The Duke I'm Going to Marry(48)

The train of her gown billowed as she made a sweeping turn and sat on the stiff divan. “Why are you here, Edgeware?” She rarely called him Ian, couldn’t bring herself to call him by his given name lest it be mistaken for affection.

He remained standing, not that she cared. She hadn’t offered him a seat. “For the truth. I know that you, Simon, and Edmund have forgotten what that is.”

“Did you come here to insult me? If so, then I must ask you to leave.”

He paid her no mind. “Five months ago,” he started. “Who came up with the brilliant idea to end my life? You? Simon? I doubt it was Edmund. He hasn’t had an original thought since the day he was born.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! We wouldn’t—”

“Stop. There’s no use denying it. I’ve already had the scum you hired to do your dirty work tracked down and questioned. They’ll be punished.” He paused a moment to watch her squirm, which she did a little, but mostly she glared at him. “I don’t plan to do anything about my loving family—yet. You’ll all keep your allowances and your heads this time.”

“How generous of you,” she remarked dryly.

“It is. Damn generous, though you don’t deserve it.” He rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck. “I just want to know why. Why last November?”

She shrugged, as though to say the time line didn’t matter. She hated him, always had, and never wanted him around. “If you must know, we didn’t really think it through,” she admitted. “You’re a horrible son, but you know how to grow the family wealth, and of course, you’ve shared it with us, as is your duty.”

“Right. My duty.” He struggled to suppress a hearty laugh at that remark. Those were love scars crisscrossing his arms and slashed across his stomach, placed there by the knife-wielding ruffians hired by his beloved family. He owed them nothing.

“It is your duty,” she insisted. “After all, I devoted the best years of my life to raising you.”

Odd, he thought he’d been raised by strangers. A governess, a tutor, the housekeeper at Swineshead, a fitting name for the place. In truth, it was a beautiful house, but isolated. The relatives rarely visited unless they were in need of funds. They reminded him of pigs at the trough. “Of course. I remember all those cozy nights we sat beside the fire, drinking hot cocoa while you or Father read to me. Wonderful memories. Brings tears to my eyes.”

Her lips pursed in that sour lemons expression she’d perfected. “You always were a sarcastic bastard.”

“Not to mention a constant trial and a disappointment.” He shrugged. “Go on. What put the idea into your head to have me killed?”

She paused a moment, her manner as unaffected as though she were about to comment on the unpredictable London weather. “It didn’t start out that way. We never meant to have you seriously hurt. We heard you intended to marry.”

He said nothing for a moment, stunned. “Me? Take a wife? Bring a sweet, young thing into this family? That will never happen.”

“Why not? You’re a wealthy duke. Any girl would be flattered by your proposal, no matter how loathsome you are. We only meant to prevent the marriage from taking place. We like things as they are. Didn’t want the greedy bitch urging you to cut us off.”

“Warms my cockles,” he said, a familiar numbness sweeping through his body. Since childhood, he’d endured his family by creating a hard shell around his heart. He was like a turtle, ducking into that hard shell whenever danger approached. He’d managed to survive the brutal kicks and punches because he was protected by that thick outer covering.

Sometimes he was kicked so hard the shell cracked a little. However, it would quickly repair itself. His shell would take only a day or so to recover from this kick. “So what you’re saying is that you preferred to have me dead rather than possibly losing your allowance. I’m moved, Mother. I feel more tears coming on.”

“We never meant to end your life, just interfere with your wedding plans.” She tipped her nose into the air and made a little sniffing sound. “What did you expect to hear? That I love you? That I’m glad you’re my son? Well, I’m not glad. You’re a murderer and I rue the day I gave birth to you.”

Which is how most of their encounters ended. “Good day, Mother. I hope I won’t see you around.” Which was his way of telling her to leave town immediately, before he changed his mind and had them all clapped in irons.

“London is surprisingly dull this year,” she said, her nose still tilted upward into the air. “I think I shall return to Bath with your cousins.”