Fate had decided that she and Brock must marry—and that she must spill the truth soon. Somehow, she would find the courage. Then she would pray that he would someday forgive her and come to truly love her, as she loved him.
But once he realized how long she’d kept Aimee a secret from him, Maddie feared her prayer would be too much for even God to grant.
#
Later that afternoon, Maddie sat tensely in the drawing room, doing her utmost to concentrate on mending her stockings—and failing miserably.
Hearing a caller at the door, Maddie stood and froze, half-hoping, half-fearing Brock was her visitor.
Matheson opened the door and said something most unexpected. “Are you at home for Lord Belwick, my lady?”
Belwick? Brock’s competitor in building the railroad?
Confused—and curious—Maddie nodded and rushed to tuck her stockings beneath the sofa cushions. In her faded daily clothes, she looked bedraggled enough; best not to show the man her unmentionables as well.
Pushing away a coil of hair that had strayed into her face, Maddie turned as Matheson announced her guest.
Belwick strolled in, wearing every trapping of a gentleman and a pleasant grin.
“My lord,” she greeted cautiously.
His gaze zipped to her, and he rose to his feet. “Lady Wolcott, thank you for receiving me. You are gracious, indeed.”
“I am at home today, merely overseeing a few household chores, nothing that would interest you fancy Londoners.”
Belwick smiled at her gentle jibe.
“Would you care for tea?” Maddie asked, impatient to complete her hostess duties so she might learn the cause for this odd visit. In fact, she dreaded it. What did he have to share with her now—and did she want to hear it?
“No, but I am much obliged for the kind invitation.” Without further pause, he said, “I know you and Lady Dudley have had some disagreements in the past, but I was greatly disturbed when she shared with me just last evening that you find yourself in need of money.”
Shame rushed over Maddie, and she felt her cheeks heat with anger. Blast Roberta! She had made a mistake in asking the woman for money. Even at the time, she had known it. Now, she was more certain than ever.
“My financial state is really none of your concern, my lord.”
His smile was sharp. “I have offended where I had no intent to do so. Give me the opportunity to rephrase my reason for calling.”
Sighing, Maddie made her way back to the sofa, sat, and stared at Lord Belwick in expectation. He did not disappoint.
“Perhaps we may help each other,” Belwick began anew.
Maddie had no notion why he imagined thus, but she had agreed to listen, so she would.
“Lady Dudley indicated last night that you had requested a loan from her, I began to ask myself why. I also wondered why such a lovely lady would consort openly with rabble like Taylor.”
Though she’d known most of the ton thought Brock beneath them, to hear Belwick so openly disparaging him incensed her. “Perhaps, my lord, I find him interesting.”
Belwick hesitated, apparently deciding to change tactics. “You claim your late husband left you deeply in debt, Lady Wolcott. And Mr. Taylor bought up your markers, according to one Mr. Hockelspeck, your husband’s tailor.”
Maddie stared at her guest in horror, mouth widening in shock. He only went on.
“You owe Mr. Taylor money, and he is pressing you to marry him because of it, is he not?”
Belwick knew. And Maddie feared if he kept digging, he might learn more—about her trysts with Brock. They had done their best to be discreet, but perhaps there was a witness somewhere. What then?
“That is none of your affair, Lord Belwick. Please go.”
“I shall give you every farthing necessary to pay Taylor, plus an additional ten percent, if you refuse to marry him.”
There it was; the reason for this odd call. Maddie sucked in a breath and stared at Belwick in mute shock.
He offered her everything she had wished for since the moment Brock had strolled back into her life on that cold March night.
But he offered it too late.
The money would not save her from marriage now, not with a child on the way. Nor would it save her heart from Brock’s grip. For better or worse, she loved him.
“I am stunned by your offer, my lord. But I must decline.”
“You’re going to marry your former servant?” He sounded incredulous.
“That is a matter between myself and Mr. Taylor.
Belwick shot to his feet, his round face tightening with anger. “Are you certain that’s wise? Let me explain the ramifications—”
“There’s no need. I have made my choice.”
Maddie stood and walked to the door.
Belwick glared at her, venom darkening his eyes suddenly as he made his way across her threadbare carpet. Clearly, he disliked the fact that Brock could now compete fully in the race to open the London to Birmingham route first.
“You will be sorry,” Belwick vowed as he reached the portal.
Maddie merely opened the door to send him on his way. She suspected that even if she hadn’t become pregnant, her heart would have led her to the altar with Brock eventually. She was at peace with her decision. She almost thanked Belwick for making her see it.
“Good day.” She smiled.
“It won’t be.” With a final glare, he muttered, “I’ll ruin you both.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“A toast,” said Cropthorne the following evening to the crowd of investors gathered at his home. “To the T & S Railroad. May she open on time and always be prosperous.”
“Here, here,” Brock shouted, standing beside the duke.
All the men present raised their glasses of champagne to celebrate the successful laying of the first mile of track. With luck and good weather, the rest of the route would be finished in fifteen months—well ahead of the schedule Lord Belwick had proposed for his competing line.
Brock smiled. The taste of success was like a fine brandy—purely delectable. True, Maddie hadn’t agreed to marry him yet, but he sensed her wavering, slowly melting. He had been supremely confident of that the night they had last made love. He’d been honest with Cropthorne about his progress in wooing her to the altar. Slowly, the duke was defrosting, extending more patience.
But the moment was imperfect. Brock turned to Maddie, only to find her wearing a nervous, preoccupied expression. What had brought the turmoil to her gray eyes? She had said earlier they must speak tonight after the party. Whatever disturbed her, he hoped she would trust him enough to tell him then.
Beside him, Maddie frowned in her champagne glass before setting it aside, untouched. Brock wanted to stroke her face, smooth away the worry lines between her brows. But too many people, including the snobby Lady Litchfield, who stood at Cropthorne’s side, watched them.
“Maddie?” he whispered, peering at her with concern.
She raised her gaze to his. Blinking, she hesitated, then pasted on a false smile. Did she think that expression would make him believe all was well?
“I’m simply tired,” she murmured.
He did not believe a word she said. Tired would not put lines of worry between her brows.
Maddie must be unhappy at his presumption to celebrate this railroad. After all, in order to successfully complete the project, he and Maddie must marry. Feelings were shifting between them; he knew it. She felt more than enmity for him; he knew that, as well. He ached for her, for all she’d endured, but he was not Sedgewick and would not pay for the man’s utter stupidity. Brock would marry Maddie, and he’d given her every assurance that he’d be a much better husband and father than Sedgewick. But he would marry her. What other objections could she have?
Only his serving-class background came to mind. It hurt more than he cared to admit.
But if only the matter of marriage weighed upon her mind, would she stand beside him, pen
sive, looking as if her world were crumbling? It seemed unlikely. And she certainly wouldn’t seem frightened.
“Is this little... party finished?” Brock heard Lady Litchfield drawl to Cropthorne.
The duke wrapped his hand about her arm to stay her. “Already eager to leave, Cordelia?”
“I’ve done as you asked in attending and lent credence to this little venture of yours.”
Brock took the words as a challenge, and turned to excuse himself from Maddie’s side. Lady Litchfield apparently needed a bit of his charm. It would either thaw or irritate her, and he very nearly did not care which.
Maddie stayed him with a hand about his elbow. “She has a poison tongue if you make an enemy of her.”
“She has a poison tongue, regardless,” he murmured.
“Not always. Let her relax. Gavin will help her to come about on this issue. If she becomes your ally, she can smooth your way through the ton. If you ruffle her feathers now, you will rue the day.”
Brock paused, weighing Maddie’s words. A little amusement at the stuffy lady’s expense or an ally who could help pave his future? And why was Maddie trying to help her?
Rolling his eyes, Brock whispered, “Blast, and I so looked forward to toying with her small mind.”
“You are incorrigible.”
At Maddie’s scold, Brock grinned. “You like me that way.”
Maddie peered at him once more, the haunted expression back in her gaze.
Concern niggled him. “Maddie, what—”
“Good evening, Lady Wolcott.”
Brock turned to find Lady Litchfield regarding him. Scarcely disguised curiosity governed her expression.
“Good evening,” Maddie murmured at his side.
Brock wanted to say something to Cropthorne’s haughty lady friend. However, he knew that a man always waited for a lady to acknowledge him. And a person of lesser birth always waited for the one of greater rank to recognize him.
The social stricture gave Lady Litchfield the perfect opportunity to cut him again, if she chose.
Brock waited for her snub as he stared into her pale alabaster face and impersonal blue eyes not three feet away.
“Mr. Taylor,” Lady Litchfield said finally, regarding him with a stiff smile.
To his surprise, she offered him her hand.
“My lady,” he murmured, bowing over her hand.
“Cropthorne tells me you’re brilliant with money.”
“He is all kindness,” Brock evaded.
She sent him a cynical smile. “He is never kind without cause.”
Where was Lady Litchfield’s conversation headed?
“Would you be partial to the idea of more subscribers in your venture?”
“Naturally.” He paused, then added, “More capital means an accelerated production schedule. The sooner we are operational, the sooner we beat our competition in providing rail service from Birmingham to London.”
“Indeed. Can you guarantee every subscriber a return on his investment?” she asked archly.
Was this her trick? To back him into a verbal corner?
“I cannot guarantee any investment. That is not the nature of things monetary, my lady. Anyone who makes such a guarantee speaks falsely.”
“Of course.” The lady’s blue eyes regarded him with interest. “Such honesty can be to your detriment, Mr. Taylor.”
Nodding, Brock conceded the point. “Perhaps, but I insist upon being a gentleman of honor.” Whatever you may think.
The unspoken words hung in the air. Brock had no doubt everyone could hear them. Even Maddie’s hand tightened on his elbow.
“How noble.” Lady Litchfield smiled, as if greatly amused. “Good evening.”
Mutely, Brock bowed his head and watched the steel-tongued woman leave.
At least she spoke civilly to him. The fact the rest of the party, including several important members of the ton contemplating investment, had seen the exchange would be helpful.
“I did not understand the point of her conversation,” Maddie whispered.
“Nor did I. She did not seem to possess ill intent...” Brock shrugged.
Maddie did the same.
Then the press of questions came from the others in the room. How soon would they be operational? What sort of reasonable return could they expect the first year after opening? Would they likely turn a profit in the first three years? Could competition beat them to opening and completely ruin their plans?
Cropthorne stood silently beside Brock, arms crossed over his chest. Brock assumed his grace might field a question or two, but Cropthorne merely glanced at him, then gestured to the crowd.
In his element, Brock smiled and took questions one by one.
Two hours—and eighty thousand pounds later—the railroad was funded beyond his dreams. Had Lady Litchfield intentionally opened that door for him? It seemed unlikely, but...who knew?
Not long after, guests began leaving in a steady trickle. The clock chimed one in the morning when Brock, Maddie, and Cropthorne all sat in his study. The duke’s satisfied smile matched his own. Maddie, on the other hand, looked exhausted and pale.
“You look ready to fall over,” he murmured to her. “I shall take you home.”
She nodded, apparently too tired to say a word.
Brock turned to Cropthorne. “I think we can say the party was a success. Thank you for having it.”
The duke waved his words away. “Take care of my cousin. That is more important—”
The plump old butler opened the door to the study, halting conversation. “Your grace, I am sorry to interrupt. You have a visitor, Lord Belwick, who says he wishes most urgently to see you.”
“A visit from the competition?” Cropthorne surmised.
“An admission of defeat?” Brock raised a brow.
At his side, Maddie stiffened, eyes suddenly alert. Apprehension flattened her red mouth into a pale line.
“Don’t admit him, Gavin,” she begged. “H-he is unpleasant.”
“But harmless, I am sure,” answered her cousin. “Let us find out what he wants, eh? Especially should he wish to concede defeat.”
Brock hesitated, then nodded cautiously.
“Very good, your grace.” The butler said, then disappeared.
While Brock agreed that Belwick was unpleasant, Maddie seemed almost afraid of the man’s rude demand to see Cropthorne. Why? Did it have something to do with why she had been behaving oddly all evening?
A minute later, the round little butler announced Belwick, who entered the room. The well-groomed snake looked surprised to see he and Maddie there. But most pleased by the unexpected development.
A moment later, he turned a malevolent smile on Maddie. She clutched Brock’s arm. Anger surged. Brock glared at his competitor as a furious instinct to protect Maddie rose. The man merely turned the same terrible smile on him, tenfold.
What the hell was going on?
Even more oddly, Lady Roberta Dudley entered just behind him, looking decidedly smug.
They both sat on a sofa at Cropthorne’s left elbow, and the air thickened around them.
Why had this damned miserable pair come here?
Cropthorne dispensed with the formalities. “A drink, my lord? My lady?”
Impatiently, Belwick waved a refusal. “We apologize, your grace, for our oddly-timed visit. But Lady Dudley and I have only just realized something of terrible import we think you should know.”
“Seeing as how you abhor scandal, your grace,” Roberta added.
Cropthorne’s face shuttered at Lady Dudley’s words.
The only thing the duke hated more than a scandal was his deceased father, but the two ran a close race.
“Indeed.” Belwick stood and puffed out his chest. “I cannot believe you wish to do business with a man who is no gentleman.”
Some of the tension left Cropthorne. “I am aware that Mr. Taylor’s birth is somewhat less exalted than my own in the eyes of most. I hardly
fault him for something in which he had no hand.”
Brock checked both an urge to cheer and to laugh. He had not truly considered Cropthorne a friend until now.
“Not at all. We refer to Mr. Taylor’s indecent conduct,” Roberta declared.
“And with your very own cousin!” Belwick did his best to sound scandalized.
Again, Cropthorne sent the ill-invited duo a condescending glare. “I am aware that Mr. Taylor is courting my cousin. She is well past her mourning, and the match will be financially advantageous. Again, his birth has no bearing here.”
“Your grace, it is hardly the courting behavior we refer to. The information we have is of a far more lascivious nature.”
Brock tensed. Could Roberta or Belwick have learned about his trysting with Maddie? Cropthorne would condone courting, yes. Brock doubted his grace would approve of the myriad ways in which he’d recently taken Maddie to his bed.
“They have been lovers,” Belwick announced.
Shock slammed into Brock. Beside him, Maddie tensed. He forced himself to calm. They were guessing, surely. Belwick could have no real proof of that, could he?
Cropthorne paused, flicking a censorious glance in Brock’s direction. “Then so much the better for them to wed, wouldn’t you say?”
“Your grace!” Roberta chastised, sounding scandalized. “They have been lovers for five years.”
Brock jumped to his feet and growled, “If you were a man, I would call you out.”
As if Brock had said nothing, Roberta turned a hateful glare on Maddie. “Why don’t you tell them who fathered Aimee?”
Brock stared at her in shock. Why wasn’t Maddie insulted by Lady Dudley’s ugly insinuation?
“Tell them, Lady Wolcott!” Belwick demanded.
Maddie bit her lip, all too silent. Brock turned to her. Shock roared in his head. His mind raced. Were they implying… No, it was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“Maddie?” he prompted.
She only looked to her hands, now folded tightly in her lap and swallowed. “Brock.”
He was aware of the fact she did not answer him. And his heart beat with the ferocity of a careening steam engine.
“Are you insinuating that Mr. Taylor is Aimee’s father?” Cropthorne demanded.
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