And yet, “Good day! Funny story: I’m your half-brother,” would be the hardest words to get off his tongue.
No matter how angry Simon had been at his father for siring a son he was too ashamed to recognize, one of his favorite childhood fantasies had been somehow meeting Zachary, and becoming secret best friends. Their father would not approve, but since Simon was already nobody and Zachary was already the heir, what punishment could the marquess truly bring?
In Simon’s daydreams, the bond of brotherhood easily trumped the tyranny of fatherhood. He and his brother would ride horses together, study Latin together, hunt foxes together, play bowls and nine pins together, even fall in love at the same time, and promise their children would spend plenty of time together as cousins. He had been convinced it could happen…if only Hawkridge knew of his existence.
Not only had the opportunity for those boyhood fantasies long passed, so had both of Simon’s parents. Even if he did introduce himself to his brother, what proof did he have that his claims were true?
The most likely outcome was not that the two men would ride stallions off into the sunset on some brotherly adventure, but rather that Hawkridge would laugh in Simon’s face, turn his back, and immediately put him out of his mind.
Worse than rejected. Dismissed as insignificant.
As Simon watched, Lord Hawkridge stepped away from the hazard game to glance at the corner table he often shared with the club owner, Maxwell Gideon.
The table was still empty. It had been empty all evening. Either Gideon was not in attendance tonight, or he was holed up in his private office at the back of the club. There was only one way to know for certain.
Apparently following the same train of logic, Hawkridge craned his neck toward the passageway leading to the back office. The hallway was empty. Even the private tables were empty, save for a lone gentleman in a dark corner, blurring with the shadows. Hawkridge would have no inkling that the stranger was an inspector, or his half-brother. As far as the marquess was concerned, Simon was nobody at all.
Unless Simon changed his mind.
With visible annoyance, Hawkridge cast another frustrated glance at the vacant side table, then stalked through the smoky gaming room toward the back of the club.
This was it. If Simon wished, he could remain part of the woodwork, and let his brother pass by without a word, or even meeting his eyes.
Simon rose to his feet.
“Hawkridge.” The word came out gruff. Scratchier than he would have wished. But at least it was spoken.
The marquess’s answering glare would have frosted a lesser man. “I’m late.”
“You’re not late,” Simon corrected, irritated at his brother’s casual rudeness to a total stranger. “Gideon’s late. You’ve been waiting. You can wait here.” He gestured at an empty seat at his table.
Hawkridge ignored the invitation. “I don’t know you.”
Simon nodded. Fair enough. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Simon Spaulding, and I—”
“I know who you are,” Hawkridge snapped. “I don’t know you and I don’t wish to.”
Simon frowned. His cover was clearly not as good as he’d thought. “You know that I’m a Bow—”
“I know you’re my father’s by-blow. Bully for you. I’m busy.” Hawkridge let out an exaggerated sigh. “Now will you step out of my way?”
“You…know?” Simon stammered in disbelief, his mind spinning. “How do you know?”
Hawkridge’s laugh was as humorless as breaking glass. “How wouldn’t I know? Every time he missed my birthday, my mother’s birthday, my graduations, it was because he was off debasing himself with a mistress he cared more about than his own family. Simon taught himself geometry without aid of a tutor. Simon doesn’t talk back to when he’s scolded. Simon is more of a naturally born gentleman than you are.”
“He…what?” Simon’s voice was almost too faint for even himself to hear.
“You think you’re better than me?” Hawkridge continued, his angry words coming faster. “I’m not surprised. You can’t help it. You’ve always had it easier.”
“I…what?” Simon spluttered. Was the marquess a madman? “You are a lord. I’m just—”
“Free,” Hawkridge interjected vehemently. “You’ve no entailed properties tied about your neck. You can do as you please, be what you please, make friends with people of your own choosing. You can even fall in love with whomever you want. You’ve probably already done so. Is there a Mrs. Spaulding?”
“Er…” Simon’s cheeks heated despite himself. He had always believed in waiting for the right woman or not marrying at all. “She’s not—”
“Well, she should be, whoever she is. Unless you’re not as bright as I was led to believe.” Hawkridge curled his lip as if disgusted by Simon’s bachelorhood. “Honestly, if I had half the advantages you possess—”
“You had our father,” Simon burst out, unable to take the selfish tirade anymore. “He acknowledged you. He chose you. You have his name, his home, his title.”
“Bully for me, then. I’ve a title. Huzzah.” Hawkridge shrugged his perfectly tailored shoulders. “I suppose that’s my cross to bear. Now if you don’t mind, I informed you that I am very busy—”
“Godspeed, by all means. I’ve never been happier to send a self-important prig on his way.” Simon stepped out of the passageway with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Believe me, I shan’t be bothering you again.”
“Then at least that’s one good thing to happen today.” Hawkridge stalked past him toward the rear office.
Blood boiling, Simon strode out of the Cloven Hoof without a backward glance at his brother. He would never make the mistake of reaching out to family ever again. Simon had never had a brother before. He didn’t need one now. Especially not a selfish ingrate like that.
He leapt onto his horse and charged aimlessly through the streets of London.
At least, he meant to charge aimlessly. Somehow, his horse had found its way through town to the St. Giles School for Girls.
As he tied his horse to a post, Simon forced his nerves to settle. There was nothing he wanted more than to have a calm, private moment with Dahlia, and neither she nor her students deserved to bear the brunt of his current ill humor. He wasn’t at the Cloven Hoof anymore.
Within these walls, he could be happy.
He rolled back his shoulders and gave the knocker a loud rap.
When Dahlia answered the door, he nearly sagged in relief. “You’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” She blinked at him in confusion. “It’s nearly midnight.”
Midnight. Of course it was. And he’d banged on the front door. He stiffened in embarrassment.
“My apologies. Time…got away from me. I—Perhaps I’ll call again tomorrow.”
“Now is a good time.” She pulled the door open wider. “I’m not in my nightrail yet and the girls are asleep. Come in. How do you feel about lukewarm tea?”
“My favorite kind,” he said gruffly, and stepped inside.
She led him to the dining table, where a teapot, a novel, and a waning candle clumped in one corner.
He sat on the other side. “You were relaxing. I’ve interrupted.”
“You’re my favorite interruption.” She placed a worn teacup and saucer onto the table and lifted the pot. “This is the third time we’ve used these leaves, so don’t be alarmed if there’s little taste or color left.”
Her words were matter-of-fact. Recycling tea leaves was commonplace for those who couldn’t afford fresh. And yet, the fact that she’d felt obligated to explain herself made him wonder once again what sort of life she had lived before becoming headmistress of this school.
Whatever led her down this path, he was glad of it. She was changing the destinies of dozens of young ladies. Many of whom would have ended up in brothels or worse situations, were it not for this opportunity.
Simon couldn’t help but wonder how different his mot
her’s life might have been if there would have been a school like this available to her. Would she still have become a courtesan? An unhappy mistress to a married lord? Or might she have become a governess, a cook, a housekeeper, some less vulnerable position where she might have met someone who loved her enough to marry her?
Rather than drink his tea, he found himself spilling the entire story. How his father had treated his mother. How Simon had been born insignificant and had worked his entire life to be the opposite. How his fashionable, powerful, titled half-brother somehow felt he was the party more deserving of pity.
He curled his fists in frustration. “The tables would be turned if my father had made a different decision. If he’d done the ethical thing and married my mother, I would be marquess.”
Dahlia curved her slender fingers over his fists.
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said softly. “He could never marry your mother. If he had done the ethical thing, he would have left her alone…and you would never have been born.”
Simon stared at her.
She was right. If Father had married Mummy was a child’s fantasy. Lords didn’t wed courtesans. They couldn’t. One of the biggest scandals of the past century was when the Prince of Wales had illegally wed his mistress, and even he had been forced to give her up.
Simon’s father was not a gothic villain. Nor was his mother an innocent victim. If anything, their relationship had been more honest than either of them had a right to expect.
“He should not have carried on two lives,” he said stubbornly. “It’s black and white.”
Dahlia’s eyes flashed. “Nothing is black and white. The world is full of gray. All we can do is the best that we can, which often means compromising something we’d rather not. Many people have two lives.”
“I do not,” Simon pointed out. “Hiding one’s true self is a form of cowardice.”
“Spoken like someone who has never had to,” Dahlia said sharply. “For many, it means survival. You cannot judge the entire world based on your interactions with one man.”
“Not just him,” Simon muttered. “My half-brother is a complete prig like all his titled peers, and we’ll continue to be strangers the rest of our lives.”
Dahlia frowned. “Does he have to be?”
He shrugged. “He wants to be.”
“But does he have to be?” she repeated. “Might he not be pushing you away for the same reason you took so long to approach him?”
“Afraid his bastard half-brother would reject him?” Simon asked in disbelief.
“But you did,” she pointed out. “He didn’t have time for you today, and you excised him from the rest of your life.”
“He was rude.” Simon’s jaw set. “He doesn’t wish to be brotherly with me.”
“He doesn’t wish it right now,” she agreed. “But things change. You’ve already missed out on each other’s company for half your lives. Are you going to waste the next few decades, too?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you do this to all your students?”
She blinked back at him innocently. “Do what?”
“Force reason and empathy upon them until they become better people,” he muttered with exaggerated sullenness.
“I hope so. I think that’s what a headmistress is.” She grinned. “You’re an inspector. What did you detect about your brother, apart from his heinous manners?”
Simon thought back. His brother had come into the club for a purpose. He’d been expecting to speak with the owner, and for some reason that hadn’t happened. He had seemed on his way to confront Gideon when Simon had interrupted.
“Hawkridge was in a foul temper before we’d exchanged a single word,” he admitted. “He said the first thing that had gone right for him today was me leaving.”
“Then even if his words were true, his primary frustration was targeted at whatever was going on before you clashed.” She touched the side of his face. “I think you should try again.”
“I’ll consider it,” Simon allowed, after a brief pause. “But not today.”
“Not today,” she agreed, and rose to her feet. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?”
Simon leapt out of his chair in surprise. “Am I leaving?”
“I hope not.” She wrapped her fingers about the lapels of his greatcoat. “I just wanted an excuse for you to kiss me.”
“How’s this for an excuse,” he said as he lowered his mouth to hers. “I love kissing you.”
She wrapped her arms about his neck. “Then don’t stop.”
Stopping was the last thing he wanted. Now or ever.
Her kisses were not the shy, tentative pecks of a maiden unsure about her suitor. Dahlia’s kisses spilled forth with the same passionate abandon she met life with. Her mouth was sweet and sinful. Her tongue more than willing. She made no attempt to hide the unevenness in her breath or the heat in her eyes, but rather gave herself over to it completely.
How could he possibly resist?
No matter how hard Simon tried to push her from his mind, to maintain some semblance of decorum and distance between them, it was no use. Every breath he took carried the scent of her hair, every beat of his heart recalled the feel of her soft bosom pressed tight to his chest.
Kissing her wasn’t something he chose to do. It was as natural and as compulsive as breathing. Lifting his lips from hers for even a second caused a sense of loss and longing so profound that he was helpless to do anything but kiss her again. Longer. Deeper. To imprint himself on her soul the way she had branded herself on his.
Passion such as theirs was as dangerous as it was addictive. If he were not careful, he would find himself tumbling over the precipice. And if she were not careful… He might never let her go.
Breathless, he forced himself to break the spell of their kiss.
“It’s late,” he said roughly. “I should let you get some sleep.”
“Sleep is the furthest thing from my mind,” she replied, her dark eyes luminous as they gazed up at him.
Sleep was also the last thing on Simon’s mind. But, however much he loved her kisses and was eager to discover where they might lead, he refused to commit the same sins as his father. He respected Dahlia too much to make love to her without the protection of marriage. Nor would he engage in any behavior that could accidentally sire a child.
As much as it pained him to leave her, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and turned for the door. To his surprise, he had begun to wonder whether he ought to reconsider his thoughts on courtship. The idea was as much intriguing as terrifying. There was no reason to rush things. Simon straightened his shoulders as he stepped out into the night.
He would be the first man in his family to choose the right woman and treat her as a gentleman should. Dahlia was worth it.
Chapter 19
By time she and her mother were announced at their fourth Sunday evening soirée, Dahlia’s cheeks were sore from the effort of keeping up a constantly smiling façade. She was here to raise funds for her school—and her mother was here to interest eligible gentlemen to her daughter. Both goals were easier to achieve with a cheerful disposition.
And both of them were failing miserably.
The stream of insipid gentlemen her mother forced into Dahlia’s path did little to arouse her passion. Too flawless on the outside, too empty on the inside. Padded tailoring to feign musculature, boots without a single scratch, pale cheeks that saw a razor more often than they saw the sun, cravats that must have required the entirety of the afternoon to fold into multilayered starched confection.
Nothing at all like Simon.
His imperfections were what Dahlia appreciated most. He had no need for padded shoulders or false calves. Her skin heated in remembrance.
A shadowed jaw meant he dropped by after work because he was thinking about her, not because he’d spent an idle afternoon obsessed with the size of his cravat. And if his boots were dusty, it was because he’d ridden hell for leather to see her.<
br />
This time, her smile was genuine. It always was when she thought about Simon.
Her mother would swoon to discover her daughter had a fancy for a working-class gentleman. Like as not, her parents wouldn’t consider Simon a gentleman at all. He had no title. No father. No carriage. He had a profession—the horror!
But her parents would be wrong. Even now, after learning the story of Simon’s birth, Dahlia could not think less of him simply for being born on the wrong side of the blanket.
To be sure, he would never fit into society. But that would be true no matter who his mother might’ve married. High society was high society. Working class was not. And orphan girls who lived on the streets… Well. They weren’t faring too well tonight, either.
“You Grenvilles had so much potential.” Lady Pettibone stared down her nose at Dahlia with the signature hellish disdain that had earned her the Old Dragon nickname among those reckless enough to whisper about a duke’s sister behind her back. “Why on earth wouldn’t you sponsor a school for young ladies more worthy of our attention?”
Dahlia ground her teeth. The question was not for her, but for the giggling social climbers who wouldn’t have a thought in their heads if Lady Pettibone hadn’t put it there first. The old dragon knew full well why Dahlia’s school was worthy of merit. She simply enjoyed using her wealth and influence to destroy those around her.
So far, only a handful of women had agreed to spare a few pounds out of the following month’s pin money to support a noble cause like Dahlia’s. Any help was wonderful. Every farthing counted. But it wasn’t enough.
With a sinking heart, Dahlia realized she would have to attend these weekly whirlwinds with her mother for the rest of her life if she wished to have a prayer of keeping her school afloat. Which meant maintaining her precarious position in society at all costs.
“Why, Miss Grenville,” came a low, familiar voice. “Did I hear you’ve opened a boarding school?”
Dahlia’s jaw tightened as she turned to face Lord Hawkridge. He had lost her good favor years ago, when he had hurt Faith Digby. Dahlia had to witness enough injustices in the world. She would not abide poor treatment of her best friend.
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