“I—”

“I must say,” Hugh interrupted, taking great pleasure in cutting his father off at the very first pronoun, “that I’m not asking much of you. Most people would find it rather easy to conduct their lives without killing another human being.”

“He made you a cripple,” his father hissed.

“No,” Hugh said softly, remembering that magical night on the lawn at Whipple Hill. He had waltzed. For the first time since Daniel’s bullet had torn apart his thigh, Hugh had held a woman in his arms, and he had danced.

Sarah had refused to allow him to call himself a cripple. Was that the moment he had fallen in love with her? Or was it one of a hundred moments?

“I prefer to call myself lame,” Hugh murmured. With a smile.

“What the devil is the difference?”

“If I’m a cripple, then that’s all I—” Hugh looked up. His father’s face was red, the kind of veiny, mottled red that came from too much anger, or too much drink.

“Never mind,” Hugh said. “You’d never understand.” But Hugh hadn’t understood, either. It had taken Lady Sarah Pleinsworth to make him understand the difference.

Sarah. That was who she was now. Not Lady Sarah Pleinsworth or even Lady Sarah. Just Sarah. She’d been his, and he’d lost her. And he still didn’t quite understand why.

“You underestimate yourself, son,” Lord Ramsgate said.

“You just called me a cripple,” Hugh said, “and you’re accusing me of underestimating?”

“I do not refer to your athletic ability,” his father said, “although it is true that a lady will want a husband who can ride and fence and hunt.”

“Because you’re so good at all those things,” Hugh said, dropping his gaze to his father’s paunchy middle.

“I was,” his father replied, apparently taking no offense at the insult, “and I had my pick of the litter when I decided to marry.”

Of the litter. Was that really how his father saw women?

Of course it was.

“Two daughters of dukes, three of marquesses, and one of an earl. I could have had any of them.”

“Lucky Mother,” Hugh said flatly.

“Indeed,” Lord Ramsgate said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Her father may have been the Duke of Farringdon, but she was one of six daughters, and her dowry was not large.”

“Larger than the other duke’s daughter, I assume?” Hugh drawled.

“No. But the Farringdons descend from the Barons de Veuveclos, the first of whom, as you know—”

Oh, he knew. Lord, but he knew.

“—fought alongside William the Conqueror.”

Hugh had been forced to memorize the family trees at the age of six. Luckily, he had a talent for such things. Freddie had not been nearly so lucky. His hands had been swollen for weeks from the caning.

“The other dukedom,” the marquess finished with disdain, “was of a relatively new creation.”