The Importance of Being Wanton by Christi Caldwell

Chapter 2

THE LONDONER

SHAMEFUL!

After finding herself jilted, a bitter Miss Gately is determined to bring that same suffering to other ladies of the Marriage Mart . . . encouraging rebellion and disavowing marriage.

M. FAIRPOINT

Two months ago, Miss Emma Gately had paid a visit to three scandalous ladies on Waverton Street, living on their own.

From Emma’s visit had sprung the Mismatch Society, a group of young women who met twice weekly for one purpose and one purpose only: asserting themselves in a man’s world and giving nothing to those lords they’d been expected to wed . . . no matter how unhappy they were.

This morn, however, seated in her family’s Mayfair residence, Emma headed up an altogether different meeting.

Her younger sister, Isla; Emma’s best friend, Lady Olivia; and Emma’s identical twin older brothers sat in a circle around a tray of refreshments that a maid had brought in some twenty minutes earlier.

Morgan, older than Emma by two years, and than his twin by an hour, was the first to move. Leaning forward, he reached for a chocolate biscuit from the tray.

Isla shot out a foot, catching him square in the shins, wringing a gasp from him and knocking the biscuit to the floor. The confectionery treat rained sprinkles of sugar and chocolate forlornly as it went before landing with a plop atop Morgan’s boot.

“Whatever was that for?” he demanded.

Isla glared. “Because we are focusing, Morgan.”

“And you think a man can’t focus while indulging in a biscuit?” he shot back.

“Actually, I don’t think a man can focus on anything, biscuit or not, which is why I thought it was a bad idea to have either of you”—Isla nudged a chin between the twins—“here.”

At her side, Emma’s best friend didn’t even attempt to hide her smile.

Pierce bristled. “I resent that. I’m not the one indulging in biscuits.”

Morgan tossed up his arms in exasperation. “Then why even have the damned tray if we weren’t supposed to be eating from it?”

Isla sighed. “You really are bad at this, aren’t you?” She looked to the other women present. “He really is terrible at this, isn’t he? Let me explain, dear brother; it is for show. When there is a gathering of guests, they have refreshments, and it signifies a casual gathering.”

Morgan stared blankly at her. “And when there are no refreshments?”

“Why, then we are discussing business and everyone knows it,” the youngest Gately explained in tired tones. She followed up that pitying response with an equally pitying pat on his knee.

“Well, I don’t believe that makes much sense,” he said, eyeing the tray covetously before ultimately sitting back in his chair and giving up all attempts at one of those treats. “Any sense,” he added under his breath.

Isla smirked. “Nor do I expect it to.”

Morgan tossed a pillow across the rose-inlaid refreshment table, which Emma intercepted. Catching the frilly lace article to her chest, she set it down in the empty space beside her.

“Might I suggest we return to the matter at hand,” she said firmly.

All assembled looked her way.

Emma pressed her fingers together, steepling and unsteepling them, then stopped. “Something is amiss.”

Morgan was the first to respond . . . or he attempted to anyway. “What is—?”

“She’s referring to Mother’s and Father’s persistence with Scarsdale.” Pierce took mercy on Morgan, sparing him from asking the remainder of that question and earning more of Isla’s ire.

“Scarsdale.” Morgan spat the name like it was the vitriolic curse it had become in the household.

“Yes,” Emma murmured. “Scarsdale.” The name of the man she’d been betrothed to as a child, who’d become a rogue, living quite happily for himself, while she waited on the sidelines. Until she’d tired of it and cut him loose. Or free. One would have thought he saw it as the latter. Alas, he’d never been agreeable in any way. Even in this, their breakup.

Pierce sat up straighter in his seat. “I thought he gave up.”

Isla frowned. “Did he even try to fight for Emma?”

The absolute lack of inflection from her sister proved all the worse.

Morgan tossed the other throw pillow, taking a wider arc around Emma, to catch Isla directly in the side of her head with that soft, feather-stuffed missile. “And I’m the problematic sibling? I wouldn’t go about tossing salt in the wounds of our sister.”

Emma shifted in her seat. “I wouldn’t say it was salt in the wounds.” She knew her siblings all meant well, but God, how she hated that all society, her family included, took her as a hurt and wounded woman. She had been. But long, long ago, before the betrothal had ended.

Isla whipped her gaze toward Emma. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to s-suggest . . . I wasn’t saying—”

“No, no. It is fine,” Emma assured. “You aren’t wrong.” Isla stuck out her tongue at Morgan. “Quite the opposite. You are entirely correct.” After all, “gave up” implied Lord Charles Scarsdale had attempted to keep her. Which he hadn’t. Not. Even. Close. What he had done was go to her father and make an appeal to . . . what? Move forward with a marriage he’d certainly never wanted and one that she had . . . She shoved aside the young, naive thoughts she’d once carried and returned to the matter at hand. “More importantly, however, I do not believe Father has relented on the prospect of . . . a match between us.”

Already identical, the Gately brothers’ features now also formed matching scowls. Isla might have questioned why Emma had decided to include their brothers in the matter of Scarsdale and her parents, but the truth was, there wasn’t a more loyal pair than Morgan and Pierce.

“Fathers,” Olivia spat. “They are terrible, too.”

“Yes, well, fathers are still men,” Isla pointed out.

“This is true,” Olivia agreed.

Pierce, the more easygoing of the twins, turned a frown on her. “I take offense to that.”

Morgan nodded hard. “As do I.”

Pierce snorted. “You shouldn’t. Everyone knows you are of a terrible sort.” He glanced at Olivia and winked. “I, however—”

Olivia laughed. “Very well. With the exception of my brother Owen; Pierce; and on some occasions, Morgan, every other man is terrible.”

“Thank you.” Morgan scrunched up his brow. “I . . . think?”

It was the closest Olivia had ever come, and likely would ever come, to a compliment of the male species. The forgotten daughter of a Waterloo general who’d been titled for his bravery, Olivia had been largely ignored by her father. Her eldest brother, traveling as he did, had proven almost as invisible. Even Owen, the youngest of her brothers, as loving as he was, had been consumed by his work as a barrister.

Morgan brought them back to the topic at hand. “What has Papa said now?”

Emma drew in a breath. “Nothing.”

The gathering of four spoke as one. “Nothing?”

She confirmed that question with a nod. “Nothing,” she repeated. Emma came to her feet, and began to pace. “It has been seven days. An entire week. There have been no summons. No notes sent to my room. Not even angry looks at mealtimes.”

“And this is a problem?” Pierce asked, sounding as befuddled as Morgan looked.

Isla sighed. “Of course it is a problem.”

The twins looked at one another, then back to Isla.

“I’ll help,” Olivia said, sitting forward. “It means something is amiss. It means they have been plotting, and are intending to one day soon corner your sister and maneuver her into marriage”—fury sparked in Olivia’s eyes—“with that . . . with that . . .”

“Scoundrel,” Pierce supplied with all the resentment only a brother could manage.

“Cad,” Isla suggested.

“Sard,” Morgan muttered, earning shocked gasps from Olivia and Isla. Emma laughed for the first time that day, even as Pierce leaned over and slapped their brother on the back of the head.

Morgan flinched, glared at his twin. “Oww,” he cried, rubbing his injury. “What the h—Oww?”

Pierce looked pointedly among the three ladies. “You do not say that in front of . . . in front of . . . them,” he whispered, as if the “them” in question weren’t in fact watching on with equal interest and amusement.

Emma rolled her eyes. Yes, because heaven forbid a lady should hear a curse that referenced sexual relations. Even a word as old as the medieval one her brother had uttered.

“Well, I would rather think that three founding members of a women’s society formed to break down marriage and advocate for an equal place in the world would appreciate our speaking to them as we would any other fellow.”

Precisely. “I do,” Emma assured him, and patted him on the knee. “Very much so.”

“As do I,” Isla muttered, sounding pained to have to make such an admission about the brother she always butted heads with.

“Oh, you shan’t find me taking umbrage with naughty words, either,” Olivia confirmed.

If Emma had been in possession of the gavel used to call to order the Mismatch Society, this would have been the perfect time and place to use it. Alas, she may have been the one who’d led to the formation of the society, but her skill set was certainly not keeping order of a group. Nevertheless, given the direness of her situation, focus was certainly required. “Now that we’ve settled the matter of how we might refer to Scarsdale, can we return to the situation of my parents?”

“I’m still not sure why you would assume something must be amiss. Perhaps they have simply moved on . . . accepted your decision”—Pierce waved a hand at Emma—“and all that.”

“Unlikely,” Emma said, already shaking her head.

Olivia raised her hand. “I agree.”

“Two people who were so determined to see their daughter married to a particular man that they were willing to betroth her at the age of six are hardly ones to go about abandoning the prospect of that match,” Emma explained for her brothers’ benefit.

“It is true,” Olivia agreed. Reaching over, she gathered a pretty porcelain plate and filled it with several biscuits.

“Wait . . . I am confused,” Morgan began slowly, eyeing Olivia. “So now is an appropriate time for pastries?”

Pierce swiped his hands over his face. “Bloody hell, Morgan. Would you let it go with the biscuits?”

“I am just pointing out—”

“That our parents are scheming,” Emma quickly interjected. “Yes, I believe you are correct, Morgan.” Just like that she neatly massaged his ego and distracted him from his impending quarrel with Pierce, and kept the group back on the topic of Scarsdale. Or more specifically, her life and her happiness.

Perhaps she wasn’t so very bad at this, after all.

“Mama and Papa have grown decidedly less combative,” Isla remarked.

A series of assenting murmurs rolled around the room. In this, even Emma could not disagree.

Emma chewed at the tip of an already jagged fingernail. And yet she still didn’t trust that her parents had relented. For several simple reasons: She didn’t trust her parents. She didn’t trust Scarsdale’s parents. She didn’t trust Scarsdale.

In fact, she didn’t trust anything connected in any way with the name Scarsdale.

“I don’t trust it,” Emma finally said with a shake of her head. “There is no way they intend to end their lectures.” Not when, according to her older brothers, their mother had hired nursemaids with the task of teaching Emma as a babe to speak the name Scarsdale as her first word.

The springs of the upholstered sofa squeaked, and the floorboards squealed, as Pierce made his way over. He dropped an arm around her shoulders. “Mayhap they’ve finally seen the way,” he said gently. “Perhaps you’re free.”

“And then that would mean you’re free to go back to idol-worshipping him.” Isla sniggered.

Pierce blushed.

Yes, because everyone knew Pierce and Morgan had always adored the most popular lord in London. There hadn’t been anyone Charles couldn’t win over. Including any number of women whom he’d carried on with over the years . . . one of whom had given him a child. Emma clenched her hands, hating that the truth of that hurt still.

A knock sounded at the door, and Tess, a young parlormaid, ducked into the room. “The viscount and viscountess have requested your presence, Miss Emma.”

Pierce dropped his arm. “Or perhaps they’ve not seen the way.”

Bloody hell.“I knew it!” Emma exclaimed, jabbing a finger around the nonbelievers of the quartet; all but Olivia had not seen. “I told you all!” And here her siblings had believed she was searching for something in nothing.

“Certainly not a matter you should have wanted to be correct on,” Olivia muttered.

Indignant, Emma let her arm fall to her side. “I didn’t want to be.” Far from it. In fact, if she never had to converse with her parents on the matter of Charles again, the happier she would be for it.

Isla gave her a look, and Emma folded her arms. “What? I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Morgan said dryly, as the eldest twin and Isla likely found the first time they’d concurred in all of the younger woman’s life. “You were just gloating for no reason.”

Tess cleared her throat.

They looked to the young woman.

“Please, tell them I’ll be along shortly,” Emma said.

The young girl’s shoulders sagged with a palpable relief, and she rushed off.

The moment she’d gone, Emma stood and began to pace. Yes, given Emma’s role with Mismatch Society people, both servants and members of the peerage had begun to look at her as though she were now unpredictable, and in ways she never had been. Nor, for that matter, were they incorrect. Not entirely anyway. Society had a tendency to never look beneath the surface. They’d seen Emma and seen a dutiful and proper daughter. As such, the world had clearly come to underestimate her. Her parents included.

Her former betrothed especially.

And as one who had been underestimated, she well knew to not make that same mistake, certainly not where her mother and father were concerned.

“You can always ignore them,” her sister volunteered.

“Yes,” she murmured, tapping a finger against her chin. “I could.” But then they’d seek her out . . . wherever she happened to be, and she’d come to find she rather appreciated being in control of the situation . . . where she could, of course.

“I could always shoot him?” Morgan piped in. Several creases lined his high brow. “That is, not Father. Scarsdale.”

“That is . . . sweet of you.” Emma flashed him a wan smile, touched by that show of support . . . even if it was a rather morbid one. “Thank you for that offer, but I must decline.”

“Well, it stands whenever you— Oww!”

Pierce slapped his older brother in the back of the head once more. “And leave me as the heir?” Emma’s lips twitched. Most younger brothers would have been resentful at finding themselves the spare—especially by no more than fifty-five minutes. However, that had never been the case between Morgan and Pierce.

Morgan scowled, rubbing at that injured-for-a-second-time spot. “Bloody hell, Pierce. What kind of brotherly disloyalty is that? And for your twin, no less? Suggesting I would perish?”

“In a duel? Against Scarsdale? You would,” Pierce said flatly. “Absolutely you would.” He shot Isla a glance, looking to her for support.

Isla lifted her palms and shook her head. “You’re on your own, Pierce.”

“Fine. You’re a terrible shot, and he’s a great one, and—”

Emma slid herself between them, breaking up what was quickly escalating. “There is nothing else to do but face them.” She brought back her shoulders. “And reiterate one more time that I will no sooner wed the Earl of Scarsdale than I would . . . than I would . . . Titus Oates,” she exclaimed.

Her brothers shared a puzzled look.

“He was the dastardly English priest who fabricated the Popish Plot,” Olivia explained.

“Ahh,” the twins said in unison.

Morgan shook his head. “Why would you want to marry such a fellow?”

Isla let out a sigh. “She wouldn’t, Morgan. That is the point. She’s likening Scarsdale to Oates. Two villains.”

Understanding dawned once more at the same time for the brothers. “Ahh.”

And if she weren’t moments away from facing off, yet again, against her single-minded parents, Emma would have managed a laugh. As it was, she needed all her wits about her. Angling up her chin, and her neck straight and her back even straighter, Emma marched for the door, the raucous applause from her quartet of supporters fueling her steps and firming her resolve.

Enough was enough.

She had been more than patient with her parents’ interference . . . an interference that stretched back more than seventeen years, to when she’d been a girl and they’d been crafting her future. Without so much as a consideration given to what she wanted. Or didn’t want. Without a thought that she should have a say in deciding which gentleman she might—or might not—wed.

It ended here.

This day.

Now.

Emma reached her father’s office and, in one fluid movement, let herself in. Measuring her steps and pacing her stride, lest they take her as too emotional, she headed over to where her father sat at the front of the room. More than a foot taller than his wife, and seated at the head of the desk, that was where all pretense of power ended. Her mother, stationed in a thronelike chair to the right of him like some manner of aide to the king, had always been the one calling the proverbial shots.

As far back as Emma could remember, whatever the reason for her summons, be it daydreaming in her lessons or the biscuits she’d been filching in the kitchens, they’d always presented a unified front in every way, but it had been unfailingly clear who ultimately guided all decision-making.

“Mother,” she greeted when she reached one of the giltwood side chairs opposite them. “Father.” She didn’t bother waiting for an invitation, but rather seated herself in one of the deucedly uncomfortable chairs. No one, absolutely no one, would ever convince her the decor option wasn’t by design, a bid to distract or keep at a disadvantage whoever was across from them.

Well, not this day.

“Mother? Father?” her father demanded of his wife.

“I’ll handle this, dear,” the viscountess promised, patting his enormous hand. She turned a full frown on Emma. “We do not like your tone. ‘Mothering’ and ‘Fathering’ us. You do that when you’re upset.”

Emma, however, wasn’t in a “Mama” and “Papa” affectionate frame of mind. She hadn’t been for some time now.

“You wished to see me,” Emma said. The last thing she intended was to allow them to distract her with their hurt feelings at being called by the proper “Mother” and “Father.” “Nor do I believe my summons has anything to do with what I refer to you as.”

Her mother’s eyebrows met her hairline.

When issued a summons, none dared to challenge the viscountess. Emma pressed her advantage of the distinguished viscountess’s shock. “Before you say whatever it is this time about my betrothal—” She grimaced. Nay, that wasn’t correct. That would merely fuel their relentless hope. “That is, my former betrothal. I have something I would like to say.” A very lot of somethings. And she’d been organizing them in her mind for years and years, and the moment had finally come to speak her truth. “In the matter of Lord Scarsdale—”

“The marriage is not to be.”

That statement from her mother brought Emma up short. She quickly righted herself, nodding. “Yes, precisely. E-exactly.” Well, that was hardly satisfying . . . having her speech correctly predicted. She hurried to right herself. “That is precisely what I came here to say. He—”

“Scarsdale is not the man we believed he was, Emie,” the viscount stated in such angry tones it took a moment to register what he said.

At five inches past six feet and some twenty stone, her father had always had the look and sound of a bear when he was upset. For two months that bellicose grumbling had been directed her way. Until now. This time, in the matter of her broken betrothal to Scarsdale, his disappointment was in fact directed not at her but at . . . Charles?

Emma opened her mouth, but promptly closed it, not even bothering to attempt for words that were not there. For . . . this was certainly not what she’d been expecting. Every carefully crafted argument as to why she’d never wed Charles—and every incisive arrow she’d intended to level about their regard for the gentleman—fell, useless.

Husband and wife reached for one another’s hands, and clasped their fingers in that familiar, affectionate way. All the while, they continued to stare back at Emma. As she stared back at them.

Catching the underside of her chair, she inched the rickety seat over. “Come again?”

“Come where again?” her father asked perplexedly, very much Morgan and Pierce’s sire. “We’ve not gone anywhere.”

“You are telling me you see that Scarsdale is a scoundrel and that you no longer expect me to marry him?” she asked bluntly.

Her parents nodded, the gestures remarkably synchronized.

“I believe you have that right,” her mother answered for the pair. “However, we’ve not used those exact words, per se.”

“‘Scoundrel’ is rather harsh, Emie,” her father said with a weighty disapproval in his deep, rumbling voice.

Now, this was what she had expected.

Emma folded her arms at her chest. “What would you call a gentleman who has kept on with any number of mistresses?” Including the notorious Misses Lee and Linden, two women he’d carried on with and been linked to over the years. “And who also had a child with one of his mistresses while being betrothed?” she asked, deadpan. A child he’d, at the time, not even allowed Emma, his future wife, to meet.

A blush filled her father’s cheeks, and yanking a kerchief from his jacket pocket, he dabbed at his brow.

Her mother patted his hand, and murmured something that sounded very much like “I’ll handle this, dear.” Yes, because that was ultimately the way of the adoring couple’s marriage: Emma’s mother handled . . . just about everything, making decisions like some military general, her husband the answering footman who’d be sent to battle with her instructions guiding him.

“Now, the fact remains he is your father’s godson, and there is and always will be a bond there.”

“Apparently bonds to godsons are deeper than those to daughters,” she muttered under her breath. “If that isn’t the patriarchy, I don’t know what is.”

Her words were immediately met with such a wounded expression from her father Emma almost felt bad. Almost. There was still the matter of Papa’s continued relationship with not only Charles’s parents . . . but also Charles himself.

“I am sorry if you’ve felt less than supported,” her father murmured. “That brings us to the reason for our meeting.”

Emma dragged her chair all the way over until her knees brushed the front of the oak desk. Surely there was more at play here? “All right. Out with it, then?”

“Your Mismatch Society,” her mother began slowly. “There has been increasing focus and interest in your society.”

Emma’s father, however, couldn’t control himself anymore. “You are creating a scandal, and it is just that we want to be sure your involvement in this organization is . . . worth the attention. That it is something you truly want to do.”

Emma looked between her parents and weighed her response. That was what this was about, then? They had relented on the matter of Charles. A lightness filled her, coming from the sense of freedom that brought. But there was also something more—determination. She’d tired long ago of being “poor Emma,” and if she failed in this endeavor? Then she would be an object of pity and gossip once more, a pathetic figure to be talked about. “I appreciate your concern, and also your support. However, there is nothing else I want to do or be doing.”

Her parents exchanged a look. Her father appeared as though he wanted to say more, but Emma caught the tight little nod her mother gave him.

“Now, is there anything else?” Emma asked, taking control of the remainder of this exchange.

“That is all.” Her mother inclined her head.

Still, as Emma made the march across the room, she braced for them to call her back.

A lifetime of knowing these people gave her reason enough to be . . . suspicious.

And yet . . . she reached the corridor, and there were no attempts to summon her back.

The moment she reached the parlor, four sets of eyes immediately swung Emma’s way.

Standing at the window, with his mouth stuffed with chocolate biscuit, Morgan hurriedly swallowed it down. “Well?” he demanded.

“It was a disaster,” Pierce predicted, always the more cynical and skeptical of the twins.

Emma ventured deeper into the parlor. “Quite the opposite,” she said, joining the group at the center of the room. “Mama and Papa merely wished to speak with me about the Mismatch Society.”

Her loyal contingency exchanged looks.

Pierce snorted. “You’re telling us that meeting had nothing to do with Scarsdale?” He answered his own question. “Unlikely.” With that he grabbed himself a treat from the dessert tray, and headed over to where Morgan stood at the window, watching the passersby beyond those silk damask curtains.

She snapped her fingers in her brothers’ direction. “I beg your pardon. I’ll have you know they finally acknowledged that Scarsdale is a . . .” Not a scoundrel. Emma set her jaw. Her parents had not committed to language that strong.

The twins would choose that moment to direct all their attention back her way.

“That he’s . . . ,” Olivia gently prodded.

“No longer a suitable match for me,” Emma substituted. And when there was still only silence, she turned to the greatest source a woman could for support: her best friend and sister. “They are done with him.” Just as she was.

So, it would seem, was her brother.

“Oh, I find that hard to believe,” Pierce drawled from his spot at the window.

She raised her chin a fraction. “And just what makes you say that?”

“Because Scarsdale is here . . .”

Her heart forgot its function of beating. It wasn’t unusual for him to arrive. He’d done so with a regularity . . . since she’d broken off their betrothal.

“. . . with his father and brother, this time,” Pierce was saying.

“Indeed?” Morgan angled his head, looking out for his Eton and Oxford chum, and closest childhood friend. “Wasn’t expecting Derek.”

“Oh, would you stop,” Pierce muttered. “He’s not here for you. It is obvious why he’s here. Scarsdale’s come with reinforcements this time.”

Emma sprinted across the room, yanking her brothers by the backs of their jackets, forcing them off to the side and out of view. She peeked around the edge of the green silk curtain, and angled her gaze down, bypassing the white-haired gentleman and dark-haired fellow in favor of just one . . . and her heart did a silly leap, for an altogether different reason. Several inches past six feet, in possession of a frame that showed off his love of riding and boxing, he was everything unlike the padded, soft fellows of Polite Society. The sun glinted off golden strands a fraction long enough to flirt with respectability. His jaw square. His cheeks chiseled. His nose a perfect slab of aquiline flesh. He was entirely more handsome than any man had a right to be. Emma tightened her mouth. Yes, he might be more beautiful than Apollo himself, but beauty didn’t erase all the many flaws that made him the absolute last man she’d ever tie herself to. “It doesn’t matter that he’s arrived,” she whispered furiously, as Barley drew open the panels to greet the earl.

The old butler said something, his back to them as it was, so there was no hope Emma could make out anything of what the servant was saying.

She squinted. Wait a moment . . . ? Emma pressed her forehead to the lead windowpane.

“He is smiling.” A crooked grin that dimpled just one cheek curved Charles’s perfectly formed lips. “Why is he smiling?” Emma whispered, ignoring the glance Olivia and her siblings shared. “Either way. It does not matter. Papa has ordered him—”

Barley nodded vigorously, and gestured with his hand.

Emma’s eyebrows went flying up.

“Inside?” Morgan drawled.

“I expect it is only because the marquess and Lord Derek are with him,” Olivia said unconvincingly. “He cannot go about sending his and Morgan’s closest friends away. However, I should expect he would send Scarsdale away.”

Yes, one should expect.

Emma gritted her teeth.

“Should” being the operative word.

Flipping his Oxonian hat back and forth between his hands like a damned master juggler, Charles took a step forward, then stopped. He glanced up.

Curses and gasps went up from the lot around Emma. Not Emma, however. She remained rooted to her spot. Yes, he’d caught her spying, but she’d be damned if she looked away.

His grin widened, and then he bowed his head.

“As if it is a bloody social call,” she said to herself.

And then he followed Barley, disappearing . . . within her house.

Silence fell once more.

More tense. More tangible.

Emma released her hold on the corner of the curtain.

Pierce cleared his throat. “Well, I think that is what makes it safe to say Father has not relented.”