Page 98 of Beyond Scandal and Desire
“Give her to me,” the duke ordered.
Only Mick couldn’t seem to make himself obey the command, couldn’t force his arms to relinquish the precious bundle they carried. Only now did he realize the duke had never once denied he was his son. He’d only ever denied he was his bastard.
Christ! The woman he held—the duke’s wife—was his mother? Why had they taken him, a legitimate son, to Ettie Trewlove? Had he indeed been like the fledgling bird, too sickly—what the deuce did it matter now?
“I have her,” he said somberly. “She’s safe with me. Where shall I take her?”
“This way,” Aslyn said, her hand coming to rest lightly on his arm. “We’ll take her to her bedchamber.” She guided him toward the stairs.
“Worsted, send for Dr. Graves,” Hedley shouted.
Mick could only assume Worsted was some damned servant. He couldn’t seem to focus on his surroundings, on what was going on around him. He had the fleeting thought he might be on the verge of swooning himself, but there was no way in hell he was going to do anything that caused him to drop the woman he carried.
He was vaguely aware of Hedley and Kipwick following. At the landing, Aslyn led him along a hallway, stopping partway down to open a door. “In here.”
The large chamber, decorated in pale blues, reminded him of summer skies. He crossed over to the four-poster and gingerly laid the duchess onto the thick robin’s-egg blue duvet. She didn’t stir.
“I’ll get her smelling salts,” Aslyn said.
“No,” the duke said, working his way past Mick to sit on the edge of the bed and take his wife’s hand. “Let her sleep for a bit. It’ll be less confusing for her if she wakes up naturally.”
Mick didn’t see how any of this could be less confusing. “I don’t understand,” he said, feeling like an intruder in an intimate moment.
The duke merely nodded. “Kip, take him to the library. Pour him some scotch. Pour us all some scotch.”
“Yes, sir.” The earl sounded as lost as Mick felt.
“I’ll stay with her,” Aslyn said softly.
The duke again nodded, but he didn’t move from his place.
She looked at Mick. “I need to stay with them.”
He wanted to draw her to him, hold her close, have her hold him, but through the turmoil he’d created with his actions he feared he’d lost the right to ask for any comfort from her. When he’d decided to come here, it hadn’t occurred to him that he would cross paths with the duchess. In a residence this large, how could everyone know who came and went?
“Come with me,” Kipwick said, his voice brooking no disobedience. For the first time Mick experienced a spark of respect for the man.
While he was loath to leave until he knew the duchess was going to be all right, he followed the earl into the hallway. They were at the landing when he heard the patter of heels and glanced back over his shoulder to see Aslyn.
Leap into my arms. Hug me. Forgive me.
She staggered to a stop feet from him, but near enough that he could smell gardenia. With tears glistening in her eyes, she took a step nearer and placed her palm against his freshly shaven cheek. “How could I have not seen it? You look just like him.”
“I should have told you, from the beginning. I should have—” There was too much to say, too many amends to make. Now was not the time, not when they were all still reeling from the implications of the duchess’s pronouncement.
Closing his eyes, he laid his hand over hers, turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to the heart of her palm. He would be content to stand here, just like this, for the remainder of his life. And if this was the last time she would ever touch him, he would find a way to be content with that, as well.
“I hardly know where to begin.”
The duke’s words echoed throughout the library. Entering only a few moments earlier, he’d assured Kipwick, who’d dropped into a chair by the fireplace after pouring Mick a glass of scotch, that the duchess had been examined by the physician, was resting comfortably and would recover from the shock with no ill effects in due time with proper rest. Aslyn was watching over her. He’d adroitly avoided looking at Mick as he quietly prepared a scotch for himself before taking up a post near the fireplace, near his son, his back to the wall as though he needed it for support.
Standing beside the window, Mick was strung as tightly as a bow pulled taut on the verge of letting loose an arrow. He and Kipwick hadn’t exchanged a single word since leaving the duchess, which had left Mick with nothing to distract himself from all the afternoon’s revelations and their ramifications. He wasn’t a bastard, had never been.
“I don’t understand how any of this can be as it seems, so simply start at the beginning,” Kipwick offered quietly.
The duke gave a brusque nod. “There was a time when Bella was bold and uncompromising in her belief we had a duty to see after the poor. She would visit the rookeries and do what she could to better lives, especially those of children. She delivered clothing and food, blankets, dolls and wooden tops. I worried over her, sent footmen with her, but she was always sending them off on one errand or another. Why would anyone harm someone who was offering naught but kindness?”
He stared at the floor, and Mick suspected he saw the past swirling around the dark grains of wood. “One afternoon, late, as darkness was settling in, she was accosted by a brute, dragged into an alley . . . where he had his way with her.”
