Chapter Two

T he cottage was shaking. Strike that. No, someone was just attempting to break down his door.

"Jacob Wright. Open this door this instant!" his mother called from the outside. For someone who could be mistaken for an elf, his mother definitely had a pair of lungs on her. Jacob hung his head, dropping his pen on his half-finished paper. With a sigh, he trudged to the door.

He swung it open easily, hoping that the conciliatory action was enough to curb some of his mother's ire. It wasn't.

Her glower could have blinded Polyphemus's one eye in seconds flat.

"I lost track of time," Jacob said quickly as his mother charged into the snug cottage. Her face was red, and wisps of her dark hair clung to the sheen of sweat on her cheeks. Jacob couldn't be sure if it was anger or the walk that had done it to her. The hermit's cottage was a decent twenty-minute jaunt away from the house, which was precisely why he liked it so much.

She rounded on him, her skirts splayed out like daisy petals ready to be plucked. Despite her current appearance, his mother had taken pains to look exceptional today. Her dress was new and made from an expensive dark green silk that made her look like an exotic jewel. Irritation pinched him. The last thing his mother needed to do was try for Sir John Smythe. That man deserved nothing from her.

"Don't tell me you lost track of time," she said. The hairs on the back of Jacob's neck stood at attention. They never failed to do that when her voice sharpened to that steely edge with him. It didn't matter that he was coming on thirty and was at least three heads taller than her. A mother's displeasure never stopped hitting its mark.

Rose Wright's fingers rested on her temple as if she were trying to hold back a headache. "You told me you would come. You told me we would greet them together."

"Mother, I'm sorry. As I said, I lost track of time. I didn't do it on purpose."

The wary look she gave him meant that he would surely have to work on lying a little better. "Well, it certainly didn't help that you were here," she replied with a weak-willed sigh. "This cottage has one window, and it's so dirty one cannot even tell if it's daylight. Remind me to clean it next time I come out."

Jacob snatched her hands in his and dragged her to the chair behind his desk. It was the only place to sit in the cottage beside the bed. Sparse was how Jacob liked it. Sparse meant his mind could do all the work it needed without interruption. Over the past couple of years, his life had been one big interruption after another. And by the worry on his mother's face, it wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

"Oh no you don't," Jacob said adamantly, placing his mother in the seat. He leaned over her, settling his hands on the arms of the chair. "Your cleaning days are over. What's the point of having a son for a viscount if you're going to keep trailing behind him with a bucket of soap and water in your hands?"

That elicited a pathetic chuckle from her, and he relaxed back to standing. "Honestly, Jacob," she said, rolling her eyes, "I don't mind cleaning every now and again. It gives me something to do. Besides, I do it better than the servants anyway."

"Then hire better servants," he returned dryly.

Her laughter grew thicker, more authentic. It warmed Jacob's heart. His mother had laughed so little when he was growing up that being the cause of it still made him feel seven feet tall. "Oh, Jacob, stop changing the subject. You know why I traipsed all the way out here."

"You needed exercise?"

Her mouth tightened. "You've been rude."

Jacob dug his hands into his pockets carelessly. "I'm always rude. Besides, I'm a viscount now, which means it's socially acceptable to be as rude as my heart desires."

Rose's lips twitched, fighting a smile. "Yes, but we're not talking about your heart. We're talking about mine." She paused, allowing the realization to spread across Jacob like an ink stain. "I asked that you not be rude today. I asked you to be pleasant and welcoming to the baronet's family."

Jacob turned away, stalking to the dirty window in the cottage that his mother deemed so unworthy. At one time, the pair of them would have been quite happy with that window and the space in that cottage. Not anymore. Not since he'd received the news that the old viscount died and, by some strange piece of luck, Jacob was his heir. Now, things that were once good enough for them were not anymore. But who made those rules? Who was the judge of such things? Sir John fucking Smythe?

Jacob couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice. "And I told you to wait until my investigator got back to me with the information I requested. It's been thirty years, Mother. Thirty years! And you go ahead and accept a proposal from a man you barely know. I don't understand it!"

"Jacob, we've discussed this—"

"I know what we've discussed," he spat. Why did he suddenly feel like a five-year-old? Why couldn't he disagree with his mother without acting like a spoiled child? Maybe because she'd given her life to making sure he always had a full belly and an education. And now, the fact that he was withholding his happiness for her marriage made him seem ungrateful and rotten. Why couldn't she understand that all he was doing was looking out for her best interests? Why did she hold Sir John fucking Smythe in such high esteem? That lazy baronet wasn't fit to lick his mother's boots. And Jacob couldn't wait to tell him that.

He heard the chair creak as his mother stood, her steps calm and measured as she walked up behind him. Rose rested her hand on his broad shoulder. "Jacob, my son, you have to trust me. I know you think you've taken care of me for a long time, but I was taking care of myself long before that. I know what I'm doing. It might not seem like that. To you, it might seem… I don't know… willful? Fanciful? But I know Sir John Smythe. I can't force you to call off your investigator, but I still wish you would. There's nothing there that will change my decision. I will be his wife, as I always should have been."

Jacob's throat burned. So many harsh words threatened to burst out, and they crackled and popped against one another, creating a fire that seemed impossible to stifle. He wanted to rail at this woman who had been everything to him for most of his life. This woman who had never tired, never stopped, never felt sorry for herself. When her husband had died and she had a small child to take care of, she didn't hole herself up in her room, relying on the charity of strangers and family. She got to work, renting out rooms in their modest home, taking in her two sisters when they needed their own charity, and even resorted to sewing and mending to make ends meet.

Jacob had been raised by women. Good women. Strong women. So strong that even after losing his father when he was ten, he never lamented the casualty of that commanding presence. His mother and his aunts had ably taken over.

So, to see his mother falter now—to see her finally hiccup and trip down this road of insanity for this man, this man that had used her and abused her so dangerously in her youth—was beyond the pale. Jacob couldn't wrap his head around it. But his vision was clear. He could see his mother's path if she ended up in this overgrown man-child's hands. And he couldn't allow it. Jacob had always believed that his mother would move heaven and earth to give him what he needed—not what he wanted. And now it was his turn to repay the favor.

There would be no wedding between the Smythe and Wright families. He would see to that.

As his mother's callused hand increased its pressure, Jacob spun to face her. Two years of gentile living had done much to soften his mother's visage, though the strains of her past were still present. Try as they might, with all the new clothes and servants and soft pillows, no one would ever mistake Rose Wright as a true mother of a viscount. The lines that bracketed her mouth were too deep; her gray eyes held too many storms of experience. Adding another problem for her to battle seemed unconscionable to Jacob.

So, he would have Sir John fucking Smythe do the dirty work for him. Jacob could be gracious. He could play the dutiful son. He loved his mother, after all. That was why he'd invited the baronet and his family to his home for a month. Thirty days was a sufficiently long time. Even master manipulators couldn't bury their crimes and lies for that long. Being forced under the same roof would provide all the pressure Jacob needed.

Sir John would show himself; Jacob was sure of it. And then his mother would finally see that memories—even good ones—deserved to live and die in one place… the past.