The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Twenty-Three
B
rock accepted his third brandy at Kimpton’s behest, sipping slowly. Lady Kimpton and Ginny had retired not long after the girls. His frustration mounted along with his desire. Following Ginny up to a guest chamber in his friend’s home was the height of impropriety, even if it might be a part of Lady Kimpton’s grandest plan. At least Ginny was not returning home to her manipulative family.
Only a stupid person ignored prior events in believing history would not repeat itself. And Brock was not stupid.
“You going to marry her?” Kimpton’s low rumble broke into Brock’s musings.
“That is the plan,” he muttered. “Is Pogue notifying the carpenter?”
“Yes. I’ll transport Lady Harlowe to Kent at first opportunity. She’ll want Corinne buried in the family yard.”
“Lady Kimpton will insist on accompanying you.”
Kimpton scowled. “I refuse to let her attend a funeral. You saw her. There is a reason society looks down on women attending such a thing. For once, I am in full accord with the sentiment.”
“Will you have a viewing?”
“I suppose that is something I’ll need to discuss with my wife.” He ran a hand over his face. “God, why?” he breathed.
Brock had no response. “Let’s just hope Pogue accepts your explanations of Lady Harlowe grabbing the bottle by accident in the cover of darkness.”
“Why shouldn’t he believe it? Hell, I almost believe it. I damn sure want to.”
A wry smile touched Brock’s mouth. “I’m sure your generous restitution won’t hurt.”
Kimpton smiled back. “No, just as I intended.” His brows furrowed. “And here I feel we are on the precipice of locating the missing viscount too.”
Shockingly, the viscount had slipped Brock’s mind, what with safeguarding lessons for Irene and Celia, and Ginny taking up his every waking thought. Along with the intrusions to his dreams by night, there wasn’t much more that would fit in the low capacity his head could hold.
“The baron told Ginny this afternoon that he’d invited a suitable gentleman for luncheon,” he said, deciding he’d heard enough talk of the death and its destruction.
“Suitable for what?”
“I’m sure he meant marriage,” he said on a disgusted huff.
A bark of Kimpton’s laughter erupted. It sounded strange after the past few harrowing hours. “They do realize she is a woman of maturity and, as a widow, answers to no one, don’t they?”
“In my observations, that is just a minor obstacle in their determined path.” The truth and grimness of his own statement struck deep. She’d told them to leave, yet they remained in blatant insouciance.
“Who was this, er, suitable gentleman?”
Heat crawled up Brock’s neck, and he suddenly wished he hadn’t broached the subject at all. “Griston.”
Kimpton’s brows drew together. “The man is a menace.”
“Yes.” Brock rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t abide him. On the upside, Ginny stood up to her father and refused to let him intimidate her. It was quite a sight to behold.”
“Your Ginny has surprised us all with her unerring strength.”
Brock glanced over to where Ginny had last been sitting. “Yes,” he said softly, proudly. “She doesn’t appear to need a man at all.”
“Understandable with what she’s suffered. Women value their independence. We want to protect them.”
“Something like that,” he mumbled in his drink. He wondered if Lady Kimpton had mentioned the girls’ safeguarding lessons to her husband. He wondered if his lessons were his only value to her.
The house quieted and Brock paced his borrowed bedchamber. His restlessness could not be stayed. It was beyond conscionable to sneak into Ginny’s room, but since he’d turned her over to her children after Maudsley’s death last year, they hadn’t a moment alone but for the single night in Colchester. He was going to explode if he didn’t see her alone. He’d already determined the location Lady Kimpton had placed her and had been gratified to note that, while it was not right next door, she’d been assigned two down from him.
With the emotional turmoil the entire house was in, he doubted even Irene and Celia would be inclined to interrupt them. That sealed it. In just his shirtsleeves and breeches, he peered out his door down the hall. A few of the sconces had been left lighted for practical purposes.
Her door was unlocked, as he knew it would be, in the event the girls needed her. He slipped inside and found her sitting on a cushioned bench near the window looking out at the steady pour of rain. She didn’t so much as move when he entered. Silently, he made his way over and set his hands on her shoulders.
“How could she do it?” she said softly. “How could she bear to leave her child like that?”
“Some women are not as strong as you, darling.” He lowered beside her, though her back was to him. He slid his arms around her waist.
Her hands moved, laying atop his arms. “The depths of her despair must have been infinite to take so drastic an action. Did she miss Harlowe so much? I feel… so… sorry for her.”
Brock rested a cheek upon her head and breathed in her floral scented hair. “Your compassion leaves me speechless. And humbled.”
Her body lurched and turned, her arms wrapping his neck. “She left her child. Help me understand.”
“I-I can’t help you. The thought of you leaving your own children even through death kept you from dying even when the odds were stacked so highly against you.”
“Oh, Brock.” Her mouth found his and he was lost.
