Page 93 of Deceiving an Earl
William chuckled. “How very noble of him to try to save his damsel in distress. He’s such a lovesick fool, still pining after you even after our engagement. Really, I feel sorry for the chap having lost out to Lord Fieldhurst and now me.”
“Stop it,” she said.
William was suddenly very still. “Don’t ever tell me what to do.”
She swallowed her fear, but it stuck in her throat like acid, eating away at her.
“Never forget, dear Ellen, that I know everything. I know that whelp of yours is Armbruster’s son. I know the secret you’ve been carrying inside you for sixteen years. And I know what it can do to you and that bastard son of yours. I can ruin all of you.”
…
Philip waited until Needham had gone before confronting his mother. The anger had come after the paralyzing shock of hearing Needham threaten his mother with the knowledge that his father…his father…the man he had thought was his father was not actually his father.
Even thinking about it made his head pound and caused a great pressure behind his eyes that made him blink to clear his vision.
Eventually, he had run to his father’s study and slammed the door closed. Philip had stood in front of the fireplace and looked up at his parents’ portrait, painted right after their wedding.
Philip had never thought that the rendering was a good likeness of his father. But last year, when he realized that he was forgetting his father’s face, he would come to the study to look at this portrait.
Now he studied it with an intensity he’d never had before. He searched his father’s face, looking for a resemblance to himself. For anything that would indicate that Arthur had sired him.
Needham had to be wrong, except his mother had not bothered to correct Needham. She hadn’t denied the disgusting revelation. In fact, she’d said nothing at all.
Nothing.
Philip curled his fingers into fists and wanted to punch Needham right in the face.
But—and he would never admit this out loud—there was something about Needham that frightened Philip. A coldness that chilled him. When Philip looked into Needham’s eyes he saw two things—hatred and evil.
He listened to Needham leave, the door close behind him, and still he stared up at the man who he thought had been his father. Then anger propelled him back to the parlor and his mother.
“Is it true?”
She was sitting on the couch when he walked in, bent forward, elbows on knees, face in her hands.
She turned her head and dropped her hands, and Philip was taken aback by the dead look in her eyes, the defeated slant to her shoulders, the paleness of her usually vibrant skin.
He’d never seen her like this before, even when his father had died.
His father.
Whowashis father?
“What Needham said to you. Is it true? Is Armbruster my father?”
She stood and for a moment he thought she might fall over, she was so unsteady. “Where did you hear that?”
“Through the door.”
She closed her eyes, and her lips went pale. “You shouldn’t be listening at doors, Philip. It’s bad manners.”
“Forget the bloody door,” he burst out. “Is it true what he said?”
“Of course not.” She tried to smile, but her lips couldn’t quite complete the act.
“So he lied when he said that? And you just let him lie about you? And about Father? You just sat there and let him say these horrible things about you?”
“Philip…” She seemed so weary. So…beaten down. “You don’t understand.”
