‘Yes. Well.’ The older man looked uncomfortable. ‘I have never claimed to be a saint.’
‘Neither have I—but I do not believe I have ever impregnated a woman and then abandoned her!’
The older man closed his eyes briefly. ‘It was not like that.’
‘Then pray tell us what it was “like”?’ Lisette finally stirred from lying prone on the chaise, her head aching as she sat up. She felt unable to even glance at Christian as he stood beside the window, for fear of the condemnation she might see in his face that her actions earlier had brought them all to this. Instead she chose to look only at the man and woman she now knew to be her parents.
A more unlikely couple she could not imagine—Helene so tall and fierce, Aubrey Maystone several inches shorter, and with an aristocratic face that now softened into lines of concern as he looked across at her.
Her father.
Lord Aubrey Maystone was her father.
The very English Lord Aubrey Maystone.
Lisette had been in turmoil as to who her father might be since learning that Helene was her mother; it did not seem possible, after the fears Lisette had harboured in regard to this English Lord for the past few days, to now learn that he was also the man who had fathered her.
He stood up now, as if he might come to her, but instead he began pacing in front of the fireplace when Lisette glared at him almost as fiercely as Helene was now doing. ‘Once I learned earlier today that you were Helene’s daughter—’ He gave a shake of his head. ‘I knew the moment I saw you that you must also be my own daughter.’ He looked at Lisette wonderingly. ‘You look exactly like my sister—your aunt Anna,’ he explained at her wide-eyed look.
Lisette recalled the way he had stared at her when they were introduced earlier. ‘I have an aunt...?’
He nodded. ‘And several half-brothers and sisters, and nieces and nephews—’
‘Let us not become distracted with a list of Lisette’s English relatives.’ Christian stepped forward into the centre of the room. ‘Surely you all must see that this situation is... It is far more complicated than I could ever have imagined.’ Although he did have some explanation, at least, as to why Maystone had seemed so befuddled earlier today when he met Lisette for the first time.
And it had also not escaped Christian’s notice that Lisette had not so much as glanced in his direction since she regained consciousness.
Because she felt awkward, having now learned of her true parentage?
Perhaps because she now felt uncomfortable recalling their own conversation earlier today, when she had offered to become his mistress?
Or it might just be that she was aware this present situation had come about because she had disobeyed him, and so allowed for her own abduction?
The former she was most certainly not responsible for.
Nor could Christian ever have contemplated taking Lisette as his mistress.
And he was no longer sure Lisette could be held even partly responsible for her own abduction either.
For one thing, Helene Rousseau had obviously been bent on reclaiming her daughter, as well as seeking vengeance on her erstwhile lover. Christian was now convinced that if the older woman had not abducted Lisette when she had, she would only have found another day when she might do so.
As for Lisette disobeying him... Christian had known she was upset earlier, after he had rejected her offer to become his mistress.
Just as he had known how headstrong she was.
Consequently he should have had more safeguards put in place to prevent her from straying outside the house. At the very least, he should have alerted Evans to the fact that Lisette might attempt to do exactly that, and to wake him immediately if it should occur. Instead, several hours had elapsed—including his lazing in the bath for almost an hour—before he was even made aware Lisette had left the house.
If anyone or anything was to blame for what she had suffered today, then it was Christian’s own arrogance in having believed he could issue a mandate to Lisette and expect her to obey it without question.
She had felt so tiny in his arms earlier, so fragile as he carried her across the bridge. A painful reminder of how close he had come to losing her.
Just the thought of that was indeed painful.
He had, he realised, become accustomed to having Lisette in his life—arguing with her, teasing her, laughing with her, making love to her. Even after only a few hours of her presence, his house had seemed empty without her in it.
His life would be equally empty without her in it.
But if she really was Maystone’s daughter—and the other man appeared to have no doubts on the matter—then Christian knew he had already lost the Lisette he knew. Not to kidnappers, or death, as he had feared earlier, but to the father who would surely now claim her as his own.