Page 112 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Love,” he muttered into the jug. “You love me, Mum. I don’t need her.”
“Of course not, dear.”
“You love every man you take to your bed. In and out. Love him. Love her. Love this one. Love that.”
“Yes, dear. Have you eaten any supper?”
“I had her, and she tasted like…like ambrosia.”
“Of course she did. Who is this girl, exactly?”
“Bluebell. I call her Bluebell.”
“What’s her real name, dear?”
He glared at the jug, wondering if he had the strength to throw it across the room. Probably. But he hadn’t the will.
“Bram Wesley Hallowsby,” his mum said sternly. “What is her name?”
“Maybelle Ballenger,” he shot back. “The bloody Earl of Cavener’s granddaughter.”
She sniffed in disdain. “Nonsense. He’s hasn’t got a daughter named Maybelle.”
“The second son,” he shot back. “The one who died in Oxford. Of a broken heart.”
This time her sniff became a “tut!” Then she smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt. “I heard he died of the French disease.”
Bram snorted. Trust that fat-arsed earl to let his son be known as a whoremonger rather than a man who loved his wife. Bluebell’s mother. And the woman who loved Bram.
“She said she loved me.”
“She’s too young to know her mind, dear.”
“She brought me across England, Mum. Managed it just like she said she would. First to fix the carriage, next to see the registry, and then to see her grandfather. Stuffed up prig.”
His mother brought him a tepid glass of tea, forcibly replacing his empty gin jug with the weak brew. “Really? And the earl accepted her?”
Bram shook his head. “Wanted her strung up and quartered. But I forced him.”
“You what?”
“I forced him. Wasn’t hard. The marriage was real. The child is legal. And smart. And beautiful.” And she tasted like ambrosia.
“Yes, yes. Goodness, that’s quite a tale.”
“It’s true. All bloody true.” His voice broke on the last as he tried to drain the last of the gin but swallowed his mum’s tea instead. Gah. It was vile stuff. “I love her, Mum. I love her like I’ve never loved anyone.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I can see that.” Then with a sigh and a shift of her skirts, his mother sat directly in front of him. It was a surprise. He couldn’t remember a time when she’d gotten down on the dirty floor with him. Not even when he was a child.
“Mum?”
“I’m going to tell you something I swore I’d never tell a soul. Not a soul. And if you repeat it, I shall make you pay.”
And she could. He occasionally made empty threats. Had to. And with his reputation it usually worked. But not his mum. Her threats were real.
“I don’t talk,” he muttered.
“Not usually.”
