“We’ve fucked, sweetheart.” She flinched as though he’d struck her. He might have taken pity on her if his shoulder wasn’t still aching and his wrists weren’t bothering him. “I know the taste of that pink valley between your thighs. I don’t think we need to be so formal.”

“Must you be so crude? It makes you most unattractive.”

He should apologize. He knew it. His mother would take a switch to his backside if she ever learned of the manner in which he’d spoken to the lady. But his pride was a beastly thing, and her reasons for wanting him had bruised it considerably so the words of apology clogged his throat, refusing to be uttered.

He shoved himself out of the chair, strode to the fireplace, and stared into the cold, empty hearth. In spite of his upbringing, the kindness of his mum, it was in his veins to be crude, unkind, selfish. “Elverton.”

The word came out hard, bitter, leaving a vile taste on his tongue.

“I suppose I could accept his offer to rescue me,” she said quietly. “How did you even know of it?”

He jerked his head around to glare at her. Over his dead body would she take anything from the man who had sired him. “He made you an offer?”

Her laughter was harsh, filled with loathing. “Yesterday morning, in the garden, following the funeral. Initially, I thought he was proposing I wed his son, but then it became clear he was referring to himself as a potential suitor.”

“He has a wife.”

“So I pointed out to him, but he didn’t seem to think that was a cause for concern. He hinted she might not be around much longer. Made me wonder if perhaps she was ill.”

He wouldn’t put it past his sire to find a way to dispose of his countess. “Do you fancy him?”

Her look of abject horror brought him a measure of peace. “Absolutely not. He is more than twice my age.”

“He has the influence you seek.”

She sighed, the sound echoing her despair. “And he does not require an heir, which he reassured me was to the benefit of my barren womb.”

Had his father truly been so grotesque as to make his proposition in such an unflattering manner? “He sired me.”

Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parted. She blinked, stared at him, blinked again. Angled her head. Squinted. Finally her face relaxed. “I can see it now. In the cut of your square jaw, the patrician sharpness of your nose, the depth of your brow. It’s your eyes that threw me off. They’re not as harsh as his—which they no doubt should be as you’ve had a much harder life.”