Page 67 of The Secret of Flirting
She waited until she heard his sharp intake of breath before she went on. “You know, I’m not entirely surehowI feel about the duke. I’m barely acquainted with him. That’s why I intend to ride with him tomorrow. So I can come to know him better.” Thinking of the count’s remarks earlier, she turned to face Gregory and added in a hard voice, “That’s also why I don’t wantyouthere.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s a pity. Because I mean to join you whether you want me there or not.”
A part of her thrilled to that. But he kept using her real identity to pressure her, and it was time to call his bluff.
She strode toward the door. “I’m tired of this. If you want to expose me, do so. Otherwise, stop bullying me. Or I will reveal the truth myself and take you down with me.”
It was a bluff, too; all the power was on his side. But she felt better for saying it.
And, gathering her faux royal dignity about her, she walked out.
Sixteen
Gregory sat at his desk for a long time after Monique left, long after he heard the others come up to their bedchambers. He was supposed to be sifting through a stack of documents requiring his signature, which his mother had conveniently marked so he could skim them quickly.
But his mind kept wandering back to Monique’s threats.
If you want to expose me, do so. Otherwise, stop bullying me. Or I will reveal the truth myself and take you down with me.
She had him hemmed in. He could either go along until the masquerade was done, or expose her and risk exposing himself. Granted, he could merely dismiss her as a lying foreign actress, but there would still be a scandal. It would almost certainly ruin his chances at becoming foreign secretary.
Worst of all? He didn’t really think she’d do it. He’d backed her into a corner, and she’d lashed out as a wounded animal might.
He snorted. Right. A wounded animal. She had him so tied up in useless emotions like jealousy and anger and desire that he couldn’t even see her clearly. Damn her.
Realizing he wouldn’t get any more work done tonight, he left his study and went out into the hall. He found his mother standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down them as if into a portal of the past.
The look of sadness on her face made his blood run cold. “Are you all right?”
That pulled her out of her trance. “You’re still up?”
“No, I’m walking in my sleep.”
She swatted his arm. “Don’t be sarcastic. You always do that—make jokes when you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” he said through gritted teeth. Not about anything involving her, anyway.
Her expression grew troubled. “Forgive me for telling our guests about your antics at school. I hope it doesn’t hurt your career.”
Thatwas what she thought had upset him? “I doubt some gossip about my childhood pranks will affect my future, Mother. Don’t worry about it.”
Glancing down the stairs, she whispered, “I sometimes miss him, even after all these years. Is that wrong?”
He tensed. “Wrong? No. Hard to believe? Yes.”
“He wasn’t always a monster, you know. In the beginning, when he was mostly sober, we had some good times.”
“That must have happened before I was old enough to remember, because I never saw him sober.” An anger as old as sin sharpened his tone. “I only ever saw him in a drunken rage—at you, at the servants, at me and John. I only ever saw that fist of his, seconds before it landed on your jaw... or stomach or—” He fought for calm, fought to put his emotions back in the box where he kept them. “Why are we talking about this, for God’s sake?”
She reached up to touch his cheek. “Because I want you to know I don’t blame you.”
The words snagged on his memories, making him choke down a flood of remorse. Then he realized where they were and glanced about to see who might be close enough to overhear. “Mother, we can’t talk about this here.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She flashed him a wan smile. “I’m not used to having so many people about. But you understand what I’m saying, right?”
That she “sometimes” missed the arse who’d sired Gregory and John and had hit them whenever they’d made a wrong step? That she actuallymissedthe arse who’d beaten her whenever he was in his cups, which was most of the time?
Oh, and then there was the fact that she didn’t blame her son for defending her that night and shoving his father so that he lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs to his death.
