Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 24
She could not be certain which child spoke; they all clambered around the door to get a look at their newest guest.
“Do you be think’n it be Abby’s pa?” Samuel asked, a bit of nervousness in his voice.
“Couldn’t be him. Abby has yellow hair and he has dark hair.”
“Well, she sure be stare’n at him like he’s her pa,” Daisy said.
“Then I better be ask’n to court his daughter,” Samuel said seriously.
Vi looked to the boy as he tucked in his shirt and smoothed the front of his pants.
“No, we will wait here until Mrs. Hutton returns. If she wanted all you bombarding the man she would call for you,” Vi said as she guided the children away from the door and back into the room decorated for Abby’s birthday. “Now, back to your game.”
As the children hid in various yet obvious places around the room, Vi moved back toward the door with the intent to push it shut.
But a voice traveled down the hall—a very familiar voice. “ . . .Lady Viola I seek.”
How dare the man! Did he plan to storm the room and belittle her in front of the children? Her children.
Instead, she peeked out the door, trying not to draw the children’s attention. Oh, but Brock did look dashing, and Abby did look quite smitten with him.
Odd how he had that effect on people.
What was she thinking? She squared her shoulders and prepared to march down the hall and throw him out. This was hers, and he would not ruin her newfound sanctuary as he had done with Foldger’s Foals.
She paused as she started to leave the room. Suddenly, she realized that given recent developments, she no longer knew for certain that it had been Brock who spread the horrid gossip around London. It was much more likely the culprits had been Connor and Hampton Darlingiver.
This did not change the fact that he had completely humiliated her when all she’d wanted was a fresh start, a new beginning. Yes, he still needed to go.
With new resolve, she pulled the door open and started down the hall—and immediately came face to face with Brock, holding Abby’s hand as she led him in Vi’s direction.
“Lady Viola—”
“What are you doing here?” Her voice dripped with venom.
“I was at your house—”
“You followed me here?” she asked cutting him off again.
“Well, yes, but—”
This was too much. “You need to leave. Mrs. Hutton, can you show Lord Haversham to the door, please?” Vi turned a smile on Mrs. Hutton who stood, eyes wide, behind Abby.
“Of course. This way, m’lord.”
“But, Lady Vi, he said he is here for my party.” Abby’s face looked crestfallen, her small lips pursed in a pout.
As quickly as it had come, Vi’s anger fled. She was being selfish again, she chastised herself—it seemed she was unable to be anything but, at times. How could she disappoint the girl on her special day? With Vi’s source of income gone, Abby might not have another celebration. Mrs. Hutton would rightfully be concerned with feeding all the children; there would be no money for gifts or cake.
Maybe it was better that she leave, so they could continue to enjoy the party. Vi had delivered her altered dress to Abby, her gift given—she could depart.
“M’lady,” Mrs. Hutton’s voice drew Vi from her thoughts. “Do you want me to show him out?”
“No, actually, I was just saying my goodbyes to the children. I am afraid I must be off.” Vi’s voice did not waver.
“But, you only just arrived,” Abby pleaded. She let go Brock’s large hand and stepped forward to take Vi’s. “Can you not stay a bit longer?”
“I fear I have many engagements to prepare for now that I am back in town.” Vi squeezed the girl’s hand. “But I will return. Enjoy your new dress, and have a very happy birthday.” She disentangled her hand from Abby’s and took a step toward the front door.
“Lady Viola, I do hope ta see ye again soon.” Mrs. Hutton hurried to open the door.
“I will see you out, Lady Viola. My carriage waits just outside.”
“Oh, no. That will not be necessary.” But she knew she was fighting a losing battle, for he had already moved to her side and slipped her arm into the crook of his own.
He smiled at Abby, Mrs. Hutton, and then the children, who had gathered only a few steps down the hall. Images of everyone in attendance raising their hands to their foreheads as Lily had entered her mind.
Vi wanted to scream.
Next, he turned his toothy smile on her. “Shall we be off?”
No, she did not want to ‘be off’ with him. But there was nothing else she could say with everyone looking on. “Of course.” It seemed the entire group let out a collective sigh, as if they had been expecting a fight.
“They make a dashing couple,” Vi heard Abby whisper to Samuel, who had moved to her side.
“We could be dash’n, too,” he huffed back.
Belatedly, Vi realized their sighs were not because of the disaster averted, but because they all thought Brock was here to court her!
Brock shook with mirth beside her.
Of all the absurdity.
The door closed behind them and Vi ripped her arm from his. “How dare you,” she seethed.
“Please, allow me to escort you home.” It was the least she could do after forcing him to chase her all over the streets of London, finally coming to a stop in the East End.
Brock would be lucky if his driver had not been assaulted and his carriage stolen. Did she not realize the jeopardy she faced by coming here unescorted—and in a hack, no less? The woman was careless and reckless, but now was not the time to point out all her flaws. First, he needed to get her into his carriage, which thankfully sat across the street whole and unharmed.
“Are you delusional enough to believe I would enter a carriage with you after you practically shouted to all of London that I would be better off dead?”
Bloody hell, she had a very valid point. “I do apologize for my behavior.” Now was as good a time as any, although he never dreamed this would be happening on the streets in front of anyone passing by, in the worst part of town. “Now, would you—”
“Just stop.”
Brock shut his mouth to stop himself from making an utter fool of himself, more then he already had.
She glared at him and he glared back at her—much as he imagined his brothers glaring at each other as they looked down the barrels of two matching pearl-handled pistols. There was nothing separating Brock from her now, with the exception of every person on the crowded street and the children who no doubt had their noses pressed to the window panes of the house behind them.
Obviously, forcing her into the carriage was not an option, and their glaring was also getting them nowhere. “The children are staring.” He tried a new tactic.
From the stiffening in her back, he knew he had chosen the right one.
She glanced over her shoulder and when she turned back to face him, she was smiling. It was a frightful, wooden smile, but it was a smile nonetheless.
He held out his arm and she slipped her hand in to rest lightly at his elbow.
“Blast,” she muttered.
“I promise I will not do away with you on the ride to your father’s house. I only wanted a moment of your time to make amends properly.” Brock looked both ways and stepped from the walk in the direction of his carriage. “See, this is not so horrible.”
“You are correct, my lord,” she looked up at him. “It is far worse than that.”
Ignoring her remark, Brock handed her up into his carriage and turned to Jeffers. “The Liperton townhouse.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Brock entered the carriage to find Lady Viola perched as if ready to flee on the front-facing seat. Her hands looked ready to launch herself toward the closing door. When it clicked shut, she sagged against the seat, her arms across her chest.
The carriage pulled into traffic and jolted down the uneven street. He only had a limited time to talk with her; there was no doubt in his mind that as soon as they pulled to a stop, she would either bolt out the door or jump through the narrow window she was currently eyeing. And that might look even worse than the scene they had made before.
But how to get her talking?
“What was that house?” he asked, hoping to break her icy exterior.
“That is none of your concern. You will not be going back.”
“I am not so sure I will not be returning. Little Abby was quite affronted that I arrived at her party without a gift. I promised that sometime in the near future I would rectify my faux pas.”
The carriage hit a large hole, and Viola put her hand against the carriage wall to steady herself before she spoke. “Why would you care about a little girl?”
“I am not a heartless man, Vio—”
“Lady Viola.”
“Fine. Lady Viola, I am not a heartless man. And now it seems I know you are not the heartless, cold woman I have pictured all these years.” He spoke the truth. “It is odd. I never thought you to be a woman who would like children.”
She crossed her arms once more. “You do not know me in the slightest.”
“That is true… But I find myself wanting to know you.” Images flashed through his mind unbidden—thoughts he had kept at bay from the time he first learned that the tantalizing Lady Posey was, in fact, the very woman he had blamed for his family’s misfortune for the past eight years. For a moment, he let those thoughts wash over him once more. He wanted to know the way she would feel close against his body; the way her lips would melt against his own. He wanted to see her hair cascading loose down her back . . . and possibly over her unclothed body, his hands running through its silken waves.
“Why are you looking at me such?” Her lips pressed together in a firm line.
He knew where to find something else that was currently a bit firm. At least her comment drew his attention from thoughts of her naked body . . . to her lips pressed against his.
Bloody hell! This was the woman responsible for Cody and Winston’s deaths, how could he be looking at her with any sort of lust? What she had been and who she was today were completely at odds.
“You are still staring,” she said. “Why did you truly follow me?”
All right, she wanted to talk. He also wanted to talk . . . among other things. “As I said, I felt it was only honorable that I apologize for my behavior the other evening.” That was not as truthful as his other admissions. “And to return something that had been taken from you.”
“Could you not have waited for me to return home?”
“You left in a hired hack, without a maid, and ended up in the East End. My actions were very justified.”
“Be that as it may, I am a grown woman.”
The stiffness in his breeches dissipated at her icy tone. He took her in from head to toe, then back to her face. “I am extremely aware that you are a grown woman.”
She straightened, as if just now seeing the folly of entering his carriage without contesting more. “Well, I do accept your apology and I hope that we can ignore each other in the future.”
They would be arriving at her father’s townhouse at any moment. The street had leveled out, and he felt the rhythmic passing of the cobblestones under the wheels. “I have yet to apologize—I have only expressed my desire to do so.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “And I suppose you expect an apology in return?”
“Not at all. There is not enough time in one day for you to apologize for all you should.” His words were overly harsh.
She scowled as she pulled the curtain aside. “We have almost arrived, and I am quite busy, so thank you for your ‘wish to apologize.’ I believe it would behoove both of us to act as if we are unacquainted from now on.”
“Oh, I think we are far beyond that.”
“And why is that?”
“I will find it hard in the future to not let others know you are not the cold and selfish girl they all think you to be.”
“I should have run the second I heard your name at Foldger’s Foals,” she muttered, her arms still firmly crossed.
“Ah, but then we would not know the chemistry between us.”
“There is no chemistry between us, unless you count hatred.”
“Come now, Viola, you cannot deny that you felt something that day.”
“I do not know what day you refer to.”
“No? What about our kiss? Or that night in the rain? Do you also deny our connection then?”
She couldn’t possibly deny she had felt something. He knew he could do so no longer. Truth be told, if Brock had not found out her true identity, he knew he would have sought out her company again—under very different circumstances.
“Luckily, I know the exact day, the time, and the weather overhead. You were striding in from the pasture—”
“I do not stride, that is very unladylike.”
“I do beg your pardon, my lady. You floated across the low grass in the pasture toward me, your hips swaying with a barely restrained sensuality, and . . .”
Her cheeks flushed pink and her head dipped, breaking eye contact.
“Your foal followed you, completely caught in a hypnotic trance in which I too found myself.”
Now, her face flamed red, spreading down her neck and below her modestly cut neckline.
“As you walked toward me, all I could think about were my hands resting on your narrow hips . . . My lips against yours.”
Her eyes met his again.
“And then, our lips were touching—dancing—and it was everything I had dreamed of it being.” At the thought, heat flooded his body. Without thinking, he moved to sit next to her, his body drawn to hers.
To his surprise, she didn’t withdraw, but leaned toward him.
“Your lips were soft, so accommodating.” His hand rose to stroke her jaw. Again, she didn’t pull away. “I would have wrapped my arms around you and never let go, if it had not been for—”
His hand dropped from her chin. What was he doing? Had he gone mad? She was the one responsible for all he had lost—all that he missed. Family.
But no, he’d held a glimpse of the woman she’d become that night when he’d found her, soaked to the skin on her runaway horse. She had been raw with grief, beaten down emotionally—beyond anything a woman should ever have to experience, and quite possibly lower than Brock’s lowest moment.
Despite all she’d lived through, she’d found the courage to start anew, rebuild her life and give back to others. What had he done but focus on ruining what little she’d accomplished?
Viola had paid her penance tenfold.
Brock lost himself in her eyes in that moment, and he wasn’t sure any of their past mattered anymore.
Chapter 32
A sense of loss overcame her when Brock’s warm hand dropped from her chin. She wanted to tell him everything: about Connor’s deception, her work with the children, and most of all, her regret and pain over all she’d put him and his family through. She couldn’t change anything about her past, though. But she wanted to do something, anything, to again bring him close to her.
Could it be possible her father was correct? Did she crave the love and companionship only a man—a husband—could provide?
Her body told her yes.
Her heart screamed it.
But her mind was not so sure.
His brown eyes, so dark she was lost in their depths, drew her in. She wanted to trust him, believe they could put their past behind them. How, she did not know, but she longed to try.
Vi sighed. It was now or never. “I have spent these last seven years making amends for the grief I caused your family,” she uttered, so low she was unsure he heard her.
His brow drew together and closed off the view to his soul. “Is that what you were doing with those injured children?”
“Yes—”
“Have you been coming to London all these years?”
She was uncertain what she expected him to say or how he would react, but this was not it. “No, I entrusted Connor—”
He leaned away. For a moment, she feared he would move back to his own seat. “You do not trust that scoundrel, do you?”
At his question, she felt the betrayal of the past few days return. “Only a short time ago, I would have said I trusted him with my life . . . but no more.” She averted her eyes. She’d been a fool, and now it was time to admit it to him. “I am sorry for blaming you for feeding gossip to the ton. I know it was not you.”
He lifted her chin. For a moment, their eyes held. She found it hard to breathe, her heart taking wing in her chest. And then, at last, he touched his lips to hers. It wasn’t the eager kiss they’d shared all those weeks ago. No, this was a kiss of forgiveness—of mending wounds left too long untended.
The soft insistence of his lips captivated her own, tempting them into parting, allowing his tongue entrance. She knew she had unwittingly allowed him into her heart, as well. The secrets, the lies, and the hurt… None of it mattered when she was in his arms. Dare she dream that none of it would matter to him, either?
Her hands lifted to pull him closer, moving of their own accord, more insistent, her lips now urging him on.
Not to be outdone, his own hands moved up the side of her corseted dress until they grazed her bodice. A moan escaped her parted lips. Suddenly it didn’t matter who she was, who he was, or what society thought of either of them.
His thumb stroked her nipple through the fabric of her dress and his tongue matched its rhythm, pushing in and retreating. Her back arched and he took the movement as encouragement. His fingers pulled the bodice of her dress down and exposed her breast. The cool air in the carriage swept across her bare beast and her nipple hardened into a tight bud.
A deep chuckle escaped his mouth as he trailed kisses down her neck, over her collarbone, and finally to her exposed breast. This was what she had been missing—
“What in the bloody hell are you doing?! Unhand my daughter at once.”
Her father’s voice was miles away. She didn’t want him to intrude, to end her time in Brock’s arms. Her grasp tightened around him, moving up his back and locking in his hair.
