Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

T hey finally left the bedroom early in the afternoon the next day. Cora claimed they needed air and light and sustenance, but Liam feared she wished for space. From him, from the churning feelings she must surely feel the same as he did. He welcomed them. They'd been building in him since that first kiss. He'd tried pretending they were called duty and obligation, tried pretending he pursued her for the viscountcy, to redeem himself as a man, but…

All lies.

Better to face the truth now. Easier to breathe that way, especially when he breathed in Cora's scent. Unknown flowers and ink.

He couldn't stop touching her as they descended the stairs, lacing his arm around her waist, kissing the side of her neck, brushing his thumb along the curve of her hip. And she giggled, and she swatted him away, and she hid smiles that seemed to want to burst bright from her lips without her consent. She played at being aloof this morning, but she touched him, too. Tangling her hand in his cravat to drag him into an alcove and kiss him senseless. Hooking her index finger into the waist of his trousers and tugging him closer. Swatting his shoulder, then kissing the very spot as if soothing what she feared she'd pained.

Something very like joy glowed in her, and it illuminated the whole damn room when she looked at him. Him . A man with nothing but a title and determination to give her.

And a happy ever after. He could give her that, the thing she thought she could never have.

They found Liam's family in the gardens. The children had been set up with easels and paint, and Angus and Liam's mother were reading books nearby in matching wicker chairs, their hands not occupied with turning pages but with clinging to one another in the small space between them. When Cora and Liam approached, they glanced up with matching smirks.

"Ye both look verra pleased with yourselves," Angus said.

Cora blushed and ducked her head into Liam's shoulder as he placed a kiss on her temple.

"Where is Mr. Eastwood?" Liam asked.

"Sleeping in the village." Angus snorted, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like and may he never return .

Cora pulled away from Liam to stand behind the children and view their work. She made appropriate little cries of delight, bending over each easel to ask the child questions about their painting. They beamed, and she beamed, and Liam did, too, as his parents returned to their books.

God, he wanted a child with this woman. It would be his and hers, and they would get to watch it grow into whatever it would become. That was one thing his father had not enjoyed, watching Liam grow into his own person. He'd wanted Liam to be a shadow of himself. But Liam would not be that way with his child. He would watch, and he would nurture like a gardener helping a flower bloom. The gardener could not change the flower's nature, but it could know what it needed most and provide it.

He wandered toward the easels and his brother and sisters, feeling much more pleasant toward them than he had yesterday. He had just spied Bethy's rather lumpy blue teapot on a black painted canvas when Mags turned to look at Cora.

"What is a London Season like?" she asked. A natural question for a fifteen-year-old girl, he supposed, but… to think of little Mags adrift in the tonnish ocean, as vast and cold as it was… he shivered.

"Not for you, Sister," he said, patting her on the head. Trying to.

She ducked and scowled, then returned her attention to Cora. "Are the balls very exciting?"

Cora clasped her hands behind her back. "They can be. They can also be terribly tedious."

"I knew it," Mary whispered.

"I would not find them boring," Megs promised. "Mama says I cannot yet attend the Edinburgh balls. Not for another two years! But I'll be quite on the shelf by that time."

On the shelf? At seventeen? Liam almost laughed.

But Cora cut him a look like a saber through a man's gut before saying, "I was quite on the shelf when I met your brother. Five and twenty, you know. As long in the tooth as it's possible to be."

Liam rolled his eyes, but Cora didn't see because every bit of her smiled at Megs. "Do you know, you are a beautiful girl? You will do quite well in Edinburgh society."

Megs sat up taller, preened.

"But…"

Megs slumped.

"You might enjoy a London Season as well."

Megs whirled around to face Cora again. "Will you sponsor me? In a London Season?"

Cora nodded. "If you are willing to wait. You see, I am new to being a viscountess, and if I sponsored you too soon, I might not have the connections you need to make an excellent match. But in two years' time, I dare say I'll be of some use to you. Can you wait?"

"Yes!" Megs burst to her feet and wrapped Cora in a hug, and Cora, after a moment of startled hesitation, hugged her back, rocking tight into the embrace until Liam's sister let go. "Did you hear that, Mama? London! What is two years? Two years is nothing when London is at the end of it!" The girl returned to her painting.

And Cora sought out his mother's gaze.

"Thank you," his mother said, her eyes suspiciously watery. "You do not have to."

"I want to. What are you reading?" Cora sat on a bench near his mother and stepfather, and soon they were chatting about books as if they'd always known one another, always had such conversations. And when Henry ran by and pulled on Cora's sleeve, she laughed, swung him up into her lap for a wiggly hug, which he returned before launching himself back to the ground and into a run. Then easy as breathing, Cora returned to her conversation with his mother and Angus.

This, the same woman who'd hovered hesitantly between groups at Bluevale? This, the woman who sat on the edges of crowds and waited for the dark of night and the weight of shadows to join the fray?

No. This, the woman from the boat yesterday, slinging her words to the wide blue sky and into the warm joy of the sun. This, a woman who did not hide in darkness but who belonged.

And he wanted to drag her off to their bedchamber and show her he belonged to her. But he sat next to her on the bench. Right now, on this blue-green day with happiness everywhere like the wind, she needed to belong to a family more than she needed whatever pleasure he would try to bring her. So, he kissed her temple once more. Because he knew she liked that.

"A family gathering in the garden?" The voice boomed down the path that led to the front of the house. "Good thing I've arrived."

Liam groaned, and Cora became a statue as her father blasted into the familial circle.

"Good afternoon, Father," she said.

But he swept right past her, his attention all for Liam. "Norton, up for fishing today?"

"No." Liam couldn't even look at the man, a dangerous rage simmering beneath his skin.

"You didn't attend dinner."

"Neither did your daughter," Liam said despite his tight jaw and clenched teeth. "Perhaps you should wish her good afternoon."

"Bah. I had years with her. Don't need more. It's you I'm here for, Son."

Cora's hands had become claws on the chair arms, her cheeks red, her gaze drifted downward. If she'd been blooming moments before, she'd retreated now, right back to the shadows where her father had always pushed her.

Liam faced Eastwood slowly. He was about to shatter the peace, and he never did so willingly. He smiled, nodded, and let annoyances go because it was easier than confrontation, easier than upsetting others.

But Cora was upset now, so Liam stepped up to her father and held his chin high. "Mr. Eastwood, if you have nothing to say to Cora, then you have no reason to remain at Norton Hall. You will leave. Now. And you are not welcome back."

Cora gasped, but Liam held strong. He'd opened a rift between himself and this other man. Nothing to do now but fling himself into it.

"Do you understand?" Liam asked, raising a brow.

Eastwood sputtered. His cheeks had gone red, and his shoulders bent so Liam seemed taller now. "I do not understand. I—"

"Then you are a fool." Liam spun around, giving Eastwood his back, and straightened his gloves. "And I'll not suffer them."

"I am insulted!" Eastwood sidestepped toward his daughter. "Cora, you will not let him treat me this way!"

Cora shrugged. "I'm afraid the viscount must do as he feels is best. Goodbye, Father."

Eastwood's mouth hung open, continued to hang open as he backed down the path toward the front of the house. It still hung open when he finally turned, and perhaps it remained that way all the way to the village. The children watched him until he disappeared, and Liam's mother and Angus watched Liam with slack jaws until they noticed Liam scowling at them. Then returned their attention to their books.

"Good riddance," Liam mumbled, reaching Cora's side and leaning over her with a whisper. They were surrounded, but every pair of eyes faded into the garden greenery as Cora's world tilted and righted itself, Cora now its center, his center. "Are you well? Should I have let him stay? I couldn't stand it anymore, how he always ignores you. I've probably ruined your relationship with him, and—"

Her hand settled on his arm. " He ruined it. A long time ago. Thank you. For standing up for me." She tilted her chin up. "I did not need it of course, but… I am grateful, nonetheless. I know it is difficult for you to displease people."

It had been, yes. Always it had been, but now? The easiest thing in the world to state his mind and grasp for what he wanted when it might make Cora happy, too.

"Norton!" A new voice, clear and nasally traveled from the house and into the garden.

"What now?" Liam hissed, snapping upright.

Now, the Dowager Viscountess Norton standing tall and disapproving in the doorway, her hands folded atop a wooden cane. Send one pest packing and another replaced it. Bloody hell, there was no end.

Liam bowed, biting back his frustration and his face. He could not seem to temper his expression, and it most certainly said, quite loudly and without a word , What in bloody hell are you doing here ? As well as go away.

Thankfully, he spoke before his expression could. "Grandmother. You're here. What a surprise."

"Shouldn't be." Grandmother's gaze settled like heavy chains on Liam. "Edmonds wrote to me. Dire warnings in every word."

Cora stood, suppressing a scowl. "I apologize Edmonds has startled you. Did you have a comfortable journey?"

"No." Grandmother punctuated the word with a jab of her cane on the gravel path before setting it down and moving toward them.

Cora rolled her lips between her teeth and took a step forward, opening her arms wide to welcome his grandmother into the circle of family. "Then you must allow us to make up for it. Please take my seat. We are surprised to see you. The number of family in residence keeps increasing, and it is a… joy."

A nuisance, more like, but Grandmother wouldn't like the truth. She seemed not to like anything. She wrinkled her nose more with every new sight—Liam and Cora, Liam's mother and stepfather, even the children—until she appeared more tiny pug dog than person.

She hummed. "A family gathering I see. How… sweet." But enough poison in her voice to fell them all.

The children ran toward her, the steps growing more hesitant the closer they came.

"Hello, Grandmother," Meg said, dropping a curtsy. Her sisters and brother followed suit.

His grandmother looked them over, then flicked her hand at them. "The children should leave."

Liam's mother jumped to her feet and ushered them all inside, the only exchange between her and her mother-in-law was a furtive glance and a narrow-eyed response.

His grandmother's roamed to Angus and popped wide. "You. Leave now ."

Angus rose slowly, bowed, then left. Why had neither Angus nor his mother told the old woman to sod off?

No matter. Liam could do so. It went against who he was, who he'd been for so very long—a man who sought to placate and please. But he could not, would not stand by while a peevish woman scattered the few people who'd ever truly accepted him, faults and all.

Liam marched toward his grandmother. "You cannot appear out of nowhere and tell everyone what to do."

His grandmother raised a brow, whirled around, and marched back inside.

Liam stormed after her, Cora following at his heels.

In the dark interior of the drawing room, his grandmother was inching into a seat.

"Send your mother and her husband away at once," she demanded.

"No. I will not. They've come all the way from Scotland and—"

"If you wish to be a good viscount, if you know what is good for your title, you will send them away. Now."

Of course he wanted to be a good viscount, but as far as he knew, a good viscount did not throw his family out of doors. "Have you come merely to yell at us?"

"I heard rumors all the way in Bath. You're cavorting with whores. And your wife is doing who knows what at house parties across the country."

Cora made a small squeak beside him, and he linked his arm with her, needing her to anchor him, to keep him calm. Impulses were jumping in his blood.

Boot his grandmother out the door.

Ban her from Norton Hall.

Not wise impulses, though tempting.

"I told you not to marry her," his grandmother said. "A viscount has no obligation to a banker's daughter, no matter how he's used her."

Cora's hand squeezed his forearm, and she pressed her mouth against his shoulder, likely trapping a flood of choice words behind her teeth.

"Crude," Liam said. "And immoral."

She snorted. "You're no better than you should be. No wonder you ruined and wed a banker's daughter. Like seeks like, after all. Were you truly of my blood, you'd have married one of the Duke of Clearford's sisters as I'd asked you to do. I should have known sooner. You never did live up to the standards of this family. Always failing at things that should come easy to a Fletcher. And excelling at those things most likely to disgrace us all."

A disgrace. A failure. Of course he was. He'd always known it. His father had known it. Of course, his grandmother had seen it, too.

"It is a wonder," she said, "I used to think the Fletcher blood had produced such as you." With a huff that would have come with ruffled feathers if produced by a bird, she looked out the window. "But when I saw you next to that Scottish rogue at your wedding, I knew—I never should have questioned the strength of the Fletcher line."

Cora's hand had crept to his shoulder, and it tightened as she whispered, "Why does she keep saying that?"

"Saying what?" But his brain was creaking back over the conversation now and turning over gut-wrenching words.

Were you truly of my blood…

"What are you saying, Grandmother?" he asked, his voice steady and strong, his soul brittle as old bone.

"I'm saying we must do something about your wife. I allowed the marriage because she seemed harmless enough. And talk about you two then was the quickness of your union indicated a love match. Now gossip has shifted, and the Norton name lies in the mud."

But that did not answer his question.

Were you truly of my blood…

"You will not disparage my wife. Now answer my question. What do you mean about Norton blood?"

His grandmother's eyes cold and yellow like the farthest stars in the heavens. "You dare to command me, boy?"

"I am the viscount. Answer me."

"Yes, you are," his mother said from the doorway, Angus standing tall behind her. "But had your father not agreed to marry me when he did, you would not have been."

His grandmother's cold gaze met his mother's gentle green one. His grandmother opened her mouth for a long moment, then snapped it shut, and fired words at his mother like bullets. "You admit it, then. You're a brazen harlot who tricked my son into marriage. And now the esteemed title of Viscount Norton has been usurped by a bastard."

Certain words had the power to stop time. To stop the functions of the body and natural movements of the earth itself. One such word had just peeled a silence across the room, across Norton Hall, across all of England, likely.

Everything seemed to be leaking out of Liam—blood, breath, life. His lungs had locked up tight, his throat, too, and oh, God, if he did not breathe soon, he might die.

Hands on his chest somewhat quieted the buzzing in his brain, somewhat slowed the racehorse quickness of his heartbeat.

"Breathe, Liam," Cora said, gently patting his chest. " Breathe ."

He inhaled, sharp and shaky, his vision still watery, distant, as if he peered into the future through a blurry window. "I… I am… a bastard?"

"No." His mother strode farther into the room. "No, you are not. You were born almost eight months after my marriage to Norton. You were born within wedlock. You are not a bastard. You are, however, not your father's son." She winced. "What I mean is—"

"Not my father." So much information in his mother's little speech to sift through, but somehow the only bit of it he could respond to was that important detail. "Mr. Fletcher, the vicar, is not, was not, my father."

His mother rocked back a step. "I did not trick him. You must know that. He knew. He agreed."

"Lies." Lady Norton leaned over her cane and lowered to a chair. "He would never have—"

"But he did!" Isla's hands were fists. "I fell in love with A—with another man the summer before my wedding. But my father did not relish a marriage with… that man, not when I could have the younger son of a viscount. He dragged me home, and before I could stop crying, I was married. Henry knew. He was so kind about it. He thought me rather a pitiful creature, struck low by wanton sinfulness, and I hated him for a long time for that, but… we did love one another. In the end. As much as he could love anyone less than perfect. He treated Liam like his own son, never said otherwise. I told him he could break our engagement. He wouldn't have it. He never thought… neither of us ever would have guessed Liam would become viscount. Henry's older brother was married, his wife with child. The line seemed secure." She shook her head, chanced a glance at the dowager. "How did you discover it?"

Lady Norton pointed her cane at Angus, who hovered near his wife. "Look at the man! The man you married so swiftly after my son died. As soon as I saw him at the wedding, I knew. I had decided to keep my silence until your son started strutting about London with harlots. He thinks he can do as he pleases with no repercussions. Perhaps if he were truly of my bloodline, that would be the case. But he's not. He's a Scottish barkeep's by-blow. He must fall in line and do as I say to protect the title."

"Fall in line?" Cora asked. "What does that mean? Liam is an excellent viscount. He does his duty and cares about doing it well. London was a mistake, a misunderstanding."

"You must not have a child. That's what I mean." His grandmother raised her voice as high as it would go, and Cora backed into Liam's chest as if physically hit. "Young Henry will inherit after Liam's death, and the title will be in the right hands once more."

Cora stalked forward, danger in the set of her shoulders. "You cannot presume to tell me whether I can have a child."

Liam should stand by her side, but he couldn't. Because the words Scottish barkeep's by-blow rang through his head without end.

Angus looked at Liam. How long had the man been looking? But now that Liam was looking back, he could not tear his gaze away. It was like peering into a mirror in a dream, when you were who you always were but also someone different.

Liam's light-blond hair resembled his mother's in color, but it waved back from his forehead like Angus's did. The same hairline, the same thick texture. And like the Scotsman, Liam possessed a tall build, a wide set of shoulders, and powerful limbs. Their eyes both crinkled at the corners when they smiled, something neither of them did presently. And Angus's lips were shaped into a familiar grim line, likely the same one gracing Liam's lips.

"You," Liam said through a thick fog, "are my father?"

Cora whirled and covered her gasp with a hand over her mouth. She studied Angus and made another little sound. "Oh. Oh."

Liam's sentiments exactly. But he'd also add: bollocks.

His mother had returned to her former lover after her husband's death.

Angus stepped toward the dowager. "I am no' a barkeep, my lady. I am a wine merchant, the most revered in Scotland. Even your London families pay whatever I ask for my vintages."

"Yes," Liam's grandmother said, "and your son is now a viscount."

Wandering toward the hallway, Liam felt as bent and curved as a tree after a storm with high whistling winds. Cora ran after him, following him into the hallway.

He shook his head, held his hand out. "I need to think, to be alone. It's not every day a man discovers he's not who he thinks he is."

"You do not want me to—"

"No. I do not." With his heart thumping in his ears, and every choice he'd ever made in his life rolling through his brain, he left his wife in the cold, dark hallway behind him. Alone.