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Ill breeding always shows in the end. You must stamp it out lest the stain spread.
As Horace had meant to stamp him out for being Emelia’s son. Aunt Pen would never lie about such a thing. David had absolutely no doubt that had his father succeeded in marrying again and producing another heir, David would have awoken one night with a knife at his throat.
Hands shaking, David poured more scotch into his glass. Bits of conversations with his father, punishments meted out, rules repeated, all raced through his mind.
Carefully, he picked up his mother’s letter.
I will begin this letter as I do all the others I’ve sent, by telling you I love you.
Hours later, David cast a bleary eye at the clock, wondering if Aunt Pen would demand he have dinner with her. He’d read the letter from his mother a half-dozen times while sipping scotch. It was obvious his aunt had been in touch with his mother because Emelia knew all about the house party and his intent to marry Beatrice.
It was a hard thing for him to accept his mother’s love, having gone so long without it. David had been jealous of the unknown, faceless bastard son his mother had borne her lover, Kinkaid, from the moment Horace had informed him, somewhatgleefully,he now realized, of his brother’s existence, when David was eleven. His brother had Emelia.
And David was left with Horace.
He reached into his pocket for the butterfly clip, the tips of his fingers caressing the wings, thinking how clever Andromeda was. He wanted her now, at this moment, with an ache that threatened to bring him to his knees. Not because he wished to bed her, although that would certainly improve his mood, but David only wanted her near.
Had he not been insulted by an annoying creature at a garden party, David might never have acknowledged the truth of his existence.
“I miss you, little shrub.” He pulled the clip out. “So much.”
