Page 133 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Difference? You’d hate that!”
“So you got Charlie for me?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I thought he’s what you wanted. He’s placid enough, speaks Greek, and you said you missed Hull.”
“Forget what I said. I didn’t know anything then.”
Bram glared at her. “And now? What do you want now?”
“Can I get off my knee?” Charlie whined. “The floor is bloody hard.”
“Yes,” huffed the earl. “As if my granddaughter would marry just a mister.”
“He’s a decent man,” Bram shot over his shoulder. “He won’t go running off after a mistress. There’s no debt, no vices, and his biggest fault is that he’s a dead bore.” Then he drew himself up to his full height, his gaze going back to her. “And you said you wanted him!”
She stared at him. Did he really understand so little of her? She shook her head, stunned and appalled by this scene. And heartsick. So damned heartsick because he’d dragged a man all the way across England just to have her marry someone else.
Someone who wasn’t him.
She lifted her chin and pitched her voice to be as regal as possible. “Charlie, please do stay for dinner.” She glanced at the marquis. “We can have one more to dine, can we not?”
Her fiancé-to-be raised his eyebrows in surprise, but nodded. “Just one?”
“Yes,” she answered firmly. “Mr. Hallowsby was just leaving.”
“It is French food then?” asked Charlie. “I do like their cream sauces.”
Of course he did.
Which is the exact moment when Bram broke. It might have been something else. It might have been because she turned her back on him and began walking away. It might have been because two footmen had grabbed hold of his arms and were dragging him backward. It might have been a number of things, but that was not what he said.
“Cream sauces? Cream sauces!” he bellowed.
Maybelle turned to look at him. Did he really expect anything better from Charlie?
“You have a chance at the most perfect woman in the world, and you ask about cream sauces? Are you daft, man? Look at her! She’s kind and beautiful. She’s honest and doesn’t quibble about dragging a pig through the muck for a neighbor. She’s taken thetonby storm—a girl from Hull who educated herself. And she’s smarter than you, by God. Smarter than all of us!”
“Really?” asked the bluestocking. “She hasn’t seemed very intelligent.”
“Not book learning, you idiot,” snapped Bram. “But people. She understands people and how to make everyone happy. She sold her basket of food for a guinea, and everyone got what they wanted.” He looked at her, his words babbling forth without stopping. “She’s generous too. Makes miraculous potions. And so passionate.”
That was going too far. He shouldn’t say that in this company, but Maybelle couldn’t stop him. Her throat wasclogged, her mind chaotic. How could he say that about her and still not…
“Damn it, Bluebell, you can’t marry Charlie. He’s not good enough for you!”
She sighed. “I’m not going to ma—”
“And you can’t marry him either!” he said, jerking his chin at the marquis. “None of them are good enough for you. And I’m the most worthless of the lot.” Suddenly, he shook off the footmen, his motions quick as he escaped their hold. The men would have grabbed him, but Eleanor stopped them.
“Let him say his piece,” she said.
At a nod from the marquis, the footmen eased back, though only a single step.
Then Bram dropped to his knees. Not one knee, but both, as he took her hand and pressed his forehead to it. “Damn it, I’ve tried and tried to let you go. I’m a bastard. A liar, and if not for you, a murderer.”
“What?” gasped the bluestocking. “What did he say?”
Eleanor shushed her with a wave of her hand. It was left to the countess to explain.
