by Kelly Boyce
“She is awaiting me in the greenhouse, on the other side of the gardens.”
“To the gardens it is then.” He smiled and, despite the early hour, she detected the hint of brandy on his breath.
Again, instinct warred with her to make her excuses and leave the man behind, but she hushed it. This was necessary, and besides, it was broad daylight. What could the man possibly do to her? Enough guests milled, some preparing for the hunt and others for an excursion into town. She would only need shout to bring a handful of them running to her aid.
The Sheridan gardens were a splendid affair. A labyrinth of bushes and flowers and statues made it almost maze-like. Many of the hedges were well over six feet high in several sections and zigzagged their way across the vast property leading to a beautiful grotto or opening up to a lovely pond filled with lily pads and croaking frogs. It was a place made for days such as this where the summer sun spread its rays over the stunning landscape and brought with it a warm breeze and the promise of things to come.
“My son informs me we are to be family soon, my lady. I find that a most enticing prospect.”
“Is that so? I was under the impression you were not overly enamored of the association.”
Lord Walkerton brushed her words off with a wave of his hand. “Forgive my son’s reticence at not making it official well before now. He is all about propriety and properness. Dull as wood, I say. A shame I’ve a wife of my own, or I would snatch you away for myself.”
He laughed at his own jest, but his words made her stomach squirm. “I’m certain I would have some say in that matter.”
He made no comment as if she had said nothing at all of import; his dismissive silence a clear indication her wishes were of no concern to him. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the library. Should she return?
He walked on, bringing her with him. “I have decided my son has tarried long enough on the matter and therefore I have taken it upon myself to meet with your brother later this day on the matter.”
Rebecca stopped when they were halfway down the sweeping stone steps that led from the terrace to the gardens. “I beg your pardon, Lord Walkerton, but Lord Selward and I have not broached the subject of marriage as yet and no proposal has been made. You get ahead of yourself.”
“A minor detail.” Lord Walkerton tugged on her arm and she had no choice but to continue along or risk slipping off the smooth stone.
Rebecca changed topics. She did not care to dwell on Lord Walkerton’s expectations. The mattered not. “My lord, I wondered if I might speak with you about Mr. Bowen. I understand he is in possession of an item that—”
“My watch. Yes. I’m afraid it is true.” He leaned in closer to her and the strong scent of brandy swamped her. The hair tingled at the base of her spine as they reached the bottom of the stairs. She stopped for a moment, ill at ease at the prospect of heading into the high hedges with him.
“He did not steal your watch, my lord. His mother gifted him the watch and because of this, it holds a strong sentimental value to him, hence his reluctance to let it go.”
The sun glinted off Lord Walkerton’s bloodshot eyes and his cheeks held a florid cast to them, as if had just come in from the cold, despite the warmth of the day. The man looked as if overindulgence and avarice were gaining the upper hand on him.
“Is that so?” His glance slid down her face and dropped to the bodice of her rose-colored morning dress. It lingered there long enough to make her skin crawl before he lifted his gaze slowly back to her face.
He’d leered at her! She bit down and swallowed the revulsion that climbed up her throat. She needed to stay focused. If she could convince him not to pursue charges against Marcus and acknowledge him as his son, it would be worth a few more moments in his despicable company.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I believe Mr. Bowen wishes to discover how his mother came into possession of the watch—”
“I know full well how she came into possession of the watch. She took it from me during our…assignation,” Lord Walkerton said, dragging out the last word, caressing it with his tongue. “Your Mr. Bowen is my son.”
Rebecca tried to catch her breath. Had it really been that easy? “Then you acknowledge this?”
Walkerton pulled on her arm and her feet stumbled over the uneven stone sunk into the path where it skirted the edge of the garden. Rebecca dug in her heels.
“That he is my bastard? Yes.” Walkerton looked at her with the same expression his son gave her when discussing the weather. As if it were of little import, nothing more than a way to fill the silence. As if he fathered children without the benefit of marriage on a regular basis.
His easy admission left her stunned and when he tugged her arm she stumbled along, onto the path that led to the maze. Was this all the proof they needed? Or would he have to claim it publically? State such on a more official document that would satisfy the dictates of Father’s will?
“Lord Walkerton!”
A lady’s voice cut through the miasma of questions rushing through Rebecca’s mind. Lord Walkerton stopped and they both turned. Standing at the top of the stone stairwell was Lady Franklyn, resplendent in her riding habit of deep plum. Rebecca had not been pleased when Mother had insisted on inviting Lord and Lady Franklyn, and their acid-tongued daughter, Lady Susan, but at that moment, she was quite thankful Mother had not listened to her. The interruption allowed her head to clear enough to see the folly of going into a maze, arm in arm, with a man who made her skin crawl and put her instincts on edge.
“My, my,” Lord Walkerton said, his voice slithering out of him in equal parts charming and deadly. “Lady Franklyn. I had not realized you were in attendance. Were you hoping to make a last ditch effort to barter your daughter off to my son?”
“I would not sell you my worst enemy, Walkerton.”
Rebecca had never cared much for Lady Franklyn. Though beautiful in her cold, imperious way, she had always proven herself to be very selfish, caring little for who her actions harmed or what scandal she left in her wake. It had been such behavior that had put her on the dock the day brigands set upon her. Marcus had stepped in, nearly losing his own life in the process. Still, during her entire acquaintance with Lady Franklyn, she had never seen such anger and—was that fear?—pulled tight across her lovely features.
“Sometimes a man doesn’t need to purchase such things, my lady. Sometimes they are offered to him and sometimes he simply takes them.”
Something about his words, the way they were said, made Rebecca’s stomach roil. Lady Franklyn looked as if Lord Walkerton had marched up the steps and slapped her across the face. There was something more at play here, something she had no knowledge of, yet stood in the middle of.
“Lady Rebecca.” The duchess held out a hand. “Come with me. Your mother is asking after you.”
Rebecca held no illusion that Lady Franklyn lied through her teeth. Mother awaited her at the greenhouse where she busied herself with choosing the arrangements for this evening’s dinner. If Mother sought her out, Lady Franklyn would be the last one she sent, though she did not see the need to point this fact out. She wanted away from Lord Walkerton. She had what she needed. He’d admitted to fathering Marcus and being well aware of the fact.
She released his arm as if it had caught on fire and lifted her skirts, hurrying over the pathway and back up the steps. Lady Franklyn continued to extend her hand and when she took it, the duchess’s gloved fingers tightened around hers and pulled Rebecca tightly to her side.
Lord Walkerton smiled at them both, his cold eyes fixed on Lady Franklyn. “I bid you good day then, ladies. Lady Franklyn, I expect we shall meet again at the hunt. I look forward to it, as always.” He made a courtly bow then turned and disappeared into the hedges.
Rebecca let out a long breath she had not realized she’d held.
Lady Franklyn let go of her hand and rounded on her. “What were you thinking of, going with that man?”
�
��I—I—” She stumbled over an explanation, unable to give the truth and not able to come up with anything else. What business was it of hers?
“What your mother was thinking inviting that beast is beyond me!”
“He is Lord Selward’s father—” And Marcus’s.
“He is a monster with deviant desires.” Lady Franklyn grabbed Rebecca’s shoulders and gave her a small shake. “Stay away from him. Do you hear me? If he walks in your direction, you turn around and leave. Do not allow yourself to be alone with him. Promise me!”
Rebecca nodded, afraid of the desperation in Lady Franklyn’s tone and the fear that ravaged her eyes.
She was more than happy to stay away from Walkerton now that she had the information she needed.
She must find Marcus and tell him their worries were over.
Chapter Twenty-Two
January 18th
My sweet boy with your dark hair and sweet smile. Marcus William Wallace. They let me hold you in my arms and suckle at my breast, though I have already failed you in that respect as my milk will not come. Mary promises me I shouldn’t worry as sometimes this happens. Still, it pained me to give you to another woman to do what I, as your mother, should be able to do, but my body is battered from your birth and my strength has not returned. A fever burns in my blood and I can barely hold my pen. Forgive the messiness of my writing, but I wanted to put the words down for you before it takes hold. I need to tell you that I loved you beyond all measure. I had never known such a love existed and now—now—I understand Mother. How I resented her trying to save me, to keep me from harm and hurt. But it is no less than what I will do for you. What I must do. I will not have you face a life where you are looked down upon. Where you must pay for my mistakes, for what I was unable to stop.
I could not protect myself, but I will not fail you in this regard my sweet, sweet boy.
* * *
Marcus closed the journal and let his head fall against the high-backed chair, his heart bursting with wonder and confusion and…love. Yes, love. For a woman he had never met, never had the chance to know. And yet, reading her words, digesting them bit-by-bit, he knew her well. Understood her in a way most of those around her had not. Her words allowed him a glimpse into her private world, into her mind and heart. He’d absorbed her fears and her hopes and her determination.
And her love.
She had loved him. Without question, without reserve.
She had not abandoned him as if he were an embarrassment or a shameful reminder of her fall from grace. Her words, which had started out as a curse, tearing away everything he had believed, in the end became a gift. One handed down to him by the woman who had given him life, through the woman who had raised him as her own. Both women deserved the term Mother.
He had never seen her face, had no name to pin to her, but he recognized her heart. Forgave. Understood.
He breathed in the fresh air that wafted through the breakfast room of Northill Hall. Something fell into place and brought with it a sense of peace that settled deep inside of him.
He lifted his head and looked around him, seeing Northill in a different light. Not just a structure with walls and furniture, but a home. His home.
Mr. Cosgrove had done an impressive job in the week he had been here getting the neglected grounds shipshape and culling out the staff who had grown lazy in their duties. His daughter, Miss Cosgrove, had done her part as well. The housekeeper had moved on well over six months ago and the maid who had taken over lacked the skill to command the remaining staff on their duties. Miss Cosgrove took them all in hand and by the time Marcus arrived, the main rooms had been cleaned and cleared, fresh flowers set about and windows thrown wide to air the place out.
Despite his initial reticence at accepting Northill Hall, it had been the right thing to do. A sense of ownership and permanence rooted him, a feeling he had not had since his early childhood at Braemore. As Marcus glanced around, he imagined the manor house overrun with children, little dark-haired miniatures of their mother with ink black hair and silvery eyes and he smiled. The image warmed his heart, much as memories of the night before heated his blood.
He should not have taken such liberties with Rebecca, but for the life of him he could not regret what they had shared. Even now, hours after he had left her bed, he could still smell her scent on his skin, hear her breath in his ear urging him on, begging for more. She was a wonder.
And she was his.
He’d meant to speak to Nicholas early that morning, but Rebecca’s brother had been gone on estate business and would not return until shortly before the hunt. It mattered little. The outcome would be the same. Honor dictated he do the right thing and his heart demanded it. Looked forward to it.
“You are full of smiles this morning, my lord.”
Marcus glanced up at the sound of Miss Cosgrove’s gentle voice as she entered the room bearing a tray. “Indeed, I suppose I am. Tell me, have you had much success in interviewing candidates for the position of housekeeper?”
Miss Cosgrove had proven well suited to running his household, unfortunately, having a beautiful young lady sharing his home in such a capacity would not do. People had a tendency to talk and he did not care to have her reputation sullied. Her father had high hopes that with a new position secured, his daughter would be able to have the life he’d envisioned for her—a husband, children, a home of her own.
“Not as yet, my lord, but I have only just begun. Surely there are many capable women who will be thrilled to take such a position. Until then, I am perfectly happy filling in.” She set the tray down and handed him a letter. “This came for you with instructions to deliver immediately.”
Marcus accepted the envelope and flipped it over. It bore the Franklyn seal. Curious. Lord Franklyn had been feeling under the weather and had not come to the party, though his wife and daughter had. Did one of them send the missive?
“Will you require anything else, Mr. Bowen?”
He glanced up at Miss Cosgrove and shook his head. “No, thank you. That will be all.”
He returned his attention to the letter and broke the seal. The feminine scrawl filled the page in loops and flourishes but the words painted a far less pretty picture. Anger and bile churned inside of him.
“Bastard!” He crumpled the letter in his hand and vaulted from his chair, taking off at a run, his earlier happiness gone.
He needed to find Walkerton.
Even with the fastest horse from his stable, the ride from Northill to Sheridan Park lasted interminably long. Marcus left his horse in front of the house, having torn up the circled drive and shouted instructions to the footman as he burst into the manor house, caring little of etiquette or propriety.
“Rebecca!”
His shout echoed through the hallways, reverberated off the marble floors and tastefully decorated walls. Somewhere behind him, Charleston, the butler, followed behind calling his name, but he paid him no heed. This was not the time for manners or being announced or whatever else Charleston had in his head that he thought needed doing.
“Marcus, whatever is it?”
He stopped short and looked straight up where the stairs to the floor above opened and fanned outward on either side. Rebecca hung over the railing calling to him. He didn’t answer but bounded up the stairs two at a time until he reached her and pulled her into his arms, caring little if anyone saw them.
Somewhere he heard Charleston gasp.
“Did he hurt you?”
Rebecca muffled an answer against his chest and he reluctantly loosened his hold. She glanced up at him. “Who?”
“Walkerton!” He held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down. Nothing appeared amiss, but appearances could be deceiving.
“Of course not.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Rebecca…”
She let out a small huff. “I am fine, Marcus. Truly. Although, you must obviously favor your mother, as I can find no redeeming qualities in the man who
makes claims to have fathered you. He tried to lure me into the gardens, but thankfully Lady Franklyn had her wits about her and stopped him.”
“And where were your wits? You know he is not a man to be trifled with.”
“My wits were busy extracting his confession that he did, indeed, father you. A confession he gave rather easily, I might add.” She smiled at him, the gesture illuminating her face with a radiance that glowed from the inside out. If anything had happened to her—
He pushed the thought aside. “He admitted to it?”
Rebecca grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer until her soft breasts pushed against his chest, diffusing his anger for the moment while his attentions changed course and focused on the sensations having her lithe little body pressed into his created. God help him, there was nothing he wanted more than to march her back up to her bedchambers and crawl beneath the covers. There, he could keep her safe. There, he could shut the rest of the world out so only they existed.
“Yes, he did.” Her smile grew. “I am certain between Lord Selward’s admission and Lord Walkerton’s, we have all we need. Don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps.” It hardly mattered at the moment. He wanted her safe. He didn’t want her risking herself on his behalf. He could not live with himself if anything—or anyone—harmed her. “I want you to stay away from him. The man is not to be trusted.”
“You sound like Lady Franklyn.” Her brows snapped together as her nimble brain put two and two together. “Was it she who told you I met with him? She is the only one who saw us together.”
Marcus nodded. “She sent me a note indicating you were not safe with him around.”
Her nose wrinkled and he could not stop himself from running the tip of his forefinger down its short length to smooth it out. “Why did she send it to you and not to Mother or Nicholas?”