CHAPTER 10
Dear Chauncey,
My uncle gave Hydrogen, Cobalt and Ginger away. I haven’t felt such loneliness since my parents’ death. I am glad to know that I’ll always have you and no one can take you away.
Your Friend,
Kitten (The Chemist)
St. Clara walked past Turner, his tall, burly butler, and dismissed him for the night with a curt nod. He was not in the mood for company or conversation of any kind. He was weary and desperately in need of being alone with his thoughts. Thoughts of Pippa, of a future that for one glorious moment in Heartford’s library he saw as clear as the moon shone over London.
The comfort of being in his own home did nothing for him. He was exhausted and on edge with no idea of what to do about his problems, the main one being Pippa Price and her engagement to Summerset.
He strolled into his parlor, categorizing anything he could sell that wasn’t entailed to the dukedom so he could pay Reaper. It would afford him some time to convince Pippa to run away with him.
His head throbbed and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He was afraid that he would break if one more damn thing occurred. The conversations he’d had with both Summerset and Edwards played repeatedly in his mind.
The accusation that St. Clara’s father had questioned his only son’s paternity had sent acid running through his veins. He knew well that his mother’s behavior had proven her word unworthy, but there was no mistaking that the former duke was his father. As St. Clara scrutinized the face of Ludlow Bennett closely, it was like looking in a mirror. Though a harder, stoic version stared back at him, they had the same nose, chin, cheekbones, and hair color. The only difference between the two were their eyes. He had his mother’s eyes, deep and brown, as opposed to his father’s cold, gray ones.
Walking over to the portrait of him and his father that hung over the mantle, he stared up intensely, feeling like a small boy again. He had respected the man more than anyone else, mainly to the detriment of his mother, his sister, and Pippa. St. Clara had failed them all because he’d wanted his father’s approval.
“How could you ever doubt me?” His voice sounded weak and pathetic to his own ears. Even now as a man grown, St. Clara still craved his father’s approval. The feeling of betrayal cascaded through him, his shoulders sagging in disappointment, the weight of the past heavy on his heaving chest.
Summerset was many things, but the man had never been a liar. There was no doubt in St. Clara’s mind that his father had questioned St. Clara’s paternity. It was the revelation about St. Clara’s mother that did not sit well within him. If she was such a whore as his father had always told him, surely shewould’ve been intimate with even Summerset. There was a small glistening of hope inside of him that prayed that perhaps his mother wasn’t who his father perceived her to be at all.
Weariness took over him as he untied his cravat, throwing it across the room, then removed his tailcoat and waistcoat, freeing himself from the restraints of society. He walked over, deciding avoiding alcohol would be the best thing for him. After rolling up his shirtsleeves, he poured himself a glass of water.
Closing his eyes, he allowed the liquid to cool his feverish nerves. It had been a long night, one that left him on edge. He couldn’t stop thinking about the past and his current situation. It seemed the two were permanently intertwined, and his father was at the forefront of everything. The investigation, the bribery… Ludlow Bennett was not the man St. Clara had thought he was. For the first time in his life, St. Clara questioned who his father really was.
“The nerve of that woman, under my roof when she was there to care for me.”The Dowager Marchioness Heartford’s words penetrated him, and he wondered what had happened all those years ago to lead his mother to stray from her marriage and betray her family.
As a boy, he’d had no choice but to follow his father’s decision regarding his mother and sister, but as a man he could’ve rectified his treatment of them. St. Clara never visited, never wrote to either his mother or his sister. When they finally came to Town for Amelia’s marriage, he ignored them completely. After his father died, he never renewed the connection. He did nothing, not even when his sick mother wrote to him begging for one last visit.
Tired, he refilled his glass with water before trudging over to sit in the scarred armchair. He decided to leave the past behind him, to focus on his future, and pray that it included Pippa Price. In the morning, he would go to her and beg her again to marryhim. He could not promise her romantic love, but she would always be safe and cared for.
After the events in Heartford’s study, there was no way imaginable that he would ever forget her. Nine years of him being a complete degenerate did nothing to erase their connection. No matter how innocent, it was still based on trust and in some ways even …love.
He had loved no one other than his father. His mother and sister were forgotten, out of sight, out of mind. When he met Pippa, she became everything to him, confidant and friend. He had cared for Pippa in his own way, as a boy cared for a friend, but would that be enough to sustain a marriage?
Stretching out his long legs, his head fell against the back of the chair. He wanted to fall into the confines of sleep right in his own parlor.
As he relaxed, the front knocker rang through the quiet house like a cannon blast. Sitting up swiftly, he stood, wondering who would call at such an hour. He strode out of the room and down the hall to the door, thinking that perhaps Bollingbrook needed a place to stay for the night.
He pulled the door open. All thought and reason left him at the sight in front of his eyes. Standing outside his door in the dark night was Pippa Price. The fading moonlight shone on her pale skin, highlighting the gray-and-white cat in one arm and the valise in the other.
“I’ll marry you.” She pushed past him, walking into his home and wreaking havoc on his heart.
He stood momentarily frozen in place, his mouth agape, heart pounding so loud in his chest it was like a symphony. The cold burst of air reminded him he was standing with his door wide open in the middle of Mayfair. His mind could not register that she was truly there; her reputation would be completely ruined once thetondiscovered she had come to him. Yet nothingmattered more to him than the fact that she had just agreed to marry him.
Closing the door, he turned and followed her into the parlor, his mind swimming in confusion.
I’ll marry you.
The words repeated over and over in his head as if he were under water. He couldn’t recall taking the steps needed to reach the parlor, but there he was, standing in the doorway watching her glorious form as she glanced around the room.
She was there and had agreed to be his wife. St. Clara leaned against the door frame, steadying himself. His gaze roamed aimlessly, but everything was a blur. Blinking several times, he fought off the barrage of emotions running through him until Pippa came into focus.
The sight of her wearing a dark-blue pelisse with white lace around the neckline made him feel light and airy. The dim candlelight glowed off her pale skin and made her appear ethereal. Her dark hair was bound tight in a bun with wisps hanging freely around her face.
