But Anthony had already entered the parlor and found Mrs. Chilcott, who was sitting on the sofa with her embroidery in her lap, staring back at him with what could only have been described as deep loathing. Anthony smiled and executed a very ducal bow. “What a pleasure it is to see you again, Mrs. Chilcott.”
“I cannot say that I return the sentiment,” she said.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Chilcott,” the maid spluttered. “I tried to send him away, but he insisted and—”
“That’s quite all right, Marjorie,” Mrs. Chilcott told her coolly. “It isn’t your fault that the gentleman lacks manners. You may bring us some tea if you please.”
The flustered maid bobbed a quick curtsy and dashed from the room.
“May I?” Anthony then asked, gesturing toward an armchair.
“By all means,” Mrs. Chilcott replied, her voice still clipped. “At least it will save me from having to crane my neck.”
Accepting the cue, Anthony stepped toward the chair and sat. Leaning back and making himself comfortable, he met Mrs. Chilcott’s assessing gaze without the least bit of hesitation and said, “I would be most grateful if you would please explain your dislike of me.” She didn’t flinch, and yet there was a movement about her mouth suggesting she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the question. Anthony decided to use it to his advantage. “You do not know me at all, and yet you are rather determined to think the very worst of me. Consequently, I am inclined to believe that you are drawing a parallel between your own experiences and those of your daughter.”
“Your Grace! You are entirely too forward,” Mrs. Chilcott snapped, but not before she’d revealed the fear that brewed beneath her otherwise placid demeanor. It shone in her eyes more brightly than the sun. “I should ask you to leave.”
Anthony nodded. “Yes, you should, but I will not oblige you on that score—not yet—not until you tell me why you would rather throw your daughter into the arms of an undeserving scoundrel than see her happily married to me.”
Mrs. Chilcott turned red and her eyes widened, but Anthony would not be cowed so easily, no matter how many rules of etiquette he had to break in the process. His and Isabella’s future was at stake, as well as their mutual happiness. He intended to stand his ground.
“Mr. Roberts is a very respectable gentleman, whereas you . . .” Her words trailed off as the maid returned with a tea tray. She moved to pour, but Mrs. Chilcott waved her away.
When they were alone again and the door had been closed behind the departing maid, Anthony crossed his arms and leveled Mrs. Chilcott with a very direct stare. “Do go on,” he said. “I believe you were about to tell me what it is about my person and character that you so blatantly disapprove of.”
“For starters, how about the way in which you barged into my home without invitation, or perhaps the patronizing manner in which you’re addressing me now?” Her voice was clipped, her eyes fierce as she spoke. Worst of all, she made an excellent point—one which could not be denied. “You think you have the right to do as you please because of your title, to treat the rest of us as if our opinions are inconsequential unless they align with yours.” She waved her hand with distaste. “Hmpf! You’re no better than a spoiled child determined to have his way and throwing a tantrum when you’re told you can’t. Frankly, Your Grace, your actions have proved you to be as arrogant as any other aristocrat and not the sort of man my husband or I will entrust our daughter to. Isabella will marry Mr. Roberts and you will leave them both in peace if you have any shred of dignity at all.”
The verbal blow struck its mark, rendering Anthony speechless. He suddenly saw himself through her eyes, reflected on all his actions of late—the way he’d kissed Isabella at the ball without even knowing her name, seducing her in the barn to prove himself superior to Mr. Roberts, doggedly pursuing her although she’d asked him not to and his rude behavior toward Lady Crooning, her daughter Lady Harriett, and, worst of all, the Chilcotts. It was as if he’d abandoned all civility the moment he’d set eyes on Isabella, making him no better than the man he’d once been and diminishing whatever chances he’d ever had of success. The answer to his problem became clear: to win Isabella’s hand in marriage, he would have to ignore the elemental urge to knock all obstacles aside and drag her away with him like a savage. Instead, he must resolve to be polite, considerate, honorable . . . qualities that would surely be rewarded with respect if nothing else. And if at the end of the day this proved insufficient in his plight . . . well, then he would have to accept defeat with grace.
He eyed Mrs. Chilcott, who was still regarding him in much the same way he suspected she’d watch a criminal. It was time for him to right his wrongs, and there was no better way in which to do so than simply apologize. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve acted abominably, for which I’m well and truly sorry. I hope you’ll accept my sincerest apologies.”
As she stared back at him, her eyes widened, as if this was the very last thing she’d expected him to say. They remained like that for a beat or two, their gazes locked, with neither willing to look away, until she sighed and with a nod said, “Thank you, Your Grace, that is most kind of you.” She hesitated before adding, “I believe I’ve also said some things in anger which I hope you’ll forgive. Please understand that I just want what’s best for Isabella.”
It was of course a comment to be expected from a mother who loved her daughter, and yet she spoke in a manner that was nothing short of enlightening. To her way of thinking, Mr. Roberts represented safety and security for her daughter, while Anthony did not. She hates your kind. Whatever experience Mrs. Chilcott had had with the nobility, it had not been positive.
“So do I,” Anthony told her. “And I know that you believe you are doing so by encouraging her to marry Mr. Roberts, but you are wrong. Mr. Roberts has only his own interests at heart. I don’t believe he will love her.” He didn’t wish to elaborate on his reasoning, since much of it was based on speculation. Still, his instincts were seldom wrong.
Mrs. Chilcott eyed him dubiously. “And you will?” She met his gaze with steel in her eyes as she leaned toward him and said, “I understand that you have tried to abandon your rakish ways—to reform, as they say—but that doesn’t change who you are at heart. You are an aristocrat, Your Grace, and in my book, that is hardly something to be proud of, as evidenced by your actions thus far—actions which have lacked both honor and decency.”
Though he’d just made a similar observation, he didn’t enjoy the accusation. He felt compelled to say something in his defense, but Mrs. Chilcott continued.
“The way in which you’ve been chasing after Isabella is simply disgraceful. There’s nothing honorable or respectable about it, and at the end of the day, you’re doing not only her but yourself a great disservice.” He couldn’t deny that his actions toward Isabella had been rash, and he dreaded the thought of her mother discovering just how far he’d taken his advances. But he knew that what he felt for her was more than lust—something deeper and enduring. Perhaps he should say so? He opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Chilcott stopped him as she added, “Please leave her alone. Leave us alone.” She stood, signaling an end to the interview.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Anthony said, rising as well. “You see, I—”
“Margaret?” Mr. Chilcott’s voice called from the entryway to the sound of the front door closing behind him. “Where are you, love? I . . .”
Anthony turned just in time to see Mr. Chilcott come to an abrupt halt in the parlor doorway, his mouth open in dismay as he registered Anthony’s presence. With a sidelong glance in Mrs. Chilcott’s direction, he noticed that her eyes had grown wide and that the blood had drained from her face. She’d completely lost her composure. Why? It took but a second for Anthony to realize the implication of Mr. Chilcott’s words.
Margaret.
Surely not the Margaret—the one who had gone missing twenty years ago—the Marquess of Deerford’s daughter? Anthony shook his head. Of course not. It was a ridiculous notion, and yet . . . Isabella had told him that her mother had bought the gown from a peddler, but what if that was untrue? What if the gown had belonged to Isabella’s mother all along? It would certainly explain a lot, like the grace with which Isabella carried herself, not to mention her refined speech pattern. She’d been able to pass herself off as an aristocrat at his ball because she was one.
Turning his head slowly toward Mr. Chilcott, Anthony asked the one question that overshadowed the rest. “Does Isabella know?”
It was clear that Mr. Chilcott was trying to think of something to say that might dismiss all of Anthony’s suspicions. Resignation eventually enveloped his features and he stepped forward, closing the parlor door behind him. “No,” he muttered.
Good God!
“We wanted to protect her,” Lady Margaret added. Her voice sounded weak now compared to the resolve that had underscored it just a few minutes earlier.
“By lying to her about her heritage?” They were mad, both of them.
“It was for her own good,” Lady Margaret said as she perched herself on the edge of the sofa and poured an extra cup of tea for her husband before turning her attention to Anthony and offering him a fragile smile. “More tea, Your Grace?”
Struck dumb by the incredulity of it all, Anthony slumped back down on his chair and nodded mutely. Isabella was the granddaughter of the Marquess of Deerford and she hadn’t the slightest idea. Bloody hell.
“We had our reasons for keeping this from her, you understand,” Mr. Chilcott said. “It was . . . easier than telling her the truth.”
Easier for whom? Anthony wondered. He swallowed hard as he tried to come to terms with it all. The deception was monumental, and he found his anger rising at the thought that these people could have lied so thoroughly to their children for so many years without any apparent shame. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you do it?”
There was a beat of silence before Lady Margaret responded. “Because I wanted to keep my girls safe from the humiliation of what happened to me and because I wanted to keep myself safe as well.”
“From what I have been told, you were kidnapped.” Anthony looked to each of them in turn to see if what he said was true, only to find Lady Margaret biting nervously on her lip while Mr. Chilcott lowered his gaze to his lap. Realization struck, and Anthony found it impossible to look away from the man who sat in the other armchair. “Good Lord. She ran away with you! What were you? A footman or her father’s secretary—his valet, perhaps?”
“I was the stable master,” Mr. Chilcott said. He looked up, and there was a shadow of torment in his eyes that could not be dismissed. “And just so we’re clear, Margaret and I did nothing wrong. We love each other as much now as we did back then, probably more, but her father—”