Page 42 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
Yet, she shouldn’t be surprised, because all along she’d seen examples of his kindness. She’d simply assigned ulterior motives to them, but now she was beginning to suspect it was simply his way. A man who as a boy had seen his mother hurt, and now did all he could to ensure women were made to feel special. Surrounding them with their favorite flowers and sweets. Truly listening when they spoke.
That night at the Fair and Spare, he’d already deciphered who she truly was and her purpose in his household, and yet he’d still shown her kindness.
You don’t have a face for playing cards. Your expressions are far too easy to read.
In that shadowed corner had he read her longing for him, how it eclipsed her common sense? Yet last night he’d been equally easy to read. He’d wanted that kiss at the bordello as much as she. Now they were free of each other. She wondered if in the freedom hovered the pursuit of desire.
Not desire. Lust. That’s all it would entail. No emotional attachment existed between them. He’d proven that easily enough.
“I don’t like seeing you moping about, sweeting.”
Glancing up, she smiled at her aunt. “I’m not moping. Reminiscing more like. Or trying to, but I have so few memories. None at all of Father. You seldom speak of him. What was he like?”
Frowning, Aunt Charlotte settled into a nearby plush chair. “You don’t want to travel this path.”
“But I do. I know he was far from perfect but there had to be some good in him for my mother to love him as she did.”
“Are you striving to justify your feelings for Mr. Blackwood?”
The scoundrel had been correct. She was too easy to read. “No. But I’ve spent so many years afraid that I’d repeat my mother’s mistake”—she shook her head—“I just want to understand. To know someone I can’t remember knowing.”
Her aunt released a long, tortured sigh that sounded as though it had risen up from the soles of her feet. “Lionel was the youngest, the baby. Even as a man, he was considered the baby. He came five years after me, a surprise I suspect. As you’re aware, I have three older brothers, whom I adore. But they are always so serious. Lionel never was. He was mischievous and fun. Constantly smiling and laughing. A natural charmer. He could have had any lady in theton, even as a son who was unlikely to ever inherit. But he fancied my lady’s maid, even though she was older than he. Six or seven years, I think.
“They laughed all the time. He made her feel young. She made him feel... important, I suppose. To her,he wasn’t the third spare. He was the one everyone admired and wanted.”
“They were happy then, you think?”
Her aunt’s smile was sad. “For a while, yes. But my father had told him that if he married a servant, a girl with no family, no prospects, no dowry, well, he’d be on his own. Lionel had always possessed a bit of a rebellious streak, perhaps because it allowed him to stand out and apart from three brothers who excelled at everything. School, sports, hunting, and the ladies. They all had good marriages. Anyway, he wed your mother and was cast out. I did what I could for him, but my allowance went only so far, and at the time I still resided with my parents. No one else in the family had anything further to do with him.”
Daisy felt her first ray of hope. “He must have loved her tremendously then, don’t you think, to have given up so much for her?”
“Still, it was an incredibly foolish thing to do, wasn’t it? Marriage requires more than love. Sometimes life requires sacrifices to survive.”
“Is that what you did? Sacrificed.”
“We’re not discussing me. You want some memories of your parents, and I can’t give you anything of joy except to confirm that they loved you very, very much.”
“But they left me so often. I have vague memories of that.”
“Yes, I know, and I wish you didn’t. Lionel took odd jobs here and there. He never stayed long at anything. He grew bored or decided it was beneath him. He hated the notion of work. I suppose he sought escape when he turned to the opium. And he took your mother with him.”
Daisy had known Aunt Charlotte wouldn’t weave a fanciful story but did rather wish she’d softened the harsh reality. “I’ll take consolation in the fact that at least they are together, in a Romeo and Juliet sort of way I suppose. Too tragic to bring much solace.”
Her aunt looked as though she’d been slapped before lowering her gaze to her fingers, knitted tightly together in her lap. “That is one way to view it.”
“I have wonderful memories of time spent with you.”
Aunt Charlotte smiled tenderly. “You’ve brought immense joy to my life. Even on a day like today when there is naught but rain, you provide the sunshine. Whether you marry a scoundrel or a saint or marry not at all, I shall not turn you out.”
“Nor I you, should you marry a scoundrel or a saint.”
Her aunt laughed deeply and fully. “With half a century on me, I’m too set in my ways, I’m afraid.”
Daisy couldn’t help but believe her father had been naught but charm without substance. Bishop was as much substance as charm. Alas, she needed to forget him and become as set in her ways as her aunt.
Saturday morning, pushing his body to the limit, Bishop lifted the bells one at a time. Left arm. Right arm. Left. Right. A few years back, he’d designed an instrument that was easier to hold and hired a blacksmith to forge his creation into existence. While his right hand—still tender from its encounter with Mallard’s jaw—protested the abuse, he welcomed the distraction because it took his mind offher, for short spells at a time anyway.
He’d almost gone to the Fair and Spare last night, in hopes of running into Marguerite. Not that she’d havewelcomed him, not based on the manner in which she’d stridden away from him.Go to the devil, her posture had said. Damned if he didn’t admire her all the more for it.
