“Because you were going to go without me.” And she’d have seen him safe at the cost of anything . . . including her relationship with Edwin.
“That’s neither here nor there. You went along, and given what happened to my mum and me”—oh, God, it was the first time he’d ever claimed the late marchioness as his mother; tears filled Gertrude’s eyes at that breakthrough—“he had reasons to be mistrustful. But he loves you, and he wants to do right by—” He drew back. “Good God, are you crying?”
“No.” Yes.
“Humph. Listen, Gert . . .” Stephen gripped her shoulders. “All I’m saying is, I burnt down Thorne’s club, and he forgave me.”
“That is different.”
“Not the way I see it. My father defended you. That’s why I like him, and that’s how I know he doesn’t blame you and really wants a life with you.”
What? Gertrude creased her brow. “I don’t know what you’re—”
Letting out an annoyed sigh, Stephen tugged several pieces of jaggedly shorn paper from his jacket. “Here.” He slammed them into her palm.
Gertrude read the top page, and her breath caught. “What is this?” she whispered.
Mad Marquess Defends the Daughter of His Wife’s Murderer . . .
Gertrude frantically skimmed her gaze over the page. “. . . clear to all that Lord M has made Gertrude Diggory-Killoran, or whatever name the street rat goes by, his lover . . .”
“You were too busy convalescing, but that was in the papers while you were hurt. Lord Charles was saying some nasty stuff about you. My father defended you. Said Lord Charles didn’t know you.” Stephen’s gaze bored into her. “He defended your honor.”
“Oh,” she whispered, her voice a soft, breathy exhale. She worked through the small stack of paragraphs from the gossip sheets. Her heart fluttered. Before all of Polite Society, and the people whose opinion had mattered to him so much that he’d gone into hiding, he’d spoken up on Gertrude’s behalf. He’d defended her . . .
She let the pages fall to her lap.
And then come back to discover she’d violated his trust.
“You’re missing the point if you’re feeling guilty.” Stephen wrinkled his little freckled nose. “Or you’re feeling guilty about the wrong thing. Point is, he loves you, and you love him, and everything else you can figure out . . . after. Now I’m done with you.”
“Stephen,” she called, but her brother was already across the room and out the doorway.
“Oh, and another thing,” he shouted, doubling back. He glowered at her. “He’s bringing all these animals, some that I suspect aren’t even strays, into the household to make you happy. Swallow your pride, or we’re going to be overrun with them soon.”
Meowwww.
She opened her mouth, but Stephen was already gone.
Alone, Gertrude forced herself to reread the gossip her brother had clipped out. The vile comments about her past and parentage rolled off her, those insults ones she’d long become accustomed to . . . except from Edwin. His opinion had mattered . . . and it still did.
But what if her brother was right? What if she and Edwin could, just as her sisters had with their spouses, move beyond their pasts and have a future—together?
Chapter 27
Properly dressed in matching black wool breeches, dark jackets, and midnight waistcoats, Edwin and Stephen stood in the foyer, awaiting the carriage to be brought ’round.
For all intents and purposes, they were any other father and son of the peerage.
And since Gertrude had joined the household and helped put together that broken relationship, that is really what they’d become.
“I hate this. It’s bloody stifling,” Stephen groused, jerking the snowy-white cravat at his throat. “It’s choking me.”
“It’s because your valet tied it too tightly,” Edwin murmured. “Here. Put your arms down. Robins has an appreciation for the elaborate. This one is called the l’Irlandais,” he explained, untying the intricate knot.
Stephen’s face pulled. “The earl of . . . what?”
Edwin paused in his efforts. “The l’Irlandais. Unless you want something intricate, complicated, and sure to choke you? Never let him tie your cravat like this. Remember, your valet answers to you. If you don’t set expectations of what you want, you’ll get what he wants.” He grinned. “And trust me, you do not want this.”
“What do I want?” Stephen mumbled, making himself absolutely motionless as Edwin removed the silk cravat.
“You?” Edwin brought the opposite ends of the silk scrap crossing over the other. “That’s for you to decide. Me, I prefer something relaxed. Something that’s”—he winked—“not choking me. You might ask him for the Maratte tie or the à la Bergami. Both aren’t fussy and won’t cut off your airflow. There,” he murmured, assessing the simple knot. “How is that?”
Stephen moved his head back and forth, turning his neck experimentally. “It’s . . . as good as can be expected for what I’m wearing.”
“Yes, I hear you there,” he muttered, and Stephen broke out into a belly laugh that shook his little frame. Slapping him on the shoulder, Edwin joined in.
The joy of that shared mirth washed over him, healing, cathartic, and so bloody perfect.
Everything was perfect.
Almost.
He felt her there. Her presence could fill any room.
She hovered at the balustrade above, overlooking the foyer with all the regal elegance of the queen whose name she bore. Her dark curls drawn back in a loose arrangement, several strands hung about her shoulders like an auburn waterfall, and hunger stirred to life, a need to again have her in his arms as he’d had more than a week ago—
Stephen gave him a discreet nudge.
“Gertrude,” Edwin called up belatedly.
“Ed . . .” She glanced to Marlow, hovering off to the side with Edwin’s cloak in hands. “My lord,” she revised.
My lord. That proper form of address that strangers and people divided by formality were expected to adhere to.
He wanted to live with her at his side, where he was only ever “Edwin” to her, and where propriety mattered not at all because their relationship was all that did.
What was she thinking? The divide that had sprung between them stretched far greater than the physical distance, even now. He couldn’t make sense of her smoothed features or clear gaze.
An awkward pall fell over the foyer.
Stephen broke that impasse. “We’re going out.”
At last, Gertrude pulled her gaze from Edwin’s. “Indeed?”
His son yanked at his lapels. “Taking care of gentlemanly business.”
“I . . . see,” she said, all the while seeing nothing at all.
“We had that invitation from Lord Charles. To dine? Not sure why he wants to dine with me, but—”
Edwin cut him off with a slight shake of his head. “Too much,” he said from the corner of his mouth. It was too much.
Stephen scowled. “Either way. We’ll be off soon, and you can take care of the cats taking over this place.”
Gertrude’s eyes flared wide. “You’re going to meet Stephen’s uncle.”
Heat splotched Edwin’s cheeks, and he adjusted his cravat.
“You’re messing it,” Stephen muttered, and Edwin stopped.
Taking the rail, Gertrude swept down the stairs, with Master Brave trailing close behind her like a dutiful servant.
Gertrude stopped when she stood a pace apart from Edwin, close enough so she could meet his gaze, but even that distance was too great. Edwin devoured her with his eyes. I want her close, in every way.
Stephen rushed to scoop up the cat, but with its feline agility, he dodged the boy. Laughing, he took part in a chase around the foyer.
“You’re taking Stephen,” she said softly.
“We’re going out,” he confirmed.
Gertrude reached for him, and then her gaze caught on the waiting footmen. Her arm waver
ed, and then she let it fall forgotten to her side. He yearned for that touch, to hold her, to have her touch him, in any way.
“I’m . . . proud of you, Edwin. It is the right decision . . . for both of you.”
He moved closer, Stephen’s calls to Master Brave echoing around them. “Who is to say what is right, Gertrude?” he returned in hushed tones. “You speak so often of ‘what is right.’ But what does it mean? You and Stephen committed theft.” The color bled from her cheeks. “But you did it to survive. You did it so that you had food in your stomach, and so that monster didn’t hurt you. So . . . can those acts have been ‘wrong’?”
“I . . . I never thought of it in that light.”
“No, you didn’t. Just as you automatically assume that me resuming a relationship with Lord Charles is the right decision. And why? Hmm? Because we were once friends? People change, and we are both different people. Just as you are a different person.”
Marlow cleared his throat. “The carriage is readied, my lord.”
He held a hand up. “Stephen, would you wait for me in the carriage?” Edwin called, not taking his eyes from Gertrude.
“I’m taking Master Brave for the carriage ride,” Stephen returned, his statement more a directive as he scooped up the cat and hurried through the doors held open by Marlow.
Gertrude briefly studied the toes of her slippers. “Is this because of what he said about me?”
She’d gleaned the incendiary words about her splashed across the gossip columns. Rage lanced through him, as fresh as when Charles had dared besmirch Gertrude’s name at his private table at White’s. He forced himself into a calmness he didn’t feel. “Look at me, Gertrude. It is because of what it said about him when he chose to say those things about you. How did you—?”
“Stephen showed me the papers,” she murmured.
“He should not have,” he clipped out.
Gertrude shrugged. “It doesn’t change what happened or what was said about me.”
“No, but neither can any good come from you knowing . . . what you know.”
Edwin dusted his knuckles down her cheek. She leaned into his touch, and a thrill of masculine satisfaction went through him. She wanted him still. Her love, however, was what he wanted. What he needed. “Answer me this, Gertrude,” he said in hushed tones for her ears alone. “Why should you care whether or not I renew my friendship with Lord Charles? Hmm?”
“Because that friendship was once important to you. It is a relationship that is fractured, and if you nurture it, you can put it back to rights and find happiness where it once grew.”
She wanted that . . . for Edwin? Knowing, and yet still supporting his friendship to the man who’d disparaged her. She was deserving of someone capable of that selflessness . . . and he wanted to be that man for her. Because of her. “There is not a more gracious, honorable woman than you, Gertrude Killoran,” he whispered. Cupping her about the nape, Edwin closed his mouth over hers.
She melted against him, all heated warmth and perfection, and not a hint of the reservations that had sprung between them. He kissed her as he’d longed to since they’d spent the night making love in his library. She parted her lips, allowing him entry, and he swept his tongue inside.
Marlow cleared his throat. “My lord?” he said on a scandalized whisper.
Edwin reluctantly broke that kiss. “I love you,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught, and she fluttered her hands about her chest.
Leaving that declaration at last spoken, Edwin accepted his cloak from Marlow and swept outside.
Waving off assistance from the servant positioned at the doorway of his carriage, Edwin pulled himself inside.
“Did you tell her?” his son asked before Edwin had even settled onto the opposite bench.
“Which—?”
“That you love her,” Stephen clarified when the door had been shut behind them. The carriage rocked into motion, drawing them onward. “You were supposed to tell her you love her.”
These were sorry days indeed when a reformed rogue such as himself required guidance on winning the heart of a woman. “I did. I told her.”
“Poetic-like? Lovey words? Did you call her Queen of Your Heart or Dear Heart . . . or anything?”
“I . . .” Edwin yanked off his hat and tossed it down next to Stephen. “I . . . it might have been abrupt. I might have just said it.” He grimaced. His son was right. Gertrude deserved far more.
“Like you blurted it?” His son released a beleaguered sigh. “You’re rubbish at this, Father.”
Father. There it was, that address his soul had ached to again hear from this boy’s lips. Something stung his eyes. Something that felt very much like . . . tears. He smiled through that swell of emotion his son would only reject. “Yes, well, I used to be much better at it.”
Stephen glowered at him. “You didn’t need to be good at it then. You need to be good at it . . . now. For my sister.”
“Yes, I know. I’m trying to be a man worthy of her.”
“Try harder,” his son shot back.
As the carriage rumbled along the quiet streets of London, Edwin stared wistfully over at his son. “Someday, Stephen,” he began quietly, “you are going to be a wonderful big brother.” And in his mind’s eye, he saw that child . . . a little girl with her mother’s courage and laughter and wit. Gertrude. The child was Gertrude’s in every way.
“I ain’t going to have any more siblings if you don’t figure this out.” Pulling back the curtain, Stephen pressed his forehead against the windowpane and stared out.
“Stephen?”
Hi son peeled his gaze away from the window.
“I . . . I know you wondered why I didn’t come to you. I was afraid, Stephen.” It was an admission that would likely earn only his child’s derision, but Stephen’s need for the truth outweighed Edwin’s pride or the pretenses the boy expected him to keep up. Gertrude had opened his eyes to his need to share those reasons with Stephen. “First, I was afraid to believe it was truly you, and then after? You were a stranger, and I didn’t know how to be around you.” Stephen’s eyes fell to his lap. “Look at me, Stephen.”
The boy hesitated, and then he slowly lifted his head, meeting Edwin’s gaze. “I thought you didn’t want me because of all the bad things I’ve done.”
Oh, God . . . It was a prayer and an entreaty in his mind. “Stephen, we have both done some truly awful things because of the circumstances we were in.” He reached for his son’s hand. “But perhaps that actually makes it easier for us to know one another and accept one another.”
Stephen stared at his outstretched fingers a long moment before placing his palm in Edwin’s.
Reflexively, Edwin’s fingers folded around the smaller, callused one. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “I have always loved you,” Edwin said hoarsely. “Always. I wanted you. And when I learned you were, in fact, alive . . .” Tears clogged his voice, making it impossible to continue. He swallowed several times. “The joy of that was second to nothing, not even the moment they first placed you in my arms.”
Stephen’s mouth quivered, and even in the darkness of the carriage, Edwin caught the sheen glazing the boy’s eyes. His son dragged the back of his sleeve across his nose. “That . . . is good to know.” A smile formed on Stephen’s lips. “Father.” As if embarrassed, Stephen drew his hand back and, scrambling over to the side, stared out the window.
They didn’t speak the remainder of the ride, but where tension had only throbbed between them, now they moved with a companionable silence.
In the crystal pane, Edwin studied every emotion that paraded over his son’s face: impatience . . . excitement, and then, as they reached their destination . . . joy.
It was a reaction he would have once resented. No longer. Gertrude had shown him there was room enough for the many who loved Stephen to be in his life.
“We’re here,” Stephen whispered. He lurched for the doorway and pushed it open.
From the establishment across the way, a cacophony of ribald laughter and the din of distant conversation spilled out.
Stephen jumped down, landing on his feet with the agility of one of Gertrude’s cats. “Come on!” he called, sprinting ahead.
Edwin lingered in the carriage. What had seemed . . . easy, this journey to the last place he’d sworn he’d ever step foot within, kept him immobile. He’d spent the past so many years resenting everything about this man and this place. I cannot do it . . . I cannot . . .
Stephen stopped on the bottom step of that long-despised establishment and cast a questioning glance back. “You coming?” His query emerged hesitant.
His son expected him to falter, and that was what allowed him the strength to grab his hat, climb out, and follow along silently after him.
Twisting the brim of that Oxford, Edwin swept his gaze over the darkened streets of the Dials. The stale scent of horse shite and refuse hung on the air; it was a heavy stench that filled a person’s nostrils and turned their stomach.
These were the streets Gertrude had called home. The ones she still did and, if he failed to win her, would. Whereas during his life he’d known only material comforts and ease. Having failed to see how the majority lived left him with a learned-too-late shame.
Edwin climbed the steps where Stephen waited.
An eager little hand darted out and knocked hard, with a man’s strength.
An instant later the door burst open.
The bearded, scarred guard, near a height to Edwin, glanced his way first. “Ye ain’t a member,” he noted in a thick Scottish brogue, and made to shut the heavy door in his face when he dropped his gaze. “Master Stephen!” he cried, grabbing the boy by the shirtfront and pulling him into a bearish embrace.
“MacLeod!” Stephen exclaimed, returning that hug.
Edwin hovered there, an interloper on a reunion of two with an ease and a clear love.
The Bluestocking Page 30