“I have a few questions,” Mr. Ellis began. “First, what was your mother’s Christian name?”
The personal nature of the question surprised Mick. “Why do you need to know?”
“Please humor me, my lord.”
“I am not—”
“Your mother’s name?” the solicitor interrupted.
Mick was halfway out of his seat when the solicitor said, “Please. If you will only be patient, all will be made clear to you. Your mother’s Christian name?”
“Elizabeth,” Mick said at last. It was such a common name he could not understand what help it could be to know it.
“Did your mother have any distinguishing marks, anything that would identify her to a stranger?”
Mick thought a moment, and a memory came rushing back.
He had woken up to find a strange man shoving his mother up against the wall, his hand fisted in her hair, his mouth pressed against her throat—apparently biting her, because she was moaning with pain.
He had attacked the man, trying to beat him off. The instant the man lifted his head, Mick had seen the red mark and thought his mother was wounded. It had enraged him enough to pummel the man with all his might.
It was much later, when his mother was pressing a cold cloth to Mick’s blackened eye and swollen lip, that she lifted her hair to show him that the man had not hurt her and to explain that the small red mark had been there since birth.
“She had a strawberry mark on her throat, beneath her left ear,” Mick said.
“Anything else?” Mr. Ellis asked.
“No. Nothing else.”
The solicitor templed his fingertips before him and pursed his lips. Clearly he was expecting something else. Mick racked his mind to think what it might be.
“The tip of her right index finger was missing,” he said at last, “but she always wore gloves, so no one would notice that.”
“Very good,” Mr. Ellis said, rubbing his hands together.
“She also had brown hair, blue eyes, and good teeth,” Mick added brusquely. “Is there anything else you would like to know?”
“Hmm. Yes. I see. Well.” The solicitor looked down at a paper on the desk in front of him and adjusted his spectacles.
Mick still did not understand the point of the solicitor’s questions, especially when the only proof that the answers he had given were true was buried with his mother in a pauper’s grave.
“When is your birthday, my lord?”
“I will be five-and-twenty tomorrow,” Mick replied impatiently.
“May 14. Oh, yes. Happy birthday.”
Mick rose. “If you are finished, I will be going.”
Mr. Ellis levered himself to his feet and held out his hands, entreating Mick to stay. He spoke quickly, before Mick could get out the door. “I represent Harold Delaford, the Marquess of Tenby. The marquess has been searching the past twenty-three years for his late son’s wife, Elizabeth, Lady Delaford, who stole his two-year-old grandson Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge, and disappeared. We believe, my lord, that you are Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge and heir apparent to the Marquess of Tenby’s title, estates, and fortune.”
Mick dropped back into the chair, stunned. And then burst out laughing. “Oh, this is marvelous. This is wonderful. The very best birthday present I have ever had.” He had actually believed for a moment that he was heir to a fortune. He pulled a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Who paid you? Was it Corey and Egan? Or Glenna? It must have been all three of them,” he concluded.
“You know,” Mick said with a chuckle, “you actually had me believing you. Where are they?” he asked, rising and looking back toward the door through which he had entered. “I want to knock their silly heads together for spending money on such foolishness. I am sure your services did not come cheap.”
“This is no joke, my lord. I am entirely serious. You are Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge, Viscount New-bold, Baron Tredington, et cetera and so forth.”
Mick sank back into the wing chair. “This sort of thing just doesn’t happen,” he said, rubbing a hand across the tension in his forehead.
“Not often,” the solicitor agreed, resuming his seat.
“How do you know I am who you think I am? I mean, a first name and a missing forefinger and a strawberry mark … that doesn’t seem much to go on.”
“And a birthday. You are forgetting that.”
Mick shook his head. “How in heaven’s name did you put those puzzle pieces together and come up with me? And why did it take so long?”
“Actually, we found you purely by accident,” Mr. Ellis said. “An American gentleman came to me recently seeking help in locating a female bondservant who had run away from his plantation in Virginia. Seems he was in love with her! Said he had bought her from a man who claimed she was purchased from an orphanage in Dublin. He thought she might have come back to England searching for her family.”
“Blinne!”
“Yes, my lord, it appears so.”
Mick leapt to his feet and grabbed Mr. Ellis by his neck cloth, yanking him out of his chair. “Did you find her? Where is she? How is she?”
Mr. Ellis made one vain attempt to free himself before he explained, “The American gentleman gave me a great deal of information, including the fact that the girl’s mother was named Elizabeth and was missing the tip of her right index finger. I engaged the Bow Street Runners, who investigated thoroughly and—”
“Found me,” Mick said. “But where is Blinne, sir?”
Mr. Ellis shook his head. “I am sorry, my lord. We were unable to locate her. She must still be hiding somewhere in the colonies.”
“At least now I know where to look,” Mick said, releasing the solicitor and heading for the door.
Mr. Ellis hurried after him. “Wait, my lord. There is more.”
Mick stopped in the doorway and stared back at him, feeling dazed, wondering if he could stand any more good news. “What more could there be?”
“Your grandfather wants to meet you. He wants to get to know you. He wants you to come live with him at Delaford House here in London.”
Mick could not help grinning. It was all simply too ridiculous to be real. “My grandfather is still alive?”
“But of course. Otherwise, my lord, you would be the Marquess of Tenby.”
“I am not certain I want to meet him,” Mick said, feeling a sudden constriction in his throat.
“Your mother’s estate includes a trust for you of five thousand a year. If you think you could live on that—”
“Five thousand a year?” Mick said incredulously. “That isn’t possible. If my mother had so much, she would never have let us go hungry. She would never have—” Sold herself, Mick finished in his head. “Why?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Why did she run away when she had everything!”
“Not quite everything, my lord,” Mr. Ellis said. “She would not have had you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When your father died, your grandfather not only took control of all your mother’s income, he became your legal guardian. He believed your mother was too indulgent, and he forbade her any contact with you.”
“How could a mother be too indulgent?” Mick retorted. “What kind of ogre is he?”
“A determined one,” Mr. Ellis said. “He foiled all your mother’s plans to steal you away. Until the last one. She lost the tip of her index finger when your grandfather slammed a carriage door closed on it as she was fleeing Delaford Park.”
“Why are you telling me all this, when you’re my grandfather’s solicitor?” Mick asked suspiciously.
“Because I also represented your father, Thomas Delaford, before his death,” Mr. Ellis said, removing his spectacles and wiping them with the trailing end of his neck cloth. He replaced them carefully, looked Mick in the eye, and said, “I know he would never have wanted your mother to suffer as I have learned she did.”
The blood leached from Mick’s face. Ellis knew his mother had been a whore.
“I only know of one occasion after she ran away that your mother asked Tenby for money. That one time, he refused her.”
Mick felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. “And now he wants me to have his bloody money? I don’t want it or his damned title! I don’t want any of it. Not after what he did to my mother.”
“The choice, of course, is yours, my lord.”
“My name is Michael O’Malley, sir. And our business is concluded.”
Mr. Ellis bowed to him. “I think your father would have been proud of you, Mr. O’Malley. I also think he would have wanted you to have his title and his fortune. Please consider that before you make a final decision. When you are ready, come back and see me.”
Mick’s nose burned and tears blurred his vision. He hurried from the room before he lost his composure entirely.
Why, oh why did I let down my guard? Becky lamented. I have been so careful for so long. How could I have let Mick see what I was feeling?
If only he had not stayed away for so long! She had missed Mick so very much over the past two years. Letters had simply not been enough. When she had seen him, her first instinct had been to throw herself into his arms and cover his face with kisses. Thank God Reggie had reached him first!
But she had not been able to keep from devouring him with her eyes. And he had seen her need and revealed his own.
Now every interlude between them would be as awkward as their meeting today in the drawing room. There would be no more long, lazy walks in the park discussing Mick’s work for Papa. No more cozy nights curled up before the fire in the drawing room making up wonderful stories to tell one another. Such meetings would be fraught with danger now.
One moment of weakness, and I’ve ruined everything.
Becky kept her head down and walked quickly through St. James’s Park, ignoring the maid that trailed in her wake, hoping to find some peace of mind before she had to confront Mick at supper. But there was no peace to be had.
She moaned aloud, and her maid said, “Are you all right, my lady?”
“A pebble in my shoe,” Becky replied.
“Shall we stop—”
“It has fallen out again,” she interrupted. “I am fine, really, Brenda.”
That was a falsehood. An absolute clanker. She had a stomachache, her dread of meeting Mick at supper was so great. “Why don’t you rest here on this bench awhile,” she said to her maid. “I will return to you in half an hour.”
“But his lordship said—”
“You may tell Lord Penrith I never left your sight,” Becky said patiently.
“Very well, my lady,” Brenda said, settling onto a wrought-iron bench near the water. “I will be counting the minutes.”
Becky gritted her teeth to keep from screaming in frustration. She hated being caged in the house, but going out meant acknowledging the bars that surrounded her. So far she had managed to keep the wretched state of her marriage a secret from Mick. What if, now that the wall between them had come tumbling down, he saw how bad things really were?
She had kept an even more perfidious secret from Mick.
What if he asked her when she had fallen in love with him? Did she dare tell him the truth?
I have loved you for years and years, but I never said anything because … I was afraid of what people would say.
If Reggie had been in love with Mick, Becky knew her twin would have married him, no matter what obstacles lay in her path. Reggie would have spit in the eye of anyone who criticized her. Becky had actually seen her do it once!
But although they were twins, they were not at all alike. Becky had married a man who appeared to be the perfect mate, rather than the man she loved, because she feared the certain condemnation of her friends and family when she told them she wished to marry a commoner—and not just any common man, but the bastard son of a whore.
“I did not expect to find you here. Where is your maid? Are you alone?”
Becky looked up to find Mick standing right in front of her, as though her thoughts had conjured him. There was so much she wanted to confess. So much she was loath to say. She only managed, “I left Brenda behind. For half an hour.”
“Good,” Mick said. “That will give us a chance to talk privately. I have so much to tell you!”
Becky was caught unawares when he reached for her forearm to wrap it around his own. She cried out as his fingers pressed against a bruise that was hidden beneath her sleeve.
“What’s wrong?” Mick asked. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. I … That is … It is nothing,” she said, tugging down the sleeve of her walking dress.
Mick took her hand in his and pushed her glove down and her sleeve up. She knew what he would find: the imprint of Penrith’s thumb and four fingers, which had gripped her wrist when he had forced his attentions on her two nights past.
“Who did this?”
Becky hung her head. “It was my fault,” she whispered. “I should not have refused William. I am his wife. It is my duty—”
“Oh, God. No, Becky.” A moment later Mick’s strong arms bound her tight against his chest. “He doesn’t have the right to hurt you,” he murmured in her ear.
She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “It is the first time he has—”
He leaned back and tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t lie to me. Not to me.”
She felt a knot grow in her throat. “Mick, please. Let me go. Someone will see us.”
His hands dropped to his sides, and he took a step back. He offered his arm without touching her and said, “Shall we walk?”
“All right.” She laid her gloved hand on his arm and walked with him toward a copse of birch and willow growing along the lake, where they were less likely to be discovered. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“I am …” He hesitated, then said, “I have had some news about Blinne. It seems she was sold as bondservant to a gentleman in Virginia.”
“Can you buy her freedom, do you think?”
“Perhaps. If I can find her. She ran away from him.”
“Oh, no. The situation must have been very bad for her to take such a drastic step.”
“I am afraid so.” Mick stopped. “Especially when I see what you are willing to endure and still stay with your husband.”
“I have Lily to consider,” Becky said, leaving the impression that, if not for Lily, she would willingly leave Penrith. Would she? Given a second chance, would she have the courage to flaunt Society and marry her father’s steward?
“Would you like to sit down?” Mick asked.
Becky realized they were hidden from sight beneath a willow. “The grass will stain my skirt,” she said. Penrith noticed everything and was certain to ask questions she would rather not have to answer.
Mick tugged off his jacket and spread it on the ground. “Will that solve the problem?”
She settled onto his coat and waited as he sat down beside her.
“How are things at Blackthorne Hall?” she asked.
“I would rather talk about the bruises on your arm.”
Becky shook her head. “There is nothing to be done, Mick.”
“If your father knew—”
Becky put a hand on his arm. “Please don’t tell him. It is my problem to solve.”
“Reggie hinted in her last letter to me that there was something wrong. I never suspected this. I want to help, Becky. Tell me what I can do.”
Becky averted her eyes, unable to bear the look of sympathy in his. “Nothing. There is nothing anyone can do.”
The silence between them grew uncomfortable. Becky could feel Mick’s eyes on her, and a slow curl of desire began to unfurl inside her. His hand reached for hers, and he threaded their fingers together.
Mick had held her hand a thousand times before, but it had never felt like this. Like they were connected. Like
they belonged together.
“I cannot bear to think of him hurting you,” Mick said. “When all I have ever wanted is to cherish you … and love you.”
Becky raised her eyes to his. “Oh, Mick.” She reached out to touch his face, as she might safely have done only a day before. But he reached up to cover her hand as his mouth closed over hers and she was lost.
There was nothing tentative about Mick’s kiss—or her response. It felt as though they had been lovers for a very long time.
Mick’s tongue traced the seam of her lips, and Becky opened to him. She made a grating sound in her throat and heard his answering moan. His hand cupped her breast, feeling the shape of it through her cambric gown. His thumb brushed at the nipple, which had already tightened into a hard nub.
Becky slid her hand into the hair at his nape to feel its silky texture, something she had often dreamed of doing. She nibbled on the lobe of his ear and kissed his cheek, rough with nearly a day’s growth of dark beard. She let her lips learn the feel of his mouth as she tasted him, trying to memorize it all. Because this was forbidden. Because she must not let this happen again.
A dog barked, and they sprang apart.
They stared at each other for a long moment, realizing what they had found. And what might be lost to them forever.
Mick stood and reached down to help her up, brushing away the few blades of grass that had clung to her skirt. “You will need to fix your hair,” he said.
She reached up and realized for the first time that he had removed nearly all the pins. She laughed. “What were you thinking?”
“That I wanted to feel your hair in my hands.”
His honest answer sobered her. It was what she had craved herself. “This can never happen again,” she said as she repinned her hair.
He said nothing.
“You agree, don’t you, Mick. We mustn’t be alone like this, ever again.”
“Many wives have affairs—”
“Not before a man has his heir,” she said brusquely. “And in my case, not at all. This was wrong, Mick. I’m not sorry it happened,” she admitted. “But I will never meet you like this again.”
The Bridegroom Page 9
