Page 76 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
The harsh words shattered something inside him. He’dthought she understood what he was saying, that she understood his desire for her. But clearly she didn’t know him at all. He’d been building castles out of fog.
“Forgive me,” he said stiffly. “I should have realized you would see it that way. In future, I’ll take care not to bother you.”
He turned on his heel to leave.
Chapter Twenty
Cursing her quick temper, Maria watched Oliver head for the door. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She was just tired of his painting Nathan as a fortune hunter, when he would be one, too, if he married her.
But in her heart, she knew that wasn’t why he’d proposed. He’d fought so hard against marriage; he wouldn’t have done so if he’d wanted her fortune. She grabbed his arm before he could walk out. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I didn’t mean that. Your proposal took me by surprise, that’s all.”
His arm remained rigid beneath her hand. “You have every right to consider me a fortune hunter.” He stared sightlessly at the door. “But what you don’t understand is I’m probably the last man who’d ever marry you for your money.”
“Why?”
He was silent so long that she feared he wouldn’t answer. When he did begin to speak, his voice held a dead qualitythat alarmed her. “My father married my mother because he needed a rich wife to shore up this damned house and all it stood for.” A heavy sigh wracked him. “Unfortunately, Mother didn’t realize the nature of the transaction until it was too late. She thought he was in love with her, and she believed herself to be in love with him. She thought she was living a fairy tale. It was quite a coup for her to snag a marquess, you see, and to become mistress to such a place as this.”
The muscles of his throat worked convulsively. “But once she was ensconced in her precious fairy-tale palace, she learned the truth. That Father wanted her for her fortune alone. That he would have done anything to gain the right wife for his purposes.”
His voice hardened. “That he had no intention of changing his way of life for her. He meant to go on whoring his way through London, wife or no. In the end, that was what destroyed them. If not for his treatment of her and her desperate need to make him love her, she would never have—”
When he broke off, she stared hard at him, knowing he’d been about to say something important. “Would never have what?” she asked softly, almost afraid to hear his answer, yet needing to know.
Pulling free of her hand, he went to stand before the fire, a lonely and dark silhouette against the orange flames. “I lied to you before.”
Her breath hitched. “About what?”
“About how my parents died. Grandidtell everyonethat Mother killed Father when she mistook him for an intruder, but the truth is . . . she murdered him deliberately. And then took her own life.”
Her heart pounded. “How can you be sure of that? You said that no one really knows what—”
“I was there.”
Her mind reeled. “You saw it?” she said, incredulous.
“No. After. I reached them too late.”
“Then you don’t know for certain what she intended.”
His harsh laugh chilled her to the bone. “Yes, I do. She rode out after him, angry at him over . . . something that had happened. I wanted Gran to go after her, because I knew her mother could calm her down, but Gran thought I was overreacting. When it grew dark and Mother hadn’t returned, Gran and I rode to the hunting lodge.”
His voice had dropped to a whisper, forcing her to edge closer so she could hear him over the patter of rain now beating on the roof.
“There were no lights burning,” he said. “The place was eerily still. Gran told me to wait while she went to see if their horses were in the stable, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I rushed inside.” A shudder racked him. “I was the one to find them.”
“Oh, Oliver,” she breathed. Her poor, poor darling. She couldn’t even imagine stumbling across such a violent scene, but especially one involving one’s own parents. Her stomach churned to think of him there alone and clearly blaming himself for not going after his mother sooner. How had he borne it all these years?
Coming up behind him, she laid her hand on his back, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“There was blood spattered from ceiling to floor,” he said in a low, awful voice. “I still see it sometimes in my nightmares. Mother lay on the carpet with a hole in her chest. The pistol lay beside her limp hand. And Father’s face . . .”
He trailed off with a shudder, and she stroked his back, knowing it was a feeble comfort.
After a moment he continued, his tone a little more steady. “It was clear I could do nothing for him, but I rushed to Mother, thinking that I saw her move. Of course she hadn’t. She was cold when I lifted her in my arms. I got blood all over me. That’s how Gran found me, holding Mother, rocking back and forth, weeping. Gran had to pry her from my arms.”
Maria was weeping now, weeping for the sad loss of it. And for a boy who’d seen something he never should have.
A choked sigh escaped him. “I don’t remember much after that. Gran wrapped me in something, and we rode back to the house as if the hounds of hell were on our heels. Somewhere on the journey I lost whatever she’d wrapped around me, so a couple of the grooms saw me in bloody clothes.
