Page 48 of The Cornish Inheritance

Chapter Twenty

Nat, meanwhile, had decided to take a ride over to one of the several mines Trefusis was now managing, courtesy of his mother, for his grandfather. As a boy, he’d always had a fascination for what went on in them and had been underground on many occasions with Sir Hugh, who had always been a man who liked to keep his finger on the pulse of his own businesses. “What good is a mine owner who doesn’t know what it’s like to be a miner?” he’d said to the impressionable boy Nat had once been. “If you want to run any business, then you must start at the bottom and learn how every aspect of it works.” So, in his holidays from Harrow, the young Nat Treloar had joined the men who worked for his grandfather in the oppressive, cramped conditions underground and found out for himself what it was like to work the rock face deep under the earth, and often deep under the sea as well.

On his way out of the house, he was sidetracked by his mother, who was in the land agent’s office with the door open and must have seen him walking past. “Nathaniel, do you have a minute?”

Nat set his jaw and turned around, the old boyhood habit of obedience strong. “Yes, Mother.”

She rose from behind her desk as Nat entered the office. By rights, Trefusis should have had a secretary to help him take care of the books, or taken care of them himself, but even when his uncle Robert, and father, Kenver, had been alive, his mother had taken care of the money side of the family business. And neither Sir Hugh nor Robert and especially not his father had protested. All three of them had been more interested in how their empire ran rather than how much money came in. A pair of halfmoon spectacles Nat had never seen before sat on the end of his mother’s long nose, making her look the part of office wallah.

“I’ve been wanting a few minutes alone with you since you returned,” she said, fiddling with the pen in her right hand.

He’d been avoiding her, but it was too late now. She had him snared.

“Sit down, won’t you?”

Nat took the leather upholstered seat in front of the desk and his mother sat down again as well.

She put her pen down with a clunk. “Now you are home from the wars, I think it is high time you thought of what you are going to do next.” Her eyes narrowed. “And as the last male Treloar you owe it to the family to marry and produce an heir.”

Well, that was unexpected. For a moment Nat was speechless. Of all the things he’d been expecting, this wasn’t one of them.

Her eyes narrowed. “You owe it to your father and grandfather as the last male Treloar.”

He had an answer for that one. “I’m not the last Treloar. There’s Yves.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “He’s just a child and a weakly one at that. We cannot be sure he’ll even grow to be a man.”

Nat frowned. “That’s still no reason to be hurrying me into matrimony. And anyway, what am I to offer a prospective bride? My face? My distinct lack of fortune?” Once upon a time he’d been a catch, with his good looks and his splendid uniform. Julia had thought so, anyway. But things had changed since then, and Julia was no longer here.

His mother’s thin lips grew thinner still as her mouth pursed into an expression of distaste, perhaps at the mention of his looks. “You may well inherit the whole estate yet. And if not, your grandfather has bestowed a sizeable inheritance upon you and Hetty. Certainly enough to support a wife.” Her expression was in direct contrast to her words. As though the last thing she wanted was him inheriting anything and this suggestion of marriage might be a ruse for something else.

Although, if his mother was as determined as he remembered, then she’d have him married off by Christmas. But Nat was no longer a boy and no longer under her control. “Mother, I appreciate your concern for the Treloar name, but I have no intention of marrying just for the sake of continuing it.” He might have done so once, but not now. And not with some simpering girl his mother might choose to shove under his nose. “I shall marry when it suits me, not you, and it will be on my own terms.” He would have liked to say he’d marry for love, only what woman would ever love him, looking the way he did? Or he could have told her he’d already been married and widowed once, and he’d decided never to marry again and put another woman through the agony of childbirth that had snatched his wife from him. Not after Julia. But he had no intention of sharing Julia with anyone.

His mother’s eyes narrowed and her brow darkened. Never one to take well to being crossed, even if she hadn’t meant what she’d said, she more than ever had the look of an angry harpy. “You will at least attend further social gatherings down here to consider a suitable young Cornish lady as a bride. And you will accompany Hetty.” Aha, so that was it—she wanted him to escort Hetty to where she might meet a suitable young man. He might have guessed it would be for Hetty’s benefit, or rather, their mother’s, not his.

He sighed. Like the proverbial horse to water, she could, if she meant it, lead him to various suitable young ladies, but she couldn’t make him love them, nor them love him. No doubt one look at his damaged face would have them running for the hills, anyway. The only woman he’d danced with at the Carlyon ball had been Caroline, outside on the shadowy terrace. Almost, a smile tried to curve his up-till-now downturned mouth.

Hawk-eyed, she pounced. “Do you perhaps have a young lady in mind?”

Exasperation had him on his feet. “No, Mother, I do not. And now, if you don’t mind, I shall get on with what I was about to do when you called me in here. Please put all thoughts of marrying me off out of your mind, because I have no intention of complying.” He touched his face. “Has it not occurred to you that this might put off any prospective bride?”

Was that a look of satisfaction on her face or his imagination?

Without waiting for her reply, he marched out of the room, closing the door behind him with a satisfying bang.

Bloody woman. She’d always been like that, trying to control his life from his childhood. Not that she’d seen him often, because she hadn’t. Both he and Hetty had been left in the care of nursemaids and nannies, then a tutor for him followed by boarding school with very few visits to Treloar. No wonder this place didn’t feel like home, when it should.

In the long convalescence after his face wound, he’d had time to think about his future, and he’d come to the conclusion that it couldn’t hold the possibility of another marriage. Not now. Not with this face. What would Julia have thought if she could see him now? For a moment her face rose in front of his eyes: her alabaster skin and lightly flushed cheeks, her cascading golden curls, her wide blue eyes. An angel in human form, or so he’d once told her. But God loves his angels, and she’d been too good to live. God, that most unfeeling of deities, had snatched her from him, along with his infant son, even before the child drew his first breath. And all he had now were his memories.

He clumped down the corridor toward the stables, hands fisted by his sides and, had he but known it, a scowl on his face fit to frighten the devil himself.

Bam. A small tornado cannoned into him and rebounded, gasping.

Nat’s hands went out to steady the tornado and recognized it as Yves.

Caroline came hurrying around the corner. “Yves! You must look where you’re going. I’m so sorry, Nat.

“Are you going to the stables as well?” Yves asked, unabashed.