by Darcy Burke
Well, perhaps being a baron wasn’t the last thing he’d wanted. Having a title fell a short second to the situation he’d recently found himself in: face-to-face with his mother. At a house party. In Telford.
Seeing her wasn’t quite so bad.
Listening to her prattle on about nothing of any import, however, was enough to make him, a grown man of eight-and-twenty contemplate pulling out all of his hair. He was this close to doing just that. In fact, the only reason he didn’t was because it might hurt. No, it wouldn’t “might” hurt, it would hurt. Hair pulling hurt. No matter who pulled. And to pull it hard enough for the hair to come out, it’d hurt something fierce. He was certain of it.
Instead, he balled his hands into fists. That didn’t hurt. Much. His nails were a little sharper than they should be and dug into his palms, but the pain in his palms was less than it’d be if he ripped his hair out. It had to be.
“Giles, I’d love to hear more about the time you spent in Spain,” the dowager Lady Norcourt, now Mrs. Appleton, also known to be his mother, said from where she sat perched on a settee not five feet away from him.
Giles squeezed his fingers into a tighter fist, if such a thing were possible. He didn’t wish to talk about his time in Spain. He’d already told her everything she deserved to know: it was good.
“Giles?”
He swallowed. “Yes?”
“Tell me about the bulls, Giles. Did you see them chase the men?” the woman who’d once been so dear to him asked. Her sweet smile only served to make his stomach clench as waves of memories of her running after him as a young lad in leading strings came to mind.
He thrust away the thought. Just like his father, she hadn’t wanted him. If she had, she’d have never sent him away. “They chased me,” he said softly around the lump of emotion—part hurt, part anger—that had formed in his throat and was on the verge of choking the life right out of him.
Lady Norcourt, as he’d taken to referring to her in his mind since the word “mother” not only didn’t fit her, but made his gut ache whenever he heard it, stared at him, her blue eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape.
She snapped her mouth closed and forced a smile. “I suppose I could see that. You always were a fast runner. Why I remember when you were a boy...”
Giles stared at her, but didn’t hear her words. Since arriving at this inane and tedious house party, the last word of which he used very loosely, he’d been driven nearly to tears of frustration by the countless young ladies paraded in front of him. They’d talked of silly things like hair ribbons and reticules. And that was it. The only statement any of them had said that had caught his attention was when one of the young ladies told another to “stuff it”. A slow smile pulled at Giles’ lips. Having grown up in an orphanage run by nuns, he’d never heard such a term before and only assumed it was a less-than-polite way to ask the young lady who was chattering like a bird to stop talking.
But what if she’d really stuffed it? What would she stuff it with? What if Lady Norcourt stuffed it? He started. The dratted woman had been so interested in him these past few days it bordered on annoying. He most definitely would like to see her mouth be stuffed with something. Cotton. Leaves. A ball of yarn. The list was limitless if it’d get her to stop talking to him for any amount of time.
“Are you all right, dear?” Lady Norcourt asked, startling him from his drifting thoughts.
He was spared from having to tell her what he was thinking about, because he could not tell a lie, when the doorknob twisted, drawing both of their attention.
Relieved and glad for any distraction, Giles stared at the door waiting for the intruder to let himself—hopefully it’d be a “him”, he didn’t think he could tolerate much more useless chatting about ribbons and bows—into the room.
His relief didn’t hold, however, when the man revealed himself: Simon Appleton, his younger brother.
“Simon,” Lady Norcourt greeted. “Do come in and join us.”
Mr. Appleton came into the room and quietly closed the door behind him. “Mother.” He turned to look at Giles. “Lord Norcourt.”
“What brings you about?” Lady Norcourt asked.
Simon’s face took on an expression that Giles couldn’t determine. “I’ve come to speak to Lord Norcourt.” When a broad smile took his mother’s lips, Simon added, “Alone.”
Lady Norcourt’s smile faded and she shot a glance to Giles that he couldn’t interpret. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Irritation bubbled inside of Giles. As much as everyone liked to pretend he was, he wasn’t a child and incapable of having thoughts for himself. They might not always come to him quickly or make sense to others, but he was capable of some things. He scowled at them. “I do.”
“You do what?” Lady Norcourt asked, her eyebrows drawn together.
“We’ll talk alone.”
Lady Norcourt’s lips thinned. “I don’t think—”
“We’ll be fine, Mother. I don’t plan to eat him,” Simon said, opening the door to the library for his mother.
She cast one last glance toward Giles, then gathered her green skirts and made her exit. Giles was a hint jealous that it was her and not him who was escaping.
After she’d crossed the threshold, Simon closed the door. “Have you and my mother become bosom friends yet?”
“She’s my mother, too,” Giles said quietly.
“Indeed.” Simon walked to a high backed chair and gripped the wooden frame of the back until his knuckles turned white.
Giles stared at his half-brother. From where he sat, it was easy to tell that Simon was as tall as Giles, though not as broad. Their hair and eyes were exactly the same shades: chestnut brown and emerald green respectively. That’s where their similarities ended. They’d had breakfast together the other morning and Simon had seen fit to talk endlessly about every subject he knew anything about. Giles preferred to listen. He’d learned, not the easiest way, either, that he was less likely to make a fool of himself if he didn’t speak, or just said very little when necessary.
He swallowed. He hoped he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself in front of Simon right now.
Mindlessly, Giles tapped his foot. What was taking the man so long to speak? “Come to talk?”
“You do know why you were invited here, do you not?”
“Yes.” He didn’t like it, but he understood very well why he’d been coerced into attending Lady Cosgrove’s house party.
“Because Mother thinks to right her wrong by finding you a bride?”
Giles clenched his fists as tightly as he could and commanded his face to stay impassive. He couldn’t let on to the hurt soaring inside him at Simon’s cold, but truthful reminder that he’d been unwanted. “You’re a fortunate man, then.”
“Me?” Simon jabbed a finger at his chest. “She didn’t invite those young ladies here for me to peruse, they’re here for you.”
“Not interested. Have your pick.”
“My pick?” He shook his head. “I don’t need a swarm of ladies to choose from. I’ve already found my bride.”
Giles’ mind raced. Was Simon speaking of Isabelle Knight? He had to be, she was the only female Giles had seen him with at this party. “She’s taken,” he said evenly.
Simon frowned. “Yes, by me.”
“No. She’s Sebastian’s wife,” Giles said quietly. His friend Sebastian, Lord Belgrave had told him that himself. He’d never signed the annulment papers. That meant they were still married, didn’t it?
“Was, Lord Belgrave’s wife,” Simon corrected. His voice an odd mixture of annoyance and frustration, likely at Giles’ arguing.
“Still is,” Giles said flatly.
“No, they had their marriage annulled. That means they were married, but they’re not any longer.”
“No, they’re still married,” Giles said adamantly. Sebastian had told him so. Sebastian was the only friend he’d ever had. He wouldn’t lie to Giles. He never
had. If Sebastian said they were still married, Giles had no reason to believe otherwise.
Simon’s green eyes narrowed. “Did Lord Belgrave tell you this?”
Giles nodded slowly and watched silently as a myriad of emotions crossed the younger man’s face. Giles hadn’t any idea what most of them meant, nor did he care to ask.
A moment later, Simon’s face was dark red and his lips were in a thin, tight line that made the edges of his mouth turn white. He looked furious.
Giles just stared at the man as he breathed so hard his nostrils flared. He’d told the truth. He’d done nothing wrong, and yet, he felt as if he’d once again pushed away a potential friend. Not something foreign to Giles.
Then, without so much as a fare-thee-well, Simon spun on his heel and quit the room.
ONE
Shrewsbury
Lucy Whitaker frowned as she climbed the rickety stairs to the apartments above the smithy’s shop on the ever-hustling Flynt Street. She crested the top of the stairs and a chill ran down her spine. Something wasn’t right about this. Her son, Seth, had met her when she’d returned from working at the bakery with a pot of soup that was already made and poured into a carafe for traveling. He’d then told her that there was an ailing man in the village, gave her his direction and begged her to hurry and deliver him the soup.
Only because she loved her son and didn’t want to see him hurting over yet another of his friends dying, just another disappointment he’d face in his short life, she’d reluctantly agreed to go.
Lucy tightened her hold around the handle of the carafe. She’d promised Seth she’d come and deliver the man a bowl of soup and medicine. But that was as far as her Christian charity went. Once she gave him what she’d brought, she’d be on her way.
She found his apartment, 2B, and knocked twice on the door before letting herself inside. She stepped inside and froze. Before her stood a man, virile and young. Decidedly not sick in the least. “Pardon me, I must have the wrong direction,” she rushed to say, taking a step back.
The young man with light blond hair and blue eyes reached for her. His touch made her skin grow cold and turn nearly frigid when he gave her what he might think was an affectionate squeeze. “I don’t think so.”
Panic welled up inside Lucy and she wrenched her arm away from him, taking another step toward the door.
His rich chuckle filled the room. “The boy said you might be upset.” He gestured to the faded blue divan in front of the window. “Come, we’ll talk first.”
Boy? Talk? First? So many partial questions formed in her mind, the least of which was what exactly did Seth have to do with this? “Sir, I think you have the wrong idea. I’m not here for—for—” she waved her hand in a circular motion in the air— “that.”
He frowned and crossed his arms, the sun glinting off his signet ring, filling Lucy with a sense of dread. Not only was he handsome, but he was titled. “But I thought—”
“Yes,” she cut in crisply, doing her best to tamp down her true feelings for men of his ilk. “I’m sure you did and I was led to believe I was coming here to deliver soup and herbs to a man nearing his deathbed.” A bubble of irritation swelled up inside Lucy as the memory of her son’s words that he was so sick came back to her: He’s nearly delirious with fever, Seth said, thrusting the soup in her direction. He could die at any moment, so please go now.
“I see,” the handsome stranger said slowly, pulling her back to present. “I suppose then you’re not interested in...” He trailed off with a lopsided shrug and a wolfish smile.
“No,” she snapped. “I need to get back home to my son.”
“Son?” he echoed, a myriad of emotions passing over his face.
“Yes, the young fellow who suggested this—this—this assignation, is my son,” she confirmed, her face heating.
He had the decency to flush, but only a little. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “You must understand, I don’t usually take recommendations of this sort from young boys, it’s just—”
She waved him off before he could say another word and further mortify them both. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”
The strange man stared at her, then blinked slowly.
“He’s just trying to find himself a father,” Lucy burst out before she could think better of it. Another burning wave of embarrassment came over her.
“Uh—uh—uh,” the young lord stammered, his face turning as violently red as she imagined hers was. “I’m not interested in that. I was just—”
“Yes, I know what you wanted,” she cut in, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes on him. “Nonetheless, Seth did not know that was your intention.” She sighed as a defeating sadness threatened to overcome her. “He’s just a boy and doesn’t understand the way of the world,” she whispered aloud, more for her own benefit than for the man who was standing before her looking decidedly uncomfortable. Pushing away the feelings of failure and anger that were swiftly overcoming her, she inclined her chin and forced herself to meet the still wide eyes of the man in front of her. “I do hope you have learned a lesson today.”
“Indeed. I shall never again accept the help of a village imp.”
“Perhaps the word never is a bit strong. Surely, you could accept his assistance to hold your lead while you visit a shop or give you directions to the smithy’s without the expectation of soon becoming his father.” At the man’s choked laughter, more choking than laughter, of course, Lucy allowed herself a small smile then excused herself from the room.
Once outside, the emotions came with the force of a team of the king’s finest horses charging at her as if she were the enemy and he must capture her and behead her at once. Anger. Humiliation. Confusion. Sadness. And finally, helplessness. Through the tears that now burned her eyes and blurred her vision, she made her way to the lane that would lead her back to the crumbling stone cottage she rented on the fringes of the village.
She took a deep breath to calm her fraying nerves and steady her uneasy gait. Twelve years ago she’d made a mistake. A mistake that not only would taint her name for the rest of her life, but had ruined the life of an innocent child. Biting back the vile curse that resounded over and over in her head for the man who’d put her into this position, she walked on and directed that curse at herself. She’d been the one who’d believed his lies and given herself to him. She’d also been the one who’d tried her best to protect her son from what he really was: a bastard. A cold sweat came over her and she was only vaguely aware that she was violently shaking when the carafe of soup that was dangling from the crook of her arm hit her in the rib.
“Ooof,” she muttered, not slowing her steps. A million thoughts flew through her mind, but the one that stood out the most was she had no choice but to explain Seth’s parentage to him. The truth. All of it. He was almost twelve now, he deserved to know; and for as painful as it might be for both of them, he might understand why his efforts weren’t appreciated. Her chest constricted, crushing her heart and lungs and making it nearly impossible for her to drag in another breath. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of it. But that didn’t make it go away. She’d made a horrible mistake and he’d been made to suffer just as much, if not more than, she. She’d always known it, but after her recent conversation with Lord Virile and Primal, it seemed so real and definite. Crushing.
“Mama! Mama! Come quick. I found you a man!” came the excited voice of her son, jarring her to present. He skidded to a halt in front of her, blinking his moss-green eyes at her. “Have you been crying?”
His innocent question made her eyes flood with tears once more. “We’ll talk at home.”
His eyes grew wide and his cheeks pinkened, presumably at realizing his earlier actions were about to lead him into trouble. “Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly. “But first—”
“No. We’re going home, now.” She reached for his arm to keep him close by, but he pulled away and wildly shook his head, sending his sandy blond hair
all over the place.
“Mama, there’s a man who needs help—”
“I’m sure there is,” she retorted, pursing her lips. “But he can get whatever help he needs from someone else.”
“There isn’t anyone else,” he argued.
“Seth,” she said on a sigh. “I cannot—no, will not—help that man with whatever it is that’s ailing him.”
His eyes grew wider if that were possible. “But isn’t it your Christian duty?”
She would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if that wouldn’t have meant laughing at the innocence of her son in the ways of the world. “Seth, let’s go home. It’s time we talk.”
“All right, Mama. I’ll talk about anything you want to—pastry dough, sewing, flowers, anything—but please help this man first. He’s hurt.”
“Genuinely hurt?”
Seth nodded.
“Physically?”
Seth’s brows knit together and Lucy sighed again.
“What can you tell me about this man, Seth?” Why was she even asking? After her recent experience in the village at the hands of her meddling son, the last thing she wanted to do was to go see another “ailing” man. But something within was stirred. It might have been the panic in her son’s eyes or the way he spoke with such conviction. She didn’t know, but something inside of her she couldn’t make sense of wanted to know more.
“He’s rich,” Seth said simply.
That did it. Lucy steeled her spine and reached for her son’s arm above the elbow. “While I thank you for your efforts, my boy, they are for naught. We are going home. Now.”