The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Fourteen

T

he girls are sleeping, Lady Maudsley.”

It was an effort not to rush up the three flights of stairs, wake them, and take them home. “Thank you, Peg. Perhaps I’ll just look in on them,” Ginny said.

“Very good, m’lady.”

“Why don’t you stay the night, Ginny?” Lorelei said, handing off her cloak and bonnet to her staid butler, Oswald. “You know we’ve plenty of room.”

Brock stiffened beside her.

“Thank you, Lorelei. I’d like to look in on the children before deciding.” She handed over her pelisse. Brock’s gaze bored through her shoulders, but she refused to look back at him.

Upstairs, outside the nursery, Ginny pushed on the door. Silvery moonbeams sliced the room. Someone stirred in the bed closest to the windows. “Mama?” It was Irene. “You’re not due to return until tomorrow. Is all well?”

The sound of her voice filled Ginny with relief and joy. “Of course.” She made her way to Irene’s side and perched on the edge of the bed. “I couldn’t wait another day to see you. Perhaps a hug would be in order?” she said softly.

In a move of the sweetest pain, Irene launched her small body into Ginny, her tiny arms almost choking her. Ginny buried her wet eyes in her stoic daughter’s neck and hugged her back as hard as she could. “Have you missed me, pet?”

Irene pulled back, taking a piece of Ginny’s heart with her. She tugged at the top sheet and dabbed at her eyes before folding her hands in her lap. “Frankly, Mama, Nathan has strained my last nerve. I’m ready to return home and begin our stay-safe lessons in earnest.”

“Mama?” Celia sat up in the other bed.

“It’s me, poppet.”

“Can we go home?”

That settled it. “Yes.” Ginny stood up. “Let’s get you girls dressed. Hurry now. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

The Kimpton carriage was dark but for the low glow of one interior lamp.

“I thought you would have left by the time I came back downstairs,” Ginny told Brock.

The moon enhanced the translucent skin of her neck. Brock kept a protective hold on Cecilia’s sleeping form to keep her from bouncing to the floor in the rocking buggy. “I had an inkling. Hence the reason I asked Thorne to leave his carriage available. Strongly going against his wife’s wishes, I might add.” Cecilia was leaning against him with her eyes closed, her thumb solidly embedded in her mouth. Next to Ginny, Irene sat upright and as prim and proper as one of the Almack’s staunches patronesses.

“Will you be starting our safe-guard lessons in the morning, Lord Brockway? I’ll admit, I was wary when Mama first mentioned them, but after Celia’s run-in at the park—”

The atmosphere in the carriage vibrated to blood-red, but he held his tongue. “Celia’s run-in?” he said lightly.

Ginny cleared her throat. “Remember? I mentioned it to you. It was nothing, really.”

“Lord Griston pulled the thief up by the scruff of his neck and turned him over to his man. I worry for the small boy.” Irene let out a soft, heartfelt sigh. “I fear for his life.”

Brock shifted his attention to Irene, contemplated the depths of her statement, and refrained from commenting on the boy’s fate. He suspected the child had been nicely and quietly disposed of. He sliced a piercing gaze back on Ginny, though addressing Irene. “I’m happy to begin your safeguard lessons in the morning, Lady Irene. If your mother doesn’t object, of course.”

“That is certainly agreeable to me, my lord,” Ginny said briskly. The carriage drew up before her town home. “Ah, here we are—” Her relief seemed to stop short. Quickly shifted to concern. “Why are all the lights on?”

Irene leaned around her to peer out the window. “Perhaps the servants are having a party, Mama.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, ignoring Irene’s rebuking gasp. Brock would be tempted to laugh but for Ginny’s obvious surprise.

Brock’s own curiosity kicked up. Had Maudsley changed his mind about taking up residence? He kicked the door open, before recalling Maudsley had been at Griston’s and there was no way for the man to have returned to London so quickly. He stepped down gingerly, holding Cecilia, who still slept soundly. He held out his hand for Irene then Ginny. The ground floor was lit up like Christmas. Ginny grabbed Irene’s hand; Brock followed, issuing a vague order to Andrews regarding the bags. He followed Ginny up the steps to the portico and into the house.

“Kipling, what is going on here?” she demanded.

The harried butler hurried forward. “You’ve guests, madam.”

“Guests? Who on earth—”

“Darling. There you are. Your father and I only just arrived.” Her mother started forward. “Then we learn you are attending a house party in the country and not even in residence.” Her chastisement was not the least bit subtle.

Ginny froze, her half boots appearing to meld to the marble floor. She wrapped an arm around Irene, pulling her into her body. Brock moved next to Ginny, his only desire to help present a united front to the monsters who’d sold their daughter out to an abusive bastard who’d basically left her for dead.

Lines bracketed Ginny’s mother’s mouth, reminiscent of a bitter heart. Her advancement halted. “Oh my. Look how beautiful my grandchildren are.” Ginny’s father strolled in from the study. Their unmitigated gall floored Brock.

“What are you doing in my house?” The flatness of Ginny’s words should have served as a warning.

“There’s no need to for rudeness, daughter,” her father blustered. “We’d heard you came out of mourning. Is it so wrong to want to see how you are faring? You’re our only child.”

“One you haven’t seen in ten years. Again I ask, what are you doing here?”

Miss Lambert appeared at the top of the stairs, and a second later she hurried down. “I see Cecilia is quite worn out, my lord. Perhaps I should put the girls to bed?”

“Excellent notion, ma’am,” Brock said, handing over the five-year-old.

Ginny pushed Irene into the governess’s direction. “Irene, go with Miss Lambert. I’ll be up to see you before I go to bed.”

“Yes, Mama.” Irene moved next to Miss Lambert, and the trio went up the stairs, Irene’s worried face watching over her shoulder.

Ginny turned to Brock. “You should go. I can handle things here.”

“Forget it,” he growled. “I am not leaving you to these two. Do you remember the last time?”

“Of course I do. It’s not something I’m likely to forget,” she told him. “I’ll be fine. I’m not an innocent this time around.”

With reluctance and a tightened jaw, Brock went out the door. Andrews was carting an armful of bags up the steps. Brock relieved him of his load and set them inside the door. He completed two more loads before climbing into the carriage and instructing Andrews to take him back to the Kimptons’ for his horse.

He didn’t anticipate getting much sleep the rest of the night. Not with the unexpected surveillance thrust upon him, as he had no intention of leaving Ginny in the hands of her parents. They wanted something from her, and they would have to go through him to get it.

The fully lit hall gave Ginny a dreadfully aching head. She longed for the sanctuary of her chamber, the softness of her pillow, and the weight of the counterpane. Instead, she did a slow circle, searching for the words to oust her odious, overbearing parents. She glanced up at the long clock, noting the lateness of the hour. She could hardly turn her parents out in the dead of night, no matter how tempting. “You may stay tonight, but I’ll expect you out by noon tomorrow.” It only took one step up for her mother’s grating shrill to echo through the cavernous foyer to the ceiling.

“Now, Virginia, there’s no reason to be so upset.”

She was torn between outrage, dread, and out-and-out amusement.

“Close your mouth, darling. It’s in bad taste to leave it hanging open so.”

The audacity of being scolded so won out in a burst of hysterical laughter. Ginny whirled about and took the stairs one at a time. What else was she to do still fully dressed in her travel attire? “Noon, mother,” she said over her shoulder. “You and Papa have until noon tomorrow.”

Ginny trotted up the rest of the way, filing past her own chamber to the flight leading to the nursery and the girls’ bedroom. She tapped on the door and peered inside. “Irene?”

“I’m here, Mama. Did you throw them out?” If it had been anyone else asking, Ginny would have believed they were jesting. Not Irene.

“Not yet, darling.” But she had every intention of following through on that very task the next day. “Will you have trouble sleeping?”

“Perhaps,” Irene said on a soft sigh. “But I shall endeavor to stay in my own bed in the event Celia should need me.”

Ginny leaned over and kissed her soft cheek. “You do that. But if she wakes and you wish to come to my chamber, my door will remain unlocked. You might consider leaving Miss Lambert a note.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Laughing, Ginny tweaked her nose. “I’m teasing, my darling. I think Miss Lambert will have an idea where to find you should she wake and find you and Celia missing.”

“Oh. Yes, I see what you mean.”

Swallowing a sigh, Ginny hugged her and stole quietly from the chamber to check on her younger daughter. Celia was sleeping just as soundly as she had in Brock’s arms, her thumb slack in her mouth. Ginny pulled her tiny hand away and tucked it beneath the covers. She dropped a kiss on her temple, breathing in her innocence. Then she sent up a prayer for these two beautiful souls God had so generously gifted her.

Miss Lambert’s head peered in. “Lady Maudsley?”

“Everything is all right, Miss Lambert. But if you should find the girls missing in the morning, I suspect they’ll be snuggled in with me. Oh, and don’t be surprised to find a note from Irene stating such,” she added.

She smiled. “Of course, my lady. Good night.”

Ginny tripped down the stairs, pausing as she reached her own level and stopping. All was quiet. The thick rugs beneath her feet allowed her to sneak into her chamber unaccosted. Nancy met her at the door.

“There you are, milady. I’ve had a warm water sent up for you. In the dressing room.”

“Heaven. Thank you. Just help me out of this atrocity of a dress and you can retire.”

Minutes later, Ginny was sponging her face and neck from a bowl of rose scented water, deep in thought. Brock was worming his way straight in her ice-encrusted heart with the force of a flaming arrow. How was she supposed to keep herself safeguarded? Their future was an ill-fated one, and she could see no way to protect herself from the oncoming disaster. Not if he refused to observe the boundaries she continually tried to set. He obliterated every obstacle she set forth.

A knock pounded on the door.

Ginny frowned. “I’m fine, Nancy—”

“I’m not Nancy.” Brock stood in the vaulted arch with his arms folded over his chest.

In her haste to grab for a towel, Ginny hit the bowl and sent it toppling to the floor. She snatched the scrap of linen dangling before her and dried her face. She threw it at him, which he caught with a deft hand. “What are you doing here?”

He flicked a thumb in the direction of the door, ignoring her question. “They’re still here.”

She clutched the neck of her modest night rail. “And in what capacity is that your concern?” Her only satisfaction was a tightening of his jaw. She brushed past him into the bedchamber. Not her smartest move perhaps. Especially since she’d failed to hold her breath and was inundated with a faint trace of bay and hit with a full force of all male. All Brock.

Swallowing a groan, she stalked to the door and twisted the lock. “How did you get in here?”

“I climbed up the trellis.” He followed her in but dropped into a chair before the blazing fire in the hearth.

“Quite an accomplishment, since there’s not a single trellis on this property.”

He shot her an unrepentant grin that shifted into a stern grimace. “I walked in through the front door with no one the wiser. Unequivocally irresponsible. I think you need a more competent butler. Entire staff, for that matter.”

Outrage surged up from her toes through her abdomen to her pounding head with each step she took until she reached him, nose to nose, her finger poking his chest, punctuating each word. “How. Dare. You.”

Brock wrapped the whole of her hand in his and tugged. She fell right into his lap. Right where she belonged. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair, breathing in her rose-scented skin from her wash. “As long as those people are in this house, you can be sure I’ll be staying.”

She opened her mouth to… blast him, no doubt, but he stayed that by sealing his mouth over hers, drinking in the fire that was all her. Stoking that all-consuming inferno with each lash of his tongue. Varying the pressure until she melted into him and he couldn’t say where he ended and she began. She arched into him, and he molded one hand around the graceful column of her neck, his fingertips exploring the satiny contours of her skin. Her trembling limbs clung to him, leaving the cotton concoction she wore open and his for the taking. He slid his hand in the parted neck and cupped her breast, her nipple beading into a hard nub against his palm. The most erotic sensation sent the blood rushing from his thumping heart straight south to an already engorged portion of his anatomy.

Possession, heady and violent, ballooned. He needed more. A gentle attempt to move his hand failed abominably. Instead, he gripped the opening of her gown and yanked. Ripped the soft fabric open at the center seam and covered her breast with his mouth.

His heart bashed against his ribs so soundly it was a wonder the whole household did not storm the chamber.

Ginny struggled against him. “Let me up,” she whispered harshly. “Someone’s at the door. Up, you big clod.”

The door?Someone was knocking at the door. Brock stumbled to his feet, steadying Ginny before she toppled to the floor, pushing her behind him. “Hide. In the dressing—”

“What! No! This is my home.” She stalked over to the bed and slipped into a fuzzy wrap, cinching it at the waist.

Dropping back in the chair, he lounged, legs splayed, daring her to order him otherwise.

With an outraged huff, she unlocked the door and cracked it. “Yes? Irene?” With a scathing glance at him over her shoulder, she dragged the door open, allowing two bedraggled children to enter.

Right. Children.

One whose thumb was securely tucked in her sweet little mouth.

“Hello, Mama.” Irene’s gaze narrowed on him with unerring accuracy before going back to her mother. “Is this a good time? I left Miss Lambert a note.”

“Of course it is, darling. Lord Brockway feared he would be late tomorrow and… and…”

“I’m here to look over the young women of the household,” he said, taking pity on Ginny, yet unable to resist giving her a smug smile. “Lady Cecilia’s incident at the park worried me greatly, I fear.”

Ginny’s revenge went deep, however. “Take Celia and crawl into the bed, darling. Lord Brockway will serve as our bodyguard tonight,” she said, returning his smile with a smirk.

“I suppose that is wise.” Irene tugged her younger sister to the cavernous bed and assisted her up before crawling up beside her. “What with strangers in the house and all, ’tis probably best.”

Who was this woman-child?Brock wondered with a sense of the absurd, though oddly touched.

Ginny had disappeared in the dressing room, but returned a moment later, wearing another demure night rail with nary a hanging thread and holding a rug. She sauntered over and tossed it in his lap. “Sweet dreams, my lord.”

“Yes, sweet dreams,” Irene said. Her serious demeanor confused him but wrapped around his heart like the cozy blanket he held.

The small plop, sounding suspiciously like the suctioned release of a thumb from a mouth, pierced the quiet, followed by Cecilia’s soft echo. “Sweet dreams, Lord Bwockway.”