The little imp was intentionally pulling his heartstrings. And it worked. Brock didn’t think he would ever tire of hearing Aimee acknowledging him, even if she didn’t fully understand yet.
Still, he had to be firm. “I said no. I meant no.”
Brock turned to Miss Edmunds. “Why didn’t you pluck Aimee off that balcony? Why did you allow her to climb out there at all?”
To her credit, the little dark-haired woman looked shamefaced. “I tried to bring her inside, Mr. Taylor. Truly. But I am terribly afraid of heights. When I went near the ledge, I became dizzy.”
Brock sighed. Miss Edmunds, who was in every other way most acceptable, could not be trusted with an open window. “Put Aimee back in bed and be certain she sleeps.”
The woman looked uncommonly pale as she gave him a nervous nod. “Of course, Mr. Taylor. Right away. I will not fail.”
As the nanny took Aimee’s hand, Brock cast another stern glance at the girl, which he hoped looked parental. “No more climbing of trees.”
Her little bowed mouth formed a scowl. “But my mama—”
“I’m certain your mother would agree,” Brock said, knowing Maddie would not allow Aimee such a dangerous activity, as the child had been about to claim.
“I do agree,” Maddie said from behind him.
Brock spun to find her framed in the nursery’s door, the afternoon sun lighting her sleek auburn hair, kissing her beautiful red mouth.
His loins tightened.
Aimee squirmed out of the nanny’s grasp and ran to her mother. Maddie bent to hug the child. Brock couldn’t read her expression, but he was so ridiculously pleased to be standing in the same room with Maddie, he could hardly breathe.
The first time he’d come to love Maddie, he had learned the sentiment could twist a man’s gut in two. This time, he’d learned love could melt even the fiercest heart—and bring him to his knees.
“I’d feared she would try that soon. Thank you for saving her.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I care for her.” She is my daughter, too. The words hung unspoken between them.
“I know,” she said softly.
Brock knew she meant the words honestly.
The yearning inside his chest expanded. He wanted to share his love with her, but he had imposed his wants on Maddie long enough. She desired to be alone. Brock would grant her wish, even if it killed him.
Finally, after a final scold from Maddie, Miss Edmunds took Aimee back to her bed.
Alone now, Brock paused, wondering how to approach Maddie about the future. He sent her a cautious stare. “I would like to talk. Are you occupied now?”
Maddie looked wary and curious at once, her gray eyes shining with wary speculation. “Now is fine.”
#
Brock led Maddie down the hall to the stairs, his hand at her back all the while, warming her. She was excruciatingly aware of the fact that he was her husband and he could make her want him with just a small kiss. She should hate him. But her defiant heart simply disagreed...
He took her to his study and shut the door behind them. The click of the latch seemed too loud to Maddie’s frayed nerves. What did Brock want? To talk about Aimee? Their tense marriage? Did he want to be near her? Touch her?
Warmth flooded her chest at the thought.
Maddie drew in a deep breath, willing the sentiment away. She was a fool for wishing he wanted her or her company, she thought as she paced to the sofa and sat. He had blamed her for not telling him about Aimee when he’d been the one to break faith and abandon her. She’d married Colin and endured her father’s wrath because of him.
Still, he was Aimee’s father. And she should have found the courage to tell him. She’d had opportunity; Brock had been right in that. Fear, anger—resentment even—had held her tongue.
Maddie lifted her chin and sent Brock a calm stare. But in her mind she kept seeing visions of him saving Aimee, holding her so tightly. Though he’d learned that he was Aimee’s father in the worst way possible, he did indeed care for the child.
He simply did not care for her.
Trying not to wince, Maddie said, “You wished to speak to me?”
“Yes. It’s quite urgent.”
She nodded. Brock had spoken four complete words to her at once. Since their wedding night, she doubted he had spoken more than a dozen. She couldn’t decide if she was ridiculously pleased by this new turn of events or merely angry.
The reality of their marriage matched her expectations: Brock had merely wanted her for her land. He wanted to build that damned railroad, make yet another fortune at her expense. Why else would he ignore her so thoroughly?
And why did it hurt so much?
Brock braced his elbows on the arms of his large leather chair and steepled his hands at his chest. “I’ve done you a great disservice in forcing you to marry me. I see that now.”
Maddie went cold at his words. “Really?”
“You asked me repeatedly to leave you be, and I ignored your wishes. I realize it’s too late now to change the fact we are married. We—” he sighed—“we have the coming child to consider.”
“Indeed,” she murmured, trying to keep the confusion from her face. Did he want to change the fact that they were wed?
“I’ve sent workmen to Ashdown Manor to refurbish and repair the house. I’ve set up an account for you as well.”
He pulled a slip of paper from his waistcoat and slid it across the table. Dread vibrating within her, Maddie picked up the thick white paper and unfolded it with numb fingers. It was confirmation of a bank deposit made today, in her name.
“Five thousand pounds?” she muttered, zinging her confused glance to him.
“To start. Once the railroad gets further underway, I will deposit more. It should see the house repaired, however. Select new furnishings. Set up a grand nursery for the new baby. Buy yourself a new wardrobe. Whatever you like.”
Brock’s words painted a picture Maddie neither understood completely, nor appreciated. “Are you telling me you should like me to return to Hampstead?”
He sent her a smile so strained, it looked painful. “Indeed.”
Shock sent Maddie reeling. She felt rooted to her chair, yet as faint as if she’d turned in too many circles.
He was leaving her alone and breeding—again. Now that he had legal possession of that farmland of hers and could fully exploit it, he was through exploiting her.
Pain lanced her heart. Looking away, Maddie chastised herself for allowing him to hurt her, for the hot flow of pain. She should have learned by now. But when Brock had held her, she’d believed he cared... His caring had been nothing more than an illusion her idealistic mind had painted.
Brock did not care for her at all. Despite his words to the contrary, he never had.
This time he would abandon her without leaving her penniless. He wasn’t a complete cad as to let his children live in poverty.
But, oh, how she longed to throw his money in his face, every last insulting farthing of it. But she had a pair of elderly women and two children to think about. Her pride could have no place in this discussion.
“You’re pleased, aren’t you?” he asked.
Brock’s confident expression had faltered. Shocking; Maddie had thought nothing could wipe that assured mien from his strong, brown face. Then again, life was full of surprises, few of them pleasant.
To her horror, Maddie felt tears at the back of her eyes. She cast her gaze down to the thick burgundy and blue carpet beneath her feet to hide them.
“Of course,” she said. “We’ll leave come morning.”
Maddie rose. Brock shot to his feet and blocked her path. “Please allow me to see the children.”
Another offer Maddie longed to refuse him. But it was unfair to the children. Brock may not love her, and he might well be a master manipulator, but the children deserved the opportunity to know him for themselves. Besides, he would likely stop coming to see them when he became too
busy. Then she would not have to worry about seeing him frequently, about the pain of having him near but untouchable. Wondering who his mistress was and how much pleasure he gave her. Then Maddie would no longer have to look into the face of the only man she had ever loved and know with every breath that he did not love her in return.
“Of course,” she answered numbly.
“Thank you.” He looked relieved.
“Had you planned to live at Ashdown or merely visit?”
Brock hesitated. Usually he was quick with a decision. Today he looked torn. “Visit, I should think. Does that please you?”
Did he think it would? Or was that what he wished to hear? “Of course.”
Frowning, Brock leaned closer. He reached out to touch her. Need crept up in Maddie, and she braced herself for the zing of the contact. Instead, Brock paused, then dropped his hand to his side.
“I will only be in your way at Ashdown. Besides, with the railroad underway, I’ll need to be in my offices often to see to business matters. I’ve some new opportunities as well, so...” He shrugged awkwardly.
He was discarding her in favor of business and money—again. It should not surprise her, nor should it hurt. But it did, so very, very much.
This time, she wanted him to hurt as well—every bit as much as she did.
“Ah, yes. Your precious fortune,” Maddie spat in anger. “You do realize that money will never buy you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, especially happiness.”
Maddie waited just long enough to see the shock trip across the hard-edged lines of Brock’s face before she lifted her skirts, brushed past him, and quit the room.
With the slam of his study door, she left his life. Running up the stairs to her room, she leaned against the door, put her head in her hands, and began to cry.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dark fell on Finch Street in Whitechapel, enveloping the eternal midnight of grueling poverty. Brock stood at the edge of the road, looking at the dim filth of the shanty houses stacked on top of one another, at the gray faces of hunger passing him by in the dusk.
Brock had traveled here on purpose, or at least he thought he had. He wasn’t certain why. One minute he’d been giving the wife he loved the separation she wanted. The next, she had all but sneered at his offer to cut his heart out for her benefit. He simply did not understand her.
And choking on a new dose of her contempt had hurt worst of all.
He wasn’t any more proud of his behavior of late than his Whitechapel upbringing. On the contrary. He loathed it—but he could not change it. He was, however, proud of the fact he’d overcome his past.
Brock wished the same could be said of his present.
As a young boy, he’d run to The City, to listen to bankers and powerful men discuss fortunes won and lost. He had paid attention when they spoke, to the manner in which they had talked, vowing someday to walk in their shoes. Eventually, he had.
At sixteen, Brock had vowed he would make something of his life. Until then, the only skill he had acquired had been as a pickpocket. But when he donned his church clothes and applied for job after job in The City, he had slowly learned that no one would accept—or believe—that an uneducated, lower-class boy could excel in their world. Dejected, he had left his father and London behind.
He’d wandered for four years, taking odd jobs with folks of quality. The elderly had been eager for someone to talk to, and they had unwittingly taught him a great deal about society, manners, proper modes of speech. Those with children always had tutors and various instructors he’d befriended and learned from.
This time, he’d vowed when he had returned to The City, no one would be able to detect a trace of his baseborn origins.
On his way to London, hunger had drawn him to Ashdown Manor, where he’d learned they were in need of a stable hand. It had been menial work, not something he intended to do for more than a few weeks.
Then he’d met Maddie. He had fallen in love with her. And his determination to do more with his life—be more—so that he might claim her became not just a fire in his belly, but a compulsion.
Today, he had succeeded in business, but lost Maddie.
Shoulders slumped, Brock made his way across the dusty lane, over to the worn brown door of the mean dwelling he and Jack had called home ten years ago, and he stared, seeing not the past, but the present.
Maybe Maddie had never truly been his. Maybe she’d always been repelled by his lowborn blood. Still, he could hear her voice, You do realize that money will never buy you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, especially happiness. Brock knew she meant that he couldn’t buy her. But he’d already figured that out.
He cursed.
“‘Ello, Guv. ‘Aven’t see ye in a bit. Are ye well?”
Brock blinked, focused on the present, and looked down. Molly stood before him with her candle tray draped around her neck and her gaunt little cheeks smudged with dirt. She looked hungry and tired. Very hungry. But she still wore a smile for him.
“Hello, Molly. How have you been?”
“Fair, I s’pose. Me ma took sick a while back. She was dismissed.”
Brock knew what that meant. Her mother hadn’t been able to work and had lost her job. If she didn’t get well and find a new post soon, they would starve. Chances were Molly had never known her father. So only the money Molly made selling candle scraps kept food in their mouths. A terrible burden for a girl of six.
He did his best to keep the pity off his face, but Brock hurt just thinking about the plight this little girl had endured.
She lifted her tray over her head and set it at her feet in the foul-smelling dirt. “But ma will get better. When she starts workin’ again, I’ll teach meself to read.”
“That’s an admirable goal. I taught myself as well.”
Molly nodded solemnly. “Someday, I’ll ‘ave a job workin’ in a fancy house.”
Someday, he hoped she was mistress of that fancy house. “You may have more,” he said, “if you want it enough. Dream big, Molly. Never let anyone make you feel badly for what you want.”
“More, Guv? Ye think I can?”
Brock smiled. “If you want it—”
“I surely do!”
“Then you will find a way.”
Molly sighed, contented by the thought. Brock realized then that he could help her as no one had helped him. He wouldn’t give her charity; likely she would not accept it. But he could give her a start...
“What does your mother do, Molly?”
“She’s a kitchen maid, Guv.”
A kitchen maid. A meaningless post to him, really. He didn’t even know if Maddie’s household needed an extra one. “I would be pleased to hire your mother.”
Molly’s brown eyes rounded. “Ye would?” Then she frowned. “Where?”
Ah, removing the skeptic from the Whitechapel bred was nearly impossible. He hoped that innate caution would serve Molly half as well as it had served him over the years.
“In Hampstead Heath.” He gave her a card with his office address. “When your mother is well enough, tell her to come to this office. You come as well. If you’ll accept it, I have a very important job for you, too.”
If possible, Molly’s eyes widened. “Ye do?”
“Certainly. The girl you helped me find was my daughter. She is a bit younger than you, but she’s lonely and needs a companion. She’ll be learning to read soon, as well. Would you consider attending her classroom and helping her?”
Molly’s little face fell. “Me, help ‘er to read? Cor, I don’t know how.”
“Neither does she, but you can help each other. I will pay you as well. Fifty pounds annually. Is that acceptable?”
Her dark eyes widened to impossible widths. “Fifty pounds! That’s more than I made in me bloomin’ life! Aye!”
A shining grin illuminated Molly’s little face. Her expression lightened his mood. In fact, he was pleased with this bit of work.
Brock said goodbye
and reminded Molly to bring her mother to his office as soon as may be. Molly assured him she would do just that, whistling as she walked away.
The thought of leaving this baseborn life, of being more, clearly made the girl happy. As it had all his life.
Whitechapel had done that to him; it had carved ambition in his gut. Every night Brock had gone to bed hungry or cold, he had wanted more. Every day he’d spent fleecing the pockets of rich folk to stay alive, he had vowed life would be better. Someday. Now that day had come. And why? Because memories of the dank hopelessness that Whitechapel bred had driven him, shaped him.
Sighing, Brock looked around at the darkened streets of squalor. For once, the sting of resentment did not curl his belly. When he considered the past, he actually felt curiously... grateful.
Why should he be ashamed when he’d done so well for himself?
All these years, he’d been railing against his serving-class birth, bemoaning the one thing he damn well could not change. But poverty had given him the guts and the heart to achieve his dream. Yes, being disadvantaged at birth created obstacles. But he had overcome them through determination and sweat. Crossing those hurdles had taught him far more than a life of privilege ever could.
Brock laughed aloud, not caring who heard him. Had he ever imagined he would think that? Never. But he sensed a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and the relief of it filled him with gladness.
In fact, he was almost proud of his achievements. With the burgeoning railroad, he would soon accomplish everything he had dreamed of.
Well, nearly everything.
For five years, he had craved Maddie by his side, in his bed, as his wife. He had achieved his boyhood dreams—at the destruction of his heart.
Puzzled, Brock turned away from Finch Street and the past. On Whitechapel Road, he found a hack and climbed inside the musty vehicle. Though he focused his gaze on the world passing by his window, he saw nothing.
Why had Maddie not been more pleased when he’d given her her freedom? For months she had sought nothing else. Hell, he had even granted her complete financial freedom as well as autonomy. She should have been ecstatic.
Shayla Black Page 29