her to hold his heart in her hands and not crush it, the way everyone else had. Because apparently he did have a heart if he were to judge from the searing pain in his chest.
He glanced at the dower house but saw no sign of Beatrice. She certainly wasn’t running out here to beg him to ignore her refusal and marry her. He sighed. She might not ever ask that of him. He might have lost her for good.
The searing pain in his chest spread outward until it felt as if his entire body was on fire. No wonder he had sought to protect himself from any emotion that might provoke heartbreak. Because heartbreak was wretched.
But there was no point in staying here and mooning after her like some forlorn swain, so he headed back to the hall. He must do something to fix this. The only thing he could think of was to save her brother for her. That would require convincing Sheridan to at least postpone arresting Joshua until the authorities could look into the summons thing and talk to Wolfe’s healer in Leicester.
When he entered Armitage Hall sometime later, however, it wasn’t Sheridan he found in the foyer but his mother.
“Grey! You’re back! After I saw the Times, I felt certain you wouldn’t return from London for a while. I need to talk to you.”
Damn. He wasn’t ready for this. “Where’s Sheridan?”
“He’s somewhere around here, I’m sure.” She took Grey by the arm. “And this cannot wait.”
He hesitated, but since the Wolfes had essentially run him off, he hadn’t been gone long. Perhaps if Sheridan didn’t see him, he would assume Grey hadn’t returned yet. Besides, Mother might be able to shed some light on the summons Maurice had received the night he died. So Grey followed her into the drawing room.
“Do you want some tea?” she asked.
“I don’t have time for tea.”
She sniffed. “You never have time for tea. Or your mother.” The injured look on her face said volumes.
“I’m making time for you now.” He waited until she sat down on the settee, then took a seat beside her. “What’s this about?”
“Your betrothal to Vanessa.”
Damn. Mother hadn’t seen the errata in the paper yet. Not that it fit the circumstances now that Beatrice had turned him down.
He stiffened. Not for long. He would convince her to marry him if he had to beg. He would do whatever it took, even make peace with his mother. Because he had to have Beatrice in his life.
With that decision made, he felt a strange calm steal over him. Vanessa’s words swept through his mind: Perhaps it’s time you put the past behind you.
Perhaps it was.
“I’m not betrothed to Vanessa,” he said. “The Times made a mistake.”
Her expression brightened. “Oh, that explains so much. I did think it odd you would marry her when you’ve never expressed any interest there.” She stared down at her hands. “Then again, even if you had, I wouldn’t know, would I? You barely speak to me.”
“Mother—”
“Was sending you away so very bad?” she asked, lifting a teary gaze to him.
Leave it to Mother to get right to the point.
But she wasn’t finished. “I truly thought giving you to your guardian so he could prepare you for your role as duke was the right thing to do.”
Just like that, his bitterness came pouring out. “Yes, and having one less child underfoot certainly made it convenient, didn’t it?”
Shock lined her features. “Is that what you think? That we just wanted to fob you off on someone else?”
Damn, he hadn’t meant to say that. He sounded like a petulant child. “No, of course not.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But you could have broken the will. You could have sent my uncle packing and accepted the consequences.”
“Those consequences would have affected only you, my dear.”
“Going with him affected only me. What was the difference?”
That sparked his mother’s temper. “Now see here, Fletcher Pryde. Your leaving affected us all profoundly. Gwyn cried herself to sleep for a week. Little Heywood kept asking for his ‘Gwey’ while Sheridan went around stabbing things with a stick. Thorn wanted to know when you were coming back. And Maurice walked about in a fog as if he’d lost his will to live. As for me . . .” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “For months, I couldn’t think or speak of you without bursting into tears.”
The vivid image she painted of his family mourning his