Page 69 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
She was anexcellent companion, Bram realized with quiet shock. As they rode together on top of the mail coach, she peppered him with questions. She wanted to know all the things he’d done in his life. He told her nothing. His life—or his lies—were not to be shared in the open like this. So she switched to ask about London.
That passed the time for an hour or more, but he wanted to hear more of her life. Personally, he’d always run from provincial life. Let one soul discover he was a bastard, and the whole village banded together in moral outrage against him. Similarly, she and her mother had been mistreated, but they had persevered. And rather than turn bitter, her every tale suggested fondness for people who were clearly flawed.
Awareness without bitterness? How odd. And stranger, she was not trying to wheedle something from him. He’d already paid her passage to Oxfordshire, even sat atop the damned mail coach to protect her as they travelled. So there was nothing more for her to gain from him except a pleasant day in the sunshine as they rode lengthwise across England.
He knew that in time he would question her. It was in his nature to doubt, but for the moment, he simply enjoyed it.
In fact, the shock was that he had never had a better time in his life.
*
They arrived inOxfordshire too late to do more than find an inn. Bram hoped that the place they stopped would be crowded, forcing them into a single room, but he was out of luck. Plenty of space, good fare to eat, and beds separated by a wall and thick doors.
It was important to her to observe society’s rules, so he respected her wistful smile as she bid him good night and shut her bedroom door with him on the outside. He knew he’d spend the night fantasizing about her, but he’d done that every night since they’d met. Fortunately, an end to such torment was in sight.
Tomorrow they would go to the church where the vicar would take them to the registry. She would take it hard when she realized her mother’s lie. No banns had been read. No legitimate marriage had been recorded. Despite all her insistence to the contrary, Bram was sure her mother had not been legally wed.
He guessed that Bluebell’s mother had been deceived. Sometimes, gentlemen created a fake special license, then had a friend perform a “wedding” ceremony. The girl would believe it when the whole thing was a lie.
He grieved for the pain that would cause Bluebell. Everything she believed about herself would be shattered. But once she realized she was a bastard like him, a host of possibilities opened up.
If you could never be respectable, then why keep to respectable limits?
He would have her tomorrow night, he resolved. He would make her his mistress, take her to London, and then teach her such things! He pleasured himself most of the night just thinking of that glorious future.
First thing the next morning, they presented themselves to the vicar. A quick explanation of the situation from MissBluebell, then a shared look of dismay between himself and the holy man, before all three tromped to the rectory.
“Remember,” Bram said as the vicar found the appropriate volume. “Whatever you learn today, your mother loved you. She cared for you, raised you, and gave you everything she could. The registry will not change your childhood, your mother, or even yourself. You are still you—”
“Oh, do shut up,” Bluebell hissed. “I know you think the worst, but Mum did not lie about this.”
He exhaled harshly. “Not lie. Perhaps she was fooled.”
She cast a disparaging eye at him. “I wasn’t born canny, you know. I learned to be smart from my mother.”
He nodded, knowing when a woman would not listen. All he could do was stand braced to support Bluebell when she learned the dark truth.
“Here it is,” the vicar abruptly cried. “Right here. The banns were read on the dates you said, and they were married all right and tight.”
The man brought the record to Bluebell, and she eagerly traced the lines with her fingers. Meanwhile, the vicar smiled warmly at them both.
“It’s pleased as punch I am to show you this, Miss Ballenger. You should have told me your real name.”
“Oh,” she murmured absently. “But I have gone by Bluebell my whole life.”
“Well, you’re not in the country anymore. Down here, we like to acknowledge the granddaughter of an earl.”
What?
Bram looked down, his eyes widening as he read and reread the words. He knew that name. He knew that family.
Bloody hell. Her father was listed as Oscar Ballenger, son of the Earl of Cavener. But that couldn’t possibly be true, could it?No, no, there was only one son. A boring Ronald or Richard or something.
And then he had it. He had the awful truth.
There had been a second son who’d died of a fever at school. Could that have been Oscar? If so, then Bluebell’s father was gone, but she was still granddaughter to an earl.
But what had happened to the eldest son? Bram searched his memory. The first son had married and procreated as was expected but then died in a shooting accident. That left a boy of four or five who was heir to a vast estate. The mother, Bluebell’s aunt, was a boringly proper woman without any spark. The earl kept both daughter-in-law and heir tucked away at their country seat. All very proper, though rather cursed in terms of men.
