Page 39 of This Marquess of Mine

“No,” she said softly. “I thought reading might help, but I couldn’t quiet my mind enough to concentrate on the words. So, I decided to give whisky a try instead.” She raised a glass he hadn’t noticed and gave it an unpracticed swirl.

“Whisky?” Griffin leaned his shoulder against the door jamb. “That’s pretty potent stuff.”

Especially for young ladies who had never had anything stronger than sherry.

“It seems to be what you men turn to when you’ve suffered a disappointment, so I thought it might work for me.” She peered into her glass. “I don’t know what you lot see in it. It’s dreadful.”

Griffin smiled. “One develops a taste for it.”

She wrinkled her nose, clearly dubious, but made no reply. Her eyes, he noted, seemed weary, almost slumberous, as if she’d been crying. Now did not seem the time to mention it, though. She’d been hurt, and he had no desire to make her feel worse.

“May I join you?” he asked, against his better judgment.

“By all means, do.” She raised her glass at him. “It’s your drawing room, after all.”

Quietly he closed the door behind him then crossed to the sideboard where he served himself a generous pour of whisky. He sat beside her on the sofa, careful not to get too close, and settled into the well-worn cushions, crossing one leg over the other.

He sipped his whisky and watched the candles burn. The silence was mostly comfortable, though he was keenly aware that she wore nothing but a thin cotton nightrail under her shawl.

He cleared his throat. “Paxton isn’t worth all this fuss, you know.” He looked at her. “There are plenty of other single men for you to marry.”

She nodded, her gaze on her glass. “I know. But there was only one duke.”

Griffin worked his jaw, annoyance prickling at his nape. Why was it that every time he felt himself softening toward her, she had to say something to ruin it?

“Is it really so important to you?” he asked. “Being a duchess?” He could not keep the censure from his voice, though, truth be told, he didn’t try very hard.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Curiosity and something else drew his gaze to her face; something in her voice, a faint thread of sadness. Or, perhaps, self-recrimination. “What do you mean?”

She sipped her whisky, cradling the crystal glass in both hands as she drank, and then she tipped her head back to rest against the sofa. He watched her throat work as she swallowed, her skin like silk beneath the candle’s flame, and then it was his turn to swallow. He looked away.

“My father hates me,” she finally said, the words a hollow whisper. “He always has. Ever since the day I was born.”

Griffin’s gaze flicked to her face, surprise knotting his brow. “He…what?”

“He hates me.” Her tone was sure, almost nonchalant, as if fathers hating their daughters was commonplace. Her gaze met his. “I killed my mother, you see. My first day on this earth was her last, and I’m afraid my father has never forgiven me for it.”

Shock froze him. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He had none.

“I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d been born a boy,” she went on. “But, alas, here I am. A daughter.” She huffed out a derisive laugh. “My father lost his beloved wife, and then found himself saddled with the worthless child who’d killed her. Is it any wonder he hates me?”

Griffin’s shock began to fade as anger took its place. What kind of father would hate his child for something she could not control? What kind of man could be so heartless? His hands clenched around his glass, the crystal biting into his flesh.

“Has your father…told you he hates you?” he asked gruffly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“He’s never said the words, no, but his disinterest speaks for itself.” She drew in a deep breath, and wrapped her arms around her knees, her slippered toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her nightrail. “I remember trying so hard to please him when I was a little girl. I was so certain that if I could master languages and embroidery and music and riding, he would finally be proud of me. And then maybe he wouldn’t despise me anymore. Maybe he could even come to love—”

She broke off, her voice wavering. “It didn’t work, of course. He never once praised me for my accomplishments. He’s never even reprimanded me for my transgressions, and there have been many, I assure you.”

“I can believe it,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

Olivia rested her cheek on her knees, her brow furrowing. “Nothing I ever did seemed to please him,” she said, her voice softer now and limned in hurt. “None of it was ever enough. I am never enough. I know this, and yet, I continue to try.” A rueful smile touched her lips. “I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to help myself.”

“Is that why you wanted to marry Paxton?” Griffin guessed. “To make your father proud of you?”

He could understand the compulsion. He often wondered if his own father would be proud of him.