Chapter 8 #2
She held Beauchamp’s stare as she spoke, satisfied her meaning was heard.
Let all of London gossip behind their fans about the twin women who looked suspiciously similar to Lord Beauchamp—even using his surname.
The viscount deserved to be ridiculed, ostracized, and altogether spurned by proper society.
He’d left the woman he’d claimed to love, to care for and raise his children while he moved on to another woman. One his family deemed proper.
“It is not him I am concerned about, Sam,” Marce mumbled. “Jude is to wed on the morrow and will take her place at Simon’s side as his countess. You will soon fall in love yourself—and I want no rumors to swirl around either of you.”
“Jude, did you know about this?”
“I did not,” her twin wheezed, attempting to lessen her sobs. “I only arrived a few minutes before you.”
She’d been lectured about causing Jude any anxiousness before her wedding, threatened with being relegated to her room until the Season ended, and watched carefully since their arrival in Derbyshire.
How was it that this man could sweep into the house and wreak such havoc on the eve of Jude’s nuptials?
“I shall have Lord Cartwright summoned to throw him from the house—as he deserves.”
“I am here to see Judith wed, and then I will take my leave, but not before.” Beauchamp began his pacing once more, the study of his twin daughters coming to an end. “We shall be cordial if we see one another in London. There is no reason to cause gossip where there is none to be had.”
“And what of your wife, my lord?” Jude squeaked.
It had been the reason he’d left Sasha before she’d grown large enough to know she was with child—and the reason he’d remained absent from their lives.
Beauchamp had a wife who had longed for children of her own, and was unwilling to allow Jude and Sam to be a part of their lives, especially once the viscountess was carrying her own child.
Beauchamp dipped his head at the mention of Lady Beauchamp. Had he not informed his wife of his journey to Derbyshire? What had changed, if he was willing to face her wrath now but not all those years ago?
But it was Marce who answered the question. “She passed away five years ago during childbirth.”
“You’ve been aware of this?” Sam threw the words at Marce harder than if she’d thrown a rock. “Why were we not told?”
Jude retreated back into her silent shell as she gently rocked back and forth on the chaise. She’d never been one for confrontations and raised voices.
“Your mother—Madame Sasha—forbade me from making contact with either of you,” Beauchamp confessed. “I was respecting her wishes.”
“Respecting her wishes,” Sam repeated with a laugh.
“You certainly did not respect her enough—love her enough—to remain and help raise your children. You did not respect her enough to willingly give your daughters all they deserved as the children of a viscount—illegitimate or not. You did not respect her enough to send funds to make sure we had food on the table and clothes to keep warm. You did not love Jude or me enough to be there when we needed you. You did not love us enough to come for us as soon as you could. You did not care enough to check on us after Mother died.”
Sam’s laugh turned into a deep moan as all breath left her—an emptying hollowness gripped her as loneliness set in.
It was unfair to burden Jude with her feelings, especially since she’d be wed tomorrow and leave for a trip to Cartwright’s family estate. Marce was clearly not of the same mindset as Sam.
The room was closing in on her as Jude’s sobs grew in intensity…Sam spun toward the door, needing air, needing space…needing something she couldn’t define.
Her hand grabbed for the knob as she twisted and wrenched the door open, stepping into the hall.
The sobbing followed her, bouncing off the corridor walls and echoing deeper into the house—a screech of fright from a passing maid was enough to stop Sam long enough to realize it was her desperate bawling reverberating through the house, not Jude’s.
Sam fled up the stairs, tripping twice but righting herself quickly—only scraping one knee as she climbed, desperately needing the solace of her bedchambers.
Could she forget all that’d transpired in Cummings’ study—go back in time to before Garrett had come to collect her?
The slam of her bedchamber door rang as she leaned against the hard surface, slipping down to the floor. Her legs shook, unable to hold her upright any longer, and she allowed the cries to leave her, deep howls of anguish pulled at her core and her chest heaved with each wail.
She hadn’t any notion what to do, how to react, or what to say. Part of her longed to take hold of her father and never let go—while another part wished to go back a few hours, return to the upstairs hall—with Elijah.
Lord Ridgefeld was incapable of the many transgressions Sam levied against her father.
The marquis would never hurt her; leave her without any explanation or so much as a backwards glance.