She could not comprehend the meaning of Southwick’s words. I would propose to take him off your hands for the duration. He would take Rory away? She felt as if someone had struck her chest with a hammer. Alasdair grabbed onto her before she realized she’d swayed. She pulled away from him and steadied herself, called upon some reserve of strength deep within. “Have you gone mad?” “Hardly.” Southwick lifted a brow. “He is my son, is he not?” She shook her head, denying he had any right to call Rory his son. Denying Southwick could touch him. Denying…. “I am offering him his heritage. He will one day be the seventh marquess of Southwick and he requires a proper education.” “But he is illegitimate. He cannot inherit—” “That is but a formality.” His sharp tone gave her pause. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, desperate to make sense of it all. “Have you not married?” “I did marry—the duke of Pembley’s daughter, but she died six months ago, barren.”
