“Quick with a quip, Lord Wycliff?”
“Sometimes.” He inched the basket closer. “Open it, Ruth.”
She flicked open the woven lid and giggled.
Her hands sank into the rectangular-shaped box and pulled out a crisp baguette and her favorite Cheshire cheese and dates. Sugared and pitted dates. Ruth loved those treats.
“Adam told you everything, didn’t he? Tangy, creamy, beigey cheese?”
“Maybe. But some things I shall have to discover for myself.” He put his hand upon hers. “Some things I’ll enjoy learning and relearning.”
“You sound like a suitor, not long-lost family.”
“Ruth, I have thought of nothing but our kiss. There’s more to say, but you aren’t ready for that truth.”
She broke a sliver of the bread, the crusty end, her favorite, and popped it into her generous mouth. “No, I think it might be too much. Thank you for taking care of me yesterday.”
“I’ll always take care of you.”
A little boy hopped in front of their table. He had a barrel hoop in his hand, rolling it and running. Ruth’s sister, Mrs. Bexeley, had a bundle wrapped in a dark-blue blanket. She was all smiles, chasing behind the small boy.
The young fellow turned in their direction. He ran and popped up into Ruth’s awaiting arms. “Mama, Mama. We saw a frog.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Bexeley said. Her tone was low. She did not share the fellow’s enthusiasm. “A big one by the birdbath.”
This was Christopher. Gold skin. Black, curly hair, dark eyes like Ruth. Could be his.
She swaddled him for a moment and set the lad down with a kiss to his forehead. “Chris, I want you to meet—”
The boy promptly wiped his forehead then hopped and bopped and started running.
“Don’t play in the pond.” She called after him. Chris was long gone.
“He’s quite energetic, Ruth.”
“Yes, he is. If you spend time with him, you will learn that.”
“Is that permission to spend time with Adam’s son?”
“Yes. You are his cousin.”
“As Adam’s son, he’s my heir.”
Her eyes darted. “Does that mean you’re laying claim to Chris?”
How did he get showing an interest in the boy wrong? Wycliff shoved a date into his mouth. “I want to know your son. I meant no offense.”
“Sorry, Lord Wycliff. My sister has me on edge about my son’s custody. She thinks you’re a crazed lord who can appoint yourself a guardian or something.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” He put his hand on hers. “But I’ll do nothing to hurt you. You have to know that.”
She rolled her palm and clasped his hand. “Good, because Christopher is all mine. Adam didn’t live to see him birthed, to wipe his bottom, or mop his fevered brow. He’s mine.”
“Well, there’s a way to fix all of this. I can get to know my heir. You can be secure learning to love me. Marry me, Ruth. Come to Blaren House and make it in your image, make it a secure and wonderful place for you and Christopher.”
Ruth choked a little and put down the date she’d bitten. Sugar granules powdered her lips. She looked like a dessert.
Delicious.
“Those are some bold intentions. I suppose you only go slowly or fast. Nothing in between.”
“There’s more I could say, but I’ll save that for when you’ve had a chance to think about my offer. You should know how I wish to be good to you.”
“No.”
He put his hand to his throat, making sure his jaw was in place. “Such a quick dismissal, ma’am?”
Ruth looked down. “You haven’t spent time with my son. I know the barrister will tolerate him. I don’t know what you will do.”
“I’ll be a father to him, a good one. Say you’ll marry me and let me take care of everything.”
“You say you want to marry me. Why? Today is the first time you’ve mentioned my son in your plans. I don’t know what to think.”
“I was trying to win you first, before I ingratiate myself upon the son. What heartache will the boy have if he were to become used to me and then you decided you don’t want me?”
“He’s your heir, regardless of what I do. He’s Adam’s son, isn’t he?”
Why does it seem as if she’s asking me who the boy’s father is?
He took her hand. “Are you ready to dismiss this barrister in favor of me?”
“I know what I’m getting with Mr. Marks. He knows what he’s getting with me. He’s honest. He works hard, and I’ve been honest to him.”
“And he’s not here, but I am.”
“You don’t mind my weaknesses? My sight and my faltering moments? Or the fact that I might be frigid?”
There was no way that could be, not his warm, passionate Ruth. He put his hand upon hers. “I don’t think it possible. If you are trying to run me off, try something else.”
“What if I said I only wanted a marriage of convenience, nothing more? Would that be enough for you?”
Was she serious?
Did she not sense the passion burning in her? That kiss on Fournier Street had been a fire to his soul, a lamp brightening his bruised heart.
“Is that the only thing available? Did the barrister agree to this?”
“I’m asking what you would accept. Would you settle for a platonic marriage of convenience?”
He should’ve put brandy in the basket. He needed to be cold drunk to agree to worship her at a distance.
But what if that was what she wanted?
“Ruth, I’ll take what you are willing to give. As much or as little of your heart as you offer, I want it.”
“My heart is gone. Gone four years. Can you understand that?”
I’m Adam. I am Adam. I’m Adam. The confession was on his tongue. Would his truth make a difference? Would she hate him more?
He tugged at his collar but made sure it did not slip. “I’ll do anything you want, but I’ll try every day to make you so much in love with me, you can’t help but kiss me like you did on Fournier Street. I won’t resist you, Ruth. I won’t even try.”
Her tense smile turned into an easy laugh.
“I’ll try hard to be irresistible.”
She laughed more.
The knot in his throat eased. He wanted Ruth in every way, but he’d be patient. She was everything.
“I’m torn. You are sweet to me in your own manipulative way.”
“Slightly manipulative. Maybe a smidgeon overconfident, but I believe in us.”
His little heir hopped and waved. As he made another lap, she signaled to him.
“Christopher, come. This is your cousin, Lord Wycliff. Lord Wycliff, this is Christopher Wilky.”
He stuck out his hand to the boy.
“How tall are you, Wicky?”
“It’s Wycliff and tall.”
The little fellow bounced, then pointed to Mrs. Bexeley. “You’re big, but my aunt is not tall.”
Wycliff picked him up and looked at the squirming boy eye-to-eye. “I think you will grow big, big like your father.”
“Big? How big is that?”
“Hmmm. Let me think.” Wycliff glanced at the boy again. The skin coloring was right. He could easily be a blend of Ruth’s and his. The wavy bob of hair on the boy’s head could be Wycliff’s mother’s or Ruth’s father’s.
Chris put his chubby hands on Wycliff’s cheeks. “Do you know?”
Wycliff jumped and held him high. “This big?”
“Bigger, bigger.”
Leaping into the chair, he lifted the boy higher. “This size, like a giant?”
“Yes. Yes.” Christopher clapped and laughed. “You talk funny.”
“He is funny.” Mrs. Bexeley came near and tapped her short boots on the patio stone. “Put my nephew down.”
“He’s playing with his cousin, Ester.”
Ruth’s tone was lyrical.
Wycliff had done something right. He jumped
down, and Christopher whooped.
“Just like a frog’s hop,” the boy said. “I saw a big one at the pond. Wanna see?”
“Come, Christopher, let’s let your mother talk. We’ll take one more turn before nap time.”
He stuck out his lip. “But I don’t like nap time.”
Ruth gave her son a hug and patted his shoulder to get him moving. “Go on with your aunt. You can show your big cousin the frog another time.”
He smiled and hopped all the way until he caught up to Mrs. Bexeley holding her baby.
Wycliff sat back down to a smiling Ruth.
“You could be good with him, my lord. I see that.”
“Who is he named after? Not your father or Adam?”
“It was the name closest to the African Chipo.”
“Christopher is not an African name.”
“No, it’s a good English name for Chipo, a gift of God. Christopher is a gift. No matter who his father is or the lack of having one.”
Ruth said the words clearly. Did she have doubts of the boy’s paternity, or was this a test of Wycliff’s commitment?
He liked tests, even if this cut a little close. “He’s a gift. He’s your son. He is a gift to me.”
“After the attack, my father found me in a brothel. Did you know that?”
Fine. This isn’t a test, is it?
He glanced at her before picking at a piece of the rich, savory cheese. “The boy’s my heir because you were married to Adam. It doesn’t much matter whose seed he is, does it? Have I passed your wicked traps?”
“I’m very tired, Lord Wycliff. I think you should leave.”
“What did I say? I did not mean to offend you.”
“You act as if you’ll care for me like Adam always promised, but you’re judging me. Your raspy words are meant to go down smoothly, lovely and sweet. But there’s control in all you do. There are secrets in your eyes, even the way you look at Chris.”
“You can see all that? Even when you avoid my gaze?”
She stood up, pushed at her chair. “I’m losing my sight. I’m not stupid. You’ll say anything to win. I’m not a possession. Please leave.”
“You’d rather I hide my desire for you or go about ignoring you like the barrister? A husband for the sunny days, never for the rain?”
He stomped to the doorway but stopped. This is not how this should go.
Clever Ruth had baited him. “I’m a passionate man, Ruth, but you are everything. I’ll do or be what you say: friend or lover. I’m not innocent. I have secrets—big ones that eat at me, but it’s all to keep you safe. I think you need safety more than anything. I can give that to you.”
A crash and then a scream sailed through the garden.
“Chris!” Ruth ran but stopped halfway.
Wycliff dashed past her, faster than a sjambok’s snap head, straight to Mrs. Bexeley.
The fish pond. The birdbath had fallen from its pedestal.
Christopher’s aunt had set her own baby down in the grass and was drenched, standing in the pond trying to keep Chris’s chin above water.
“Frog,” the boy said, taking in another mouth full of the soup, then his sobs matched Mrs. Bexeley.
Wycliff pushed into the pond. Holding his breath, he stuck his face into the water and moved leaves and flowers. The boy’s pinafore and his foot were wedged under the fallen birdbath bowl.
He reared up. “Keep his head above the water, Mrs. Bexeley.”
Gulping another breath, he knelt in the pond. Crouching down, he lifted the bowl and then the pedestal shaft and unhooked the caught pinafore. He tossed pieces of the broken bowl off the boy’s foot and pulled the sopping wet boy to his chest. “I have him, Mrs. Bexeley.”
Then he looked to Ruth. “Christopher is safe. I have him.”
He stood up straight and helped the soaked Mrs. Bexeley out of the pond.
The boy put his wet arms about Wycliff’s neck.
Mrs. Bexeley picked up her screaming baby. “I took my eyes off him for a minute.”
“Boys know how to get into trouble.” He came over and poked his wet finger at the little one. “Watch this one, too. Boys know how to scare their mothers. Christopher, let’s take you to yours.”
Wycliff looked up and started running again. Ruth was on the path to the pond but in the same spot he’d sped past her.
He put his arm about her waist. His arms were wet. He’d made her beautiful gown wet. But like a sailor paralyzed by the aftermath of a battle, she needed to move. She needed to awaken from this fog. “Your son is well, Ruth. Christopher, tell your mother you are sorry.”
“I wanted the frog, Mama. I jumped. He jumped.”
Tears streamed down her face.
Get her below, pull her to the hull, the entry of the Croomes’ house. “Come on, Christopher. Let’s get your mother back to the house.”
He towed Ruth all the way until they stood in the hall.
“I knew you’d get to him.” Her voice was muffled against his lapel. “I knew you would.”
He drew her closer and put the lad into his mother’s arms.
She sank to the floor, holding on to Chris like he’d slip away.
This moment felt private, with Ruth repeating her words of gratitude.
Could he belong to it? He truly wanted to. He had to.
Kneeling, he put his arms about them both. When he looked into the boy’s brown eyes and swooped his hand through Christopher’s fine, wet hair, he was grateful, too.
“Ruth, you need to get him out of these damp clothes. He can’t get the sniffles again.”
He lifted her to her feet and led them to the stairwell to the upper levels. “Take care of your mother, Christopher.”
He watched them go up the stairs before he headed to the door.
“Thank you for saving my son.”
Her voice was loud, bouncing off the chandelier and the neat plastered wall.
He swallowed hard, forced his throat to work. “Adam’s son. You two are my family, Mrs. Wilky.”
Tugging at his collar, he hoped she didn’t see his scars. “I need to get out of these wet clothes. I’ll visit with your father tomorrow, if he’s available.”
“Lord Wycliff, please come tomorrow. We could have tea. I’d like to have tea with you.”
With a hand to his collar to keep it from falling, he nodded. “I’ll be here.”
Ruth smiled then took her son up the stairs.
Wycliff knew battle shock. He also trusted his gut. Ruth was still suffering from their brutal attack, but did she have another villain?
Found in a brothel.
He picked up his hat and cape and stepped out of the entry. She’d said her father had retrieved her from a brothel. Could that be her aversion to a passionate marriage?
He grew sick to his stomach.
No wonder she hated Adam. Ruth had been left unprotected. Had she been forced to work at a brothel? Lawden must find out what had happened to her. Some of the bawdy houses he’d been searching for his sister, they needed to be questioned about Ruth.
His heart thundered.
Anger overtook him.
Some bawds treated their women as slaves. Could that have happened to Ruth? Is that why she didn’t know if Christopher was his?
Did he care for Ruth enough to agree to a platonic marriage?
This all had to be a test.
Tomorrow, he’d clear up everything. There was no way he could have a platonic marriage with a woman he desperately loved.
Chapter Seventeen
The Patriarch Needs a Word
I sat in front of my mirror, balancing my spectacles by pushing them up and down my nose, as I tried to get the focus right.
Wycliff was coming for tea. I had an urge to take a little more care.
Ester popped inside, whipping through the door I’d purposely left open. “Here, use these pearl pins. They will make your curls so pretty.”
“Thank you but no, Ester.”
I grabbed my brush but saw my sister’s reflection in the mirrored glass.
Why did she frown? Why were her lips trembling?
“Out with it, Ester.”
“I didn’t mean for Christopher to be in trouble. I didn’t look…for just a moment. He could’ve been hurt.”
I turned and grabbed my sister and pulled her into a hug. “Chris is fine. He’s fine. I’m his mother, and I couldn’t even get to him. If not for Lord Wycliff… Let’s not talk of this anymore.”
My sister wiped at her eyes. “He did us a great service. I’m indebted to him for saving my nephew. I know this is wrong to say, but I still don’t trust him, Ruth. He’s hiding something.”
Everyone has secrets.
I did. I’d hinted at being found at a brothel, and the man hadn’t even blinked. Too smooth. Or because of his nosiness did he already know?
“Ruth, Bex thinks he’s involved with unrest at the docks. The Wilkinson family is deep into shipping. There are strikes and strange occurrences. People have died.”
“One man. A mulatto man is responsible? Ester, do be serious.”
Pacing, Ester crossed her arms about her sand-colored shawl. She was a desert priestess and oracle of bad news. “How do I help you see what I see?”
“Sight puns are beneath you. Maybe you can try something from your favorite Shakespeare.”
Tugging at an errant lock, I pinned it high on my head. I took one of the daisies that had bloomed from Wycliff’s bouquet and slid it right into my braid before forming my chignon. “I do trust him. And I owe him my son’s life. That has to mean something. Why should I question his business dealings? Maybe he is as good as Papa at keeping family safe from his dealings.”
“That could be, but Papa’s been at this a long time. This Lord Wycliff has come from nowhere. Bex can find nothing on him other than his father retired to the country four years ago.”
I put down my brush, then swung my legs and turned on the stool. The hem of my mulberry gown flapped as I faced Ester. “You had your husband look into him?”
Cornered, my sister folded her arms. “Yes. I had him look into the barrister, too. You remember Mr. Marks, the man with whom you’ve been exchanging letters.”
“Perhaps he’s forgotten.” I picked up the parchment wrapped with a scarlet ribbon. “Another regret. He’ll not be able to take me on a drive this week. Next week, he will.”
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