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“The paparazzi are no matter,” I said, getting temporarily sidetracked by what looked like a Monet painting. “They haven’t bothered us for weeks. Although—a woman on the train today made the strangest comment to me. And then Imogene too. Supposedly, there are articles circulating somewhere saying Sofia isn’t yours. Did you know that?”
To my surprise, he just shrugged as he turned up a staircase. “It’s just stupid gossip, Ces. The locals up here always found things to say about the Parkers. Don’t pay them any attention.”
That was it? No indignation? No shouting? Oddly, I was a bit annoyed. The Xavier I knew had a temper, yes, but he cared deeply about Sofia and me. Why wasn’t he more put out?
“Well, I don’t like the insinuation,” I said.
Xavier’s big shoulders moved up and down again as he strode. “Honestly, they’ve always been more interested in printing lies about me than is good for them. Nothing sells like scandal, even if it’s one they make up.”
“I realize our relationship didn’t exactly progress in the normal fashion,” I said, “but I don’t appreciate being called a liar, no matter who says it. Or her”—I glanced down at Sofia before leaning down to whisper in Xavier’s ear—“any less your daughter.”
He stopped at the top of the stairs, almost as if he were annoyed more with the conversation than the rumor. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks about this family other than the three of us who are in it, babe. And neither should you. All right?”
It wasn’t really a question, but an end to the discussion. A duke’s end to the discussion, no less.
I didn’t mind Xavier bossing me around in some places. The bedroom, for instance. Or back alleys, apparently. But I didn’t care for it right now.
Still, I nodded as we walked on, but only because I knew there was no point in continuing this as a debate in front of Sofia.
But are we a family? I wanted to ask. No one else seemed to think so. We weren’t married. I wasn’t even sure I’d call the last few whirlwind weeks cohabitation. Random reporters were basically calling me a con artist, faking my daughter’s parentage to, what, get to Xavier’s money?
We were…something else. I didn’t know what.
“Who’s that?” I asked when he finally slowed at the end of yet another mile-long hallway.
We were at the opposite side of Corbray Hall, so far as I could tell, though there had been so many twists and turns that I honestly wasn’t sure which direction the enormous windows were facing.
Xavier glanced irritably at yet another portrait—this one of a lovely young woman from the Regency era with blond hair and the blue eyes he shared with many of the other sitters. “Ah, that’d be the Countess of Letham. My seventh great aunt, before you ask. But listen, Ces, there’s someone I want you to meet. Someone real, this time, not a stuffy portrait.”
Immediately, my interest was piqued as he turned to the door next to the countess’s plump pose and led me into the room.
In the center of what had to be the nicest bedroom I’d ever seen lay an elderly man in a four-poster bed approximately the size of Heathrow Airport. With the gilt millwork, cream walls, and countless pieces of art and tapestries surrounding us, it looked like the set of a period drama—even an Austen adaptation—were it not for the fact that the man in the bed was hooked up to a few machines beside the bed, with an IV and several sensors connected to wires slipping under his sheets.
“Oh,” I whispered, as the man’s eyes were closed. “Xavi, is he—”
But Xavier was already leaving my side, approaching the bed with light footsteps.
Even so, the man awoke with eyes a bright shade of blue to match Xavier’s.
“Hello, Uncle,” Xavier greeted him as he dragged a Queen Anne chair across the carpet like it was no more than a folding camp chair. He propped it next to the bed and sat beside the man. “How are we feeling today, eh?”
The man blinked but said nothing. His eyes, however, were bright and alert, lasered right on Xavier with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. Was he happy to see him? Sad too? Nervous?
It was intense, whatever it was.
“I know you’re not saying much these days,” Xavier said as he clasped his uncle’s hand between his two big ones. “But I’ve brought someone to meet you. Ces, come over here.”
Slowly, I made my way to stand next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Xavier patted it but returned his attention to the man in the bed.
“Well, that’s her,” he said. “Francesca. My girlfriend, before you ask, and more importantly, Sofia’s mum. I’ll bring Sof up later, when she’s had a bit to eat. Anyway, I know you wanted to meet her, but you didn’t have to throw yourself down the stairs to get me here, you know.”
There was a wheeze from the bed, which approximated laughter. Xavier chuckled with him, and I watched as the hand clasped between his squeezed his wrist tightly.
“Francesca, this is my uncle, Henry Parker. Now you know why I’ve been so busy the last six months, Uncle. You can’t fault my taste, at least. Look at her.”
From the bed, there was another noise, this one even more chuckle-like than the last.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I said, bending down to offer my hand.
