All of this was spelled out quite clearly—and with increasing graciousness—in his letters to his son, but Robert merely scanned the notes and then tossed them into the fireplace. He hadn't been back to Castleford Manor in more than seven years, not since that awful day when his every dream had been shattered, and his father, instead of patting him on the back and offering him comfort, had shouted with glee and danced a jig right on his priceless mahogany desk.
The memory still made Robert's jaw clench with fury. When he had children he'd offer them support and understanding. He certainly wouldn't laugh at their defeats.
Children. Now there was an amusing concept. He wasn't very likely to leave his mark on the world in the form of little heirs. He couldn't bring himself to marry Victoria, and he was coming to realize that he couldn't imagine himself married to anyone else.
What a muck.
And so, when the latest note from his father arrived, saying that he was on his deathbed, Robert decided to humor the old man. This was the third such note he'd received in the past year; none of them had proved to be even remotely truthful. But Robert packed his bags and left for Kent anyway. Anything to get his mind off her.
When he arrived at his childhood home, he was not surprised to find that his father was not ill, although he did look quite a bit older than he'd remembered.
“It's good to have you home, son,” the marquess said, looking rather surprised that Robert had actually answered his summons and come down from London.
“You look well,” Robert said, emphasizing the last word.
The marquess coughed.
“A chest cold, perhaps?” Robert asked, raising a brow in an insolent manner.
His father shot him an annoyed glance. “I was just clearing my throat, and you well know it.”
“Ah, yes, healthy as horses, we Kembles are. Healthy as mules, and just as stubborn, too.”
The marquess let his nearly empty glass of whiskey clunk down on the table. “What has happened to you, Robert?”
“I beg your pardon?” This was said as Robert sprawled out on the sofa and put his feet on the table.
“You are a miserable excuse for a son. And get your feet off the table!”
His father's tone was just as it had always been when Robert was a young boy and had committed some awful transgression. Without thinking, Robert obeyed and set his feet on the floor.
“Look at you,” Castleford said with distaste. “Lazing your days away in London. Drinking, whoring, gambling away your fortune.”
Robert smiled humorlessly. “I'm an appallingly good card player. I've doubled my portion.”
His father turned slowly around. “You don't care about anything, do you?”
“I once did,” Robert whispered, suddenly feeling very hollow.
The marquess poured himself another glass of whiskey and downed it. And then, as if making a last-ditch effort, he said, “Your mother would be ashamed of you.”
Robert looked up sharply and his mouth went dry. His father rarely mentioned his mother. It was several moments before he was able to say, “You don't know how she would have felt. You never really knew her. You don't know what love is.”
“I loved her!” the marquess roared. “I loved your mother in ways you will never know. And by God, I knew her dreams. She wanted her son to be strong and honest and noble.”
“Don't forget my responsibilities to the title,” Robert said acidly.
His father turned away. “She didn't care about that,” he said. “She just wanted you to be happy.”
Robert closed his eyes in agony, wondering how his life would have been different if his mother had been alive when he'd courted Victoria. “I see that you have made it a priority to see her dreams fulfilled.” He laughed bitterly. “Clearly, I am a happy man.”
“I never meant for you to be like this,” Castleford said, his face showing every one of his sixty-five years and a good ten more. He shook his head and sank down onto a chair. “I never wanted this. My God, what have I done?”
A very queer feeling began to spread in Robert's stomach. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“She came here, you know.”
“Who came here?
“Her. The vicar's daughter.”
Robert's fingers tightened around the arm of the sofa until his knuckles grew white. “Victoria?”
His father gave a curt nod.
A thousand questions raced through Robert's mind. Had the Hollingwoods turned her out? Was she ill? She must be ill, he decided. Something must be dreadfully wrong if she'd actually sought out his father. “When was she here?”
“Right after you left for London.”
“Right after I—What the devil are you talking about?”
“Seven years ago.”
Robert sprang to his feet. “Victoria was here seven years ago and you never told me?” He began to advance on his father. “You never said a word?”
“I didn't want to see you throw your life away.” Castleford let out a bitter laugh. “But you did that anyway.”
Robert clenched his fists at his sides, knowing that if he didn't he was liable to go for his father's throat. “What did she say?”
His father didn't answer quickly enough. “What did she say?” Robert bellowed.
“I don't remember precisely, but…” Castleford took a deep breath. “But she was quite put out that you had left for London. I think she really meant to keep her assignation with you.”
A muscle worked violently in Robert's throat, and he doubted he was capable of forming words.