Except . . .
Mark did not want to.
He had found Judith Lovelace, Lady Sculthorpe, fascinating. Her intelligence, her humor, and her beauty—they all called to him. The silver gleaming in her chestnut hair, her radiant emerald-green eyes, her strength and confidence on the dance floor—all of them reminding him that she bore little resemblance to the wan debutantes he had found far too young, too innocent, too provincial, and too thin for his tastes. Lady Sculthorpe had the hips of a woman who had given birth, and while still trim, she had a body that told him she did not shy from a hearty meal. Most of all, she acted comfortable with him, apparently unphased by the persistent rumors about his past. The way she had looked up at him, as if admiring who he was, matched no other woman on the floor. She did know his reputation—a reputation carefully cultivated to ensure theton’syounger ladies would avoid him—and did not seem to care.
“All children are important to be counted. All are precious.”
Mark stopped cold, his boots scuffing on the pavement as the words appeared in his mind abruptly, unexpectedly. Lady Sculthorpe’s words. An unusual sentiment among theton, who usually viewed their own children as products of a lineage, mostly ignored until they came of age. A necessity but not a privilege or a blessing.
Would she feel the same about a child of scandal, a by-blow, a child of a mistress? Would she think that child as precious as her own?
Mark stared down at the pavement, his chest tightening with a sudden, unwanted ache. Could she?
The ache sharpened, and Mark took a quick breath, then changed the direction of his steps. White’s could wait. The club and that bloody book were going nowhere.
He needed to see Olivia.
Chapter Four
Sunday, 17 July 1814
Whitehall, London
Half-past four in the afternoon
The squeal ofa young child, Mark decided, had to be the most joyous sound on the planet. A happy noise layered with the glee of living and the wonder of discovery. Rose Ashley, Stella’s mother—now that she was well enough—had become a rather adept gardener, and the small back garden of the house where Olivia and her grandmother lived held a plethora of flowers, multicolored rocks, small bits of carved stone, and a dozen or so delightful mud puddles, perfect for splashing whenever Granny had looked away. Abandoned bits of iron and wood, rescued from neighborhood piles, had become trellises for vines and homes for birds. Also hundreds of insects, which did not bother the girl in the least. Instead she clearly found the many varied shapes and colors of the crawly things fascinating, eagerly scrambling after them, sometimes on all fours herself.
At three, Olivia had lost some of her baby plumpness and walked with more confidence. But she spent a great deal of time bending down, touching everything in front of her, exclaiming over each new bug or flower, asking endless questions of her grandmother, and listening patiently to the answers. She laughed as she bounced through puddles and snatched at a birdin a bush—both of which earned her a scolding from the old woman.
In his carefully chosen and shadowed alcove across the alley, Mark watched, as fascinated by his daughter as she was by an everyday flower. Observing her made his chest tighten, a craving that burrowed deep within, a longing he knew would never be satisfied. He had discussed with Matthew the possibility of acknowledging Olivia publicly—it was not unheard of for aristocratic men to do so—but his brother had urged him to wait until the lineage had been secured. They also doubted Phyllida would welcome the girl into their home, and Mark could not protect her otherwise. For her to be publicly known as his child would leave the girl vulnerable to predators and other schemers. Perhaps someday. But not yet.
And there would be no other children, at least not legitimate ones. Mark cast his gaze to the ground. While he could not share this with his mother, he knew to his core that no woman would want to spend an entire night with him, much less a lifetime. Better to keep them all at bay, playing the rogue. While he had become renowned as an adventurous, skilled, and tender lover, when sleep did come—a rare event—it far more resembled the horrors of battle than a gentle slumber in a lady’s arms. Screams. Limbs flailing wildly. Terrors that sent him stalking the halls, sometimes even while still asleep. Mark occasionally awakened bruised and bloody from hitting solid objects unawares. More than once, he had come to consciousness in the mews behind their house, his brother at his side, both unaware of how he had gotten there.
Since they had returned to Embleton House from the war, Matthew had helped Mark mask some of the ills of the nighttime, but the two of them had now put into place a plan to find Matthew a wife, which would bring another innocent intothe house. Mark needed his own home, with locking doors and servants sworn to secrecy, so that search had also begun.
Olivia screeched, a less than happy sound.
Mark stiffened, his head jerking up, heart clutching. He stepped from the alcove before halting abruptly.
The girl had taken a tumble, tripping over some unseen object. Her grandmother helped her up, brushed off her clothes, wiped Olivia’s hands on her apron, and kissed a palm, murmuring to the child. Olivia nodded, brushed away a tear, and smiled. She gave her grandmother a quick hug about the neck, then pointed to a stand of lavender. Olivia wandered that way as Rose began to pinch dead blossoms from a nearby rosebush. The girl brushed fingers over the purple blossoms, then lifted her head—her eyes meeting Mark’s.
Mark stilled.
Olivia tilted her head to one side, studying him, and raised her hand. Her smile seemed to brighten the day, and Mark returned the greeting. Olivia waved. Mark did as well, then pointed at her grandmother and pressed a finger to his lips. Olivia glanced at Rose, then nodded at him.
With a sigh, Mark slipped back into the shadows.
Olivia resumed her play, and Mark watched until the two returned to the house, most likely for a nap or early supper. The afternoon had turned ever cooler, and overhead the gathering clouds held the promise of the rain Stephens had mentioned. Mark slung his cloak about his shoulders and headed toward his original destination of White’s.
Reaching the storied club, he passed between the two stone pillars at the edge of the pavement and trotted up the steps to enter the comfortable realm of men. Sanctuary. He handed the cloak and chapeau to one of White’s butlers, ordered a brandy, gathered up an abandoned newspaper, and found a spot near thefireplace in one of the front rooms. He would wait to view the betting book until he knew who else lingered in the club.
He did not have to wait long. He had barely begun to read when he heard his name.
“What-ho, Rydell! I figured you would be in the park chasing the merry widow. I heard she traipsed along Rotten Row today, bold in her curricle, a bluebird on the hunt for a mate, taking a gander at every blade on the path like an urchin eying a row of sweets.” A man dropped into the chair opposite, his emerald-green frock coat, purple waistcoat, and cream buckskin trousers contrasting with Mark’s usual black-and-white kit.
Mark did not care for the peacock colors that some of the younger gents wore. He peered around the newspaper at the new arrival, smirking. “You are the one dressed for an outing with the ladies, Harding. Did your tailor mistake you for a parrot or has he gone blind?” The cut was his favorite remark about the preening dandies among them, and he used it often.
“Ha!” Harding leaned back in the chair and motioned for a footman to bring a brandy as two other gentlemen wandered closer. “The ladies appreciate a man who can afford the finer things in life. It satisfies them to know they could have a secure position with me.”
