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“When have I ever been charitable, Duke?”
It wasn’t that his mother was evil, Edgar reminded himself. She was just so entrenched in her viewpoints. And those viewpoints were from the loftiest of ivory towers.
Daughter to a royal duke, she’d made a brilliant match with his father.
And paid the highest price.
She’d suffered, just as much as Edgar had suffered. Ruled by the tyrant. Belittled in public, and in private... unspeakable cruelty.
He soothed his voice, battling for control over his temper. “I wanted to come and call on you before now, but I wasn’t sure I would be welcome.”
She took another small, measured sip. “I had hoped that these rumors of domesticity—children and governesses and the like—meant you were finally ready to fulfill your duty and produce an heir. If, and when, that happy day comes, you will be most welcome in my home. Most welcome, indeed.”
Welcome only if he produced an heir. She hadn’t changed.
A footman materialized at the dowager’s side the moment her glass was empty. Instead of accepting more claret, she sent him away with one twitch of her eyebrow. “Was that too much for an elderly dowager to hope? That you might have decided to do your duty?”
“I’m more occupied with my foundry, at the moment.”
“A shame. Then why take Lady Blanche riding? Everyone’s saying you’re smitten with the girl. You could do worse. Prolific breeding lines.”
Edgar was saved from that line of questioning by India’s arrival.
“Hello, Mother.” She kissed the dowager’s cheek.
Their mother stiffened. She’d never been one for physical affection. “Still fond of outlandish attire, I see. What in Heaven’s name is that costume? You look like... I don’t even know what you look like, but you display no aspect of femininity whatsoever.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Mother,” said India.
She’d always been able to maintain her equanimity when Edgar wanted to explode.
“Have you met Michel and Adele, yet?” asked India with a breezy smile, determined to pretend this was a polite occasion.
Edgar tried to catch her eye, to warn her off, but the ball had been set in motion.
“I have not,” said the dowager.
India waved for Mari and the children to approach. Mari’s hair was coiled atop her head and she’d wrapped herself in a shawl, but she still looked regal and lovely.
“Mother, allow me to present the children’s governess, Miss Perkins,” said Edgar.
Mari dropped a polished curtsy.
His mother barely acknowledged her, giving only the slightest of nods. “Perkins.”
“And this is Michel.” Michel bowed. “And Adele.” Adele gave an acceptable curtsy, but kept her gaze boldly fixed on the dowager.
“Come forward child,” his mother said to Michel.
Michel approached her, his eyes fearful.
“How old are you?”
“Nine, Your Grace.”
Edgar heaved a mental sigh of relief. At least he’d addressed her properly.
“I’m nine as well,” Adele piped in.
