And there was a world of difference, Chloe thought, between knowing deep down that something was true and knowing it beyond all doubt and denial. A universe of difference.
The air felt sharp and cold in her nostrils. Her hands and feet tingled with pins and needles. There was a faint roaring in her ears. And she felt the sudden impulse to jump to her feet and run—and to keep on running and running.
The trouble with running away is that you must always take yourself with you. Ralph had said that last night. She had run away once—twice—and it had not worked.
Papa was not her father, then. She could no longer even cling to the illusion that he was.
The Marquess of Hitching was her father. Lady Angela Allandale was . . . her half sister. And had she heard that there were sons too? Her half brothers.
Just as Graham was. Just as Lucy was her half sister.
Her papa was still looking into the fire.
“You discovered the truth after you married Mama?” she asked.
“No, before.” He turned to her then, his face wan. “She was perfectly frank with me. I had been in love with her from the start of that Season, from my first sight of her. And she had liked me too. But there was a dazzle about . . . him. He had looks and charm and rank and boundless wealth—or so it seemed. I thought I had lost her until she sought me out at a concert one evening and told me he was very close to financial ruin and must therefore marry into money. She told me too that she feared she was with child. When I offered to marry her without delay, I also promised never again to refer to the secret she had confided in me. And she in turn promised to love me steadfastly for the rest of her life. We both kept our promise. I was more blessed in my marriage than I ever deserved to be. I had a wife with whom I shared a mutual love and three children we both adored. It has always been my dearest hope that you would never have to learn the truth. I warned him never to return to London. But he came last year and again this year, his family with him. And you have married a nobleman and will inevitably move in the same social circles he does. I have no choice but to tell you the truth now, at last. I wronged you at Christmas time when you asked and I lied. I was afraid of losing you, but I almost did anyway.”
. . . three children we both adored.
Chloe gazed down at her hands, which she had spread across her lap, palms down. Had her mother adored her? Or had Chloe’s existence been an irritant, a constant reminder of her shame and of the man who had jilted her for a rich wife and of the man she had been forced to marry in order to avoid ruin?
Had her mother loved her? Had she loved Papa?
But the question here was not about her mother. Her mother was dead. Her father—Papa—was not. Chloe got to her feet and closed the distance between them. She stood in front of him, twined her arms about his waist, and buried her face against his neckcloth, inhaling as she did so the familiar, snuffy scent of him.
“I am sorry I ran away and hurt you,” she said.
His arms closed about her, and she was a little girl again, safe from all harm. A memory surfaced from nowhere—perhaps their reminiscences over dinner had shaken it free—of climbing a steep slope of loose pebbles somewhere until she froze with terror. Papa, who had been climbing ahead of her with Lucy, came back down and took her hand, and she scrambled upward, all fear gone, hardly dependent upon his help at all, but knowing that never in a million years would she be unsafe as long as her papa was holding her hand.
A minute or two later the drawing room door opened and her father released her. Ralph and Graham had come to join them. Both were looking a bit uncertain of themselves.
“Yes,” Chloe said, “Papa has told me.”
Graham strode across the room toward them.
“Did you always know?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Not for sure until today,” he said, “and not at all before last year. It makes no real difference, though, Chloe. We are still your family. Love does not diminish just because a minor fact changes. And it has not even changed really, has it? It has always been so. It is just that we did not know it until today.”
. . . a minor fact.
“I ought not to have married you,” she said, looking beyond her brother to Ralph.
His eyebrows rose. “If it is any consolation to you, Chloe,” he said, strolling past Graham to take her hand in his and lead her back to her chair, “I had no doubt of the truth before I married you. I married you anyway. Because I wanted to. And because I was led to believe that you wanted to marry me. I hope I was not mistaken in that?”
She shook her head.
“Because if I am,” he said, “then I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do now to release you. I believe you are stuck with me.”
He had turned the tables on her. She was stuck with him, not the other way around. He was looking steadily down at her. His face did not smile, but, oh goodness, his eyes did. He had set out to make her feel better, and he had succeeded. How very kind he was.
Ralph? Kind?
She learned something new about him every day. What a delightful thing marriage was.
“I wanted to marry you,” she said, “and I am not sorry I did.”
And for a mere moment something else happened to his eyes. Something . . . intense. And then it was gone even before she was sure it was there. And like so many things these days, it was beyond her ability to put into words.
“It might be wise, Worthingham,” Papa was saying, “to stay away from any entertainment you might expect Hitching and his family to attend. Chloe must be protected from unnecessary embarrassment.”