Page 145 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

The gardener’s boys had reappeared, sans potted palm, and were trotting back towards the house. One of them tried to trip the other and – thinking themselves unobserved – they fell into a laughing scrap.

‘I was a child,’ Ashford said, and he could hear the wobble in his voice as if it belonged to someone else. ‘I did not know what else to do …’

He cleared his throat. And then again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ashford saw the duke reach out, arm hovering in mid-air for a moment, before he returned it to his side.

‘My boy,’ he said, ‘I did not – I did not know.’

More recriminations sprang unbidden to Ashford’s lips, as if they were all, now, begging for release. For how could his father not know, not have suspected, not have thought for a moment of what Ashford might need at ten and six? How, indeed was ‘not knowing’ a worthy excuse – had it not been his duty to find out?

Ashford pressed his hands against the parapet again, harder this time, watching his hands turn white from the pressure – forcing the words down as he did. If he began uttering them, he did not know if he would be able to stop. He did not know why, suddenly, he was so furious. He had thought this long buried.

When over a minute had passed in silence, the duke at last broke it.

‘Armouring yourself against affection,’ he said quietly, ‘will not serve you, you know.’

Ashford huffed a sigh and raised his eyes heavenward. ‘What do you mean?’ He directed the question at the sky. It was very blue and cloudless. It was going to be a glorious day. ‘I have not done so.’

‘My boy,’ the duke said again, and this time he did place a hand on Ashford’s shoulder, gently turned him back around. ‘I think that is exactly what you have done, by sending that poor girl away.’

Ashford moved so that he might feel the parapet against his back. Suddenly, the effort of holding himself upright felt exhausting.

‘It was not real, Father. None of it.’

‘I think you know very well that it is real,’ the duke said quietly. ‘And that scares you.’

Ashford looked away. He wished he might deny it fully, but … That moment, when his father had called it love, and Ashford had looked at her … He had felt fear. A fear so potent he had felt ill with it. Nauseous. If that was love, he wanted no part of it.

‘Can you blame me?’ he said, looking down to his feet. ‘After what happened to you? After Mother …’

He let the thought linger in the air, unfinished. He and his father did not speak of his mother – ever.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said now, voice rough. ‘I know you do not like to speak of what – what truly happened.’

His father heaved a long, slow sigh.

‘It is … easier, sometimes,’ he admitted, ‘to bear that version of events. It helps me to hold onto the good – rather than have my memories poisoned. I know you think it weakness.’

‘I—’ Ashford tried to force a denial past his lips but found he could not.

‘It was quite an unimaginable pain,’ he reflected quietly. ‘But I do not think I would do anything differently, if I had the chance.’

‘What?’ Ashford said, jerking his head up. ‘Of course you would!’

‘No, I would not. I might have – handled it better, I suppose, for you. But the years before were quite glorious, you know. We did love each other rather fiercely, back then. Perhaps you have forgotten, what she was like.’

‘I have not.’ He had tried to, very hard. But those golden memories were not so easily squashed.

‘And she gave me you,’ the duke said. ‘And, you know, I’m quite fond of you when you are not being so very disagreeable.’

Ashford tried to smile.

‘It was all worth it,’ His Grace said gently. ‘Even though it hurt terribly.’

‘It was?’

‘I promise. Avoiding the possibility of hurt does not make you safer. It only results in a life half-lived.’