She leaned into him, breathing in the soft bay, smiling against his cheek. “Marry you. How sorely tempted I am, my lord.”
She tempted him beyond reason when she employed her siren’s smile. This was the girl from the hayloft Brock so desperately longed to see again. He nuzzled her bared shoulder, inhaling deeply. He touched his tongue to her satiny skin. She smelled of roses and tasted of heaven. “What is keeping you, my lady? Don’t you know I am yours for the taking?”
Her gloved fingers slid down from his shoulders to his arms and down to his own gloved hands. There was a teasing light in her eyes that warmed him. He’d waited years to see that particular glimmer. “Perhaps I shall.”
“You shouldn’t tease so,” he said with a short burst of laughter.
She dropped his hands and looked out over the low-lit gardens. “No. I shouldn’t.” Her words carried a more serious note now, as she slanted him a side glance through her fringe of dark lashes.
This was a grave moment, he realized. “Not to worry, my dear. I’ve waited ten years to now.” He affected an off-handed shrug, turning his gaze outward too. “What is another twenty?”
“You would wait another twenty years? For me?” She sounded surprised. Then why shouldn’t she? She had no notion of why he’d left her in the first place. Telling her now would only sound like an excuse.
“I’d wait forever.” He spoke matter-of-factly, ironically sounding somewhat similar to Irene. The words he spoke were true. He’d wait forever for her.
Stunned silence met him. Except for the leaves in the rattling trees. Slowly, the Romanian mantra whispered once again in the faint wind. Brock straightened.
“Do you hear that?” Ginny asked softly. “I heard it at the Kimptons’ too.”
“As did I. I thought I was going mad.” He paused. “The thing is, I can pick out words.”
“What kinds of words?”
“Romanian. I spent some time in Portugal with a clan of Romani.” He shifted.
She stilled. “When you went to the continent. After my marriage to Maudsley.”
“Yes.”
They were silent for a time, then Brock heard other voices rising above the trees. Arguing. “Tell me I’m not imagining that.”
Ginny smiled. “No. I hear them. One sounds foreign, though not French.”
The voices faded along with the muted whisperings of the trees, easing the tension in Brock’s body.
“By the way—” her voice lowered, and she glanced about before settling back on him. “Today Celia informed my mother of her and Irene’s safeguarding lessons.”
Brock winced. “Good God. I can imagine the fallout.”
“Can you? She as much accused me of being a horrible mother.” Her bitterness didn’t feel directed at him, but guilt swamped him.
That was what he’d abandoned her to, parents who had no compunction for compassion. His lips tightened. He couldn’t begin to express his regret.
“I’m curious. What prompted your schemes for your safeguarding notions in the first place?”
She turned her gaze out to the night again. “There was an article in theGazette. I shudder thinking of it. Something about girls as young as five being stolen and sold on the open marketplace into marriage. For their noble blood, no less.”
A spectral resembling Rachel brushed over Brock’s skin, but Ginny’s hand rested over his, instantly soothing him. It was quite remarkable. Deepening his resolve to have her married and installed in his bed within days. He flipped his hand over, grasping hers and bringing it to his lips. “Let’s get you inside. I shall take exceptional pride in seeing your mother’s mottled face at the scandal of you walking back in on my arm.” He held it out.
Grinning, she laid her hand atop it.
Thirty-Two
T
he incantations in the trees were increasing to thundering ruminations every day. Their resonance reverberated through Griston’s bones, and he couldn’t escape. Thankfully, Brockway had Lady Maudsley locked in an embrace and didn’t notice as he stole back inside the ballroom.
It was imperative to be seen. Perhaps he’d even chance a dance with some pristine debutante. It wouldn’t hurt to remarry and sire a spare. The dance in progress was the quadrille and not conducive to stepping into the line. Ah, well.
