Rules of Passion (Greentree Sisters 2)

“Do not test my patience, Miss Greentree, by presuming to tell me what I can and can’t do! Only my wife

has ever been able to order me and…” He seemed to remember then that his wife was lost to him by more than death, that she had hurt him beyond bearing, and his face twisted as he fought the pain. But evidently it was too much for him. His Grace, the Duke of Barwon, walked out of the room.

With a speaking look at his wife, Oliver followed. Marietta could feel Vivianna’s eyes on her, like little daggers in her back. She took a breath and turned to face her sister. What she saw frightened her. Vivianna had always protected her and looked after her. She loved Vivianna, and knew Vivianna loved her, but there was no love in her face now—just a hard, angry dislike.

“How could you?” she whispered. “You have put Oliver in an untenable position. What do you think you are doing, meeting Max Valland incognito? Do you think this is a game? The scandal last time was bad enough, but now you mean to embroil us in another one! I will never forgive you for this, Marietta. Never!”

Tears fell from her eyes and she fled from the room.

Marietta stood, shocked. She knew her own face was white, because when Oliver came back into the room he walked straight over to her, took her in his arms, and held her. She didn’t cry, although she felt like it.

“I didn’t mean to harm you or Vivianna,” she said in a little voice. “I would never do that, Oliver.”

“I know, ’Etta. Vivianna knows it too, she’s just upset.”

“She hates me.”

“The baby tires her, and with me being away…She’s worried about you—she thinks she’s failed you and her mother by neglecting you. You slipped beneath her watchful eye and she’s berating herself for that. Forgive her, Marietta.”

But Marietta wondered whether Vivianna would forgive her, especially when she learned her wayward sister had no intention of changing her mind. Hard to ask forgiveness and not alter one’s behavior one jot.

“What do you plan to do about Max Valland?” Oliver said softly, and held her away, his handsome face somber as he gazed down at her. “Has he asked you to marry you?”

“Yes, he’s asked me. And he’s asked me to go to Cornwall with him,” she admitted, “but I’ve told him no. He knows I can’t, he knows I have other plans and that I won’t let my heart be broken again.”

Oliver shook his head at her. “But ’Etta,” he said gently, “you can’t guard your heart. It’s impossible. And if you do…well, you will never be properly alive if you don’t love. I know you’ve been hurt but you can’t go into hiding because of it. Your heart will shrivel and die if you don’t give it a chance to love again.”

“You just heard what Max’s father said,” she wailed. “He won’t let me marry Max anyway, I’m not good enough, so I’m right to refuse. I’m right to protect myself from being wounded all over again.”

Marietta turned and fled, following Vivianna up the stairs and slamming her door.

Max looked at his father and said nothing. The duke had arrived half an hour ago, and Max had kept him waiting while he finished the letter he was writing to the estate manager in Cornwall, explaining that he would be arriving in the not-too-distant future to take up permanent residence. That done, he had joined his father in the upstairs drawing room, where Pomeroy had served a tray of his wife’s excellent tea and scones.

“Come to see if I have vacated the townhouse yet?” he asked, sitting down, as if they had not been estranged for months.

The duke cast him a droll look, and sipped his tea. “As a matter of fact I have just been to see your…Miss Greentree.”

Max wondered if he looked as angry as he felt. Perhaps he did, because his father stopped sipping and set his cup down as if he feared it might end up in his lap.

“You’re interfering in my private business, sir.”

“You are my son.”

“I am not your son, you’ve made that abundantly clear.”

Barwon cleared his throat, and suddenly he looked old and tired—a different man from the bitter and blindly furious one Max remembered. He asked himself what his father was doing here, prodding at the wounds. Was it possible…could it be that he was having regrets? If so it was too late and this was madness, painful madness, and it wasn’t doing either of them any good.

“I…I want to make you an allowance, Max. Of course Harold and Susannah must have the lion’s share of the estate, that’s only just, but I want you to remain a part of the family. I am going to formally adopt you as my son. There will be some legal details to sort out, but…well, soon everything will be settled, and…You’ll be my son again.”

He was smiling, looking pleased with himself, as if he thought that was all that needed to be said. It was unbelievable! Max was speechless and shaking with hurt and anger. Worse still, the duke seemed to take his silence for compliance, and reached out to grasp Max’s arm.

Max jerked back as if from a striking snake. Slowly, stiffly, he rose to his feet, looking every bit as formidable as the duke.

“I will not take anything from you, sir. I will not have anything of yours. Please leave.”

Barwon appeared shaken. “You don’t understand,” he said, and his voice had lost all its former arrogant certainty. “When I read your mother’s letter it was as if I had sustained a fatal wound. When she died, at least I could mourn her, but then I lost her again and this time I could only hate.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Max said quietly.