by Stacy Reid
“Marianne—”
“No, you are, Lucy. You knew better, but you allowed passion to cloud your good senses. Did you inform him of your state?”
“Yes,” she said through bloodless lips. “I did.”
“And he refused to marry you still,” Marianne said, tears forming in her eyes, imagining how much heartbreak and pain her sister must have endured at that moment.
“He might do the same thing father wants to do. Place Lizzie in an orphanage. That is what lords do with their unwanted bastards,” Lucy said with a touch of bitterness.
A heaviness lodged in Marianne’s stomach. “I have to try. Perhaps he might feel different about a child, especially if he has any of the goodness you saw.”
Even to her ears, that hope felt empty. What good man would abandon a girl he had compromised? “Perhaps I will be able to convince him of his duty and responsibility to this child.” And to you. “I might be able to convince him to settle Lizzie with an inheritance, so her future is not so bleak, or to provide you with a living where you could go far away from here with her, and live comfortably with a servant or two, and assume widowhood as you wanted.”
A painful hope lit in Lucy’s face. “Oh Marianne, that would be more than I ever dreamed.”
“If you have that financial independence, we might be able to convince Papa to let you go. I am to travel to town in a few weeks to interview for that governess’s post with Lord Sanderson. I will convince Papa it should be me and Mama who takes Lizzie to the orphanage…and then I will plead with Mama to allow me to take her to London.”
There was a long pause, while her sister seemed to agonize over what to do.
“And do you think Mama would do that…for me?”
She squeezed Lucy’s fingers. “Mama does not want Lizzie in a poorhouse either. Surely, she will see that I should take her to her father than to be left at a place where she might suffer.”
“Lord Worsley,” Lucy finally whispered.
A jerk of shock pierced Marianne, and memory of that dark angel and his touch against her face rose to the surface. “What?”
Haunted eyes lifted to Marianne’s, and a breath shuddered from Lucy. “The man I loved…the man who ruined me is Lord Worsley.”
The most awful sensation of panic coiled around Marianne’s lungs, tightening until she could not breathe. Could such a man be convinced to do anything he did not want to do?
Dear God.
Chapter 3
4 months later…
Russell Square, London.
There was a loud and very off-putting commotion in Michael’s hallway.
“You, madam, will leave this house at once!”
His normally unflappable butler—Carlton—had raised his voice, enough so that it filtered in the drawing-room several doors down. The lady must have made some reply. However, Michael did not hear it. Somehow, she retained her calm in the face of his butler’s stern demeanor.
“It is no concern of yours where my master is,” Carlton replied in that stiff upper lip way of his. “My lord is not at home to any callers today, and most certainly not to…to someone disgraceful enough to barge inside uninvited!”
The interest that had been absent for the last few minutes slithered through him. Michael slowly lowered the brandy to a small desk before the chaise longue in which he sat and sent the very naked widow Benchley a small smile.
“If you will excuse me for a moment, my dear. I shall return shortly.”
She pouted, before draping herself over the chaise, taking up his drink and placing the glass to where his lips had just been. Her lids fluttered closed on an exaggerated groan, and he bit back his smile and made his way from the drawing-room.
“I shall not leave until I’ve seen Viscount Worsley and if you try to touch me again, Sir, I’ll not hesitate to slap you with this umbrella!”
A smile tugged at his lips as he moved silently toward the tableau.
“He is not in residence,” his butler said.
“He is, and I know this because I followed him. Then I paid the driver of my hired carriage to wait fifteen minutes while I worked up my courage to come and knock on this door. I am tired and dusty from traveling, and you Sir, will show some kindness and summon your master!”
Even more interesting. Michael could not recall if he’d ever had a lady do that before. At his approach, the young lady spun around. An unfamiliar, heavy feeling constricted his chest. “I know you,” he murmured, staring at her eyes. “Ah, they are an exquisite green of new spring leaves.”
The color rising on her cheeks riveted him. She had such an enchantingly pretty face, with a lovely, lush mouth, and a most determined chin. Unexpectedly he felt lighter as if her mere presence had brightened his day somehow.
“If I might have a moment of your time, my lord, it is very urgent.” She gripped the handle of the basket she carried, a basket which appeared to have something covered up. A puppy, perhaps. It did not escape him that somehow, she had dragged in two valises and a hatbox along with the basket. How…odd.
“If you will follow me.” He glanced at Carlton. “Have Mrs. Barrett arrange for tea, cakes, and some sandwiches to be sent to the smaller drawing-room.”
Relief lit in the lady’s gaze, and he wasn’t mistaken there was a sheen of tears. The blanket over the basket moved again, and then a soft cry lifted from it.
The very air around them went remarkably still. She stared at him, rather pale at first, and then flushing, and turning away her face. With surprising deftness and strength, she lifted the basket higher and shifted the soft blanket to reveal a rounded cherubic face with a tuft of blonde hair. The face which had been creased in a cry smoothed out, and the baby cooed instead.
“And who is this?” he asked with lethal softness, a disquiet to her presence piercing him.
Her gaze volleyed from him to his butler, and a violet blush painted her cheeks. She lifted her chin. “If we could have some privacy, my lord, I shall explain all.”
He spun and made his way to the smaller drawing-room, and she hurried behind him. Once at the door, he held it open and allowed her to precede him inside. He closed the door firmly, and moving to the sideboard, he grabbed a decanter and poured a generous splash of brandy into a glass. He swallowed down the liquor, the smooth burn welcoming before he faced her. Something told him he needed the fortification.
“Why have you called at my home with this child?” he demanded bluntly.
She placed the basket on the chaise longue and seemed to do a quick check over the child’s body. What she looked for was beyond Michael’s comprehension. Seemingly satisfied, she laced her fingers together and met his gaze unflinchingly. Except, he could see the wild flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. The lady was quite frightened and doing her best to appear unflappable.
“Surely you must suspect,” she said, casting a glance at the basket.
“I assure you, I haven't the remotest guess.”
“I’m Miss Marianne Ashbrook, sister of Lucy.”
She waited as if that introduction would explain her presence in his home. He merely arched a brow, and that was enough to prompt her to further speech.
“I have taken a considerable risk to come here, my lord.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I lied to my father and journeyed for several days alone from Wiltshire. Papa believes I've taken up a governess’s post somewhere in London, not that…not that I am here.”
“And that considerable risk is a lie?” he asked with biting sarcasm.
“Of course, it is.” She sniffed delicately. “I expect a man of your wicked principles to think a lie to one’s parent negligible. Oh, forgive my loose tongue, your lordship, I am not here today to scold you for your wicked ways, but for a far more important matter.”
Something softened unexpectedly inside Michael. “On the contrary, I find honesty refreshing and important in any relationship. Your reminder is appreciated, Miss Ashbrook. I must disappo
int you, however, as I am not familiar with Lucy.”
She stiffened, and the pain radiating from her gaze had him lowering his drink to the walnut table and taking a few steps closer. “Miss Ashbrook—”
“You do not remember her?” she asked so softly it was a wonder he heard.
There was a strong possibility he had met this Lucy and forgotten her. Each week he met dozens of ladies at balls, routs, and soirées, and dozens of more lush ladies at his gambling den. He saw that she was looking bewildered and said with some impatience, “Why is it important that I know her?”
“I…” she took a steady breath, a beguiling pink blossoming over her face and throat. “Lucy fell with child after spending some time with you, Lord Worsley. I’ve brought your child to you.”
Michael stared at her for several moments, unable to credit her accusation.
“My child?” he asked, unable to keep an inflection of surprise out of his voice.
“Yes, your child. I am very much shocked by the whole affair.”
“Are you the mother?”
“Please pay attention, your lordship, Lucy is the child’s mother,” she said, not mincing words.
He glanced at the basket where the child laid seemingly content with the world if the soft gurgles were anything to go by. A child…and it was supposed to be his.
“How old is the child,” he asked softly.
“Four months old yesterday.”
The knot in his gut loosened, and a slow exhale puffed from him. “Then, the child is not mine.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“I haven’t had a lover in a long time.”
“And what does that have to do with anything?” she demanded, her tone mildly reproving.
“Don't be a pea-goose,” he snapped, low and hard. “The timeline of this bundle of joy suggests I can't be the father. Also, I have always taken care never to leave my seed in a lover!”
She swayed at his explicitness, pressing a gloved hand to her cheek. Miss Ashbrook appeared very much flushed, and with tears sparkling on the ends of her long eyelashes. “I…my sister would not lie to me, not about something this important.”
It galled him unspeakably that her tone suggested he was the liar in the situation. “Whatever fraudulent—”
“There is no fraud here, your lordship,” she cried with passionate alarm. “If you would but look at her. Her eyes are the same as yours…the beauty of ashen clouds chasing a storm.”
Her earnestness rocked him back on his heels, and for precious moments he could only stare at Miss Ashbrook. Michael went over to the child, and as he peered down at her, an inexplicable feeling blossomed through him. He could not identify it, never having endured such a sensation before. If he were a different type of man, perhaps he would label it as awe with a dash of fright. He didn’t believe he had ever been this close to a child before. He examined her plump and clean features. Her eyes were indeed a silver-gray, and her hair was a shade lighter than his dark blond. He moved the blanket aside, his heart pounded and lifted one of the tiny baby’s arms.
There it was, the red crescent-shaped birthmark that seemed to be on every St. Ives. “And your sister named me to be the father?” he demanded gruffly.
“Yes,” she said on a tremulous sigh. “Our father…” she cleared her throat. “To protect the family’s reputation, our father wished to send Lizzie to an orphanage in Bethnal Green. Our Lizzie cannot go there! We…Lucy and I were hoping you would claim her and provide a loving home for her. With you, surely her life would be better and her future brighter.”
He heard the desperate, agonizing hope in Miss Ashbrook’s tone. Either through a misunderstanding or some mishap, Lucy Ashbrook contrived to say they had been lovers.
Except…this child was not his. He suspected his bounder of a brother, Thomas St. Ives, the heir apparent to the viscounty.
“Before you make a decision, I believe you should read this.”
She dipped into the pocket of her dress and withdrew a letter. He took it, noted there was no wafer, and unfolded the piece of paper.
Dearest Thomas,
I waited for you by our bench in Hyde Park as I promised, and you never showed. I came back for several days, with such hope in my heart that you would be there. I did not see you at any balls in the week to follow, and I cannot express how much my heart shattered. I loved you sincerely, and I believed you held me deep in your affections as well.
I want to say I forgive you for leaving me alone after you promised to marry me. I cannot. But I feel you owe your daughter everything, even if she was born out of wedlock, she was conceived in love. I cannot bear for her to be sent away to a home. It devastates me that she is being taken away from me, but my heart might heal if I know she is being cared for by you and not indifferent strangers who will be more interested in the money they receive for her instead of her well-being.
Lucy.
A vague memory resurfaced in his thoughts, and he clenched his teeth to bite back his snarl of anger.
“I want your blessing to marry Lucy Ashbrook. She is the most perfect angel I’ve ever seen. Sweet and charming, and so very pleasant.”
Thomas had been drunk at the time, and Michael hadn’t taken his brother seriously. And now he had a bastard in the world, and a young lady was ruined. Thomas was currently affianced to Lady Sarah Balfour, the Earl of Kenwood’s daughter. His brother would consign the child to an orphanage so as not to embarrass his fiancée and powerful father-in-law should this scandal reach the ears of the gossipmongers of society.
Michael did not think to protest his innocence in this matter again. To do so would require him to cast the blame on his brother. It would be best if all eventual scandal were directed at Michael. Society already referred to him as the wicked viscount and expected this sort of behavior from a man of his reputation. He knew Thomas to be a brilliant young man who had graduated Cambridge with honors. How he had come to abandon a pregnant Lucy was beyond Michael. Surely his objections to his brother’s marriage to a girl with no dowry and connections hadn’t been all it took from Thomas to move on?
Many orphanages were really a place where unwanted babies were dumped for a penny here or there. Not many lived beyond a few weeks for the living conditions were cold and harsh.
What a bloody mess.
“Very well, you may leave the child here,” he said abruptly.
Michael needed time to determine his next steps and what it would mean that he now had a child, the very last thing he ever expected, in his life to care for. He scrubbed a hand over his face.
What a damn complicated mess.
* * *
“I beg your pardon?” Marianne asked faintly, pressing a hand to her chest.
The viscount stared at her with an unfathomable expression. She had come prepared with so many arguments in the desperate hope he would show some kindness. His capitulation was unexpected, and that he did so without any bluster rattled her nerves.
His expression was grim as he pinned her with his stare. “You may leave the child, Miss Ashbrook. Thank you for bringing her to me.”
She waited for relief to fill her bones, but only a deep disquiet filled her veins. And anger. That he would so easily discard thoughts of Lucy. He had not even thought to ask after the young girl he had ruined and cast to the scrutiny and condemnation of society. How silly of her to even expect a glimmer of remorse from an unprincipled seducer.
She tried to gather her scattered thoughts. “And what of Lucy?”
He sustained this query with no more than a blink “And what of her?”
“She is ruined.”
He was perfectly silent for a moment, a tiny crease between his brows. “By her own desires. It takes two to make a child, Miss Ashbrook, surely even with your naïveté that is general knowledge.”
She flushed. “She was callously seduced—”
“Ah…that old belief that a man only has to kiss a lady and she becomes enraptured, loses all of her
senses, and is quite blameless in the game of seduction. I assure you, that is not the way of it. Your sister was equally complicit and very well knew what she was about when she allowed herself to be ravished.”
“My sister was a girl of eighteen years and you a man of the world! Above everything, you are shameless! Surely you can see that you took advantage and must make some restitution.”
“I will do my best to make amends, but it will not be marriage. It is too late for that.”
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, but her lips trembled fiercely as she battled the fierce urge to cry. “I see.”
“I’ll purchase a house in the countryside and will write a draft for five thousand pounds for your sister in the hopes it will at least provide a comfortable future.”
Marianne stared at him in ill-concealed shock. “That is a fortune,” she whispered in a stupefied tone. It was more than she expected, yet the fact he showed such little care for Lucy hurt somewhere deep inside. “Lucy has not yet reached her majority. I am not certain Papa will allow her to keep that money.”
Papa had already cuttingly referred to Lucy as a whore, Marianne wasn’t entirely sure he would see this as restoration toward securing Lucy’s future. “It might be best if it goes toward Lizzie’s dowry and her education.”
“The child’s dowry will be much more than five thousand pounds, and her education will be provided by the best governesses and tutors.”
He appeared honest, sincere, and she was at a loss for words.
The viscount continued, “I will speak to your father as soon as it is feasible.”
“My father will likely shoot you,” she said with blunt honesty. “He is very angry and hurt about the entire affair.”
“I will navigate those waters when the time comes,” he said enigmatically.
There did not seem to be anything to say in reply to this. She glanced toward the basket. “Lizzie will need a wet nurse immediately, someone who loves children and has a good temper. A room will need to be converted—”
