The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Thirty-Eight
H
is grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had come through this very morning on Brock’s request for a special license, and Brock wasted no time in assembling the wedding party. The most difficult part had been approaching the Duke of Addis, his father. They hadn’t spoken in ten years.
He sat behind his massive desk, his elbows on the shiny surface, fingers steepled. “She’s a baron’s daughter. And she’s a widow.”
“Yes.”
“You intend on marrying her regardless of any objection I might raise?”
Every word was a chafe on an open wound. “Yes.”
“She has two children. Girls.” The disgust in his tone set Brock’s teeth on edge.
Brock had no intention of groveling. His father either accepted his choice of bride or he didn’t. Brock cared not. “Yes.” A long silence ensued with the duke staring down his autocratic nose. But there were things that needed saying. “I’m not here to obtain your permission, sir.”
His father’s lips tipped slightly. “I didn’t expect you were.”
“About Rachel.”
His father flinched.
Brock pushed on. “I failed spectacularly in saving Rachel. I can never explain my regret. Or excuse my downfall.”
The duke rose from behind his desk. He came around and laid one hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Rachel’s demise was not your misstep, son. She was targeted because of who she was. My daughter, your sister. Painful as it is to accept, we did all we could. You sacrificed a woman you adored to try and save her. For that, you’ll always have my undying love and gratitude. I shall happily welcome your new family into our fold.”
Overwhelming emotion swamped Brock at this pronouncement. He had no words, swallowing hard. He’d been a fool to stay away so long. Such a fool. He took his father’s hand and squeezed.
The small, intimate wedding took place in the home of the Duke of Addis, and consisted of Ginny’s parents, Lady Alymer, and His Grace, with both Kimptons standing up for Brock and Ginny. The formal parlor was large enough to hold one hundred more.
Brock didn’t care, all he needed stood with him. Virginia Victoria Wimbley Ninnis, Irene Elizabeth Ninnis, and Cecilia Madelina Ninnis. He didn’t even mind James No-Last-Name’s attendance. He was clean, his hair trimmed fashionably and his clothes immaculate, though he couldn’t seem to utter anything other than “blimey.”
Brock was certain that James would soon end up in the schoolroom alongside Celia at Irene’s request. If broached, Brock intended to give his wholehearted approval.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Irene walked alongside Brock’s father, her hands clasped at her lower back; their stances identical.
“My lady. I take it you’re thrilled with the outcome of this wedding?” Brock saw his father’s whiskers twitch, but somehow he kept his voice in tone with hers in seriousness.
“Oh, yes, Your Grace. Lord Brockway is a hero. I suspect a book will be written in his honor in the future.”
“Is that so? Hmm. A hero. Yes, yes. I can see it now. Would you be the author of this future book?”
Irene’s brows furrowed in complete and grave contemplation. “I am not a writer. Of course, I am only nine. I shall consider the possibility as I pursue my studies.”
Brock enfolded his bride’s hand and looked at her. His grin surely matched hers.
“Well,” Ginny said. “Perhaps if she doesn’t write the story on your heroism, I shall.”
He pulled her in for a quick, hard, possessive kiss. The feel of her mouth beneath his had him tempted to drag her up to the wing in the duke’s residence where he’d recently installed his new family.
“Enough of that for now,” Kimpton said.
Lady Kimpton drew Ginny in a hug. “I knew he would be perfect for you.”
The baroness and baron joined them. “Yes. I did as well,” Ginny’s mother said with a wink.
Brock had sense enough not to roll his eyes; his wife, however, did not. “Of course you did, Mother.” She turned to Lady Kimpton. “How is Lord Harlowe? I’m sorry he was unable to attend.”
“He’s conscious. He’s eating. When he met Nathan, he seemed… confused.” Lady Kimpton blinked quickly. “I, however, cried a river,” she said with a self-deprecating smile.
Brock glanced over to his father. He and Irene sat with their heads together, chatting animatedly. How he wished he could have saved Rachel. He took heart in feeling her spirit. It was clear, to him at least, that Irene would bring his father great joy. Her intellect was amazing, her beauty appealing. But it was her demeanor that truly set her apart. Her imperturbableness, her quiet fearlessness, and her unshakable fortitude presented an enchanting young woman who would have him beating away the suitors in a distant future that would hurl itself in his path long before he knew he and Ginny would be ready to relinquish her to.
He raised Ginny’s left hand to his lips. “Shall we, my marquise?”
Sunlight streamed through a crease in the curtains the next morning and beamed Ginny in the eye. Groaning, she tugged at the sheet that wouldn’t budge.
“Surely you don’t think you’ll be able escape my bed so quickly after having been so recently installed?” John Brown, Lord Brockway, announced, rolling on top of her.
He swallowed her response in a pleasing kiss that spiraled her senses into ecstasy. Contentment unfurled through her, teasing and leading her on a flowing path of delight. Breathing him in was akin to sipping an intoxicating elixir. She ran her palms up over sinewy muscular arms that made her feel safe. Safe. Protected. Loved.
His lips trailed the column of her neck down the center of her chest, moving from one breast to the other. His erection swelled between her legs, and she felt herself go damp. He kissed and licked each scar her body wore with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. The cool brush of his fingers on her skin left a burning trail of desire. She moved her hand lower, wrapping her fingers around his length. His tormented groan was an invitation. She spread her legs wider and guided him to her entrance.
“Dear God,” he breathed. “I’ve died, haven’t I? Am I in hell or heaven?”
“You decide, my lord.” She bit his shoulder, startling him, and he was instantly sheathed deeply within her.
He used his fingers to press the top of her sex, sending showers of sparkles blinding her and her pulsing around his erection. “I love you, John Brown,” she whispered. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Never,” he panted. His plunges grew frantic. She locked her legs around his buttocks, bringing him deeper. “I’ll never leave you.” Harder and faster, he pushed and withdrew. “I… love… you… too.” He punctuated with each thrust. Until his neck grew taut, his muscles roping with tension. She matched each thrust with thrilling eagerness, until she shuddered beneath him in a quivering mass. His climax followed seconds later.
He collapsed beside her, his hard breaths in sync with hers. His hand splayed hers flat against his chest.
Ginny turned on her side, facing him, and ran her fingers over his sweat-sheened torso. “Tell me about Rachel,” she said softly.
“Ah. She was an engaging child. She had Celia’s exuberance and Irene’s practicality and dry wit.”
Ginny smiled. “You think Irene has dry wit?”
He returned her smile, and it was like bathing in warm scented water. “I do indeed.” The smile disappeared, and the tautness returned. “She was twelve when she disappeared. My father sent for me—”
“Ten years ago,” she whispered, remembering the note that had fallen from his pocket. Guilt and anguish consumed her. She swallowed them back with the bile that rose. He needed her to hear this, and she would see it through.
“Yes. The duke was beside himself. He’d learned everything he could. He set Bow Street on it. Rachel had been put aboard a ship discovered to be in the business of slave tradding. I was too late to catch the boat, and there was no time to lose. I followed in another boat. Weather played a villainess part. We were thrown off course by a few days. It was a devastating delay. I tracked her to Ponte de Lima. I was told she had been sold to a nomadic clan partial to young English girls. I found that group. A clan of Romani.”
With a shallow breath, Ginny laid her head on his shoulder, dreading, knowing what she feared was the inevitable outcome.
“They found her and buried her. She’d been brutalized from the traffickers who’d kidnapped her in the first place.” He ran a palm over his face. “I’d gotten word of your nuptials to Maudsley by that time. I made it back for just a short time, you remember? I was hurt and devastated. So I left again. I’d let down my father. I’d lost you.”
She brought his hand to her lips, unable to stem her tears.
“For the next three years, the Romani drew themselves around me. I lived with them, worked with them, ate with them. God, Ginny, they saved my life. The grief was unbearable.” Quiet surrounded them for a time, then Brock leaned over and brushed his lips over hers.
He rose from the bed and grabbed a silk brocaded robe, then tugged the bellpull. There was a soft tap at the door before it cracked open. “Timms, tea and coffee.”
“Yes, my lord. In the meantime, there is something in today’s post your father thought you should see.” She set the paper on a table near the door and backed out, closing the door on her exit.
Brock strolled over, picked up the paper, and scanned it. Emotion, from surprise to stony resolve, flittered across his expression.
“Good heavens. What is it?”
He strode over and tossed the print to her.
Nothing stood out at her cursory gloss-over. Then she whispered, “Oh my.” She read aloud. “The fifth Earl of Griston, Loren Spears, was committed to Bedlam on the birthdate of his thirty-third year, the twenty-seventh of July, 1819, due to a brain fever. The fifth earl’s son, Winslow Spears, Viscount Yates, will assume his sire’s duties through his appointed guardian, one Mr. Julian Featherstone of Northumberland.”
Another soft tap at the door sounded and the door flew back before either of them had a chance to answer. Ginny grabbed the sheet and held it to her chest as Celia bounded in. “Ladies, you will step outside and wait for permission to enter.”
“But, Mama—”
Ginny pointed to the door. “Out, Celia.”
At the latch’s click, Brock grinned. “I can see we shall have to engage the lock.” He picked up a silk wrap and tossed it to her.
She was cinching the tie when the knock sounded again. “Enter,” she said, dropping into one of the chairs near the hearth as Brock moved to stir the embers to life.
Celia dashed in. “Mama, you should see the gardens. This house is a castle. The duke said James can work in the stables. And Lord Brock says he can attend our studies with me and Irene.”
“Good morning, Mama, Lord Brockway.” Irene followed more sedately. “Bring in the tray, Timms. I ordered chocolate.” She glanced at Celia down her straight and perfect nose. “No coffee.”
Celia stuck her tongue out at Irene, and Ginny ducked her chin to hide her grin.
“The duke said we can decorate our bedchambers anyway we choose,” Celia said.
“It’s may,” Irene corrected her with a pained sigh. “The duke said we may decorate our bedchambers—but that’s neither here nor there.”
Celia snatched a scone off the tray and took a large bite. “He’s very nice, Mama.” She spoke around a mouthful. “He was shocked when I told him about our safeguarding—”
Brock’s groan coincided with Ginny’s own.
Irene took over. “It’s all right, Mama. The duke quite understood. He said if Rachel had been lucky enough to have had the same instruction, she might still be with us.”
Slowly, Brock replaced the poker in its stand then turned, straightening his body. “He said that?”
Ginny ached for him.
“Yes.” Irene poured out chocolate, and Ginny accepted a cup with gracious aplomb, then leaned back for the sure-to-be stimulating production. “He said that Celia and I are years, perhaps a century, ahead of our time.” Irene took a sip from her cup, then set it down. “But that’s not what we came to speak with you about.”
Celia set her cup down as well and stepped next to Irene, presenting what could only be considered a united front as they faced Brock. Celia’s fingers found and clung to Irene’s.
A sudden, oppressive tension cloaked the atmosphere. Ginny held her cup with a white-knuckled grip she was surprised didn’t shatter the delicate porcelain.
Brock moved to the chair closest to Ginny and lowered himself into it.
It was difficult to breathe. Ginny couldn’t imagine what had wrought this change, but she didn’t believe it would fare well.
Irene squared her shoulders. She cleared her throat, then took a deep breath. “We—Celia and I—wanted to know if perhaps, um…” Her gaze fell to hers and Celia’s clutched fingers, then raised again. “If you, um, wouldn’t mind if we called you Papa?” Her voice trailed off on a whisper.
Blood rushed into Ginny’s ears, blocking out ordinary noises. Like the pop and hiss of the fire or her cup clattering against the tea tray before it landed upended on the beautiful Persian rug.
Uncertainty trickled into her daughters’ expressions, and Celia’s thumb crept up to her mouth.
Brock rose from the chair to his full height and held out his hand. Both girls put their tiny ones in his. Ginny thought she would die before anyone managed to utter a word.
He bowed, a formal bend at the waist fit for the prince regent. “I-I—” He cleared his throat of an awkward croak. “I would be greatly honored, my ladies.”
Celia’s thumb plopped from her mouth. She smirked “See, Irene? I told you so.”
“’Tis not very ladylike to say, ‘I told you so,’” Irene said primly, if not somewhat huskily, her eyes never leaving Brock’s face. Worry shown in the depths of her gaze.
Ginny was too emotion-filled to speak, barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks in rivulets.
Brock grabbed Ginny’s right hand and squeezed hard, then he scooped them all up in a hug full of future and promise.
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