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I note he neatly sidesteps the issue of my name and have the unruly urge to laugh. Loudly.
I repress that, too.
Taio glances at me, then back to his mother. “Annagret, this is the dowager Marchioness, my mother, Francette Arceneaux de Luz.”
I decide that it is the better part of valor to repress the head bob that nearly takes me over.
“So it is true,” his mother says. She does not look at me. “You have gone and done it, and quickly, so that no objection could be raised.”
“What objection could there be?” Taio asks in reply, his tone cool. “I have made my decision.”
“And what a decision it is, to do this thing. I mean no offense to you, of course,” Francette says, looking at me. It is at this moment that I understand that she is speaking English deliberately. That she wants me to understand what she is saying, when surely she and Taio more regularly speak in Spanish or French. “But surely you understand what my son does not—or cannot. You are American. My understanding is that you come from a family of no great name, have no education to speak of, and have thus far lived…” She pauses, delicately. “By your wits?”
“The interesting thing about living by one’s wits,” I say before I can stop myself, because I’m not sure if she’s insulting him or me but I don’t like it, “is that it becomes obvious when the people around one are unequipped.”
But I smile winningly, just in case she’s having a laugh. This is a strategy that has often worked with self-important clients who aren’t used to any pushback. It never occurs to them that theycouldbe insulted, so they laugh and all is well.
I think I hear Taio sigh. His mother merely raises her perfect brows. There is no hint of anything like laughter.
“And you are, as expected, disrespectful on top of all the rest,” she says. “How delightful.”
This is giving the shades of Pemberley being polluted and so I stand, too, because I feel like a target just sitting there. “I apologize if I’m adding to the stain upon your family name,” I say, with great insincerity.
“Annagret,” Taio warns, but I keep my eyes on his mother.
“My name is unstained in every regard,” she replies crisply. “And can be traced back to the Norman Conquest. Or thereabouts.”
“A pity, then, that you can’t see your way clear to sorting out the matter of the current stain on Taio’s family’s name,” I say, hoping that I look as unimpressed with her lineage as I feel. When she could help her son, yet hasn’t, who cares about a bloodline? “I wonder why that is.”
His mother frowns as if she doesn’t understand. I can’t believe she doesn’t.
“This is an odd way to offer your congratulations, Mother,” Taio is saying. “But perhaps we can all get together for family discussions at another time.”
“The time for family discussions is past,” Francette says with a bleak wave of her hand. “Honestly, Taio. I expected better from you.”
“Unfortunately, he knocked me up,” I say brightly, because I don’t care if this woman comes for me. But I can’t bear her swinging at him, and I decide not to interrogate myself about why that is, because I had my chance to tell him and I didn’t. “So it was marrying me or contributing to the illegitimacy issue currently clouding the family legacy. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Francette stares at me in a kind of frozen astonishment that I suspect is meant to shrivel me down to size.
Instead, I stand my full six feet, complete with the two-inch heels I’m wearing today, that put me right at Taio’s shoulder.
“I thank you both,” Taio says sardonically, “for making this as seamless transition as possible.” He glares at his mother. “You know exactly why I didn’t tell you about this. For precisely this reason. Annagret is my wife. That’s the end of the discussion. You will notice that I did not ask for your commentary.” He turns to me. “And this is my mother. You do not have to like her. But I must ask that you respect her.”
I feel immediately chastened, and a little bit like a child, which is not a pleasant place for me to be. But I suck that up, because what matters here is that he loves her. I don’t need to get in the way of that.
“My apologies,” I murmur.
He and his mother exchange a few more frozen sentences—in French this time—and then she glides away, back to where she came from.
And we stand there at our pretty garden table, dressed in our wedding clothes, and stare at each other.
“I’m sorry,” I say while she’s gone. To him, directly. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“The thing about my mother,” Taio says, his gaze dark as he looks back at me, “is that she is not necessarily a warm woman. If forced, I would describe her as frozen solid. I do not know if she was always this way or if she became this way. But she is my mother.” He shrugs then, and looks something like helpless. “And she is the only parent I have left.”
“I understand.” I go with an urge and reach over, then, to take his hand. “Even now, I love my father. Even though I know that he cannot love me back in any way that’s meaningful to me. He chose my stepmother and my stepsisters again and again, and I’m certain that if I gave him the opportunity he would do the same thing again. I’ve always considered him a weak man. I think he is one.” I squeeze Taio’s hand and lean in closer. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love him. It just means I can’t subject myself to the way he loves me.”
And after a moment, that dark stare of his changes. I see the gleam of that smile in those tea-steeped depths. I feel my shoulders sink down from my ears.