"Roses were Marjorie's favorite. Did you know her?"
The leap in logic squeezed Ambrose's chest. Before he'd gotten ill, Samuel Kent's mind and power of reasoning had been unparalleled.
"I'm afraid not. But I do have roses, and their scent is quite lovely. Do you want to come and see for yourself?"
His father's grip on the carriage strap loosened slightly, but his eyes widened. "I don't want to leave. It's safe in here."
Marianne wrinkled her nose. "It is as smelly and dingy as a cave in here. Wouldn't you rather have tea in the garden? I'll arrange for that: cakes and sandwiches next to the roses."
"Do you have plum pudding?" Samuel asked with the painful eagerness of a child. "I like plum pudding."
"If you like it, we shall have it. Come along, sir." Marianne held out a hand.
To Ambrose's relief, his father grasped her slim fingers. He helped Marianne and his sire alight, and he noticed that Samuel did not release her hand even when the old man stood upon the pavement. The hackney shot off, and Samuel squinted at Marianne.
"You're a looker, aren't you? Remind me a bit of my own Marjorie."
Ambrose choked back a laugh. He'd loved his stepmother to no end. But Marjorie, bless her heart, had been a short, robust lady with comfortable features.
Marianne dimpled. "A fine compliment indeed. Thank you, sir. Now shall we?"
Her gaze traveled from his father to him, and at that moment he knew his emotions hung upon his sleeve. For once, he was powerless to hide them. Whatever she saw in his face caused her to blush, duck her head in a distinctly un-Marianne-like fashion. And hope blossomed where it oughtn't, the petals catching in the thorns of his dilemma.
"Well, are we going to have pudding or not?"
Samuel's impatient demand broke the spell. Clearing his throat, Ambrose took his father's other arm. Together, the three of them climbed up the steps into the townhouse.
27
Cladin a smoking jacket of maroon velvet, the gentleman made his way to his study. He'd decided to spend the evening in; he had much to contemplate, and he wanted no distractions. Locking the door to his private sanctuary behind him, he went to his desk. He clicked the hidden mechanism beneath the ledge; an instant later, there was a soft whir, and the panel of the adjacent wall slid open.
He stepped into his inner sanctum. No one but he knew of the existence of this chamber. As he gazed upon the gilt-framed portraits on the walls, some of the tension drained from him. He brushed a finger against one of the canvases, and he could almost feel a downy cheek instead of oil and cloth.
"Do you miss me, my sweet flower?" he murmured. "Never fear. We shall be together soon."
He walked from painting to painting, perusing each with proprietary delight. There were four in all: one to mark each of Primrose's birthdays since she'd entered his life. His child bride—almost ripe enough to claim. Almost, but not quite.
That hunted feeling returned, quivering in his midsection. His mama had always berated him for his delicate stomach. Then again, she'd been an overbearing termagant who made everyone around her miserable, including his father. The gentleman didn't blame the man for escaping to an early grave; death was preferable to being shackled to a shrew.
Well, the gentleman had learned his lesson. Unlike his sire, he was in a position to make a marital choice to improve his happiness rather than to replenish the family coffers. He'd invested his dead mother's fortune so that he wouldn't have to wed for any reason other than desire. Even if those desires came from traditions too noble for modern society.
He'd first come across the depictions of medieval child brides in the library books at Eton. His stomach churned anew at the memory of that godforsaken hellhole. The bullies. Their taunts and fists. Perspiration sprouted on his brow as the room closed around him, turned into the suffocating cellar of a village tavern. Fumes of stale ale and sex choked him. The boys' voices clamored in his head.
Prove you're a man. Stick your cock in her. Fuck her.
The old whore with her wrinkled breasts and rotted breath shouting back,Wastin' your time an' mine, lads. This one's small eno' to toss back. 'E's limp as a baby eel!
Face burning, the gentleman shut out the laughter, the jeering. Rage poured over him. Hewasa man—he'd show them all. While his old schoolmates were now dragged around Town by their prune-faced wives,hewould have the most beautiful bride of all by his side.
His pulse calmed as he stared at the latest portrait of his love: at eight, Primrose had exceeded his expectations of her beauty. The purity of her corn-silk hair made a breathtaking pairing with eyes of translucent jade flecked with gold. His angel. His sweet-voiced, soft-skinned doll. She'd never gainsay him. Belittle him.
Sighing, he pressed his lips against her tiny pink slippers. Thank God he'd found her, a fresh blossom amongst the rubble of the stews. It had been Fate that led him to Kitty Barnes. The bawd had had a four-year-old orphan in her care: the by-product of an affair between an opera singer and a noble lover, she'd claimed. One glimpse of Primrose, her beauty and class, and the gentleman had known he had to rescue her.
He'd hired Leach to handle the transaction anonymously on his behalf. The thought of the blasted solicitor made his stomach pitch. With a shaking hand, he poured a drink and sat in the wingchair to nurse it. He assured himself that he'd carried out this last business with Leach perfectly: he'd tied a loose end… and tossed in a few diversions as well. Enough to keep that Draven bitch busy whilst he figured out a way to rid himself of her once and for all.
The dirty slut thought to take what was his? His hand clenched the snifter as fury spiked.
I saved Primrose. Me. No one's taking her away.
