The exhilaration rushing his veins was not a surprise. It was the appeasement stealing through him at seeing her that took him aback. “Come.” He held out his hand, knowing she had no option but to accept his assistance. The familiar pressing need to make Ginny understand she belonged to him manacled his heart. Not only had he arrived, but he had every intention of staying put.
By the time they returned to London, he would have her admitting outright that their past belonged to their past. He’d confess his egregious error in having deserted her. And never desert her again. Her kisses belonged to him. Her body belonged to him. Her children would belong to him. Letting a pup like Griston or the new earl of Maudsley take up with her would only happen over his dead body. “I’m here to escort you inside, my dear. Come,” he said. “You’re holding up the other carriages.”
Her unladylike snort had him biting back a grin. “Oh, for heavens—” He followed her gaze to Kimpton and his lady already disappearing through the front door. “I see.” Left with no choice, she took his hand. Her grip, warm and strong, gratified him. The instant her feet touched the ground, she pulled her hands away, smoothing them over her midnight-blue traveling dress. Almost as if she were wiping away his touch, he thought grimly.
The new earl sauntered up, bending in a shallow bow. “Lady Maudsley, how nice to see you again.”
“Good afternoon, my lord.” Her gracious smile punctured Brock’s skin with green pricks.
Brock shot her a glare, but she avoided him. Still, he carefully tucked her left hand into his arm, mindful of the fragileness of her wrist. He’d seen the damage firsthand, overseen the slow, tortuous healing process she’d undergone.
Maudsley turned to him. “Brockway, good to see you again, sir.”
Brock cleared his expression before meeting his eyes. He tipped his head in the earl’s direction, not bothering to respond. A lock of his light hair fell over one brow. Brock couldn’t decide if his poetical look was by design or an accident of fate. His free hand squeezed into a fist he hid at his lower back. Ginny’s hold on his arm tightened.
The instinct to protect again swept through him. He hadn’t liked the old Maudsley and damn sure didn’t like the new one. Carefully maintaining his benign facade, Brock ushered her past the up and coming dandy, desperate to remove her from his sights. Fat lot of good that did. The earl planted himself on Ginny’s far side and accompanied them to the portico.
“Lady Maudsley”—he gave a stilted laugh—“seems odd sharing a name with my late cousin’s wife.” He glanced past Ginny into the carriage. “I thought Lady Harlowe might have accompanied you and Lady Kimpton.”
To Ginny’s credit, she smiled but remained silent. Brock barely constrained his cheer at her fortitude, though he noted the high color in her cheeks.
“Er, well, um,” the earl went on. “In any event, I still require your audience.”
Brock opened his mouth, but Ginny pulled them up short. “Sir, if you are here to boot me from the town home, ’tis your right. I don’t require anything but perhaps a fortnight to vacate.”
The earl’s face flushed a deep, unbecoming red. “Oh, no, my lady. You mistake my intentions. I only wish to reassure your welcome. I’ve one last journey before taking up my duties as the new earl. My ship is due to sail in a week’s time.”
“Why didn’t you just say that before?” she demanded.
Brock winced at her strident tone. Subtle she was not. The stress in Brock’s shoulders lightened as he settled back for the unexpected fireworks he suspected would give Vauxhall a run.
“You had visitors, my lady.” To his credit, Maudsley kept his head. “I didn’t wish to place you under undo speculation…” Maudsley’s words trailed off, and the silence grew awkward.
Brock took undo pleasure in the man’s discomfiture. Yes, it was bad of him, completely inappropriate, and yet—Brock let out a sigh and then did take pity on the man. “Ginny, quit putting the man on the defensive. Forgive her, Maudsley. She is only just coming out of mourning.”
Her bristle of indignation arced across the air in a current he was certain could fry his skin. Something akin to being under a desert sun with no water.
“Of course. Of course.” They’d reached the portico. “My lady. All I wish to say is that you are welcome to stay at the Maudsley house in town for as long as you need. There is no rush to vacate.”
“Er, thank you, sir.”
Maudsley disappeared inside, leaving Brock standing there with Ginny’s hand on his arm. “Will you take a turn with me before—”
She dropped his arm. “Why? Why should I?”
“To talk. We should talk. Regarding your, er, plans regarding Irene and Cecilia.” He took her hand and placed it back on his arm, and again the finite sense swept him that this was where she belonged. Her hand on his forearm tensed. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
He drew her to a stop. “What is it, then?”
Outrage vibrated from her before air whooshed from her body and fear filled her expression. She dropped his arm and dug through her reticule. He pressed a stark white handkerchief in her hand. “I’ve absolutely terrified them.” She dabbed her eyes then dropped her face into her gloved palms. “We walked to the park with Lord Griston and a boy…” She took a deep breath. “A boy accosted Celia—”
“What!” A black icy rage—fear—shot through him with the force of a cannonball.
She rubbed her arms, despite the long sleeves of her traveling gown and the warmth of the beautiful summer day. “Sh-she’s fine.”
Brock attempted to rein in the foreboding asphyxiating him.
