone supposed it would,” he shot back. “As it has not worked out that way, it leaves us with no other option. It is high time you filed for divorce. There will be a scandal, naturally, but there’s no one who would think ill of you. Not now. Not after so long and with your place in society secure.”

“Divorce?” Cat whispered, her voice trembling.

“You’d be free, my darling girl,” her father said, crossing the room and taking hold of her shoulders. He stared down at her, and Cat looked up to see such depths of love and despair in his eyes that her heart clenched. “You could start over with a good man, one that would love you and treat you as you deserve to be treated. You could have a family, and don’t tell me you don’t want children, for we both know how much you do. I’ve seen you with your friends’ babies on your knee, seen the hopeless longing in your eyes until I’ve wanted to cross the bloody Channel and kill him with my bare hands.”

Cat shook her head, but her throat was too tight to speak, to tell him he did not understand.

“If that’s what you want, it is the only way,” he said, his voice gentler now.

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she allowed him to pull her into his arms, to hold her tight for a moment, but then, and for the first time, she stepped away, out of his embrace. His arms fell to his sides, and now she could read nothing in his face, his emotions closed off. She turned and walked to the window, keeping her back to him.

“Will you come for Christmas?” he asked softly. “Your mother will be dreadfully upset if you don’t.”

Cat closed her eyes, struggling not to break down. Her throat ached too much to even speak the word, so she simply shook her head. The next thing she heard was the sound of the door closing, and when she turned, her father was gone.

Chapter 8

My darling,

You warned me, and I ought to know better than not to heed you, but I made a mess of it. I pray you might forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself.

She won’t come, but far more concerning than that is her refusal to see Kilbane for what he is. I believe she still cares for him, still hopes for him to be a husband to her and she cannot conceive why the idea makes me sick to my stomach.

This has come at entirely the wrong time. I wished to God that I had broached the subject of divorce with her before now, as I had intended to do, instead of waiting. Only this ridiculous business she cooked up with Peregrine led me to hope that she might come to it on her own. I misjudged her, and now I fear I have done damage I might never repair.

I will be home late on Christmas Eve, though how we may be festive without Cat, I do not know.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Lucian Barrington, The Marquess of Montagu, to his wife The Most Hon’ble Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu.

23rd December 1849, Connaught Place, London.

“That man is no more your husband than Jefferies. Less, for he’s never had the slightest care for you.”

The heavy oak door connecting the master and mistress’ bed chambers might be thick, but the Marquess of Montagu’s furious voice was still perfectly audible to Lord Kilbane. The sound of raised voices had woken him, and it had taken him a moment to realise his wife was arguing with her beloved father. Over him.

“Why should he have? He never wanted me. He never wanted a wife at all. I did not know it then, but he had sworn never to marry, that the line should end with him, and I upset all his plans. Do you think he ought to thank me for that?”

“And what does he want now, precisely?”

Kilbane stiffened at the accusation in Montagu’s voice, the disgust.

“To get better, I should think. He very nearly died, Papa.”

“A pity he didn’t do you the favour of carrying it through.”