Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  Decker paused, praying for that miracle, hoping his mother’s eyes would flutter open to reveal that sky-blue gaze so like his own. But she remained virtually motionless, her breathing shallow.

  “I am married now, Mama,” he continued. “I should have written you. You and Lila ought to have been there at the wedding ceremony. You would love Josie. She has the same endless heart you do. My wife is…incredible. There is no other way to describe her. And I do not deserve her, that much is certain. But because I am a selfish cad, I am not about to let her go. Not ever. I do not want to let you go either, Mama.”

  He clutched her hand tighter, willing her to wake. For her condition to improve.

  “Give me a sign you can hear this, Mama,” he begged, swiping at the wetness on his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Please tell me you know how much I love you and how sorry I am. And that I will see to Lila’s every need.”

  He waited, stared. Her eyelashes trembled, fluttering faintly before going still again.

  Decker pressed a reverent kiss to his mother’s hand, and then, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he prayed.

  “My love, you must get some rest,” Jo told her husband softly.

  The sun had risen, and it was half past six in the morning.

  “I cannot,” he said, wearier than she had ever heard him.

  He had spent the entire night holding a vigil at his mother’s bedside. His sister Lila—a pensive young lady who shared Decker’s dark hair and bright-blue eyes—had remained until nearly three o’clock in the morning, when she had fallen asleep. Jo had finally convinced the poor, exhausted girl to seek a few hours of sleep in her own chamber. Decker, however, had proven far more stubborn. He had refused to leave or sleep. And so Jo had done the same, remaining in a chair at his side the entire night. Every hour or so, he attempted to browbeat her into seeking some slumber of her own.

  She was ashamed to admit she must have dozed off at some point. She woke when the first stirrings of dawn were painting the sky, to find Decker still stroking his mother’s hand, watching over her. Jo’s heart ached for him. Although the physician had said Decker’s mother had been lucid the previous day, there had been no sign to suggest she would reawaken since their arrival.

  “I will remain here with your mother,” she urged. “I promise you that if there is any change, I will have you fetched immediately. You need to sleep.”

  He shook his head, his handsome countenance grim. “You need to sleep, darling. Leave me here. I shall be fine. Go on.”

  “I was able to sleep for a few hours,” Jo countered. “You have not slept at all. Just an hour or two, Decker. You will make yourself ill if you do not.”

  His jaw tightened. “I will not leave her. I turned my back upon her for seven years. The least I can do is remain here with her now until…”

  He did not finish his sentence. There was no need to, for they both understood what he had been about to say. The desolation on her husband’s face broke her heart.

  Jo bit her lip against the sting of tears. “You did not turn your back upon her, my love. You did what you thought was right.”

  “But I was wrong,” he ground out, his tone bitter as he raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it tousled. “I was selfish and stupid and filled with my damnable pride. Each letter I received from her, I waited for her to apologize, to tell me she had been wrong, to ask for my forgiveness. And in seven years, she never did.”

  “Two stubborn hearts,” she said. “Please, Decker, get some rest, I beg you.”

  “I cannot go,” he said bleakly. Earnestly. “But I want you to get some sleep, Josie. Go to bed.”

  “I will not leave your side,” she told him firmly, meaning it.

  He studied her, his sensual lips tightening. “It would seem we are at an impasse.”

  She belonged with him. Always. It was as simple and uncomplicated as that. But it was also her duty to look after him. To urge him to sleep when he had dark crescents shading the skin beneath his eyes. To hold his hand and sit with him if he would not.

  “We are,” she agreed.

  His countenance turned mulish. “I want you to get some rest, bijou.”

  She brushed a stray forelock of hair from his forehead. “Later, my love.”

  Two more interminable hours passed.

  Jo saw a breakfast tray sent up. Decker’s mother’s house was not nearly as large as his townhome in London, but it bore the mark of gentry, despite her status as an earl’s former mistress. She had half a dozen servants and a cook.

  Decker scarcely touched the food.

  Dr. Thompson would be calling again soon, as promised, to check upon the progress of his patient. Jo very much feared the prognosis would be hopeless. Lila returned to the vigil, settling herself in a chair on the opposite side of the bed.

  “Did you sleep at all, my dear?” Jo asked her, taking note of the exhaustion on the girl’s face.

  “I tried,” she said, her tearful gaze going to the form of her mother, still and silent as a grave.

  Jo fought against another wave of her own sobs, perpetually threatening to break free. “Have you breakfasted?”

  “I am not hungry,” the girl said, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  Jo understood.

  “You ought to eat something, Lila,” Decker added. “Mama would not want you to starve yourself.”

  “And what do you know of what Mama would want?” Lila demanded, her voice shrill with pent-up emotion. “You have been absent from our lives for seven years, Eli.”

  It was the first time Jo had ever heard someone refer to her husband by his given name, aside from during the recitation of their wedding vows. But that was not what shocked Jo the most. Rather, what took her by surprise was the suppressed anger in the girl’s voice.

  Decker inclined his head. “I have been absent. I acknowledge that. It was wrong, and I acknowledge that as well. I regret the rift between our mother and myself more than you can know, Lila. However, you must know that Mama sent me regular letters apprising me of your life at my request. Pictures as well.”

  That appeared to give his sister pause. “She said nothing of that to me. Not in all these years. Whenever I asked her about you, she said you wanted nothing to do with us.”

  “I suppose it must have seemed that way,” Decker acknowledged, “and perhaps it was easier for her to view what happened in those terms. Rest assured, however, I may have been gone, but I never stopped loving either of you.”

  Lila gave him a hard stare that told Jo there would be many rocky moments ahead in Decker’s relationship with his younger sister. In the midst of the night, Lila had been too engulfed in tears to offer many words. It seemed time and some slumber—however abbreviated—had loosened her tongue.

  “Lila,” Jo said then, seeking to ease the tension, “I will ring for a tray to be brought up for you. When you are peckish, you may help yourself to whatever you would like.”

  “If you insist upon ringing for a tray, I shan’t stop you,” Lila grumbled.

  Jo did just that and settled in to wait once more.

  Silence reigned. The tray arrived, and Lila reluctantly stole some bits here and there, eating no more than a sparrow would, it seemed to Jo. However, it was something. Meanwhile, Decker and Lila’s mother remained unresponsive.

  At long last, Dr. Thompson arrived.

  Decker stiffened at Jo’s side, his countenance sharpened to blunt, hard edges as the doctor performed a cursory examination. The doctor’s expression was sympathetic but firm as he turned to address Decker.

  “I do not expect a recovery, Mr. Decker.”

  The grim pronouncement tore a gasp from Lila. Jo absorbed the news, which, whilst expected, was a heavy blow to Decker. He had wanted very much to speak with his mother. To have a final chance at erasing some of the old pains between them. To make amends for their rift.

  Now, he would not have that opportunity.

  She bit her lip as she tu
rned her gaze toward her husband, whose dark head was bowed over the hands clasped in his lap. “It is as I feared, then. How may we…make her more comfortable, Dr. Thompson?”

  “I will administer more laudanum,” the physician said. “In hours such as these, it is often a matter of easing the patient’s distress. Nearness of one’s family is immeasurable. You are doing everything you can, sir.”

  Decker’s head raised, and he nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Thompson.”

  Jo did not miss the sparkle of tears in her husband’s sky-blue eyes. Nor did she hesitate to reach for his hands, settling hers soothingly atop his. The gesture said everything that mere words could not.

  She was not going anywhere.

  His mother was gone.

  Decker held his sister in his arms, her small body wracked by uncontrollable sobs, weeping along with her. Warring with the sadness was a confusing sense of relief, accompanied by the swelling tide of regret.

  Regret that he had waited seven years to forgive his mother, and when he had finally done so, it had nearly been too late. Regret he had not swallowed his pride and tried to make peace with her before she had been lying on her deathbed. Relief that he had been able to tell her what he needed to. He wanted to believe she had heard him, that the brief flutter of her lashes had been her way of acknowledging.

  Perhaps forgiving him, too.

  When at last their tears waned, Jo was there, ushering them calmly from the room, taking them to a sitting room where tea and sandwiches awaited them. She fussed over Decker and Lila in equal measure, and he found himself being stuffed into a chair, a cup of tea thrust into his hands.

  He was thirsty.

  Weary.

  Not hungry, he did not think. In truth, his guts were churning, and he thought he might vomit. The room seemed to swirl around him. He was a man grown, but he had not been prepared to contend with his mother’s death. From the moment he had received that troubling telegram the day before until the moment she had breathed her last, he had been desperate to believe she would recover. She was too young. Too vital. He had too much he wanted to say to her.

  He wanted her to meet Jo.

  To continue being a mother to Lila.

  To cradle her grandchild in her arms.

  Hell, did he want a child? What was he thinking? He had vowed to himself he would never saddle himself with heirs. The Earl of Graham’s legacy would die with him. It was just the wildness of his emotions, the tumult of the last few days, the lack of sleep, playing tricks upon his mind.

  Yes, that was it.

  “Decker?”

  There was his wife’s voice, sounding as if it arrived to him from the other end of a tunnel. So far away. There was a rushing in his ears. Damn it, he could not pass out. Not now. He inhaled slowly, trying to still his rapidly pounding heart, trying to regain control over himself.

  “Look at me, my love.”

  The insistence in her tone reached him, grasping him and hauling him out of the fog infecting his mind. He blinked, settling his gaze upon her. Love for her surged inside him, stronger than the grief. Bigger than the pain. He should tell her, he thought for at least the hundredth time.

  But the words would not come.

  Instead, he allowed his eyes to drift over her face. She had spent the entire night at his side. Little ringlets had come free of her chignon, curling around her face. She looked weary but beautiful as always, concern pinching the fullness of her lips into a firm line. He wanted to kiss her mouth back to lushness again, but he could not seem to move.

  Gratitude slammed into him, stealing his breath.

  “Drink the tea, Decker,” she urged softly.

  He did, because she asked him to. It was sweet on his tongue, prepared just as he liked it. Of course it was. His Josie took note of everything. She cared.

  “I need you to eat something. Just a bit,” she was saying. “It is nearly dinnertime, and you’ve had nothing since breakfast. I am going to speak with the servants, take care of a few matters. You stay here with Lila. I do not want either of you to worry about a thing. Let me take care of you. Will you do that for me?”

  He wanted to argue. To tell her he must be the one to arrange for mourning drapery in the household, a funeral, his mother, everything. Instead, he nodded. Jo wanted to take care of him, of his sister. And he was going to let her.

  “I will do that,” he rasped.

  “Good,” she said, some of the tension easing from her countenance.

  Perhaps she had supposed he would argue? His bloody mind had turned to porridge. He had not the capacity for thought at the moment. He was entrusting himself to his wife. His wife who loved him.

  She turned to go. He caught her hand, moving with such haste, he splashed tea into his lap. But he did not give a damn.

  “Josie?”

  “Yes, my love?” The tenderness in her expression made him ache.

  Tell her you love her.

  Three simple words, you dolt.

  “Thank you,” he said instead.

  She nodded, and then she bustled from the room.

  Decker turned to Lila. “You had better eat something, my dear. You did not eat enough for a bird earlier.”

  His sister’s lips trembled. “I miss her already, Eli.”

  No one called him Eli. No one but Mama and Lila and, a long time ago, Nora.

  “I do too, Lila,” he said sincerely.

  And he knew then that he always would.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Decker sank into the chair in his study, both relieved to be back in London and weary to the bone. Mourning was a draining practice. The last few days had been an endless sea of protocols being observed. His mother’s house had been draped in black, the glasses hung with mourning shrouds. A procession of somber callers had come and gone, including many of the local gentry, none of whom had known his mother’s true identity. She had led a quiet, unassuming life in Hertfordshire for the last seven years as the widowed Mrs. Decker, and none had pried into her past.

  Undoubtedly most of those who had called to offer their sympathies would never have lowered themselves had they known the truth about his mother. That she had never married but was, in truth, Miss Decker. And, worse, that she had been the Earl of Graham’s mistress.

  Yet, as Decker had spoken to them, a clear picture of the life she had created for herself there had begun to form. To those who had come to know her since her move to Hertfordshire following Graham’s death, she was not a ruined woman. Not a secret, not a source of shame, not a mistress, not a woman who ought to be scorned and shunned.

  Rather, she had been a woman of modest means, a kind friend, a dedicated member of the local parish, and a mother who loved her daughter and the son who never came up from London to visit her. Decker was grateful his mother had possessed the opportunity, unlike so many women in her position, to start anew and to be remembered as the woman she was rather than the decisions she had made.

  But the process had also been bittersweet, because he had been forced to face the reality that he had been nothing more than words on a page to her for the last seven years. He could not undo what had already been done. Could not rearrange the past into a more suiting picture.

  All he could do was do his best, from this moment on. His best for his wife, for his sister, and for himself, as well. He sighed as he thought of Jo, who had been a comforting source of strength at his side. She had been strong when he had been weak. When his mind had been too shattered with grief to comprehend what must be done, she had seen to every detail. She had become a confidante to his sister as well in the days since his mother had died.

  But the nature of their stay at his mother’s home had not lent itself to private time alone. Lila had been so distraught over their mother’s death that Jo had bedded down in her room each evening, to help her sleep through the night. Although Decker had missed Jo’s comforting presence in his own bed, he had been willing to relinquish her for the sake of his sister. Lila was so very yo
ung to lose her mother, and the shock and sleeplessness of the initial few days of their stay in Hertfordshire had left him falling asleep the moment his head had hit the bloody pillow.

  Now, he, Jo, and Lila had all returned to his townhome.

  Jo had decided to personally see Lila settled in her new room and get her personal effects sorted. Which left Decker once more alone, staring down a veritable mountain of correspondence upon his desk, with the distinct, uncomfortable need to explain himself to his wife burning in his gut. However, he would not put himself before Lila. His sister was an impressionable, terrified twelve years old.

  He was a man fully grown.

  He could share his beloved wife with his sister for another few hours, until everything was sorted for Lila. Already, Jo had arranged for interviews with prospective governesses in the coming days. Further proof she was a far better woman than he deserved.

  He had to tell her about the letter, about Nora, his past. He had to tell Jo he loved her and wanted to start a family of their own. The feelings that had assailed him when he had been at his mother’s deathbed had not faded or left him. Indeed, they had only grown stronger.

  He loved his wife. The next time he made love to her, he intended to plant his seed in her womb. He would speak with her soon, he promised himself, seeking distraction by the sorting of piles of correspondence. Mayhap tonight. Or when she finished with Lila. Thus far, the moment had never seemed the proper one in which to begin. They had scarcely had a minute alone together since arriving in Hertfordshire.

  Decker began with a pile of reports which had been assembled by Macfie, who was proving his mettle and settling matters with aplomb, as expected, in his absence. He had singlehandedly corrected a design flaw in the newest piano, arranged for a second printing of their wildly successful book Confessions of a Sinful Countess, and balanced the ledgers for the Black Souls Club. He had also suggested a new lease consideration, along with providing the finalized documents from Mr. Levi Storm’s North Atlantic Electric Company.

  He was going to have to give Macfie an increase in pay, Decker decided.