‘No.’
No. No apology, just an unequivocal ‘no’. All these days, waiting for an answer that hadn’t come. All the worry and nervous energy. The sick fear. The feeling of utter rejection. The anger.
And Viscount Pulborough didn’t even know she’d written to him.
His precious ‘new’ family, his ‘real’ family, had closed ranks round him, lest he should be upset. Upset! It didn’t occur to them to think how she might be feeling.
Of course it didn’t. And if it had, they wouldn’t have cared. She was beneath notice. An irritation. Someone born the wrong side of the blanket who was refusing to stay there.
And then there was a new thought. Someone had read her letter. A feeling of coldness spread through her body. That someone had opened her letter. Read it. Dissected and discussed it.
It had been private. So difficult to write. She’d not imagined anyone reading the contents but her father.
She took a deep breath and met his eyes. ‘Did you read it?’
‘No.’
‘Then who?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘They had no right to do it. It was a private letter. Personal. It doesn’t concern anyone except…’ She hesitated, uncertain how to refer to him. My father. She couldn’t say that. The word ‘father’ stuck in her throat. ‘Viscount Pulborough and myself. Not you, not anyone else.’
‘Not even the Viscount’s wife?’
Eloise met his critical gaze. ‘No.’
She watched him check the retort he’d been about to make. A muscle pulsed at the side of his face. ‘Why now?’ he asked softly.
‘Pardon?’
Jem smiled politely, his eyes flinty blue. ‘I was wondering why now. Why make your claims now? Why not last year? Why this exact moment?’
Eloise drew a steadying breath. His words confused her. She didn’t understand what he was trying to say, but she could hear the underlying criticism.
And then it hit her. Like a sledgehammer powering through the air, it hit her.
He didn’t believe her.
The room around her felt hot, the air heavy with a mixture of cigarette smoke and perfume. Outside the open window the low hum of traffic and the occasional siren tore through the night sky.
Jem Norland didn’t believe she was his stepfather’s natural daughter. He was looking down his supercilious nose as though she was something he’d stepped in. It was none of his business, nothing to do with him but he dared…he dared…
She couldn’t even begin to put words to what she was feeling. Her anger was incandescent. How dared he question her? Her mother? Did he think her mother hadn’t known who’d fathered her baby?
He wanted to know why she’d made contact now. She’d tell him. She’d make him feel so small he’d want to crawl beneath the skirting board. ‘Because I’ve only just realised how much it matters.’
She saw the frown snap across his forehead.
‘When my mother died…There was a letter. Kept with her will.’ Eloise found it difficult to speak. Her anger choked her and her grief was still raw. Even now. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go on.
Images of that day. The policewomen who’d come to tell her. The long drive back home. The shock and the emptiness. And the sense of disbelief as she’d read the words her mother had written in her distinctive italic hand. A letter from the grave. The truth. At last.
They’d been words her mum had hoped to say—one day. No dark premonition had made her put them down on paper. It was her usual, thoughtful care for the daughter she loved that had made her write it down and tuck it inside her will. Just in case.
At first Eloise had been too busy to think clearly. There’d been a funeral to arrange—and pay for. A home to empty. Her life had changed in a single second and she’d ached for things to return to the way they’d been before—even though she’d known they couldn’t.
It was much later that the anger had set in. Six years later. When she’d collected her mother’s meagre possessions from storage. A whole lifetime contained in two crates. When she’d really thought about the council-owned flat they’d called home. When she’d done that first Internet search and had seen a picture of Coldwaltham Abbey.
Her father had let them struggle with nothing. Nothing.
And then she’d re-read her mother’s letter. Amazingly, there’d been no bitterness. Her mum had loved her father, had believed in him right up to the moment she’d tucked the letter inside her will. Probably until the day she’d died.
From that moment Eloise had felt a gnawing curiosity. That was why now. But how could a man like Jem Norland ever hope to understand even a tenth of what she was feeling? She wasn’t entirely sure she understood it herself.
Eloise took a deep breath and tried again. ‘My mother was involved in a head-on collision. Six years ago. A lorry…’ Her voice faltered, tears blocking her throat. ‘The driver fell asleep at the wheel. She d-died. Instantly.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Eloise sensed Jem move towards her. She stepped back, her hand raised to shield her. ‘It was a long time ago. You want to know why I waited until now?’ She didn’t wait for his answer, she continued relentlessly. ‘She never told me who my father was. It was a secret. She told no one. She put a letter—’
‘No one?’
The anger flickered back in her eyes. ‘She must have been a pushover for your stepfather. She just disappeared quietly. Went off to have her baby by herself. Never asked for anything. Never tried to make contact. Never…’ Her voice broke on a sob. ‘My mother was worth a million of him. It was his loss.’
CHAPTER TWO
SHE turned abruptly and pushed her way through the throng of silk and chiffon-clad women with their attendant dinner-jacketed swains, her heart pounding with an anger she’d never experienced before.
And sorrow. It had seeped into her bones. It permeated everything.
Her letter hadn’t even reached the man her mother had loved. It had been passed around strangers. Her mother’s secret had been shared with all the people she’d tried to keep it from.
Her own quiet, dignified request for answers, her need to understand what had happened, had been misconstrued. She felt violated and desperately hurt. Angry for herself—and for her mother.
Eloise found the ladies’ cloakroom by pure instinct. She could hardly see for the tears burning behind her eyes. She pushed open the door and stepped down into the marble opulence.
Thankfully it was empty. She stumbled forward and let the tap run cold for a second or two before splashing her face.
He didn’t believe her. She’d never expected that. She’d spent so much time imagining what kind of response her letter would receive. She’d never imagined for a single second it would be met with blatant disbelief and never reach the man she’d intended it for.
The door clicked open. Eloise glanced up at the two middle-aged women who paused in their conversation the minute they saw her. She forced herself to stand straight and calmly turned off the cold tap. She didn’t want their sympathy—or their questions.
As soon as they’d passed Eloise covered her eyes with her hand. She needed to go home. Decide what she was going