Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] by My False Heart

family at all—and certainly one couldn’t count his bloodless mother—was already struggling to keep up with the identities of the pleasantly rambunctious crowd occupying Chatham Lodge.
    Slipping deeper still into his steaming bath, Elliot asked himself why he cared. It was the painful contrast, he supposed. Though he’d never considered his home precisely cold, he had certainly felt it to be so this afternoon when he had stood outside looking into this lovely oasis. But Elliot’s home was lovely, too, and far more grand. Nonetheless, his stately residence, soaring four stories above the south bank of the Thames, seemed always empty, despite the fact that his infamous uncle, Sir Hugh, maintained extensive second-floor apartments within. But Sir Hugh, when his gout permitted, preferred to warm the beds of London’s middle-aged widows and neglected wives, who were always, he argued, generous with their brandy, obliging in the boudoir, and willing to listen to his war stories. Oh, he and Hugh were exceedingly fond of each other, albeit in that “hail fellow” way that was so common among men. But Sir Hugh was a busy fellow, more apt to be seen across the river in Chelsea than in Richmond where Elliot’s vast house was located.
    And then, of course, there was Zoë. Elliot felt a rare and unexpected wave of guilt for having left his eight-year-old daughter behind, but surely by now she was used to it. Zoë had never known her mother, who had been but another of Elliot’s many affairs gone awry. Maria had been a capricious Italian dancer who had cheerfully deposited her babe on Elliot’s doorstep en route to a carefree life on the Continent. Now, Elliot himself was often absent for days at a time, and Zoë had learned never to question his absences. With her innate sensitivity, she seemed to know what was expected. And what not to expect. It was his own doing, too, for in his inexplicable, withdrawn way, Elliot knew that he had deliberately isolated himself from her, for he did not know what else to do.
    But he loved her. God, yes, he loved Zoë. He loved his child with all his heart, black though it most certainly was. He had not, however, loved Maria. Indeed, Elliot had allowed himself to need no woman since Cicely, yet the abiding love he felt for his daughter was like a sure and frustrating ache in his belly. Elliot had no notion what one did with such an overwhelming emotion. He wanted to tell her, to show her, to hold her. And yet he rarely touched her and almost never conversed with her. Not in any meaningful way. Why? Elliot was not certain, but in the dark of night, when he was sober enough to think clearly, Elliot sometimes began to fear that perhaps he was far more like his father than he wanted to be. Was Zoë paying the price for that shortcoming, too?
    It was a horrifying notion, and Elliot did not realize that he held a death grip on the soap until it spurted from his hands and skittered aimlessly across the floor. He looked about himself, taking in the antiquated but comfortable bedchamber Miss Stone had provided him. The room was small, warm, and richly furnished. Outside, the chilling rain continued to hammer at Chatham’s ancient, mullioned windows, cutting him off—no, sheltering him—from the vast emptiness of the world beyond this place. His bath now tepid, Elliot looked down to see that his toes, and a few other things, had begun to shrivel. With an inward sigh, he shoved away his fanciful thoughts, then heaved himself from the tub in a cascade of soapy water.

    The dining parlor at Chatham Lodge was large, well proportioned, and elegantly fitted with all the appointments necessary to a genteel country house. Nonetheless, as with every nook in the Stone-Weyden household, it was warm and comforting. The tableware was sturdy Chinese export, while the delicately carved table itself was long and narrow and laid with good linen. Across the corridor, Elliot noticed what must once have been a breakfast