A tear spilled down her cheek and splotched her neckline.
“Stay,” he breathed. “I’ll go talk to my father.”
Josephine squeezed Elias’s wrist, then returned to her chair. She sank into a puddle of inky fabric and stared out the window. Her expression darkened as if she’d accepted the fate Widow De Clare had sealed. She would become a spinster, alone and destitute.
“I’ll kiss you in the morning,” Elias said. He left the study, his heart racing when he realized her touch—the squeeze of his wrist—was no consolation.
Her touch was tragedy.
Elias went to the parlour located behind the dining room. He peered into the chamber, where Lord Welby lounged on a sofa, flipping through The Morning Post.
“Father, may I speak with you?” Elias asked. He stepped over the threshold and beheld the room’s silk wallpaper and pianoforte. At this time of day, Kitty liked to use the space for her music lessons. Perhaps she had postponed her practice due to yesterday’s upset.
Lord Welby glanced up from the newspaper. “Of course. Do come in.” He smacked the pages as Elias walked to an armchair. “Have you seen The Morning Post? Ghastly stuff.”
“Not yet.” Elias sunk into the chair. He coughed and bounced his leg to ease his nerves. “Do you recall our conversation at the ball? About marriage?”
“Indeed. You expressed interest in a lady engaged to be married,” Lord Welby said with a smirk. He folded the newspaper and placed it on a side table.
“Yes, well, that lady . . . She is no longer involved.” Elias slumped forward as bile shot up his throat. He couldn’t afford to lose his composure or be sick on the rug, for the next few minutes would determine his and Josephine’s future.
The next few minutes could ruin everything.
Lord Welby grew stiff with realization. He stared at Elias, his jaw clenched and nostrils flaring. “Have you made your intentions known?”
“Yes,” Elias said with a nod. “We’d like your blessing.”
“Are you mad?” Lord Welby snapped. He rose from the sofa like a snake, uncurling into a tower of pale skin and fine clothes. “You wish to marry Josephine De Clare?”
“I love her.” Elias gripped the chair’s armrests. He needed to make his father see sense before an ultimatum was made.
“Tush,” Lord Welby sneered. “She is your cousin’s former betrothed, now his stepdaughter. Consider the scandal you’d bring upon our family.”
“Josephine is innocent—”
“No one is innocent in conversation, not when speculation offers amusement. People wish to believe the worst, for the wickedness of others dims their own sins.” Lord Welby paced the room, fuming. He shook his head. “For years I fought to make you more than an illegitimate son. I gave you the Welby name, an education, and sent you into society to find your place. All my hard work shall mean nothing if you marry the daughter of a penniless trollop.”
“The public will not reject Josephine. She’ll have my name to protect her,” Elias yelled.
Lord Welby paused next to the pianoforte. He studied Elias in silence, his demeanour less hostile. “I have nothing against Miss De Clare. In fact, I sympathize with her predicament. Your uncle and I plan to provide her with a yearly sum of one hundred forty pounds—”
“She doesn’t want your money!”
“Then who will put food on her table? It shan’t be you. I forbid it.” Lord Welby waved his hand as though to dismiss Elias. “Go to London. Find yourself a respectable bride.”
“Do you think my feelings shallow, that I’m able to purge myself of attachment?” Elias trembled, his breaths quickening. “I am not like you and Sebastian.”
Lord Welby laughed. “Come now. The moment a prettier girl looks your way you’ll forget about Miss De Clare.”
“Is that what happened to your wife?”
“Watch your tongue. You understand the responsibilities that come with your position. Regardless of your emotions, you must do what’s best for your family. You’re a Welby. Your offspring will be my grandchildren. They’ll inherit from you what I give to you. Do you wish to sacrifice your future—their future—for a passing fancy?”
“Are you threatening me?” Elias stood at attention and met his father’s gaze with a scowl. He panted, his vision blurring with heat as he realized the game was over. He had lost.
“My heir will not marry someone of disreputable pedigree.” Lord Welby clasped his hands behind his back and strode across the room, his footsteps rattling a tea stand.
“Do you not recognize the hypocrisy of your words? We are no better than Josephine and Widow De Clare,” Elias yelled. “I am your bastard. You cannot expect—”
“You’re set to inherit Windermere Hall and ten thousand pounds a year. Women shall throw themselves at you,” Lord Welby said. “I expect a great deal from you because I can.”
“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me—”
“And you shall continue to do so.” Lord Welby paused in the doorway and held Elias’s gaze. “Be wise about your decision, Son.”
“You would disinherit me?” Elias wheezed. He was Lord Welby’s only child, the sole heir to the Welby fortune. His father wouldn’t bequeath the sum to a stranger.
“Josephine will leave Cadwallader Park this afternoon. I suggest you let her go,” Lord Welby said without a trace of compassion. He vanished from the threshold, his words lingering like a bitter aftertaste.
Elias collapsed onto a chair. He clutched his mouth and wept, a gut-wrenching ache burrowing down his throat, into his lungs. How could he provide for Josephine if Lord Welby estranged him? He was reliant on his father’s generosity. Without the inheritance, he possessed the clothes on his person, nothing more. Indeed, the household staff earned a higher wage.
Josephine would gain more support from his relatives if he broke off their engagement.
The realization made Elias sob. Anguish shook him, each sputter and gasp an explosion of hot pain within his torso. If possible, he would tear open his chest and crawl out of the hurt. He’d become someone no longer tethered to approval, someone who didn’t have
