She stomped her foot. “No, Papa! This is my home. Don’t you remember? This is where I landed when you forced me to marry that bastard Maudsley.” Her heart beat furiously in her chest as the same sense of helplessness swept through her as that day she’d stood before the rector. She dashed at the tears falling down her flaming cheeks.
Things were quickly spiraling out of her control. And sheWould. Not. Have. It.No one would ever control her again.Never.
“Kipling, I’ve changed my mind. The girls and I shall take our luncheon out today,” she said, stomping halfway up the stairs. Too bad the steps were covered in thick rugs. Silent pounding was so much less satisfying.
By the time Ginny reached her chamber, she was a quivering mess. She had to get control of herself before breaking the news to Celia and Irene that their luncheon with Brock was off.
The door opened, and he slipped inside. A half second later, he’d gathered her in his arms. “I’m sorry, darling.”
His appearing at her every turn disturbed her equilibrium. She pushed away from him. “It’s not your fault.”
“Don’t shut me out, Ginny. Please.”
She went to the settee and sat, dropping her face in her hands, unable to stop the tears from flowing freely now. “I don’t wish to, but I can’t seem to help it.” Why was her inclination to blow up first then think? Her temper would surely be the death of a bright future one day.
She was in no way blind to her greatest fear—opening her heart to the Marquis of Brockway a second time—affording him another opportunity to throw up his hands in disgust only to walk away from her forever. And now, with two additional hearts involved—Celia’s and Irene’s? No, thank you.
The small couch dipped with his weight, and his arm wrapped her shoulder and squeezed. “Shall I accompany you and the girls to Gunther’s for luncheon?”
She raised her head and met his concerned gaze. An iron band manacling her chest gave way. “They will be highly disappointed if you don’t,” she said in a low voice. “I need to change before I’m fit for leaving the house.”
He leaned in and feathered her lips with the lightest touch. “One day soon, my dear, you cannot escape the conversation of where this relationship is bound,” he whispered.
The door opened, and Irene appeared, with Celia standing just behind. She glanced at Brock and frowned. “Hello, my lord. Is it proper for you to be in Mama’s bedchamber?”
“Rest assured, my lady, your mother was upset. I am here to comfort her.”
“Oh,” she said, as if that was a perfectly acceptable answer.
Ginny shook her head, smiling slightly herself, though her insides rioted in chaos. One thing her parents could never do was take away her joy regarding her daughters.
Irene turned to Ginny. “Grandfather is having our lunch sent to the nursery,” Irene informed her with her mollifying patience. “He said you were expecting company, and that Celia and I were much too young to attend.”
Ginny’s mouth firmed. So her father had undermined her plans in taking the girls out. She swallowed hard to tamp down her resentment. Ginny glanced at her younger daughter whose thumb had crept to her mouth, her eyes wide with letdown, glistening with tears. Celia nodded, then blinked, and the pooled tears trickled down her cheeks. Ginny dragged both girls in for a hug, their small bodies in her arms humbled her. Breathing in their clean scented hair was almost painful. They wouldn’t be young forever. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I lost my temper with your grandfather. But Lord Brockway has offered to escort us to Gunther’s for lunch. Will that suffice?”
“Yes.” A suspicious sound came from Irene, but Ginny forced herself not to lean back and look, she just tightened her hug.
Bitterness rippled through Ginny at the baron’s gall. What rights had he over her, her children, her home? Blinking back her own tears, she stood. “Come. Your grandfather was wrong. Give me a moment to change, and we shall leave. Miss Lambert may sit in my place at the table.”
Irene gasped.
Ginny’s grin tugged at her, and Brock’s brows raised. “Your grandmother is attending Lady Martindale’s tea. Where are your new parasols? You shall need them. It’s raining out.”
Celia’s thumb plopped from her mouth. “I’ll get them.” She dashed from the room.
Ginny met Brock’s grin. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, sir, I’ll return shortly. Irene? I believe I shall need your assistance.”
Irene followed Ginny to her dressing room and wandered around the space, running her fingers over the vanity top, never meeting Ginny’s gaze. “Are you going to marry Lord Brockway, Mama?”
“Marry—er, why ever would you ask such a thing?”
“Well, he seems to like you.” She flashed Ginny a quick look over her shoulder, then resumed her faux chamber perusal. “Immensely so, I think.”
“Help me with my dress, please.”
Irene did as she was asked, and Ginny selected another gown more suitable for the downpour raging out the window, pulling it over her head, at a loss for words. Marriage advice from her nine-year-old daughter?
Irene fastened it up the back, and Ginny smoothed a hand over the skirts and moved to the dresser to retrieve a pair of gloves. “I wouldn’t count on my marrying him, darling.”
