“I like to believe that if he did, he would have reached out to you.” Kincaid stroked her arm. “From everything I’ve heard, Dorchester is a hard, but fair man. Which leads me to suspect your mother never told him she was expecting before she left London.”
Joanna sat up. “Then why go to the trouble of stealing the ring after all these years?”
Kincaid had asked himself the same question, and he thought he finally had an answer.
“You also have a half-brother, Miss Thorncroft. Three years older. The Earl of Hawkridge.”
“I am related to a duke, a marquess, and an earl?” She gave a quick, disbelieving shake of her head. “Evie is going to be so jealous.”
“Apparently, the earl is about to propose. As I said initially, heirlooms are quite important to the aristocracy.”
“You’re saying my half-brother stole my mother’s ring to use for his engagement?”
“Indeed.”
“But that’s ludicrous!” she exclaimed, jumping off the bench in a swirl of indignation and blue skirts. “Why couldn’t he just buy another ring? Why did he have to take this one? Does he have any idea the trouble he has caused?”
“I don’t know,” Kincaid admitted. “But I intend to find out. There is a ball in two days at the private estate of the Countess of Beresford, and the Earl of Hawkridge will be there. I’ll speak to him, explain the situation, and see if he is willing to return the ring. Hopefully, he’ll have no issue parting with it once he realizes how much it means to you and your sisters.”
“Hopefully,” Joanna repeated darkly, her brows drawing together. Then her expression abruptly lightened. “I have a brother, and a father, and a grandfather. And a great-aunt, and a cousin! Will they all be at the ball? What should I wear? Oh, Evie is going to beside herself when she finds out where we’re going. I’d best tell her as soon as possible. It’s going to take her a week to prepare, and we’ve only two days.”
This was the part Kincaid had been dreading.
He cleared his throat, where the lump had nearly doubled in size, and rose to his feet. “Miss Thorncroft—”
“You keep calling me that,” she interrupted with a smile. A smile that gradually faded as she studied his face. “Kincaid, why do you keep calling me that?”
Because I need the wall to go back up between us.
Because I cannot allow myself to love you.
Because you are better off without me.
“We have reached the end of our week-long trial, Miss Thorncroft.”
“Yes, but—”
“Seven days. That was our agreement.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. “What—what are you saying?
“That for all intents and purposes, our time together is done.” He spoke in calm, precise, level tones. He had to, or else he’d yell. And if he yelled, he was very much afraid he might humiliate himself and cry. “I’ve located the ring and, barring any unforeseen circumstances, should be able to deliver it to you promptly. There is no need for you to attend the ball. In fact, I think it would be wise if you began preparing for your journey back.”
“My journey back?” She swatted at a leaf tickling her cheek. “Back to where?”
“Home, Miss Thorncroft. Where you belong.”
She stared blankly at him for a moment. “But…but I love you,” she said in the small, confused voice of a child who had just been told that Father Christmas was not real. “I thought…that’s why…don’t you love me, too?”
A knife plunged between his shoulder blades would have hurt less. Love her? He loved her more than the sun loved the moon. More than the ocean loved the sky. It was because he loved her…that he was letting her go. “Our personal feelings are irrelevant, Miss Thorncroft. This is what’s best. For both of us.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. Hurt filled her eyes. Raising her arm, she jabbed a finger at his chest with enough force that he stumbled back a step.
“You,” she cried, “are the most idiotic man I have ever met!”
Then she turned on her heel and marched away, leaving Kincaid to wonder what the devil he’d done…and why, after years spent trying not repeat past mistakes, it felt as if he’d just committed the gravest one of all.
Chapter Nineteen
Joanna could not remember how she had returned to the boarding house. The walk was a blur, obscured by the glassy sheen in her eyes and the rage in her heart.
Evie wasn’t there when she stormed into their room. All the better, for Joanna preferred to fall apart in private.
And fall apart, she did.
Little pieces fractured off first. The first time she’d met Kincaid. The first small pulse of heat. The first kiss. Remembering them was like ripping a bandage off a fresh wound and watching blood spill out with no way to stop it.
The shape of his mouth when he smiled.
The sound of his laughter, so husky and rare.
The way his eyes crinkled when he was annoyed with her.
And the warmth that flooded them when he was pleased.
The sight, the sound, the scent of him wrapped around her like a cloak as she paced the room, then stood by the window, then collapsed onto the bed in a ball of torment and tears.
How could he do this to her? How could he be this insensitive?
The bastard had made her fall in love with him! No one else had ever done that before. No one else had ever taken a piece of her heart.
And no one else had ever given it back to her broken and bloody.
Did she mean so little to him after everything they’d shared? Did he hate her this much? For surely, hate was the only emotion that could drive a person to treat someone with such callousness and cruelty.
She’d always known he was cold…and after he told her about Lavinia, she finally knew why.
But this…
There was no explanation for this.
No reason.
Nothing Kincaid could possibly say to make it better.
Because the only thing worse than giving someone hope was snatching it away.
And he had done both.
A pillow muffled her sobs as she buried her face in the scratchy feathers. Joanna did not know how long she had purged herself of all the hurt and the heartache, but when her tears finally subsided and she could draw a breath without knives slicing at her throat, she felt…empty. And empty was a good thing, as it meant she didn’t feel wounded, or sad, or angry.
Well, maybe a little angry.
“Thomas Kincaid is a pigeon-livered ratbag and I despise the very air he breathes,” she announced when Evie entered the room.
Cautiously closing the door behind her, Evie set down a collection of parcels on the floor and then regarded her sibling with an arched brow. “The same Thomas Kincaid who you were alone with in here yesterday when your hair mysteriously came undone and I found your petticoat behind the dressing table?”
“You couldn’t have found my petticoat. I made sure to put it back on after…oh,” Joanna muttered when Evie pursed her lips. “That was quite clever.”
“Jo, you didn’t—”
“No. No,” Joanna repeated firmly when her sister appeared unconvinced. “We did kiss. But we didn’t…that is to say, I am not a ruined woman.”
“Just a devastated one, then. Jo…” Crossing to the bed, Evie sat down and draped her arm around Joanna’s back. “What happened?”
Like a ribbon unraveling, Joanna came undone at the sympathy in her sister’s tone. Laying her head on Evie’s lap, something she hadn’t done since they were children, she recited what Kincaid had told her when he’d ended their agreement, pausing here and there to use Evie’s skirt as a handkerchief to blot at her eyes and nose.
Her sister listened in silence, and when Joanna had finally purged herself of every horrible detail, she stroked her hair and said, “You’re right. He is a pigeon-livered ratbag. The nerve!”
Evie’s indignation felt good. Like cold water trickled over a fresh burn. It didn’t take the pain away—nothing
could do that—but it did serve to lessen the sting, and Joanna was grateful for whatever reprieve she could get.
“I don’t w—want him to be pigeon-livered,” she sniffled.
“I know, sweeting. I know.”
“Pigeons are h—horrid creatures. Do you remember when that white one pecked my sandwich out of my hand?”
“Horrid,” Evie agreed. “Absolutely horrid.”
“I thought he was going to tell me that he loved me.” Grabbing a fistful of Evie’s dress, she blew loudly into the fabric. “Instead, he told me to go home!”
“Jo, I am heartbroken for you. Truly.” As she spoke, Evie gently but firmly tugged her skirt out of Joanna’s hand. “But this is silk, and stains are impossible to get out. Particularly of the nasal discharge variety.”
Joanna wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sat up. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite all right.” Going to the wash basin, Evie wet the edge of a towel and began to dab at the damp circle of tears in the middle of her dress. When she was finished, she rinsed the towel clean, sprayed it with one of her many perfume bottles, and then brought it over to Joanna. “Here. Let me wipe your face. I made this chamomile tonic myself, and it should help with your blotchiness.”
Joanna rubbed her swollen eyes. “My face is blotchy?”
“Do you recall what Claire looked like after she climbed the apple tree and was stung by hornets?”
Just the memory made Joanna wince. “Yes. She was nearly unrecognizable.”
“This is much worse.” With all the tender care of a mother bathing her child, Evie ran the damp towel across Joanna’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. “There.” She tapped the end of Joanna’s nose. “That’s much better, sweeting.”
“You’re being so kind to me.”
“We’re sisters,” Evie said, as if that was an answer.
And in many ways, Joanna supposed, it was.
She and Evie may have fought, but they were always there for each other when it mattered. Without hesitation. Without reservation. They were sisters first, and their bond was unbreakable.
Foolishly, she thought she had found that same bond with Kincaid.
She should have known better.
There was something between them.
But it wasn’t enough.
She wasn’t enough.
Or perhaps, his demons were simply too great.
Either way, maybe it was time to finally admit they were not meant to be together…and love wasn’t meant to be this hard.
“There’s something else I need to tell you.” Letting herself fall back onto the mattress, Joanna stared at the ceiling where a leak in the roof had turned the plaster a dull yellow. Mold was beginning to grow along the edges. But then, that was what happened with problems when they were not addressed. They didn’t disappear. They didn’t vanish. Instead, they grew larger and larger, until they couldn’t be ignored.
Like a family secret left to fester.
Or a detective who refused to acknowledge what was right in front of him.
“What is it?” Evie asked, sitting on the corner of the bed.
Joanna pushed herself up onto her elbows. “I don’t know how you’re going to react.”
“Let me decide that,” said Evie. Then she gave a small gasp. “Is it the ring? Kincaid mentioned he had a lead. Has he found it?”
Joanna bit her lip. “Not exactly…but he knows who has it.”
“Who?” Evie demanded.
“Perhaps I should start at the beginning.”
“You’d best start somewhere, or else I’m likely to die of anticipation.”
“I don’t think people can die of anticipation.”
“Jo.”
“All right, all right. Give me a moment,” she grumbled. “I’m still figuring it out myself. It seems Mother’s affair wasn’t just with anyone. According to our great-aunt—”
“We have an aunt?” Evie interrupted. “When did we get one of those?”
“A great-aunt,” Joanna clarified. “Lady Ellinwood. She is our grandmother’s sister on Mother’s side. We’ve never met her because she has never left England. She married a viscount, who has since passed, and is the guardian of Miss Rosemary Stanhope, our cousin. Or second cousin. Third, maybe? I am not sure how that works, to be honest. At some point, we’re going to need to write this all down.”
“What happened to Rosemary’s parents?”
“They died, I assume.”
Evie frowned. “People tend to expire quite frequently in our family, don’t they?”
“So it would appear.”
“At least we had a viscount for a while,” Evie said optimistically. “That’s exciting!”
Just wait, Joanna thought silently.
“During Mother’s stay in London, it seems Lady Ellinwood was privy to many of the intimate details about her life, including her affair with my birth father.” Joanna paused. She was not trying to be deliberately climactic. She merely needed a chance to gather her thoughts. To center herself around the enormity of what she was about to reveal. Because once she spoke the truth out loud, there would be no taking it back. No undoing what was about to be done. And even though answers were what she’d sought when she’d come to London, these were not the ones she’d been expecting.
How could she?
How could she possibly have anticipated that this was where her searching would lead? To a great-aunt and a cousin, to a father and a grandfather, to a half-brother. She had a half-brother! A half-brother who was as much a part of her blood as Evie or Claire.
A half-brother who had set this all in motion when he took what wasn’t his to take.
It was ironic, really.
If he hadn’t stolen the ring, none of this would have happened. Coming to England. Falling in love with Kincaid. Discovering the identity of her birth father. In an obscure way, the Earl of Hawkridge had found her.
She was simply following the trail he’d left behind.
“Jo?” Evie scooted across the bed until they were side by side. Reaching for Joanna’s hand, she linked their fingers together. “If you don’t want to reveal his name, I will not ask you for it. We can get the ring and go home. Pretend all of this was a bad dream.”
There was a part of Joanna that wanted to do precisely that. To take what they’d come for and return to where they’d come from. To forget the last nine weeks had ever existed.
If she did that, she’d be leaving behind all of the bad.
The hurt.
The misery.
The heartache.
But she’d also be leaving behind all of the good.
The butterflies in her belly.
The thrill of Kincaid’s touch.
The feel of his mouth on hers.
Was it better to have been in love and had your heart shattered, or to have never known love at all? A question for the ages, for she certainly didn’t have the answer. Neither had Shakespeare, or Austen, or Alcott.
But she did know, deep in her soul, that having come this far, she couldn’t go back. She couldn’t pretend it had never happened. She couldn’t ignore the love that still beat within her, even now. Even after all the pain. All the disappointment. All the anguish.
Because then, she’d be no better than Kincaid.
She took a long breath.
Counted to three.
Let it out slowly.
“My father is the Marquess of Dorchester. I am the illegitimate daughter of a marquess, the granddaughter of a duke, the sister of an earl.” Without warning, tears flooded her eyes and thickened her voice. “I—I am in love with a detective. And I have never felt more unwanted in my entire life.”
“Oh, Jo. I want you,” Evie said fiercely. “Claire and Grandmother want you. Mother wanted you. And Father…I think Father wanted you most of all. Enough to raise another man’s daughter as his own. Your family has always wanted you, Joanna. Always. You must know that.”
It was exactly what Jo
anna needed to hear…and it gave her the strength to push aside her self-pity before it overwhelmed her. Squeezing Evie’s hand, she forced herself to sit up. Then she dried her eyes (using her own dress this time), and squared her shoulders. “I do. I do know that. I just…I didn’t realize a person could hurt like this, Evie. My heart.” She laid a hand flat over her breasts. “My heart hurts.”
“After all that you’ve endured, I would be surprised if it didn’t. But you are strong. You are resilient. You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met. You’ll get through this. The same as you’ve gotten through everything else. And in the end, you shall be the better for it.” Evie was quiet for a moment. Then she nibbled her bottom lip and scratched her ear. “A duke, did you say?”
*
Lord Weston, Earl of Hawkridge, was in a foul mood.
And he didn’t care who knew it.
Stoic by nature, it took quite a bit to rile him up to the point of showing emotion in public.
When he was a boy of seven and fell off his pony, he hadn’t shed a tear. Not even when it turned out his arm was broken in two places.
When he was a young lad of eighteen and the woman he fancied himself in love with married his best mate, he’d offered his congratulations and bought them a sterling silver tea set.
When he was a man of twenty-two and watched the thoroughbred he’d raised from a colt break down in the middle of The Ascot, he had calmly wielded the pistol that put the stallion out of its misery.
As a result, Weston was renowned throughout the ton for his control.
Cold, his friends called him.
Heartless, women said.
Yet when he stalked into his townhouse and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the windows, he wasn’t cold or icy. In fact, steam was all but pouring out his ears. Yanking off his hat and coat, he tossed them at the poor, bewildered footman before going off in search of his sister, Lady Brynne. After a brief search of the first floor and its many rooms, he found her outside in the rose garden.
Painting.
“You’re standing in my light,” she said mildly when he stopped beside her, arms crossed and chest heaving from the exertion of his fast-paced walk from Hyde Park to the south end of Grosvenor Square.
Bewitched by the Bluestocking Page 24
