He was looking.
Chapter Eighteen
Pippa cast a sideways glance at Mr. Dawson. He had a kind, distracted smile on his face as they hiked back to Thurston Manor after their revelatory conversation. She could tell he was a man at peace. Perhaps that’s why she was attracted to him in the first place. He’d confessed to her that he liked excitement—but he liked honesty more.
So should she tell Gregory she loved him? Or shouldn’t she? What would it hurt to get it off her chest once and for all? Perhaps it would free her to focus better on her sugar sculpture—because as of this moment, she couldn’t stop thinking of Gregory kissing her, laughing with her, and making her feel beautiful when she was naked and vulnerable.
Honesty. It compelled her to admit that Gregory mattered so much to her that she was running away to Paris partly because she couldn’t bear not being with him when she wasn’t his love.
His love.
It was like a fresh bruise on her heart every time she faced the truth: She loved him with everything, and he—
Well, he put up with her out of loyalty to Bertie.
She looked toward the house and saw him walking up from the stables. Her pulse instantly quickened, and she lifted her hand in a wave. He waved back, and a hot flush spread through her limbs, making her feel that weak, almost dizzy wonder that she knew now was more than infatuation.
It was love.
Love-of-a-lifetime sort of love.
The kind she would never, ever get over.
Perhaps that was why she’d been so glad to stumble upon this passion of hers for sugar sculpting. She loved it on its own merits, but it also served as an escape from burdensome, sad feelings about Gregory and the role she would never play in his life as lover, best friend, and soul mate.
And why was she so sure about that?
Because she felt certain he’d already had his love-of-a-lifetime, too, with Eliza.
Pippa would never forget that look on his face when he’d discovered Eliza with Lord Morgan in the garden.
“There he is,” said Mr. Dawson, “the object of your affection.” He threw her a mischievous glance. “Pardon me. He’s one of your loves. I fully sympathize that there’s the sugar sculptor in you wanting to get out, too.”
“And sugar sculpting is far more reliable a love than a fickle man who told me himself to avoid him because he’s dangerous.”
“I have no doubt he is,” Mr. Dawson agreed. “But perhaps he is in ways he’s not even aware of yet. I get the feeling Lord Westdale is doing his best to avoid finding out.”
“Do you? Why?”
“There’s a leashed power I sense in him.”
“Oh, yes.” She herself sensed it when he’d loved her body so well the night previous. The frustration, the tortured anticipation she felt in knowing he wasn’t giving her everything—
Not yet.
“It’s what makes him so compelling a figure to the ton,” Mr. Dawson said, “why cartoons are drawn of him and gossips mull over his every action. I suspect they’re waiting for him to … let go. Expectations are high—for failure or success. Whatever he does, it won’t be ordinary, and he and everyone else know it.”
“Yes,” said Pippa, quickening her pace. “In a way, it makes me pity him. It makes me long to shield him from their prying eyes, from those uncaring fools who merely want to be entertained at his expense.”
“Pity is the last thing he needs,” said Mr. Dawson. “He needs someone to believe in him. But, Pippa”—she liked hearing her new friend speak her real name—“he must believe in himself first. Otherwise, all the support in the world won’t matter.” His brow furrowed as he studied her intently. “You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. It’s hard to accept—but I do. What I’ve said about his talent fell on deaf ears.”
“It’s a shame,” Mr. Dawson said. “Because until he does believe in himself…”
“What?”
“I think you’re best off in Paris. It’s the main reason I’m willing to take you there.”
It was a sad, sad reason. But the way she felt—joyless and despairing—hearing Mr. Dawson express his thoughts out loud was confirmation enough for her that she was, indeed, in over her head with Gregory.
Even from this distance, Pippa could see that his gait was lighter than it had been yesterday. He must have taken out a horse. She craved doing the same thing, and she’d love to ride with him, especially if they could find a secret place to dismount and—
There she went again. Daydreaming of kissing him. Fantasizing about opportunities to show him she adored him. She imagined him kissing her against a tree trunk, running his hand over her breast, taking her down onto the grass, both of them stripping naked, and him loving her completely.
My Gregory, she thought. No one else’s. She held her chin resolute. Least of all Lady Damara’s. It was silly of Pippa to think that way—tragic, actually—but the message of her heart refused to be silenced by logic.
But it must. And it was up to her to do it.
“I’m glad we had this talk,” she told Mr. Dawson.
“I am, as well.” He looked straight ahead and not at her, because they were getting so close to the house. “I don’t often wax poetic—I abhor maudlin emotion, to tell you the truth—but sometimes we meet people in life we’re meant to meet, and for me, you’re one of those people.”
“You’re one for me, too,” she replied. “I felt an instant bond with you at the inn.”
He chuckled. “For me, it started when you came running over, insisting that you would shine my boots.”
“For me, it was when you told Marbury you wouldn’t eat in the private dining room. I liked how firm you were, yet kind. You reminded me of Uncle Bertie.”
Mr. Dawson stopped beneath a tree not far from the front door of the house. “The ancient philosopher Heraclitus spoke very wise words that are always apropos.”
“And they are?”
“‘Character is destiny.’ I believe fate dangles opportunities before us—but it is up to us to seize them or ignore them.”
“I’m glad you didn’t ignore me,” Pippa whispered because now Gregory was fast approaching.
“My dear, ignoring you is rather difficult,” Mr. Dawson replied, his usual placid expression in place. She recognized it now as his social mask.
“I’m glad you found me so.” She angled an amused glance at him, but her body was already thrumming with awareness of Gregory.
“Mr. Dawson, Harrow,” he greeted them. “Lovely day, is it not?”
Pippa soaked up the view. He held a pot of something in his hand—jam? pickles?—and his hair was a bit flyaway at the moment. He must have had a good gallop. His cheeks were flushed, and his cravat slightly askew. Even so, he seemed more …
Solid.
Confident.
And not just outwardly. He’d always been able to convey an impression of self-assurance. But there was something else in his gaze, something playful—something open to adventure. It reminded her of how he used to be when they’d played Captain and Lieutenant. She hadn’t seen that look in years.
It was interesting—and exhilarating—to observe.
In fact, the change was so obvious that she and Mr. Dawson exchanged a brief and inquiring look.
“I’m off,” Mr. Dawson said. “Good to see you, Westdale. At the moment, I’m gasping for tea. Feel free to join me.” He pulled his handkerchief out and swiped at his forehead. “Pity Harrow can’t. Your valet’s made me an excellent walking companion.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Gregory grinned. “I’ll see you in a moment. I’ve got a job for Harrow first.”
“Right,” said Mr. Dawson vaguely, and smiled his farewell, conveying nothing to signify that he knew Pippa’s entire story.
Pippa almost blushed. How would Gregory feel if he knew Mr. Dawson was in on the charade?
And should she—or shouldn’t she—tell Gregory she loved him? That he was th
e captain of her heart? That she would enter any fight with him, stay by his side through thick and thin, bask in their spoils, grieve their losses, loyal to her last breath—and loving him forever?
It was time to decide.
Now.
But how to know whether to keep silent—or risk it all?
“I’ve got something important to tell you,” he began with a simple earnestness that she’d not heard in the sophisticated city gentleman in a decade, at least.
She recalled a lovely, warm memory: one time when he’d handed her a sack of crab apples. “Throw these,” he’d said in that same heartfelt voice, “at the enemy. Today it’s Robbie, Billy, and Patrick. Not me. I’m on your side.”
And then she knew what to do. She knew simply because at this moment, she saw that old Gregory before her—the one who was on her side.
“I’ve got something very important to tell you,” she interrupted him. “Sorry, but I’d appreciate it if you let me go first—Captain.”
Their eyes locked, and her love bloomed even more. Their almost lifelong bond was the only sun and rain it needed to grow.
“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” he said softly.
“Right.” She swallowed hard, girding herself, because she’d made her decision. She’d tell him she loved him. And it wasn’t simply because doing so would make it easier for her to get to Paris and stay there. She was doing it because—
Character was destiny.
If she wasn’t brave enough to live authentically—owning her love for Gregory, no matter the consequences—going to Paris was merely running away.
And she was better than that.
She was so much better than that.
“Gregory…”
“Yes?”
The front door of the house opened wide, and a cluster of people spilled out, all laughing and talking.
Blast. A horrible distraction. Perhaps telling someone you loved him outside under a tree a mere twenty feet from the front door of someone else’s house—especially when a house party was going on—wasn’t a good idea.
Pippa couldn’t help turning to see what the commotion was about as it was only a few feet away. Neither could Gregory.
Situational awareness. It was key in a good soldier.
There were Lord and Lady Thurston, both looking jolly; Lady Damara, sulking a bit, although she was surrounded by several women talking at once; as well as several men Pippa hadn’t seen yet. She suspected one or two of them might be the other architects.
Lord Marbury came outside next, cackling with glee about something, and then—
Pippa sucked in a breath.
Good God, there was—
Eliza.
Lord Morgan.
And their baby, the very picture of Gregory, with black curls and vivid blue eyes.
* * *
“Surprise!” trilled Lady Thurston at Gregory. “Your old friends are here!”
“And with the new baby!” Lord Thurston echoed his wife’s enthusiasm.
Gregory had known of their propensity to have an amusing mix of guests at their house parties, but this wasn’t amusing—
It was diabolical.
But he didn’t have time to be angry about that. His heart was going so fast, he could barely breathe—for that baby in Eliza’s arms looked so much like him, he had to wonder, was it his?
Could their one brief coupling have produced a child?
Of course it could have. And if it were so, he had a son.
A son!
The natural wonder he felt was immediately supplanted by a sorrow so sharp, it nearly doubled him over. If it were true, this would be a far worse loss than losing Eliza or Dougal.
Losing a son.
A son.
His parents would grieve forever.
He would grieve forever.
He had to remind himself to stand straight, tall, and with all the gravity a future marquess would model in the face of what was to others utter social embarrassment but to him was possibly the worst tragedy of his life—seeing a babe who was possibly his own son before him and not being able to acknowledge him as such if it were so.
He had to remind himself to breathe, all the while pretending he was perfectly at ease.
A son …
“Hello, Westdale,” Lord Morgan called from the throng, a happy grin on his face.
The coward. He was safe on those stairs, wasn’t he, surrounded by all those people? Gregory hated him more than ever. Dougal would be father to his boy? If he’d had a pistol in his hands, he’d have gladly shot him.
Eliza’s smile was more brittle. “Westdale, so nice to see you again.”
He was struck by the sight of her. She was more beautiful than ever—perhaps because she looked weary. Her face—despite the new lines that had appeared around her eyes—had been softened by motherhood.
By love.
Because it was clear she loved the babe in her arms.
She didn’t even wait for Gregory’s reply before she beamed at the infant, not half a year yet, reclining safe and content in her arms.
“Hello,” Gregory called back to them. It was all he could manage, and he wasn’t even polite. He was cold. Stiff.
The company on the stairs, almost as one, quieted, all except the baby, who cooed and waved his arms about.
Out of the corner of Gregory’s eye, he saw Pippa, her back taut, her eyes wide. For a split second, he caught her gaze and saw utter desolation there.
It had happened. It was the thing he’d dreaded more than anything else, he realized now. He’d lost the respect of a woman he adored.
The woman he loved.
Yet again, he had a flash of wonder—of joy—followed swiftly by grief.
It was another tragedy of monumental proportions, as blunt and hard a blow to his spirit as the first, when his old lieutenant put her head down and walked away, down the path alongside the house, to the servants’ entrance.
His life as he knew it—at least the essential part he never wanted to change—was over. What was left?
Nothing but duty: duty to the title and to his family.
Duty to the House of Brady.
But Father had trained him well. So had Mother, and then Mama. He swallowed and came forward a few steps. “My turn to hold him,” he said with good cheer, and held out his arms.
He felt like an old man. An old, foolish man.
The crowd, as one, came down to meet him.
Eliza brought him the baby. He could smell her old scent, which did nothing for him anymore, mixed with the newer scents of baby skin, powder, and fresh linen. “Here you are,” she said quietly. “His name is Walter, after Dougal’s father.”
“Don’t drop him,” Marbury called to him.
When Gregory felt the wriggling weight of Walter in his arms, the crushing heaviness in his chest lifted slightly. Walter, even if he were his son, would come to no harm as the child of this couple. They both had large, stable families—conventional and wealthy—and there was no doubt that this baby boy would be loved completely and forever.
Walter giggled from somewhere deep in his belly as he batted his tiny hand at Gregory’s face. Gregory was certain his nose must be the object of such amusement. He’d broken it in a boxing match five years earlier, and the slight bump on it now made him look like a clown, according to Peter and Robert, and sometimes Cynthia, when she was particularly perturbed at him for bossing her about.
After a suitable thirty seconds of admiration, he passed the baby back to his mother. Gregory’s forearm accidentally brushed against the side of Eliza’s breast when he lifted Walter high to avoid just that, but the sensation provoked no romantic feelings. In fact, when he watched her go back into the fold of spectators and kiss her husband on the lips, Gregory couldn’t believe that he’d ever been hell-bent to marry her, that he hadn’t seen the real woman he’d made love to … the woman in love with another man—his best friend, Dougal.
And where had he been not to see
that Dougal loved Eliza?
He thought over that circumstance as they all walked to the lake to see the folly. He joined in the lively conversation, even making a joke or two that made Dougal laugh. Both times Gregory saw the hope in Dougal’s eyes, and both times he intentionally turned away from him. No, he wasn’t ready to be his friend. Dougal hadn’t been honest with him.
For the umpteenth time, he went back to the fact that neither had Peter, for that matter.
Why?
What was it about Gregory at that point in his life that his very best friend and his beloved brother weren’t honest with him?
He walked to the edge of the lake alone and wondered.
“Don’t,” said Eliza, who’d appeared at his shoulder. “Please don’t torture yourself.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Walter isn’t yours,” she said. “I swear.”
Gregory let out a loud breath that was part moan. The short-lived courtship story—his and Eliza’s—had been fraught with high drama, the kind that could rip one’s soul in half.
Thank God it hadn’t quite happened to him. It had been such a near miss—such a near, near miss.
Relief flooded through him. But he was still so sorely rattled, he held on to the view of the geese flying overhead, following them until they disappeared beyond the trees, as if they were a lifeline to calmness … to peace.
But they couldn’t be. Not as long as Pippa was upset. He knew very well she thought that baby was his. He couldn’t wait to get back to tell her otherwise, and to speak another truth—that he loved her.
But first, he must be the gentleman and give Eliza her say.
“It was very close,” his former lover said quietly. “Walter’s age and size—and of course, his hair coloring and those curls—fueled the rumors. But he’s the image of his grandfather. His likeness in his baby portrait is uncanny. And if anyone really wanted to—but of course, they don’t—it’s easy enough to do the math.” She heaved a great sigh. “He was conceived almost four weeks after you left for America. Ironically, it happened the first time Dougal and I were … together. When he learned I’d been with you, too, we parted ways. A week later, we were together again. He said he loved me so much, he knew that if I were with child, he would love the baby as his own—even if it were yours. I believed him, and not only that, I loved him all the more for that declaration. We were married by special license a few days later.”
The Earl Is Mine Page 20
