Everything and the Moon (The Lyndon Sisters #1)(38)

“Fine.” She waved her arm at him. “Then our discussion is concluded.”

His hand shot out like a bullet and wrapped around her wrist. “Not quite.”

“Release me,” she said in a low voice.

Robert took a deep breath, trying to use the time to get over the incredibly strong urge to shake her. He couldn't believe the little nitwit would rather stay here at a job she detested than come with him to London. “I am going to say this one more time,” he said, his hard stare drumming into her. “I am not going to leave you here to be pawed at by every unscrupulous male who happens along.”

She laughed, which really infuriated him. “Are you saying,” She asked, “that the only unscrupulous male with whom I may consort is you?”

“Yes. No! For the love of God, woman, you can't stay here.”

She lifted her chin proudly. “I don't see any other option.”

Robert ground his teeth together. “I just got through telling you—”

“I said,” she stated pointedly, “that I don't see any other option. I will be no man's mistress.” She wrenched herself free of him and walked out of the maze.

And, he realized in a daze, out of his life.





Chapter 10



R obert returned to London and attempted to immerse himself in his regular routine. He was miserable, though, so miserable that he didn't even bother to try to convince himself that he didn't care about Victoria's rejection.

He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep. He felt like a character in a very bad, melodramatic poem. He saw Victoria everywhere—in the clouds, in the crowds, even in his damned soup. If he hadn't been so wretchedly pathetic, Robert later reflected, he probably wouldn't have bothered to answer his father's summons.

Every few months, the marquess sent Robert a letter requesting his presence at Castleford Manor. At first the notes were terse orders, but lately they'd taken on a more conciliatory, almost imploring tone. The marquess wanted Robert to take a greater interest in his lands; he wanted his son to show pride in the marquessate that would one day be his. Most of all he wanted him to marry and produce an heir to carry on the Kemble name.

All of this was spelled out quite clearly—and with increasing graciousness—in his letters to his son, but Robert merely scanned the notes and then tossed them into the fireplace. He hadn't been back to Castleford Manor in more than seven years, not since that awful day when his every dream had been shattered, and his father, instead of patting him on the back and offering him comfort, had shouted with glee and danced a jig right on his priceless mahogany desk.

The memory still made Robert's jaw clench with fury. When he had children he'd offer them support and understanding. He certainly wouldn't laugh at their defeats.

Children. Now there was an amusing concept. He wasn't very likely to leave his mark on the world in the form of little heirs. He couldn't bring himself to marry Victoria, and he was coming to realize that he couldn't imagine himself married to anyone else.

What a muck.

And so, when the latest note from his father arrived, saying that he was on his deathbed, Robert decided to humor the old man. This was the third such note he'd received in the past year; none of them had proved to be even remotely truthful. But Robert packed his bags and left for Kent anyway. Anything to get his mind off her.

When he arrived at his childhood home, he was not surprised to find that his father was not ill, although he did look quite a bit older than he'd remembered.

“It's good to have you home, son,” the marquess said, looking rather surprised that Robert had actually answered his summons and come down from London.

“You look well,” Robert said, emphasizing the last word.

The marquess coughed.

“A chest cold, perhaps?” Robert asked, raising a brow in an insolent manner.

His father shot him an annoyed glance. “I was just clearing my throat, and you well know it.”

“Ah, yes, healthy as horses, we Kembles are. Healthy as mules, and just as stubborn, too.”

The marquess let his nearly empty glass of whiskey clunk down on the table. “What has happened to you, Robert?”

“I beg your pardon?” This was said as Robert sprawled out on the sofa and put his feet on the table.

“You are a miserable excuse for a son. And get your feet off the table!”

His father's tone was just as it had always been when Robert was a young boy and had committed some awful transgression. Without thinking, Robert obeyed and set his feet on the floor.

“Look at you,” Castleford said with distaste. “Lazing your days away in London. Drinking, whoring, gambling away your fortune.”

Robert smiled humorlessly. “I'm an appallingly good card player. I've doubled my portion.”

His father turned slowly around. “You don't care about anything, do you?”

“I once did,” Robert whispered, suddenly feeling very hollow.

The marquess poured himself another glass of whiskey and downed it. And then, as if making a last-ditch effort, he said, “Your mother would be ashamed of you.”

Robert looked up sharply and his mouth went dry. His father rarely mentioned his mother. It was several moments before he was able to say, “You don't know how she would have felt. You never really knew her. You don't know what love is.”