"I apologise for sending you maids. I should have acted better," Lady Wilmot murmured. Then, "Lady Daughtry mentioned that her daughter has shown great interest in you, and their family is well-regarded."
Brand was flabbergasted. How low would she stoop to see a woman in his arms? "Stop." He warned.
She did not. "Miss Daughtry is young, accomplished in the piano and speech, and is eager to please. She would make the perfect wife and princess. Possibly more than this woman you think of. She has limited knowledge, only having been introduced to society."
"Enough, Mother, please!" Brand snapped, casting her an annoyed, judgmental look. "I have defended myself enough. Let this discussion be laid to rest."
She would rebuke his choice of a nonexistent woman, yet ask that he care for another? Why should he care that a simpering eighteen-year-old had been swayed by the propaganda whispered daily to her hearing?
Glancing at the wall, he exhaled. Eager to please? Accomplished in speech and piano? Sweet God, he had no interest in the empty pleasures she was offering. He cared nothing for the offerings of women!
Lady Wilmot rose from her placing and perched on the table before him. "Dear son of mine," she patted lightly on the back of his hand, "Forgive me for being overly decisive or rash, but I worry about you, a great deal, even."
Again with the worrying? Brand thought, running his free hand through his long, unrestrained hair. Why couldn't his family take solace in the life he had chosen? He was content and somewhat happy, living as freely as he wished, with no ties whatsoever to anyone. Whatever debt of obligation he owed was in duty and fealty alone. Why must so many people worry about him? Was he so far removed from the life of the ton?
Alexander had lived for years without a wife, and none had troubled him. Lady Gwen was not from the grandest of families, still, none were bothered. Even now, when she was yet to bear royal heirs, no one, save Lady Gwen, seemed concerned. Why must they trouble him with their incessant worries?
In the silence, Lady Wilmot reached out, caressing his chin with the back of her hand—a gesture he knew all too well. She was patronising, and he would be damned if he allowed her to succeed.
"Your Highness, listen to me…"
"Don't." He rose and walked away from her. "I do not need anyone to worry about me. Not Alexander, not Lady Gwen, and certainly not you." Alcohol was no solace, but at the moment, he found the sidebar annoyingly empty. "I am happy with my life, with my authority, and my wealth. I do not need a woman. I, most certainly, do not need a wife."
She exhaled harshly, smoothing down her skirt, then she adjusted her gloves even though they remained immaculate, and resumed her seat in the space he had just vacated.
"This has gone on for far too long now," she hissed. "It was amusing when you were younger, but now it has lost all appeal. You are a prince, and with Lord Denney's death, the royal line is in danger of passing from the Williams."
"My brother is king, and he is married. Soon, he will have his heirs, and the royal line will be preserved." When her stare became hard, he turned away, refusing to be manipulated.
A chuckle, then a full-blown laughter. "Did the king propagate this thought in your head?"
"What?!" Brand snapped, turning back swiftly to her.
She blinked, pushing back an invisible strand of her hair. "Did the king persuade you never to marry so he could be certain of all threats to his authority removed?"
His eyes narrowed. "Be very careful, Mother. You tread on the path of treason." Was she implying that Alexander was to blame for the life he had chosen of his own accord? Did she consider him a threat to Alexander? He was never a threat to his brother.
Her eyes widened. "You threaten me?"
"I will not allow such uncultured behaviour in my home." No one—no one, not even his mother—was allowed to speak ill of Alexander.
"Why should you not marry?" She huffed. "You are the prince, his natural heir…"
"Lady Gwen is his heir now," he countered.
"Oh, spare me these righteous words!" She exploded, leaping to her feet. "For goodness' sake, Your Highness, you're twenty-three! By your age, your father was already married, readying to erect a family."
A family she had destroyed? The words burned to jump out from his lips, but he restrained himself. Nothing good would come from upsetting her. It would be best to end the conversation.
He exhaled sharply. "Mother, I do not care for how young my father obtained his family, nor do I care for your advice. I care for no one's advice but my own, and my decision was made a long time ago." He marched back to her, grabbed the letters, and strode to the window, returning to his tiresome, annoying tasks.
Silence.
"Am I to be ignored?"
"Certainly not, but I think it's best you return to Whitmore House," he dismissed. "I am not in the mood to argue."
Another long moment passed.
"I do this because I worry about the throne." She declared calmly.
"You have absolutely no right to concern yourself with the affairs of the throne." He rebuked at once as calmly as her. "Neither for her king, nor her heirs."
Lady Wilmot stepped forward, her chin raised proudly. "I believe I can. It is in my right and my office."
"Your office?" He echoed with a scoff. All too suddenly, a mirthless laughter escaped him. He was righteously wild with indignation. "What office do you speak of? You are but the mother of the by-blow prince. You possess no office, nor the honour in a pretended one."
Shocked, Lady Wilmot's eyes grew in size, the colour drained quickly from her face. Brand did not care. He had asked her to return; had she heeded his warnings, the harsh words never would have found their way to his lips.
"It is unfair how you speak of me." She whispered, "when all I desire for you is a more gracious life than the one I had."
His jaw tightened. He already possessed one, but her continuous blindness to it irked him. Or perhaps, she could, but chose to ignore it, as it did not accord with her beauteous plan.
"Your Highness, I care for you. I am your mother." she said, gesturing with a hand to her chest.
Brand eyed her. "Do you recall the last occasion you truly acted in the knowledge?" He returned at once. "Or the instance when you were, in truth, a mother to me?" His brows furrowed in anger. "Tell me, how long ago did we converse as mother and child?"
She blinked. "You bar your doors to me of the greatest times, but whenever we can, we do, conversing about important matters."
"Only of pious women, their accomplishments, and the possibility of children with some wife of your approval."
"What more is there to talk about?"
Brand gaped, gloriously stupefied. He blinked and blinked again. Then, "What more is there?" Retreating, he gave a short laugh, aware and disappointedly offended of how her words hurt him.
Someone knocked, but they ignored it.
"What more, you ask?" He shook his head, incredulous. "Are you at all acquainted with the course of my business affairs? Of my many travels to far countries? Do you know aught of the country which I have only returned from?"
A pause. "I heard you sailed from China." She whispered.
"You heard." He repeated and scoffed. "You heard. How very fitting, Mother. How very appropriate."
"Your Highness…"
"Have you lost perfect knowledge of my given name?!" Brand snapped, whirling. The financial reports and letters flew in various directions.
How could she appoint herself his mother? And how could his brother continually barrage him to sit at the table of conciliation with a woman who feared to address him fondly? Not even in the heights of their quarrels had she uttered it. He was not her son unless he was the prince? The thought made him sick. He was the fool for assuming that she would care.
Another knock.
"I tire of this." he murmured, unsure whether he was speaking of the repeated raps on the door or how she made him feel.
Abandoning his scattered parchments, he walked towards the door. When he had left his study earlier, it had been in the hope to seek solace from his mind, but by Lady Wilmot's doing, he must now seek his comfort elsewhere.
With his hands on the knob, he paused and spoke over his shoulder. "I leave for another voyage on the morrow, and I cannot be sure when next I shall return."
Silence.
Hesitantly, Lady Wilmot murmured. "Where… where are you going this time?"
A sad smile stretched his lips, and his hand tightened on the knob. "It is a certainty, Lady Wilmot, that you will hear of it in due course." He turned the knob and pulled the door to himself. "I wish you good health, Mother."
Turning to the butler, who stood outside the room, he said, "Gerard, see Lady Wilmot to her carriage, and have my parchments sent to the Emerald Room."
"Yes, Your Highness. but…" the man stepped from his path and presented a note. "It is from the castle. His Majesty, the king, demands your immediate presence."
Brand nodded and marched towards the main doors, his steps heavier than the grief pressing on his heart.