Hugh still said nothing.
“The question is”—Lord Ramsgate shifted forward, leaning his elbows on the table—“what can I do to aid you in your suit?”
“Stay out of my life.”
“Ah, but I can’t.”
Hugh let out an exhausted sigh. He hated showing weakness in front of his father, but he was so bloody tired. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“You have to ask me that?” his father retorted, even though Hugh had clearly been talking to himself.
Hugh put one hand to his forehead and pinched at his temples. “Freddie might still marry,” he said, but by now it was more out of habit than anything else.
“Oh, stop,” his father said. “He wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she pulled his cock out and—”
“Stop!” Hugh roared, nearly upsetting the table as he lurched back to his feet. “Shut up! Just shut your bloody mouth!”
His father looked almost baffled at the outburst. “It’s the truth. The tested truth, I might add. Do you know how many whores I—”
“Yes,” Hugh snapped. “I know exactly how many whores you locked in the room with him. It’s that bloody brain of mine. I can’t stop counting, remember?”
His father exploded with laughter. Hugh stared at him, wondering what the hell could be so funny at such a moment.
“I counted, too,” Lord Ramsgate gasped, nearly doubled over with mirth.
“I know,” Hugh said without emotion. His room had always been next to Freddie’s. He’d heard everything. When Lord Ramsgate brought the prostitutes to Freddie, he’d stayed to watch.
“Fat lot of good it did,” Lord Ramsgate continued. “I thought it might help. Set a rhythm, you know.”
“Oh, God,” Hugh nearly groaned. “Stop.” He could still hear it. Most of the time it had just been his father, but every now and then one of the women would get into the spirit of it and join in.
Lord Ramsgate was still chuckling as he stood back up. “One . . . ,” he said, making a lewd gesture to go along with the count. “Two . . .”
Hugh recoiled. A memory flashed through his brain.
“Three . . .”
The duel. The count. He’d been trying not to remember. He’d been trying so hard to blot out the memory of his father’s voice that he’d flinched.
And he’d pulled the trigger.
He’d never meant to shoot Daniel. He’d been aiming to the side. But then someone had started counting, and suddenly Hugh was a boy again, huddled in his bed while he heard Freddie pleading with his father to leave him alone.
Freddie, who had taught Hugh never to interfere.
The counting hadn’t just been for the prostitutes. Lord Ramsgate was very fond of his beautifully polished, mahogany cane. And he saw no reason to spare it when his sons displeased him.
Freddie always displeased him. Lord Ramsgate liked to count the blows.
Hugh stared at his father. “I hate you.”
His father stared back. “I know.”
“I’m leaving.”
His father shook his head. “No, you’re not.”
Hugh stiffened. “I beg your—”
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” his father said, almost apologetically.
Almost.
Then he slammed his booted foot into Hugh’s bad leg.
Hugh howled in agony as he went down. He felt his body curling up, trying to contain the pain. “Bloody hell,” he gasped. “Why would you do that?”
Lord Ramsgate knelt by his side. “I needed you not to leave.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Hugh ground out, still panting against the pain. “I’m going to bloody well—”
“No,” his father said, pressing a damp, sweet-smelling cloth against his face, “you’re not.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Duke of York Suite
The White Hart Inn
When Hugh opened his eyes, he was in a bed. And his leg hurt like the devil. “What on earth?” he groaned, reaching over to massage the screaming muscle. Except—
Bloody hell! The bastard had tied him down.
“Oh, you’re awake.” His father’s voice. Mild and slightly . . . bored?
“I’m going to kill you,” Hugh growled. He twisted against his bindings until he saw his father sitting in a chair in the corner, watching him over a newspaper.
“It’s possible,” Lord Ramsgate said, “but not today.”
Hugh yanked again. And again, but all he got for his trouble was a chafed wrist and a serious case of vertigo. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his equilibrium. “What the hell is this about?”
Lord Ramsgate pretended to consider this. “I’m concerned,” he finally said.
“About what?” Hugh ground out.
“I fear that you are taking too long with the lovely Lady Sarah. Who knows when we shall next find a woman willing to overlook”—Lord Ramsgate’s face wrinkled with distaste—“you.”
This insult did not register. Hugh was well used to such barbs and at some point had begun to take pride in them. But his father’s comment about taking “too long” left him profoundly uneasy. “I have known Lady Sarah”—in this incarnation, at least, he added silently—“for barely two weeks.”
“Is that all? It feels like quite a bit longer. A watched pot and all that, I suppose.”
Hugh slumped. The world had clearly been turned inside out. His father, who usually ranted and raved while Hugh maintained an aloof disdain, was regarding him with nothing more than raised brows.