childbirth. And that he was born out of wedlock, a fact which most people would hold against him.
He’s too young to suffer, Duncan thought as he slowly descended the stairs. It was his great sorrow, that Joe would suffer at all. He wished he could take it all away.
But he has me, he reminded himself, and stopped to grip the banister. He always went back to that moment on the gangplank, when he’d made an irrevocable decision.
You did it for Joe .
For Joe.
Because Finn hadn’t wanted him.
A kind tenant farmer and his wife—the ones who’d moved to Australia from Duncan’s country estate in Kent—had wanted Joe, though, hadn’t they? If Duncan had placed him in the hands of the gnarled old nurse he’d hired to carry Joe across the world to them, the boy would have had a suitable mother and father and no one whispering about his less-than-proper origins.
Duncan eyed the opulence of his surroundings—the tapestry on the wall, the thick carpet beneath his feet, the marble stair rail—and was reminded that earls don’t waste time over what-ifs. They act. They do. They stand by their decisions.
A boy could do worse than have a rich and titled papa who loved him very much and would never, ever let him live anywhere else but with him, wherever he made his home.
And with that thought to comfort him, the Earl of Chadwick resolutely whistled his way down the stairs, only to see a fashionably dressed masculine figure in his drawing room, facing the fire. He instantly recognized the self-assured stance.
No, he thought at the most primitive level, and remembered that Joe was asleep upstairs. He stood so that he intentionally blocked the doorway. “What the devil are you doing here?”
His brother Finn turned to face him, compelling amber eyes gleaming with wry amusement. “I’m home, Duncan. And I’m not going back.” He grinned. “God, it’s good to see you.”
Chapter Five
That night, Marcia dreamed a long, elaborate dream. She was through the front door of the school, her eyes on a drab black vehicle that was waiting to take her away. Someone pushed her toward it, and without looking back, she ripped open the door of the hired hack and pulled herself in, collapsing on the floor, her bag squashed beneath her.
“Go!” she yelled to the dream driver between sobs. “Please, go!”
“But where to, miss?” the driver called back.
For a second, she had no idea. And then she realized she had no choice. “To London,” she called, her voice thin. “To Grosvenor Square.”
In her dream, the carriage lurched forward, and she refused to look back. She couldn’t think about the fact that her world had been ripped out from under her yet again.
She’d go back to the people and the place she’d avoided as much as possible since she’d lost her virginity—and her pride—to Finnian Lattimore.
She’d go home.
Home to the House of Brady.
When she opened her eyes the next morning, she realized with a great shock that she was already there.
Mama had sent the maid who’d accompanied her from the school back to Surrey in the coach that had brought them to London. And she’d laid one of Janice’s gowns on a chair next to Marcia’s bed. A new maid—the sweet-faced one, who was named Kerry—helped her get ready for the day.
At the dressing table was a vase of peonies and a book of Shakespearean sonnets Mama must have provided Marcia as a comfort.
But all they did was remind her of the weeds and spindly flowers in motley vases decorating every available level spot in her office at Oak Hall, and the preponderance of drawings and poems—varying from the primitive, from her younger girls, to quite sophisticated, from the older girls—lining her walls there.
Oh, dear God, yesterday had been horrible. But as Kerry brushed her hair, Marcia realized that she wasn’t sad. Her mood was more like the bright red tapestry hanging on the hall outside her bedchamber door.
She was seething.
How were her
He’s too young to suffer, Duncan thought as he slowly descended the stairs. It was his great sorrow, that Joe would suffer at all. He wished he could take it all away.
But he has me, he reminded himself, and stopped to grip the banister. He always went back to that moment on the gangplank, when he’d made an irrevocable decision.
You did it for Joe .
For Joe.
Because Finn hadn’t wanted him.
A kind tenant farmer and his wife—the ones who’d moved to Australia from Duncan’s country estate in Kent—had wanted Joe, though, hadn’t they? If Duncan had placed him in the hands of the gnarled old nurse he’d hired to carry Joe across the world to them, the boy would have had a suitable mother and father and no one whispering about his less-than-proper origins.
Duncan eyed the opulence of his surroundings—the tapestry on the wall, the thick carpet beneath his feet, the marble stair rail—and was reminded that earls don’t waste time over what-ifs. They act. They do. They stand by their decisions.
A boy could do worse than have a rich and titled papa who loved him very much and would never, ever let him live anywhere else but with him, wherever he made his home.
And with that thought to comfort him, the Earl of Chadwick resolutely whistled his way down the stairs, only to see a fashionably dressed masculine figure in his drawing room, facing the fire. He instantly recognized the self-assured stance.
No, he thought at the most primitive level, and remembered that Joe was asleep upstairs. He stood so that he intentionally blocked the doorway. “What the devil are you doing here?”
His brother Finn turned to face him, compelling amber eyes gleaming with wry amusement. “I’m home, Duncan. And I’m not going back.” He grinned. “God, it’s good to see you.”
Chapter Five
That night, Marcia dreamed a long, elaborate dream. She was through the front door of the school, her eyes on a drab black vehicle that was waiting to take her away. Someone pushed her toward it, and without looking back, she ripped open the door of the hired hack and pulled herself in, collapsing on the floor, her bag squashed beneath her.
“Go!” she yelled to the dream driver between sobs. “Please, go!”
“But where to, miss?” the driver called back.
For a second, she had no idea. And then she realized she had no choice. “To London,” she called, her voice thin. “To Grosvenor Square.”
In her dream, the carriage lurched forward, and she refused to look back. She couldn’t think about the fact that her world had been ripped out from under her yet again.
She’d go back to the people and the place she’d avoided as much as possible since she’d lost her virginity—and her pride—to Finnian Lattimore.
She’d go home.
Home to the House of Brady.
When she opened her eyes the next morning, she realized with a great shock that she was already there.
Mama had sent the maid who’d accompanied her from the school back to Surrey in the coach that had brought them to London. And she’d laid one of Janice’s gowns on a chair next to Marcia’s bed. A new maid—the sweet-faced one, who was named Kerry—helped her get ready for the day.
At the dressing table was a vase of peonies and a book of Shakespearean sonnets Mama must have provided Marcia as a comfort.
But all they did was remind her of the weeds and spindly flowers in motley vases decorating every available level spot in her office at Oak Hall, and the preponderance of drawings and poems—varying from the primitive, from her younger girls, to quite sophisticated, from the older girls—lining her walls there.
Oh, dear God, yesterday had been horrible. But as Kerry brushed her hair, Marcia realized that she wasn’t sad. Her mood was more like the bright red tapestry hanging on the hall outside her bedchamber door.
She was seething.
How were her
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