Page 62 of Kathryn

“She was three months pregnant on our wedding night.” The words were like bile on his tongue, even after all these years.

“I—I am so sorry. I had no idea. What happened to the baby?”

“She had a miscarriage.” Gerrit put both hands on his desk and pushed himself up. “We are finished here.” When she did not move, he strode toward the door, adding, “At least I am.”

“Gerrit!”

He squeezed his eyes briefly shut but swung around to face her. “What?” he bit out, not caring how rude he sounded.

“This marriage is a second chance for you—Katie is not Christina—” Her eyes widened. “Unless… Dear God. Is she also—”

“Kathryn is not pregnant,” he snapped, inexplicably irritated that his mother was already calling his wife by her pet name.

“Then this is a fresh chance for you. A chance to have a real marriage, not the disaster that Boon and I shared. I know what he always told you, Gerrit, but you are not him. You are lovable and I know that you have love to give. Just because Boon was not capable of—”

“You know nothing about me, madam. Just the same way you knew nothing about my father.”

She flinched as if he had struck her. “So what are your plans, then? To install your own mistress here at Briarly as Boon did with his whore?”

“Don’t you dare use that word when referring to Amelia. Not when you—”

“I am your mother!” the dowager shouted hoarsely, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. “She is not, as much as you obviously wish that were so. Half of you came from me, Gerrit. Me, not her, for all that you give her the respect of a parent. And yes, I know you went to see that—that whore—yes, I will call her what she is—last night mere moments after your arrival.”

“You are hardly without blame when it comes to the subject of whoring, madam.” Gerrit saw her hand coming and could have dodged it easily, but he relished her loss of control and was darkly amused by the look of horror on her face after the loud slap filled the room.

She reached for him with both hands but jerked them back when he recoiled. “Oh, dear God! Gerrit, I did not mean to hurt you, I am so—”

“You do not possess the power to hurt me, Your Grace,” he assured her, unmoved by the tears sliding down her face.

Remarkably, she stood her ground. “I gave up on Boon on our wedding night—after he made it clear that he wanted nothing from me save an heir—”

“You would paint yourself as blameless even though you brought your lover with you to England? Even though he lives openly at Spenwood and has done for decades?”

“I will not deny the truth of your words, but neither will I continue to apologize. For years I have allowed my shame to keep me quiet, but no longer. I refuse to sit by and watch as you destroy your chance for—”

She broke off with a startled yelp when Gerrit closed the distance between them, not stopping until they were so close they were almost touching. “If you meddle in my marriage, I will have you put away somewhere you can never interfere in my life again.”

Gerrit did not think she looked more shocked than he felt that such a vile, cruel threat had issued from his mouth.

“You would not,” she said, her voice quavering with uncertainty.

No, he wouldn’t. But she did not need to know that. Instead, he said, “Do not test my patience, Your Grace. You will find it is non-existent where you are concerned.”

She swallowed convulsively, for a moment looking like a cornered animal. But then, just as he was turning away, another expression slid over her normally soft, almost indistinct features. It took Gerrit a moment to recognize it because he’d never seen such a look on his mother’s face before. It was resolution.

Her shoulders stiffened and she seemed to grow a several inches in stature. “You must do what you feel best, Gerrit. But if you want to lock me away then you will have to bodily carry me out of this house. Until that time, I will stay and fight for your future, whether you want me to or not.”

He stared dazedly as she stormed from the room.

She should have appeared laughable—her slight form as insubstantial as a child and garbed in one of her silly, fussy pink gowns—but for the first time that Gerrit could remember, the dowager looked like somebody who deserved respect.

***

Katie pushed her poached sole from one side of her plate to the other—the dowager’s determinedly cheerful voice a constant hum in the background—and waited for the meal to end.

The table was just as long as it had been in London, but Katie had not bothered to insist on shortening it. When she entered the room at three minutes to six, she had been amused to see David Sessions—her husband’s steward—and knew that Dulverton must have invited him to balance the table. Both the steward and the dowager valiantly attempted to maintain a flow of conversation without much help from either Katie or the duke.

Katie was exhausted, for all that she had done very little other than tour the house with Betje for a few hours. Sometimes it seemed like doing nothing was more exhausting than dancing until dusk.