Page 132 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
He was…
Maybelle gaped as a man appeared in the parlor door. “Charlie?”
Bram was not the man who rounded the corner. Instead of a tall man with piercing brown eyes, she saw the vicar’s son looking disheveled and frightened as he shuffled into the room.
“Bluebell?” he answered, his gaze darting about the room as if searching for a place to land. “Are you really the granddaughter of an earl?”
“Yes,” she snapped, impatient with him already. Where was Bram?
“She’s my granddaughter,” snapped the earl. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
Which is when Bram finally entered the room. He looked haggard. His eyes were drawn, his mouth was tight, and his jaw was thrust forward in anger. But his gaze locked on hers and held. No words. Just a stare that went on and on, while the rest of the room faded away.
“Explain yourselves,maintenant!” said the marquis.
Maybelle opened her mouth to answer. She’d gotten used to soothing the marquis’s ruffled feathers in the five days she’d been here. But no sound came out. And neither could Bram speak, though he too opened his mouth. Fortunately, Eleanor stepped into the breach.
“My lord, please allow me to introduce Mr. Hallowsby. He’s a good friend and means no harm, though I know things appear very odd right now.”
“And this other one?”
Maybelle managed to bark out a command. “Charlie. Make your bows.”
The man blinked, then snapped to it. He performed an adequate greeting to everyone. “Mr. Charles Ott, my lady, m’lords. At your service.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Eleanor, before proceeding to introduce everyone by their full names and titles. It was impressive, rattled off like that, and Charlie gaped with each name. Meanwhile, Maybelle gave up all hope of Bram. She addressed Charlie, her words cold.
“Why are you here?”
Charlie colored and gestured to Bram. “’E says you want to marry me. I will, if you want. Are you really related to an earl?”
“Granddaughter,” she snapped. “And…what?”
Finally, Bram pulled himself together. With a grimace, he gripped Charlie and jerked him downward. Problem was, Charlie had a solid stance—always had—and just stood there without bending.
“That’s not the way to propose to a woman,” Bram growled. “On your knee, man.”
“What?”
“What?”
It was both Charlie and Maybelle speaking at once. But then Charlie figured out what was required, and he half stumbled, half dropped to the floor.
“Can I have your hand, Bluebell?”
“Maybelle,” growled Bram. “Her name is Miss Maybelle Ballenger.”
“Oh,” said Charlie.
“No,” said Maybelle. Then she stepped right past Charlie to come nose to nose with Bram. “Why in heaven would you bring him ’ere?” And damn it, he’d made her drop herh.
“You can’t marry the marquis. He’d never take you to an apothecary shop. And he’s got a mistress.”
To which the man in question straightened in shock. “Of course I have a mistress. I am French!”
“You see!” said Bram.
“What difference does that make?” Maybelle huffed. Good God, did he not understand? One man or another, she didn’t care. They were all interchangeable if they weren’t Bram.
