“No. But …”
“There are problems with your marriage,” he deduced.
“Oh, yes. It is … There are … Penrith has …” She felt his palm on the back of her head, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, while his other hand made soothing circles on her back.
“Marriage is never easy,” he began. “When two people marry they have differing ideas on many subjects.”
Becky had desperately needed the nonjudgmental comfort her father offered. But she realized as he began to speak about the importance of compromise in marriage, that in allowing herself to be comforted as a child, she had given him the impression that she had come to him seeking a parent’s wise counsel.
In fact, Becky had made up her mind during the trip north what she was going to do with her life. And advice on how to appease her husband was useless, when her marriage was, even as her father spoke, being annulled.
She let go of him and sat up. “Please let me up, Papa.”
He released her and helped her to stand, then rose and crossed to the mantel before turning to face her. Waiting.
Becky took a deep breath and said, “Penrith has left me.” She put up a palm to hold her father in place, but that did not keep his hands from balling into fists, nor his lips from flattening into a knifelike line. “He has left the country, Papa. But before he did, he signed all the legal documents necessary to annul our marriage.”
“We can have that stopped,” he said in a deadly voice.
“No!” And then more calmly, “No, Papa. William was not everything a husband should be. I am glad to be free.”
Emotions skidded across his face like a fallen kite bumping along the ground, struggling to catch the wind and soar effortless once more in the sky. She saw sorrow and pain and fury and frustration, before he regained his poise.
“You will stay with us,” he said.
It was couched as an order, and once again Becky had to remind him—and herself—that she was no longer a child. “I would like to stay with you until the annulment is final,” she said. “Meanwhile, I plan to look for a manor house nearby where Lily and I can live.”
“There is no need—”
She met his gaze unflinchingly and said, “My mind is made up, Papa.”
He smiled, though she could see the effort it took. “Did I mention you can be as tenacious as a bulldog when your heart is set on something?”
She felt the tension ease out of her shoulders. She had expected more resistance from him than she had gotten. Then she realized he was not the greater obstacle. She would still need to convince Kitt that she and Lily would be happier living in a home of their own. She knew Reggie would approve.
“Have you spoken with Reggie, Papa?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said, his eyes bleak. “But now that you are here, perhaps a visit can be arranged.”
“Were you very angry when you found out she had married Carlisle in such haste?”
“My only concern is for Reggie’s happiness,” he said quietly. “And yours.”
Becky made herself smile. “Then you do not need to worry about me, Papa. For I am determined to be happy from now on.”
“I thought you were still upstairs, ridding yourself of all that dust from your journey.”
Becky pivoted to find her stepmother in the doorway.
“Look who I found,” Kitt said with a smile, as she linked her arm with Michael O’Malley’s and stepped into the room. “Mick just returned from London himself.”
Becky was not ready to see Mick. Not ready to speak to him about what had happened to make of her once more an unattached female. But her gaze was caught by the blanket-wrapped bundle in Mick’s arms, and she was drawn helplessly, inexorably across the room to his side.
Without a word being spoken between them, Mick turned the bundle toward her and peeled the blanket away to reveal the tiny, perfect features of her baby sister.
“Oh. She is so beautiful,” Becky said.
“We think so,” her father said.
The baby started to fuss, but rather than hand Meg to her mother, as another man might have done, Mick rocked the tiny child in his arms and made cooing sounds and even sang a few verses of an Irish lullaby in a beautiful tenor voice.
Becky was suddenly stuck with the realization—as though it were another physical blow—that she had never once seen William hold Lily in his arms as Mick was holding Meg. It was as though she were seeing in that instant all that had been wrong in her marriage by observing a moment of how life could have—should have—been.
“Excuse me, please,” she said, brushing past Mick and heading for the door. “I am feeling a bit hagged after my journey. I will see you all at supper.”
She caught a glimpse of the frown on Kitt’s face at her abrupt departure and knew she had not seen the last of her stepmother. But at least she could postpone the moment when she must confront Mick.
Becky was afraid of what Mick might ask of her when he discovered she was free. She did not want to hurt him, but she could not marry him. What if he did not want her except as a wife? What would she do then? Becky felt a sharp ache in her chest, a sense of such total and utter devastation at the thought of losing his friendship that she almost cried out with the pain of it. Oh, God, she had not realized how deep her feelings for him ran.
But marriage was impossible. Impossible.
“Are you sure Becky is all right?” she heard her stepmother ask.
“Penrith has had the marriage annulled and fled the country,” her father replied.
Becky glanced over her shoulder, unable to resist looking back to see Mick’s response to her father’s announcement. Their gazes locked, and she could feel everything he was feeling, as though they were connected by some invisible thread.
Pain. Sorrow. Concern. Distress.
Those she had expected.
Need. Hunger. And …
She felt her heart begin to thunder. Oh, God. It was there.
Unreserved. Unabashed. Unrepentant. Love.
Becky whirled abruptly and fled up the stairs.
Mick wondered if he should have let Becky see what he was feeling. He knew he had frightened her. That was why she had run away. But the time for pretending was over. He loved her. He wanted her. And he intended to pursue her until she either rejected him in words that could not be misunderstood or agreed to become his wife.
Mick watched as Kitt crossed the room and walked right into Blackthorne’s embrace. He knew the momentous problems the duke and his wife had overcome to find happiness together, so he knew that love could survive great tribulations. But Mick might have gone too far to be forgiven.
It had been done with the best intentions, but he had rearranged Becky’s life without her knowledge or consent. The agreement Penrith had signed, which gave him a large sum Mick had borrowed in expectation of his inheritance, had required Penrith not to divulge Mick’s part in convincing him to give up his wife. Mick wanted to choose the right time and place to tell Becky what he had done.
The balance of Mick’s fortune would go to Penrith when Mick finally inherited it from his grandfather. He knew most people would think him crazy for the decision he had made. But he would choose a lifetime with Becky over a fortune every time.
Mick had not demanded that Penrith leave the country, but he was not sorry the man had gone. He wondered how Becky would react when she finally learned who was really responsible for the end of her marriage. He was worried that if he told her how he had traded his fortune for her freedom—and assuming she felt grateful rather than enraged by his efforts on her behalf—she might agree to marry him out of a sense of obligation. He did not want that. Mick wanted her to come to him out of love. He wanted the duke’s daughter to agree to marry a whore’s bastard son.
It might not be fair of him to want Becky to give up everything for love, but it was the only way he could be sure she was marrying him for the right reasons. He wanted her to commit herself to Mick O’Mall
ey, her father’s steward, before she discovered he was really Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge.
The title, of course, was deceptive, since he had signed away most of the wealth that went along with it. But he would still inherit several entailed properties, and he had kept the trust fund of five thousand a year from his mother’s estate. If Becky married him, she would have to sacrifice many of the luxuries she now took for granted. But Mick hoped to make up to her in love whatever else she might lose in the bargain.
However necessary it was to continue deceiving Becky, Mick had decided it was equally necessary to tell her father the truth about his changed circumstances before he began to court her. It was the only honorable thing to do, considering everything he owed the duke.
And the sooner it was done, the better.
“I have some business to conduct with the duke,” Mick said to Kitt. “And I think Meg needs your attention.”
“Oh, dear,” Kitt said. “Did she get you very wet?”
Mick held the baby away from his waistcoat, which was, in fact, a little damp. “It will dry,” he said with a smile, as Kitt took the child from him.
“Will you be very long?” Kitt asked. “Should I hold supper?”
“This won’t take long,” Mick said. Although, if Blackthorne opposed the match, there would likely be one less at the table.
As Kitt left, Mick closed the door behind her.
The duke had already crossed back to his desk and picked up his pen.
Mick stood by the door, his heart in his throat. My palms are as damp as Meg’s bottom, he thought wryly, as he wiped them on his trousers.
The duke glanced up from his ledger and said, “I wasn’t sure we ought to plant wheat again this year, but it looks like you were right, as usual.”
Mick stood frozen in place as Blackthorne continued his discourse on wheat, comparing the promise of this year’s yield with figures in the ledger, as though that were the matter Mick had come to discuss.
Mick had never been shy in the duke’s presence. In fact, he was one of the few persons who had been given the privilege of addressing Blackthorne by his Christian name. The honor had come as a result of his having done the duke a kind turn. It was the sort of story one told to children at bedtime, and Mick hoped someday to be able to tell it to his own.
A long time ago, he would begin, the Duke of Blackthorne was shipwrecked on the Scottish coast. His head was injured on the rocks and when he reached the shore he could not remember who he was. He wandered into the town of Mishnish, his face battered black and blue, and sought food and drink at the Ramshead Inn, where Mick O’Malley—that was my name—was a serving boy.
The Scottish innkeeper refused to help the Englishman without being paid first. He had already turned the duke away without succor when Mick, a gangly boy wearing too-short trousers and too-large shoes, took pity on him and offered the stranger a mug of ale and an oatcake.
The landlord repaid Mick’s generosity with a blow and the loss of his job. The stranger, who called himself Alex Wheaton and claimed to be one of the Quality, offered Mick work as his valet. Mick had accepted, even though he believed the stranger was dicked in the nob.
In the end, Alex Wheaton had turned out to be Alastair Wharton, sixth Duke of Blackthorne. Once the duke was himself again, he had insisted Mick continue calling him Alex. The duke had repaid Mick’s kindness threefold. By sending him to Oxford to be educated, by giving Mick’s sister and brothers employment at Blackthorne Abbey, the duke’s estate in Kent, and by employing Mick as steward at Blackthorne Hall, the duke’s largest estate in Scotland. The End.
Mick and Alex had become good friends over the years, and despite the duke’s elevated station, he had always treated Mick as an equal. Even so, Mick wasn’t sure what the duke was going to say when Mick told him he intended to marry his daughter.
“Is something troubling you, Mick?” the duke asked, noticing at last that he did not have Mick’s attention.
“There is something I need to discuss with you,” Mick said, forcing himself to approach the imposing Sheraton desk where the duke sat.
“If you need time to spend with Becky, take it,” the duke said. “You’ve always been a good friend to her, and she could use one right now.”
“Uh. I will, but—”
Blackthorne leaned back in his chair and brushed the feathered quill back and forth across his lips. “I still cannot believe Penrith abandoned her. If I had him here …” He sat forward and said, “Maybe you can think of some way to cheer her up. Take her riding, or for a picnic along the coast.”
“I plan to spend as much time with her as I can,” Mick said. “Courting her.”
The feather stopped moving. The quill dropped to the desk. “Would you like to elaborate on that statement?”
Mick knew Alex Wharton well. So he knew the duke was agitated. And trying hard not to show it.
Mick could prove he was no longer a bastard. But he was still a whore’s son. What if Blackthorne would not permit the match? Mick forced himself to speak before fear silenced him.
“My circumstances have changed, Alex. In the most unexpected way.” The knot in Mick’s throat made speaking painful. “I was recently contacted by a solicitor in London. It seems I am legitimate, after all. My mother was married to Thomas Delaford when she bore him a son named Michael. My late father was the eldest son of Harold Delaford, Marquess of Tenby.”
Blackthorne hissed in a breath.
Mick made an elegant bow, as though greeting the duke for the first time. “Michael Delaford, Earl of Stalbridge, at your service, Your Grace.” He felt constrained to add, “Though I am no longer a bastard, Alex, I am still a whore’s son.”
“What happened? Why did your mother—?” The duke interrupted himself and said, “Sit down, Mick. Make yourself comfortable while I hear the whole of this incredible tale of yours.”
“It is a long story that reflects badly on my grandfather,” Mick began as he settled into one of the leather chairs in front of the earl’s desk. He told Alex how his grandfather had searched for years before finally locating him.
“I’m glad for you, Mick,” Alex said. “Very glad. I suppose you’re telling me this so I can find myself another steward.”
Mick shook his head abruptly, then rose from his chair. He stood anxiously, like any other young English nobleman before the father of his chosen bride, and said, “I came to get permission to court Becky.”
“I see,” Blackthorne said. He eyed Mick speculatively. “How long have you loved her?”
Mick hesitated, then said, “Since the first moment I laid eyes on her.”
Mick was watching Alex’s face, so he saw the slight flicker of concern in his eyes, the tightening of his mouth. “Does Becky know how you feel?”
“I believe she does.”
“Does she feel the same way?”
Mick’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “I wish I knew. I am hoping to convince her we belong together.”
The duke stood and crossed around his desk. For a moment Mick wasn’t sure whether Alex intended to hit him or hug him. In the end, the duke extended his hand. “Good luck, Mick. You’re going to need it.”
“Then you don’t oppose the match?” Mick said.
The duke laid an arm on Mick’s shoulders, as though he were already his son-in-law. “I know she likes you as a friend. I’m equally certain you’ll take good care of her. And now, of course, you can. Delaford has a fortune, and as his heir—”
“I won’t inherit his fortune,” Mick interrupted.
The duke’s arm slid off Mick’s shoulder, and he took a cautious step back. “Why not?”
“Carlisle managed to ruin Penrith financially. When the opportunity arose, I offered Penrith my inheritance in exchange for Becky’s freedom.”
The duke’s features tightened. “Are you telling me that you encouraged Penrith to annul his marriage to my daughter? That you are the source of Becky’s current misery?”
The duke was clearly incredulous. “Beat her? She said nothing—”
“How could she?” Mick replied heatedly. “He was her husband. He would never have let her take Lily if she left him, and she would never have left her daughter behind. She could not tell you, for fear you would challenge him.”
“I would have sent him to hell, where he belongs!”
Mick laid a hand on the duke’s arm. “He is gone from England. And Becky is free.”
“That wife-beating brute should be punished,” the duke ranted as he paced the breadth of the carpet. “I will find him wherever he has gone and make him suffer, as my daughter has been made to suffer.”
“Then you become another Carlisle,” Mick said. “Is that what you want?”
The duke paused near his desk, then slumped into the chair behind it. He shoved his fingers through his hair, leaving it on end. “At least you could have left him in penury,” the duke muttered.
He suddenly looked up, focusing his gaze on Mick’s face. “If you have signed over Tenby’s fortune to Penrith, with what funds did you propose to set up housekeeping with my daughter?”
“I will inherit several entailed properties, a farm in particular, where I thought I might put my knowledge and experience to good use,” Mick said. “And I still have a trust fund my mother left me—five thousand a year—to provide for necessities.”
“You propose to make a farmer’s wife of a duke’s daughter?” Blackthorne asked in a quiet voice.
“She will want for nothing so long as I draw breath,” Mick said. “And she will be greatly loved.”
“She cannot—” The duke cut himself off. “She will not—” He cut himself off again and finally said, “What makes you think she will have you under those circumstances.”
Mick smiled. “Oh, I don’t intend to offer her even that much hope of a comfortable life.”
The duke sat forward. “What?”
“I do not intend that Becky should know of my connection to the marquess at all.”
“But why not, man?” Alex asked. “You cannot expect her to agree to marry a whore’s penniless bastard son!”
The Bridegroom Page 20
