Page 101 of Deceiving an Earl
“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said, because what else was he supposed to do? He loved Ellen. That would never change. And he was fated to protect her. That would never change either.
…
“Philip!” Ellen rushed toward her son, so relieved to see him.
When he’d walked out of the house last night she’d been terrified that he wouldn’t return.
“Where are your clothes?” He was obviously not wearing his own clothes. While these were finely made, the jacket was far too large for him, the shoulders drooping, the sleeves covering his hands. The pants were out of fashion, and the shirt hung loosely at his neck.
And then she saw the shadow behind him move, form into Oliver, and she took a step back, her gaze bouncing between Philip and Oliver. Father and son.
Her heart dropped to her toes, and she felt everything unraveling, all the secrets that she had hidden. All the fears that had kept her awake at nights.
She was just glad that Arthur was dead, because this revelation surely would have killed him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked through lips that had suddenly gone numb.
“We need to talk,” Oliver said.
Her gaze went to Philip, but he was resolutely staring at the tips of his ruined shoes. He seemed so much like the little boy she knew so well, not the sixteen-year-old, almost-man, whom he’d been pretending to be since his father’s death.
Oliver put a hand on Philip’s shoulder, and Ellen couldn’t pull her gaze from it. Such a strong, capable hand that would never strike Philip, but would guide him in the things he needed to learn.
Suddenly she was wrought with guilt. Had the decision to remain quiet been wrong? Should she have told Oliver and Arthur the truth?
“Go on up and change into your own clothes,” Oliver said softly.
Philip nodded and shuffled up the steps. Ellen watched him in wonder. Surely this wasn’t her son, the son who fought her on everything—who would have argued ifshehad told him to go upstairs.
“Is there somewhere private we can go?” Oliver asked.
Ellen led him to the parlor and closed the door behind them.
They stood a few feet apart, facing each other, staring at each other.
“Is it true?” he asked.
Ellen pressed her back to the solid door behind her. “What did he tell you?”
“He believes that I am his father.”
The denial came instantly to her lips, but she couldn’t form the words. She was so weary of keeping this secret, and yet she could not tell it without hurting those she loved the most. And, yes, Oliver was one she loved the most.
“Philip should not be listening at doors.” It was not a denial, but neither was it an agreement.
“I think part of him regrets that action.”
She tried to smile. “Philip has always had to do things his way. If I told him not to do something because he could get hurt, he set out to prove to me he could do it without getting hurt.”
“He’s a fine boy. A bit confused right now, but you and Fieldhurst did well in raising him.”
Hearing Arthur’s name carved a hole inside of her. She loved Oliver, always would, because he’d been her first love and first lover. But her love for Arthur had been steadfast and comfortable. Not like the wild love she felt for Oliver.
“Arthur and Philip were close.” She looked at Oliver pointedly.
His lips were drawn into a fine line, but he nodded. “I understand.”
“Philip was devastated by Arthur’s death.” Her husband had suffered for some time, and it had been hell to watch him wither away until he could not fight the disease inside him any longer.
