“It means that my father is an ass. It means he is a sick son of a bitch who hurts people and rather enjoys doing so. It means”—Hugh stepped closer, his voice growing cold with fury—“that he is stark raving mad no matter what sort of face he puts on for the rest of humanity, and there is no, I repeat, no reasoning with him when he’s got his teeth stuck into something.”

“Into me,” Daniel clarified.

“Into anything,” Hugh snapped, “but yes, you’re included. You, on the other hand,” he said to Sarah, his voice turning uncomfortably normal, “he’d like.”

She felt sick.

“Your family’s title dates to the Tudors, and you probably have a decent dowry.” Hugh leaned one hip against the arm of the sofa and extended his injured leg in front of him. “But more to the point, you’re in good health and of childbearing age.”

Sarah could only stare.

“My father will adore you,” he finished with a shrug.

“Hugh,” Sarah began. “I don’t . . .” But she didn’t know how to finish her statement. She didn’t recognize this man. He was hard, and brittle, and the way he described her left her feeling soiled and wrung dry.

“I’m not even his heir,” Hugh said, and Sarah could hear something stirring in his voice. Something angry, something ready to strike.

“He shouldn’t even care if my bride can reproduce properly,” Hugh went on, each syllable more clipped than the last. “He’s got Freddie. He should be pinning his hopes there, and I keep telling him—”

He turned suddenly away, but not before Sarah heard him curse under his breath.

“I’ve never met your brother,” Daniel said, after nearly a minute of silence strangled the room.

Sarah looked at him. His brow was knitted, and she realized that Daniel was more curious than he was surprised.

Hugh did not turn around. But he did say, in a strange monotone, “He does not move in the same circles that you do.”

“Is-is there something wrong with him?” Sarah asked hesitantly.

“No!” Hugh thundered, whipping around so quickly that he lost his footing and nearly tumbled to the floor. Sarah shot forward to steady him, but Hugh thrust out his arm to push her away. “I’m fine,” he grunted.

But he wasn’t. She could see that he wasn’t.

“There is nothing wrong with my brother,” Hugh said, his voice low and precise, even as he caught his breath from his near fall. “He is perfectly healthy, perfectly able to sire a child. But”—his eyes flicked meaningfully toward Daniel—“he is not likely to marry.”

Daniel’s eyes clouded, and he gave a nod of understanding.

But not Sarah. “What does that mean?” she burst out, because bloody hell, it was like they were talking in a different language.

“It’s not for your ears,” Daniel said swiftly.