Slightly Noble

by Lilly Gayle

  “Once. A year ago. He refused to see me.” He turned to pull the door closed.

  Abby stood beside him on the porch, an ache in her chest. Once again, the wall he had built around his emotions was firmly in place. She could no longer read his expression, and he no longer looked like a lost, hurt boy. He looked like an invincible sea captain who could weather any storm—alone. He looked like a man who expected loyalty from his crew—a man who would not tolerate deception or cowardice.

  And she was both a liar and a coward.

  They walked away from the cottage in silence and turned left, heading toward the heart of the village. Dark thoughts waned as Abby walked beside her husband down the sandy lane. There were no cobbled streets, no vendors hawking their wares. In fact, it was difficult to tell the businesses from the homes as each building had a rustic charm that infused her with a renewed appreciation for the simplicity of life.

  She had grown up in the city and save for her brief stay at the Sisters of Mercy and her time aboard the Lion’s Pride, she had never lived anywhere else. Yet, something about Seile called to her.

  What would it be like to live in harmony with the sea? What would it be like to live, love, and work in a place where the ebb and flow of the ocean tide set a constant and abiding pace? Those who called Seile home heard the background whisper of the pounding, never ending rhythm of the surf every day. It was a reminder of the constancy of life—the ever changing, never ending promise that no matter what, life would go on.

  No wonder Jack loved it here. It was nothing like London. Did it remind him of South Carolina? Did it make him homesick for his adoptive country? “What a beautiful village. And so peaceful.”

  A smile chased the shadows from his eyes. “I have always thought so. I guess that is why I liked spending time here as a child.”

  “Perhaps it was not just the village but also the company that drew you to Seile.”

  “Perhaps. Uncle William has always been like a father to me.”

  She smiled, thinking of her father back in London. She missed his love and support. Jack had never known that kind of love from the man who had sired him. Had his uncle been an adequate substitute? Would Jack know how to be a decent father to her son?

  He took her arm, leading her through the small seaside village. On every corner, people stopped Jack to welcome him back to Seile, and he introduced her as if proud to call her his viscountess. But she was a coward, unable to face the truth. Lord Drury was right. She was unworthy.

  ****

  Abby had just put Will down when Jack entered the day room. Mr. Crenshaw followed, carrying a tray with their supper. “Dinner be served.”

  He nodded to his captain and left. Abby closed the bedroom door and crossed the floor to join Jack at the table. He pulled out her chair, and as he leaned forward, his warm breath fanned her neck, sending a warm shiver down her spine.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy. She felt as if he had touched her, but his strong hand curved around the back of the chair inches away from her shoulder. She released her breath on a shiver and raised her eyes from his strong tanned knuckles to his intense gaze. She could hear her pulse beating in her ears, feel it in her neck.

  Jack uncurled his fingers and straightened. His dark gaze shone with some emotion she could not identify. He continued to stare as he made his way around the table and took his seat. “Tomorrow I must return to Ridge Point,” he said after a brief moment of silence.

  She waited before responding, wanting to feel confident enough to control the nervous quiver in her voice. Then she raised her eyes as high as his strong chin. “Have you heard from your solicitor?”

  “No, but I do not wish to leave Aunt Margery and Cousin Morris in control of Ridge Point any longer. The estate is mine whether they like it or not, and I intend to see that it is properly managed.”

  Could she convince Jack to take her and Will with him this time? She had no desire to be left alone aboard ship again, but could she risk being seen by anyone she knew in London?

  She forced herself to speak calmly, despite the pounding of her heart. “Is Ridge Point near London?”

  “It’s near Cambridge. The Great Ouse flows out into the wash near Seile linking the River Cam with Ridge Point land northeast of London. Whenever my family stayed at Ridge Point, I would sail a little boat Uncle William made me downriver to Seile.” The memory made him smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he held Abby spellbound, making her forget her worries. She smiled back, her heart suddenly lighter.

  Perhaps Will would be adventurous like Jack, the influence of his “father” being more powerful than any negative qualities he might have inherited from Lord Drury. According to the English philosopher, John Locke, “There is no such thing as innate ideas; there is no such thing as moral precepts; we are born with an empty mind, with a soft tablet ready to be writ upon by experimental impressions.”

  She just hoped Jack would impress moral ideas upon her son and be the chalk to his tablet. Although she wanted Will to be brave and adventurous like Jack, she could not imagine letting her son sail alone before he was out of short pants. “How old were you when you first set sail alone?”

  Jack shrugged. “Nine. Ten.”

  Her fork slipped from her hand and clattered onto her plate. What kind of mother would turn her son loose on a river at such a tender age? “But you were just a boy!”

  “A boy who loved adventure.” He smiled as if all boys set out on their own at such a young age.

  Some parents sent their sons to the Academy at Leeds in York before they were twelve, but a boy of ten was too young to sail alone. She folded her arms under her breasts, appalled that his parents had been so thoughtless. “I should think a viscount would have more care for his son’s safety.”

  The smile slipped from Jack’s face. He set his fork aside and leaned forward, carefully and deliberately, as if controlling his motions would give him some control over the anger evident in the harsh lines of his face. “My father was not at all sure I was his son,” he said, his words as measured as his movements. “You see, my father had dark hair and wasn’t nearly as tall as Uncle William. And by the time I was ten, I was big and broad-shouldered with sun-bleached hair.”

  Shock and sympathy lanced her. Jack was just like Will. Both were legal heirs by birth to a viscountcy, but neither was truly his father’s son.

  Was that another reason he could not look at Will? Did seeing him bring back memories too painful to bear in addition to the thought that another man’s offspring would someday inherit the title?

  She swallowed the sorrow clogging her throat. “You have more in common with my son than I realized.”

  Jack snorted, his lip curling into a fierce snarl. “You misunderstand. Despite my father’s denials, I was his flesh and blood son, and I have the birthmark to prove it.”

  He stood so quickly the dishes rattled, and Abby jumped. Then he tore open his white shirt, revealing a wide chest rippling with muscle and sprinkled with fine, golden hair.

  Abby gasped, all too aware of him standing over her, alone in that small private space.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice raspy with unwanted desire. Her cheeks flushed hotly, but her husband did not gloat. He turned and slipped the shirt from his right shoulder, revealing a purple crescent-shaped mark on his back.

  Abby’s fingers itched to touch his skin and trace the lines of his birthmark. She clinched her fingers in her lap and swallowed.

  “My father bore this same mark on his back,” Jack said in a harsh tone barely shy of a growl. “It is proof I am his son—proof he denied despite the fact my uncle bears no such mark.”

  Heat stung Abby’s cheeks, but she could not tear her eyes away from that perfectly sculpted body as hard and chiseled as marble. Would it feel just as cold? Or warm beneath her trembling touch?

  She swallowed again and lowered her chin, ignoring the flutter in her chest and the fire in her belly. A similar
birthmark was not proof the former viscount was Jack’s father. If it were indeed an inherited birthmark, Jack could just as easily have inherited it from his uncle, despite the absence of a similar mark on William Norton’s skin. The same blood flowed through both brothers’ veins.

  Abby did not have the heart to point out such logic. She lowered her gaze, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. “So, you believe your mother was innocent.”

  He pulled his shirt together and buttoned it, leaving the tails trailing over the waistband of his trousers. Then he sat back down, a faraway look in his eyes.

  “My mother was in love with Uncle William, but my father was very competitive. He wanted my mother for himself, and her father wanted her to marry the viscount. Being an obedient daughter, she married my father and became an obedient wife. But Aunt Margery hated her. My mother was beautiful and all the servants loved her. Even my father loved her. Or so I was told.”

  He smiled, but a deep sadness shadowed his eyes. “I suppose things were good when I was first born, but then the sun lightened my hair, and I grew taller than Cousin Morris who was three years older. Aunt Marjory was the first to point out my resemblance to her younger brother, and it did not take much to convince my father that I was Uncle William’s son.”

  Jack was nothing like Lord Drury, but she had allowed her fears and prejudices toward nobles to cloud her judgment. Jack had not lived a privileged life of excess and decadence. He had been too young when his father sent him and his mother away.

  “Do you remember your father treating you differently?”

  He shrugged his wide shoulders and picked up his fork. He pushed food around on his plate, fastening his eyes on a point just beyond her left shoulder. “For as long as I can remember, Morris called me Lord Bastard or the bastard heir. By the time I was ten, my father believed the lies, so I don’t remember a time when I was treated well by anyone other than my Uncle William.”

  “What about your mother?” Surely, no woman would punish her own child for his father’s beliefs.

  Again, he shrugged those massive shoulders, which no longer looked as if they could carry the weight of the world on them. They sagged just a bit, looking as if they needed support. Abby ached to slide under his arm and be the comfort he needed, but she did not dare, not before she had a chance to be as honest with him as he was being with her.

  He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the skylight and darkening sky overhead. The ship gently rocked on the current, ropes and wood creaking to the rhythmic soughing. He sighed deeply and then lowered his chin, meeting her gaze. “I don’t think she meant to blame me, but she did, especially after my father banished us to America. She was bitter for many years after that, but eventually, she embraced her new life. By then, I do not think she would have returned home if he begged her. I am just thankful she never learned of that damn codicil.”

  The former viscount had been a cruel man undeserving of his son’s love, and Abby was glad she had played some part in helping Jack regain what was rightfully his. “My mother used to say that everything works out the way it is meant to.”

  Jack’s dark eyes turned as black as coal. “Perhaps, but now, Morris is living at Ridge Point, thinking he can somehow wrest it from my grasp.”

  “But you are married, and you have your heir.”

  “Ironically enough, when the solicitor said I could not inherit Ridge Point unless I produced an heir before my thirty-fifth birthday, I asked if my wife had to be delivered of the child. So, it was easier than I thought to convince Morris I had met you on a previous trip and was planning to marry you before the reading of my father’s will. Whether it matters from a legal standpoint or not, I wanted Morris to believe your son is mine. That is why he is now claiming I am an impostor.”

  Abby tried not to flinch at his refusal to call her son by name. Instead, she pointed out the obvious. “But two earls vouched for you before you were called to Lords. And you met the terms of your father’s will when our son was born.”

  She watched his face to see how he reacted to her calling Will “their” child. He did not react at all.

  “I’m sure Morris and my aunt would like nothing better than to stir up old rumors and create new scandal, but it doesn’t matter. Your son is my legal heir, and I want everyone to believe he is my child by birth.”

  Her heart ached with disappointment over his unwillingness to mention Will by name, but his efforts to protect Will’s paternity warmed her soul. “Lord Drury might guess at the truth,” she said, though it pained her to mention Simon’s name.

  “I will handle Drury, if and when the time comes.”

  “So, how long will it take before Ridge Point is truly yours?” How long would she be stuck on this constantly rocking ship?

  “I’m not sure. Morris is not a peer, but his grandfather—our grandfather—was viscount before my father. So, he is not without influence.” He sighed. “I fear his case will be heard in Parliament, and it will take much longer than I had hoped to reclaim my inheritance.”

  Her heart dropped. She was not a prisoner aboard his ship, but that was exactly what she felt like when Jack left the next day to go to Ridge Point without her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For nearly a week, the only person Abby saw besides her son was Mr. Crenshaw. He brought her meals three times a day and spoke very little. She never saw him when she ventured topside to stare out over the rail, and she was not allowed to leave the ship without an escort. Jack had forbidden it.

  With a sigh, she laid her son down in the basket that still served as his crib and left the room, closing the door behind her to keep Jack’s beast of a cat out. Then she went topside for her daily walk around the deck. When she reached the rail, she saw Uncle William directing two strong men carrying a wooden object up the gangplank.

  She stepped closer, pleasure flushing her cheeks when they lowered a cradle to the deck. Uncle William smiled. “Jack wanted you to have it.”

  Emotion knotted her throat as she knelt down to trace the carved headboard with her fingers. In the center of a crowned shield, a lion stood on its hind legs, pawing the air.

  “It’s the Norton coat of arms,” Uncle William said with pride.

  She looked skyward, holding her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright September sun. The crest on the cradle matched the green flag fluttering overhead. The pawing gold lion she had mistaken for a privateer flag was representative of Jack’s family crest. Despite his banishment to America, Jack had chosen to fly the Norton coat of arms rather than the flag of his birth or adoptive country.

  Was it pride in the Norton name? Or had Jack hoped to one day regain his father’s favor?

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered past the lump in her throat.

  “It has been in the family over a century,” Uncle William said before telling the deckhands to carry the crib down to the captain’s quarters.

  Abby rose to her feet and followed them down to the cabin. Once the men had placed the cradle next to the bed, they left. Abby transferred her son from the basket to the bed and smiled when he remained asleep. Then she turned to Uncle William. “Thank you.”

  “Thank your husband,” he said. “It was his idea to send me to Ram’s Head to retrieve it from the attic where it was gathering dust.”

  Her husband was both generous and kind. “I am most grateful for the care and consideration he has shown my son.”

  “Did you expect any less?” Mr. Norton looked down at Will. “Jack is a good man, and despite his parent’s disastrous relationship, he is not opposed to marriage. His friend, the Earl of Gilchrest, has the sort of marriage Jack always envied—the sort he wanted for himself one day.” He raised his chin and narrowed his gaze, as if giving Abby fair warning. “This marriage may not be a love match, but that does not mean the two of you cannot be happy. Give Jack a chance.”

  She wanted nothing more than to find a common bond with her husband, but the specter of Lord D
rury hung over her, suffocating her. The feel of him pushing into her and the foul words he spewed in her ear had etched her very soul, tainting her body as well as her heart. Could she get beyond the nightmare? Could she give Jack the chance he deserved? She swallowed her fears and nodded. “The chance is his. He has but to take it.”

  ****

  Draped urns, mural tablets, and engraved obelisks adorned the black shrouded funeral monument shop on the corner of Regent and Air Streets. The clerk raised a brow at Jack’s lack of mourning attire as he and Quentin entered the macabre shop, but Jack explained that his mother had died six months prior.

  Once Mr. Alder dispensed with the appropriate amount of condolences, Jack ordered a simple marker for his mother’s grave—a laurel wreath engraved above her name, date of birth, and date of death. Below that, he requested an epitaph that would surely make his father turn over in his grave. Jack was no longer sure if his mother had been “A faithful wife until the end,” but he had been unable to resist the parting shot aimed at his bastard of a father.

  He did not know what Aunt Margery had engraved on his father’s marker. The former viscount was buried in the family plot at Ram’s Head, and Jack had yet to visit his grave, even though the estate was his. And now that the crown had recognized his marriage and son, Ridge Point was his too. His aunt and Morris had two weeks to gather their personal belongings and vacate the premises.

  Jack wished he could have seen their faces when the solicitor delivered the news, but he would see them soon enough. He intended to visit before the deadline, dressed in clothing befitting his officially recognized title. Even without his father’s inheritance, Jack could afford new clothes, but he and Abby both needed an entire wardrobe.

  Dresses from Seile were cheaper than from a fashionable dressmaker in London, but Abby was a viscountess, and he wanted her dressed in a manner befitting her title when she met his relatives. He cleared his throat and looked at Quentin as they stepped outside the monument shop. “If I am going to give up my ship to be a viscount, I’ll need a proper wardrobe.”