Chapter Thirty-Four
Edmund stood at the fireplace of the front parlor of his home. It was a room he rarely used, as it was for formal guests, which he almost never had.
His arms were crossed firmly across his chest as he stared up at the painting above the mantel.
He didn’t see any details of the art piece—some sort of autumn landscape—any more than he heard any specifics of the acidic lecture he was receiving from the woman seated in the center of the stylish sofa positioned behind him.
But it helped to have something to focus on other than his mother’s hateful face.
For a second, he allowed the sound of her voice to infiltrate his awareness.
“…thorn-in-my-arse bitch that if she wanted to steal my French cook so blasted bad, she could stick him up her…”
Realizing his mother was still in the complain-about-her-friends-in-Bath portion of her visit, Edmund returned his attention to the more important thoughts running through his mind.
The evening ahead.
A glance at the clock on the mantel in front of him told him he had just over four hours before he’d have to leave for the ball. Four hours to figure out how to untangle the mystery threatening Lydia and ensure her freedom and security when it was all finished.
Fuck.
She’d seemed certain that her cousin, the Marquess of Redington, was the perfect person to discover them in an improper moment.
He would ensure that any scandal was fully insulated from the common knowledge of society while also being duty-bound and committed to his family obligation in ensuring the issue was resolved in a proper way.
She even made a point of assuring during their drive to her home early that morning, that the marquess was very practical and quite snobbish, so he most likely wouldn’t see reason to force Darlington himself to save Lydia from disgrace.
Though Edmund could easily admit that he was not the first man a protective male relative would want to see his kin wed to, he almost started to defend himself. As if he should try to convince Lydia that he could make a good and proper husband.
He chuckled at the thought, ignoring the way his stomach ached.
“What in hell are ye laughing at?” His mother’s strident tones broke through his musing. “And I’d fucking appreciate it if ye’d look at me while I’m speaking to ye. Ye might be His Lordship now,” she sneered, “but I’m the one who whooped yer arse and boxed yer ears when ye stepped outta line.”
“I recall,” he noted dryly. He’d never recovered full hearing in his left ear after one such boxing.
“I’m sure I can find a proper switch somewhere in this damned museum if I gotta,” his mother retorted with acidic pride. “I can still bloody yer hide.”
Edmund turned to his mother. His mouth was curved into a humorless smile. “You could try.”
His low emotionless words of challenge almost set her off. He saw the heat of her temper rising beneath her skin, turning her face red as the lines of cruelty he knew quite well deepened in her expression.
He arched a brow.
She wouldn’t try to hit him. He knew that well enough. She hadn’t lifted a hand to him since he was fifteen and he stopped a beating by snatching the switch right out of her hand.
But she wanted to. It was clear in her face.
The hatred. The fury. The way she saw him as the embodiment of everything wrong and hateful in her life.
Even after he’d inherited the earldom, catapulting them into the world of Britain’s elite and she had everything she’d ever wanted; wealth, position, a grand house in a fancy part of Bath, entry to the highest societies, a healthy allowance to buy all the fine dresses and jewels she could want…
she still hated him with everything she was.
When he was young, he’d tried to understand.
Now, he didn’t give a goddamn fuck what she thought of him.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
Despite her deep animosity, she managed to pull herself together to reply. And that told him just about everything he needed to know. She wanted something from him.
“Is it so blasted unheard of for a mother to visit her only son?”
Edmund didn’t reply.
She shrugged a slim, bony shoulder. “I needed a change in society. The London season’s almost over so I thought I’d come to a few parties before everyone runs off to their lush little country homes.”
Translation: she’d pissed off her social group in Bath and needed some distance until whatever offensive thing she did blew over.
“That’s not going to happen. I will arrange a nice carriage ride back to Bath for you.”
As he spoke, he started walking toward the door, hoping she’d follow. He knew getting rid of her wouldn’t be so easy, but it was worth a try.
“Ye’ll be escorting me to whatever function ye’re attending tonight.”
Edmund stopped halfway across the room. “No.”
“Ye think ye can just hide me away ’cause I came from poor stock? Ye really think ye can keep everyone from learning the earl’s mama’s just a poor butcher’s wife? Even though I kept yer scrawny arse alive long enough to inherit the damned status ye now enjoy.”
He turned around to face her. “That’s not why I sent you away.” He didn’t bother adding that he’d survived his childhood despite her, not because of her.
“Oh, right,” she snapped, and she rose to her feet. The elegant gown she wore was perfectly tailored to her petite frame but somehow made her look like she was drowning in it. “It’s ’cause ye hate me. I’m such an awful mama ye don’t want nothin’ to do with me.”
He didn’t deny it.
His mother narrowed her eyes at him.
She strode stiffly toward him, her bent posture revealing the toil her body had gone through most of her life.
Pointing a finger at his chest, she looked up with a twisted expression.
“Just ’cause I can’t whoop you like you deserve don’t mean I can’t hurt ye in other ways.
I ain’t stupid. I know how little it would take to blacken yer name in this grand society yer so comfortable walkin’ around in.
” Her thin brows arched toward her hairline.
“Ye like the life yer livin’, boy? Then ye’ll take me to that damned ball. ”
Without awaiting further reply, Patricia Holt shoved past him and exited his house with a sharp curse at the footman for not opening the front door quickly enough.
Edmund remained where he was for several minutes, drawing deep breaths in through his nose until the sour scent of old ale left the room and his muscles no longer clenched tightly to his bones. A moment later, the subtle queasiness also passed and he slowly felt in control again.
He wasn’t taking his mother anywhere. Not tonight or any other night.