Only that difference hadn’t mattered to Aslyn. It hadn’t existed when they kissed. In his bed, they’d been equals in standing. No, never equals. In his eyes, she would always be elevated, a goddess. When he was with her, talking with her, when she smiled at him, he was more than the circumstances of his birth. With her he was more whole, more complete than he’d ever been in the entirety of his life.
And he’d been willing to throw it away for something that in the end meant nothing at all.
The following afternoon, Hedley stared at the calling card his butler had handed him. “What the devil is he doing here?”
“Who, Father?” Kipwick asked. They’d been discussing how best to handle this mess with Trewlove.
“I can’t say, Your Grace. Mr. Trewlove said only that he required an audience with Lady Aslyn, but I thought you should know,” Worsted said with a sniff and an upturning of his nose. “I’m not certain he’s the proper sort for her.”
Hedley jerked his gaze up to the man who had served him loyally for more than a quarter of a century. “Where is he?”
“I left him to wait in the foyer.”
Panic gushed through him, his heart slammed against his ribs as the clock on the mantel struck the hour of two, the hour when every afternoon he and Bella took a stroll through the gardens. “No.”
He surged to his feet.
“Father?” Kipwick asked.
“He can’t be here now. Not now.” Then he was dashing from the room, his heir close on his heels.
Mick stood in the foyer, hat in hand, staring at the various black veins that ran through the mostly white marble floor. He refused to look at the portraits covering the walls, portraits of those to whom—despite Hedley’s words—he was certain he was related.
He’d always envisioned walking into this residence, taking in its grandeur, and being filled with the wonder of knowing he had come from a lineage that had managed, through the centuries, to build something to be envied, something of such magnificence that it was admired throughout Great Britain. From the moment he’d discovered the bones in the garden and the truth about himself, it all seemed to matter so much. Knowing that a part of him was associated with all this had meant everything.
Now the only thing that mattered was Aslyn. He’d had thirty-seven hours, thirty-three—he checked his watch—thirty-five minutes without her in his life, and he’d never known such desperation. She was like the fresh air he’d breathed when, as a small lad, he exited a chimney, the blue cloudless sky when he emerged from the darkness.
He knew there was a good chance she would send him packing, would refuse to see him—but he was not going to give up easily. He’d wooed her before, and while she may have thought there was no truth, no honesty in any of it, from the moment he’d gazed into her eyes at Cremorne, he’d never lied to her. He may have used some questionable tactics to ensure they crossed paths, but he’d never once not been candid with her regarding his feelings for her. If it took him the remainder of his life, he would convince her that every moment with her had been a true, sincere and authentic one.
And if she would not see him today, he would return tomorrow. If Hedley had him forcefully removed, he would return tomorrow. If Kipwick beat him to within an inch of his life, he would return tomorrow. As long as he had breath in him—
“Hello.”
Only then was he aware of the light footsteps. He lifted his gaze. The woman who approached was so slight he wondered how she managed to carry herself with such elegance. She reminded him of a fledging bird he’d once found that had fallen from the nest. Carefully he’d climbed the tree and placed it back inside with its siblings, only to descend to the ground and watch as the mother bird—or perhaps the father, he really didn’t know—had worked to shove it back out of the nest. He’d taken it home, nursed it with drops of milk, wrapped it in a handkerchief, sought to keep it warm, but it had eventually succumbed to death, no doubt its heart broken with the abandonment of its parents.
His mum assured him the tiny bird had already been ill, too weak. Probably the reason it had been tossed from the nest. He’d wondered if he’d been ill as well when he was born. If that was the reason he’d been unwanted. He’d always been searching for a reason until he finally accepted he was the reason, he and the circumstances of his birth.
And this woman smiling softly at him, this woman whose husband didn’t want her to know of his unfaithfulness. He had never met, never seen, the Duchess of Hedley, but he’d wager every penny in his possession he was looking at her now.
The woman had refused Aslyn’s request to invite him to dinner, the woman who no doubt was partially responsible for Hedley not granting him permission to call on Aslyn. He was determined she would not see garbage when she looked at him. He held himself a bit straighter, met her curious gaze with an unwavering one of his own.
“Are you here to see someone?” she asked, her voice lyrical and soft, and he could imagine her singing lullabies to her son.
“I’m here to call on Lady Aslyn, Your Grace.”
She stopped walking, studied him as though he were an enigma to be deciphered. “And you are?”
“Mick Trewlove.”
Her smile withered. She paled as though she’d seen a ghost. “The bastard.”
Her pronouncement grated, as though he were no more than the sum of that word. Perhaps once he had been, perhaps once it had defined him. But when he looked at himself through Aslyn’s eyes, he realized he was so much more. “I’m the man who loves Lady Aslyn Hastings with all his heart. I’m the man who will wed her if she will have him.”
He heard the gasp, looked to the side and saw Aslyn standing at the foot of the stairs, her hand covering her mouth. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a packet of papers and took a step toward her. “The deeds, the markers, they’re yours, no strings attached. Return them to Kipwick, burn them. I don’t care. I won’t ruin him. I don’t need an acknowledgment. All I need is you.”
Slowly, suspiciously, as though she had years to do so, she reached out and took the packet from him.
“I want you to know—”
“You’re the bastard,” the duchess interrupted as though he were not in the process of laying his heart bare.
With a deep sigh, he turned back to her. “Yes, madam. I’m a bastard.”
She shook her head. “Not a bastard. The bastard.”
As though there were only one in the entirety of Britain. “If you wish.”
“My God. You’re his son.”
With a single affirmation he could bring Hedley to his knees, could destroy his relationship with his duchess. A month ago he’d have done it without hesitation. A month ago he hadn’t been the man he was at that moment, one who understood a man put the welfare and well-being of the woman he loved above all else. He would not shove this little bird from the nest. The circumstances surrounding his birth no longer mattered. All that mattered was Aslyn. “No, madam, you’re mistaken.”
Tears welling in her eyes, she shook her head. “I have gazed into those blue eyes for thirty-three years.” Reaching up, she touched his chin with trembling fingers. “I have kissed that dimple a thousand times. More.”
“I assure you, madam, I am not his son.”
“Bella!” the duke shouted as he ran into the large foyer, panic clearly written on his face, horror reflected in blue eyes that so mirrored Mick’s in shade.
With a hand covering her mouth, she turned to him. “The bastard is your son.”
“No, my love.”
“For God’s sake, don’t lie to her,” Kipwick stated emphatically as he staggered to a stop behind the duke. “Not when the proof stands right there. She’s not daft, and she has a right to know you were unfaithful, that you sired a by-blow.”
Shaking his head, slowly the duke crept toward her, as though
she were a skittish filly that would dash off, his outstretched hand imploring. “Bella—”
“It is him, isn’t it? The one you took away.”
“Darling.” The answer was there in his eyes, in his shaking hand.
She released a heart-wrenching sob. “My God, Hedley, I was wrong. All those years ago I gave birth to your son.”
Chapter 22
Mick was so stunned by the duchess’s revelation he very nearly missed the fact that she was sinking to the floor in a faint. Dropping his hat, he swept her up into his arms. She was as light as a willow branch.
“Give her to me,” the duke ordered.
Only Mick couldn’t seem to make himself obey the command, couldn’t force his arms to relinquish the precious bundle they carried. Only now did he realize the duke had never once denied he was his son. He’d only ever denied he was his bastard.
Christ! The woman he held—the duke’s wife—was his mother? Why had they taken him, a legitimate son, to Ettie Trewlove? Had he indeed been like the fledgling bird, too sickly—what the deuce did it matter now?
“I have her,” he said somberly. “She’s safe with me. Where shall I take her?”
“This way,” Aslyn said, her hand coming to rest lightly on his arm. “We’ll take her to her bedchamber.” She guided him toward the stairs.
“Worsted, send for Dr. Graves,” Hedley shouted.
Mick could only assume Worsted was some damned servant. He couldn’t seem to focus on his surroundings, on what was going on around him. He had the fleeting thought he might be on the verge of swooning himself, but there was no way in hell he was going to do anything that caused him to drop the woman he carried.
He was vaguely aware of Hedley and Kipwick following. At the landing, Aslyn led him along a hallway, stopping partway down to open a door. “In here.”
The large chamber, decorated in pale blues, reminded him of summer skies. He crossed over to the four-poster and gingerly laid the duchess onto the thick robin’s-egg blue duvet. She didn’t stir.
“I’ll get her smelling salts,” Aslyn said.
“No,” the duke said, working his way past Mick to sit on the edge of the bed and take his wife’s hand. “Let her sleep for a bit. It’ll be less confusing for her if she wakes up naturally.”
Mick didn’t see how any of this could be less confusing. “I don’t understand,” he said, feeling like an intruder in an intimate moment.
The duke merely nodded. “Kip, take him to the library. Pour him some scotch. Pour us all some scotch.”
“Yes, sir.” The earl sounded as lost as Mick felt.
“I’ll stay with her,” Aslyn said softly.
The duke again nodded, but he didn’t move from his place.
She looked at Mick. “I need to stay with them.”
He wanted to draw her to him, hold her close, have her hold him, but through the turmoil he’d created with his actions he feared he’d lost the right to ask for any comfort from her. When he’d decided to come here, it hadn’t occurred to him that he would cross paths with the duchess. In a residence this large, how could everyone know who came and went?
“Come with me,” Kipwick said, his voice brooking no disobedience. For the first time Mick experienced a spark of respect for the man.
While he was loath to leave until he knew the duchess was going to be all right, he followed the earl into the hallway. They were at the landing when he heard the patter of heels and glanced back over his shoulder to see Aslyn.
Leap into my arms. Hug me. Forgive me.
She staggered to a stop feet from him, but near enough that he could smell gardenia. With tears glistening in her eyes, she took a step nearer and placed her palm against his freshly shaven cheek. “How could I have not seen it? You look just like him.”
“I should have told you, from the beginning. I should have—” There was too much to say, too many amends to make. Now was not the time, not when they were all still reeling from the implications of the duchess’s pronouncement.
Closing his eyes, he laid his hand over hers, turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to the heart of her palm. He would be content to stand here, just like this, for the remainder of his life. And if this was the last time she would ever touch him, he would find a way to be content with that, as well.
“I hardly know where to begin.”
The duke’s words echoed throughout the library. Entering only a few moments earlier, he’d assured Kipwick, who’d dropped into a chair by the fireplace after pouring Mick a glass of scotch, that the duchess had been examined by the physician, was resting comfortably and would recover from the shock with no ill effects in due time with proper rest. Aslyn was watching over her. He’d adroitly avoided looking at Mick as he quietly prepared a scotch for himself before taking up a post near the fireplace, near his son, his back to the wall as though he needed it for support.
Standing beside the window, Mick was strung as tightly as a bow pulled taut on the verge of letting loose an arrow. He and Kipwick hadn’t exchanged a single word since leaving the duchess, which had left Mick with nothing to distract himself from all the afternoon’s revelations and their ramifications. He wasn’t a bastard, had never been.
“I don’t understand how any of this can be as it seems, so simply start at the beginning,” Kipwick offered quietly.
The duke gave a brusque nod. “There was a time when Bella was bold and uncompromising in her belief we had a duty to see after the poor. She would visit the rookeries and do what she could to better lives, especially those of children. She delivered clothing and food, blankets, dolls and wooden tops. I worried over her, sent footmen with her, but she was always sending them off on one errand or another. Why would anyone harm someone who was offering naught but kindness?”
He stared at the floor, and Mick suspected he saw the past swirling around the dark grains of wood. “One afternoon, late, as darkness was settling in, she was accosted by a brute, dragged into an alley . . . where he had his way with her.”
Mick’s stomach knotted, roiled as he thought of the frail, slender woman he’d held being abused in any manner at all, but to have been denigrated in the vilest way possible had rage seething through him. His right hand balled into a tightened fist as though already preparing to deliver the blow the villain deserved.
The duke tossed back his scotch, no doubt seeking fortification for what came next, although Mick couldn’t imagine it being any worse. “She knew—or at least believed—she was not with child before the attack. For some time afterward, she could hardly bear for me to hold her, wanted no more intimacy from me than that. So when she realized she was with child, she assumed—rightfully so—that it was not mine.” Finally he looked at Mick. The sadness and regret in the duke’s expression very nearly knocked him back on his heels. “Had you been a girl, I might have been able to convince her to keep you. But she was sickened by the thought that vile creature’s spawn might inherit my title and estates. So I tried to make it right . . . for her. But she was never as vibrant, as unafraid as she’d been before.”
A part of him understood their actions, a part of him rebelled against them. “Were you aware how baby farmers cared for the infants placed in their care?”
The duke shook his head. “Not at the time. A friend of mine told me he farmed out his bastards. It’s a common practice. Not until a few years ago when people began advocating for change, for licensing baby farming, when so many graves were found . . .” His voice trailed off.
Articles had appeared in the newspapers. Reading them Mick had assumed the duke had known what his fate would be. “You didn’t revisit Ettie Trewlove to try to find out if I was alive?”
“What did it matter by then? You were either dead or a grown man. I’d given her extra coins to see you had an easier start in life than the small payment she’d asked for would h
ave given you. While it brings me shame to say it, I felt I owed another man’s bastard no more than I’d already given.
“When I saw you yesterday, I knew the truth, knew you were my son. I was devastated to realize we had made such a grave error, but how could I tell Bella? She begged me to give you up all those years ago. She would never forgive herself, will never forgive herself. Her heart breaks anew. How many times can a heart break without crumbling completely?”
“So he’s truly your legitimate heir? And I’m the spare?” Kipwick scoffed. “I don’t bloody well believe this. You told him to his face he wasn’t your son. You told me that you—”
“Had no bastard,” the duke finished for him, a terseness in his voice as though he were disappointed that the earl was so concerned with his title. “I have no bastard, but it has become apparent I do have two sons.” He returned his attention to Mick. “You are my son. Our son. Mine and Bella’s.”
“Do you know who attacked her?”
Hedley jerked his head back as though he’d been punched. Obviously he’d expected Mick to crow about the fact he was heir to a dukedom. “What difference does it make?”
“I shall see him put to death.”
“So your mother—who has only just learned your true identity—can watch you swing from the gallows?”
“The dark underbelly of London is my playground. His body will never be found.”
He watched the duke struggle with emotions he could no longer hold in check. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled by what his firstborn had just revealed and the actions he was willing to take. “He was seen to, long ago. You are not the only one with connection and means.”
Mick’s respect for the duke went up a notch.
“So what do we bloody well do now?” Kipwick asked. “You can’t just magically produce another son out of thin air.”
The duke held Mick’s gaze. “We shall work out a story. We shall see your birthright restored.”
Beyond Scandal and Desire Page 28