While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(45)

“It’s something to do to pass the time during the journey,” she said with forced brightness.

“I could think of other things to do.”

Her face burned, understanding precisely what things he referred to.

They lapsed into awkward silence for some moments and she feared she had killed the impulse in him to confide in her.

And then he began talking again.

She released a small anxious breath.

“One of my earliest memories is taking care of her after one of her gentlemen callers decided he needed to rearrange her face.” He tapped the edge of his nose, and she wondered if he was even aware that he was doing that. Or was he seeing his mother, seeing her face when it had been rearranged.

Poppy winced, visualizing him as a little boy trying to help his mother, the one adult who should have taken care of him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

He turned his attention from the window and fixed his stare on her once again. He stared at her for a long time, his gaze deep, curious, as he assessed her. “What do you have to be sorry about? You were a little girl then, caught up in your own world doing little-girl things. Even once your mother was gone, I presume there was a father there for you?” At her nod, he continued flatly, “My own father is dead now. He was the reason I came to London.”

She frowned. “How is that?”

“I had to show him. Let him know I made something of myself even without his help. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t rotting in an unmarked grave like my mother.”

She flinched.

“I even entertained the notion of taking revenge on him.”

Her expression must have revealed some of her disapproval. She regretted that. She shouldn’t judge. She couldn’t know what he’d endured. She couldn’t begin to understand how he felt. Then or now.

“Should that surprise you?” he asked, that corner of his mouth kicking up, tempting her with his non-smile. “I thought marrying some fine blue-blooded lass would be the final revenge. Flaunting her in my father’s face . . . going to all the same functions that he and his real family attended. I thought about doing that very thing for a long time. Even after I learned my father was dead, I thought about it.”

For some reason this confession made her feel a little hollow inside. “You’re looking to marry an aristocrat?” she asked numbly, feeling awkward and inadequate sitting across from him. She twisted her hands in her lap. A poor shopgirl like herself shouldn’t be worth his time and yet here he was stuck in a carriage with her.

“Thought as in past tense. Not anymore.” He chuckled harshly. “I shook off that fit of madness, thankfully. Can you imagine? I was contemplating shackling myself to a blue-blooded miss simply to prove that I was as good as my sire. And he’s dead.” He laughed roughly. “I suppose I thought he could see me from where he’s burning.”

Relief coursed through her. And sadness. She was perversely and selfishly and wrongly glad that he still wasn’t on a mission to marry, but she felt sorry for him, too. He seemed so . . . alone. For all his money and power, he was alone.

She studied the big shape of him across from her. His legs took up a great deal of space, nearly touching the bench where she sat. It was difficult to reconcile such a brawny man with the words she was hearing from him. He looked invulnerable, but he was so obviously embittered.

She moistened her lips before speaking. “It can’t be good for you to keep this festering inside you.”

He was silent for a moment. His eyes black as a graveyard in the confines of the carriage, and she was quite certain he did not appreciate her advice. He leaned forward slightly, propping one elbow on his knee in a gesture that felt faintly menacing. “My mother took me to him once, you know, as I mentioned. Presented me as though he might be proud at the sight of me.” He laughed harshly again. “I was the spitting image of him. Resembled him even more than Marcus. Ironic that.”

So Autenberry saw his dead father when he looked at his bastard half brother? That must be a struggle. What else did he see when he looked at Struan? His father’s infidelity? The sting of betrayal? Suddenly the fight outside Barclay’s made a little more sense. As difficult as Struan’s life had been, this couldn’t be easy for Autenberry either.

Struan continued, “My mother wanted him to acknowledge me. Take me home with him. Can you believe that? She still believed in fairy tales after everything that happened to her.”

“She was your mother,” Poppy said slowly, thoughtfully. “She loved you and wanted the best for you. Yes. I can imagine that.”

“Well, that didn’t happen. Instead he left us to starve and freeze through a Highland winter. My mother was already weak. Too few meals over a long period of time . . . years. She would always see to me first. Food and clothing, shoes, went to me first.”

Poppy nodded slowly, tears clogging her throat as he uttered all of this so impassively, his face a stone mask. Wouldn’t she do the same if she were a mother? Would she not do the same for Bryony?

“She never saw the spring,” he finished.

She inhaled, uncertain how to proceed after his admission. She had to tamp down the urge to reach across the space separating them and touch him, to offer some measure of comfort. For him or yourself? She shook off the question, pushing it down deep inside her.