“At least you haven’t completely lost your sense,” Farring said. “Now, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” Giles replied. “I told you. She hates me. I will not stand in her way.”
Farring threw up his hands. “Leaving her to the mercy of the vultures is truly unforgivable, you beef-witted bounder. I don’t believe she hates you, but she will.”
“She does hate me. Shetoldme she hates me.”
“EvenIhate you right now. You forget, I watched the two of you together. And I’ve served as her escort since you disappeared. She searches the crowd for you everywhere we go. She puts on a brave, uncaring front but she loves you. I have six sisters; I recognize the signs. If anything, her actions are crying out for you to prove your esteem.”
Giles stared at his friend, wanting to believe, knowing he could not. Farring did not know the whole truth. Farring did not know he’d coldly planned to use Katherine to assuage his guilt.
Farring straightened his coat. “I’ll escort her to Lady Darlington’s soiree tonight, but I can only fend off sharks for so long.” His look hardened. “If you leave her to those sharks, without even an attempt to prove your worth, you are not the man I thought you were.”
Farring slammed the door.
Giles kicked his chair away from the table, a strangled cry tore from his throat.
Find the wound, stem the bleeding.
He’d found the wound, blast all. But how could he stem the bleeding whenhewas the wound?
He glanced to his food, suffering another bout of nausea. Leaving his food untouched, he set out in search of the street’s chaotic comfort. He hadn’t a plan. In fact, he wasn’t even aware which streets he chose.
Until, that is, he found himself face-to-face with a shining brass knocker.
A sickeningly familiar, shining, brass knocker.
Revelry sounded beyond the door—the sounds of mutually enjoyed company. He knew he was not welcome among their number. He knocked, anyway. On hearing his name, a nervous servant showed him into a small, comfortable parlor, and asked him to wait.
This time, it wasn’t his mother who greeted him. It was her husband.
“Why are you here, Marquess?” Mr. Blackwood asked.
He’d vowed he’d never occupy the same room as this man. Yet, here he was, in unpressed clothing and wilted cravat, looking every inch exactly as what he was—a man at the end of his fraying rope.
“Why?” Bromton demanded. “Of all the women in the world, why did you choose the marchioness? Why did you have to tarnish her name?”
“I did not choose ‘the marchioness’; I chose Lydia,” Blackwood responded. He studied Giles for a long time, his gaze traveling from Giles’s unshaven cheek to his rumpled coat, to his mud-covered boots. “Do you believe my wife feels she has tarnished her name?”
Giles glanced beyond Mr. Blackwood. The cluttered shelves and tables in the small but comfortable room spoke of a happy life. The furniture’s simple arrangement welcomed conversation—not unlike his mother’s sitting room before he’d redesigned it for Katherine.
His mother’s sitting room, he realized with a start, had been the only room in the house designed for repose. The only one with any warmth.
Too bad he’d never set foot inside before he had to tear it down.
“No,” Giles whispered, defeated. “I suspect she is”—he swallowed—“happy.”
“I was the one left tarnished, though gratefully so,” Blackwood said. “I divorced because of your mother.”
Giles looked up. “What did you say?”
“I tell you this not to shock you but to make you understand. My former wife and I had been long-estranged. And when I told her I had fallen in love, she had the oddest notion that a human institution should not be held above personal integrity.”
There was that word again.Love. Love existed between his mother and this man. Love existed between Markham and Julia and Kate. Love existed all around. Only he was left parched and wanting.Why?
The shadow of a woman filled the space behind Blackwood.
“Warren?” His mother placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Who is—Ahh.”
