Chapter Thirteen #2
Despite his increasingly belligerent tone, her answer held no impatience. “I think it would help me to understand you, your father, and perhaps even your father’s wife.”
This woman. She never ceased to upend him. By God, Brice had the right of it when he warned Gideon to keep his wits sharp around her. He scraped a hand over the fine layer of stubble emerging over his jawline.
“I do not remember her—not much, at any rate. I have a few vague impressions of a smiling woman, with jade-green eyes, who sang to me. The better part of my understanding came from others. She was, of course, the duke’s paramour.”
He meant to quit there. Instead, he fixed her with narrowed eyes to gauge her reaction to his next words. “She was the offspring of a British merchant who had relocated to Calcutta, and his Indian wife, the daughter of a wealthy farmer. My mother was Anglo-Indian, as am I.”
She nodded. “That explains some things.”
There it was—evidence of her ingrained sense of British superiority, anticipated at first glance. “Such as?” he drawled. He would enjoy making her spell it out.
“Such as your interest in shipping. I think sometimes it’s in the blood. Like me, with my work. Undoubtedly, you have relatives in Calcutta who helped you get your start in shipping.”
He grunted in assent, more gratified than he cared to admit that she’d belied his assumption.
“Yes, as well as a family friend who may as well be blood related.” Dirk Kennedy had, after the two of them had gotten over butting heads, not only accepted him, but taken him under his wing.
After that, those who originally opposed his appearance, treating him as an outsider, fell in line.
A gentle smile tugged at her lips. “None of that tells me who your mother was.”
After initially resisting her prodding, he found himself wanting to share what he’d gleaned of her over the years, though his tongue felt rusty from lack of practice.
“She had a bleeding heart, they say, and an indomitable will. She and my father met when he ventured to India on an errand for the Crown.” He could not staunch the grin that followed.
“Father tells me they got on like oil and water. He had British colonial interests to see to; she had what she saw as a sacred calling to save every suffering man, woman, and child in India.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Gwen said, resting her elbow on the armrest and her chin in her hand.
Like a river bursting the confines of a dam, the words continued to pour out of him.
“Evidently, she captivated him from day one. The reverse was not true, however. She wanted nothing to do with him. He trailed after her at the hospitals where she volunteered her time, generally making a nuisance of himself, until she agreed to put him to work. Two things happened as a result.”
She stared at him, as if enthralled.
“They fell in love, and he informed the Crown he could no longer serve as emissary, such was her influence on him. He and his father—the Duke of Ashford, as my father had not yet ascended to the title—had a terrible row. Father would not be swayed.”
“What happened?” Gwen whispered.
“He asked her to marry him.”
“Oh,” she breathed, pressing one hand to her heart.
He snorted. “Sorry, darling, the tale does not have a happy ending. She turned him down, flat. Told him to marry an Englishwoman who could make him a proper duchess, not a mixed-race heiress who would never leave her beloved India.”
Gwen blinked, clearly fighting tears.
“If you are going to turn into a watering pot, madam—”
“No, no, I merely got a bit of smoke in my eye, from the fire. Someone must have added damp wood to the pile. Do go on,” she insisted.
He slanted her a dubious look.
She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a stalwart, unblinking stare.
With a grunt, he proceeded. “He left, angry, returning to England.
In his absence, his family had chosen a bride for him, their response to his declaration of love for an ‘unsuitable’ woman.
This woman was from fine bloodstock. Whether because he felt he had no choice, or to spite my mother for her rejection, he married her immediately.
“And then, a year and some months later he received a summons from my mother, calling him to return to India.
“He went without hesitation, leaving his wife of one-and-a-half years behind. When he arrived in Calcutta, he discovered my mother had contracted a lung ailment and hadn’t long to live. In fact, she died soon after his arrival. Father maintains she held on until she could see him again.”
Gwen sniffled.
Gideon decided at this point he may as well finish the tale and refrained from looking at her.
“She had delivered a son. Me, if you haven’t already guessed.
” A small whimper sounded from Gwen’s vicinity, which he pointedly ignored.
“I was not quite two years of age. She told him, in no uncertain terms, he must take me back to England and raise me as his son. He did.”
“The duchess. She…”
“Had no choice in the matter. My father did not give her one. To her credit, she did right by me.”
“She accepted you? Treated you with love?”
He could not miss her dubious tone. “She raised me in her household. She acknowledged me as my father’s eldest son. She allowed me to call her son brother.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwen stiffen. “He is your brother.”
Spoken like a true progressive. If he’d had any doubts before, he no longer did. “Grayson is, indeed, my brother. We grew up together, shared the same tutors, lived similar lives. But there has never been a question that he is the heir and I am the bastard.”
“I see.” She set her glass beside his. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” It had never occurred to him to covet the title. Of course, throughout his impressionable years, the duchess made sure he knew his place.
Gideon eyed the dying flames. “I do regret not having had more time with my mother.” He rose and stoked the coals into renewed life, using more force than required. From where had that admission sprung? He had not intended to share anything so personal.
“Of course you do,” she said, her gentle response a balm to the raw emotions she’d unearthed.
“I have heard stories of her over the years, from family members, and one man in particular—the family friend I mentioned who became known to me when I moved to India to found my business. His name is Dirk Kennedy. He is—was—the lead captain of my fleet.”
“Mr. Kennedy?” Gwen asked, sounding shocked. “Was? What do you mean? Are you saying he died? Oh, Gideon, I am so very sorry.”
He shot her a sharp glance. “I am saying no such thing. The truth is, I do not know. What I do know, madam, is that this is the second time tonight you have spoken to me about some private aspect of my life, the details of which you should have no knowledge.”
She pressed her lips together and averted her gaze.
He would not be deterred, by God. “That snippet about Brice, earlier, and now Dirk. Kindly do not attempt to fob me off with a denial which I will not credit, I promise you.”
She drew her gaze to meet his, her expression both anxious and resolved. “You are quite correct, sir. I found, and read, your collection of journals.”