Page 57 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
He placed a hand over his heart. “I was wounded to the bone.”
“I seriously doubt that. What say we leave the past behind and begin anew?”
She thought if the table wasn’t separating them that he’d be touching her, so incredibly intense was his stare, as though he was delving into the very depths of her soul. “There are too many moments in our pastthat I take pleasure in recalling,” he said with absolute seriousness, his voice gentle but housing a spark of hope that she could say the same.
Which she could. And yet...
“But how much of us was truly us?”
“More than either of us wanted, I expect. But our current journey together will provide the answer to that question easily enough.”
“We were both playing games before.”
“Indeed. But just as truth resides in what is written in a novel, so it is to be found in how we play the game. The moves, the strategy. How we react in defeat is as telling as how we respond in victory.”
“I wouldn’t know about defeat, as I’ve never lost.”
He dropped his head back, sending his deep laughter echoing throughout the room, circling around her, and settling into her heart. “You would say the same even if you had lost.”
She grinned. “I would.”
“You see? We did learn something about each other. Now we simply have to separate the chaff from the wheat. I’m quite looking forward to the exercise.”
Following dinner, she consented to take a stroll through the garden with him. The large area was his favorite part of the property. It was where he came to remember. Where he came to forget. Yet no matter how many times he’d walked it since their parting, he’d been unable to forget her. The taste of her, the feel of her in his arms. The joy of swallowing her cries of pleasure, of being the one who had caused them.
And this was his favorite time of the day, when thesun was winking its farewell and twilight was hovering, offering quiet moments before the dark.
They didn’t speak for the longest while. As they walked along, her hands were clasped in front of her, his clutched behind his back. Shackled really, because if not, he was going to touch her and receive a censorious look while being asked if he linked his fingers with his solicitor’s.
“I never knew flowers came in such a variety of colors,” she said at last. “In your garden, you must have every type of flower that exists. This is a living tribute to your mother, isn’t it? Rather like the flowers in the vases in your residence.”
It shouldn’t please him so much that she remembered his explanation for the abundance of blooms that adorned the rooms. “She was happiest in her garden. It wasn’t nearly as large as this. Just a little patch at the back of our house. We had no gardener. She battled the weeds herself. Her husband wouldn’t let her spend as much as a ha’penny on seed. She’d trade several stalks of the same plant with various neighbors for one rare find she could add to her collection. We lived at the edge of the city. In the spring, we’d trudge to a forest where she’d carefully dig up flowers that were probably weeds, but she loved them all the same. And sometimes, we’d go to a park and when no one was looking, she’d gingerly take the stem by its roots to transplant in her garden. We got caught once. Young copper. Told her she wasn’t allowed to steal the flora. If he saw her doing it again—which he very likely would, because he always walked by at ten in the morning—he’d have to haul her in.”
He shifted his gaze over to her and watched as understanding dawned. She smiled and he wanted to pocket it, so gentle and lovely was it, without suspicion or distrust. Like the smiles she’d given him at the club, the ones that had made him long for more.
“She avoided that hour of the morning to do her pilfering.”
He grinned. “She did. Swindler reminds me of him a bit.”
She stopped beside a trellis where pink roses would bloom in a few more weeks. “You never answered the question I asked after we left the brothel. Do you help these women because of your mother?”
Since he’d handled the inquisition during dinner, he supposed it was only fair that she asked the questions now. With no prevarication, she’d answered. He owed her the same consideration.
“An ungrateful tartmy father called her on more than one occasion. There are nights when I wake up still hearing her screaming at his abuse. Divorce was not truly an option at the time. It was expensive, requiring an act of Parliament. Three years after she died, the law changed and divorces began being handled in the civil courts. While it was too late for her, it wasn’t for others. A woman shouldn’t live her life in misery. Sometimes her only recourse is divorce, but the law doesn’t make it easy. Men are prideful creatures. If a woman wants to be rid of her husband, I try to help her find a way—within the law.”
“I know of the two divorces last year. How many have you assisted?”
“Four.” He offered her a rueful grin. “The first was quite by accident, three years ago. The sister of mytailor. I’d gone in to select the fabric for new attire. Call me vain, but I like for my clothing to reflect the latest fashion. I was discussing the style with my tailor when his sister came in, wretchedly unhappy, weeping. I can’t tolerate tears. Her husband was lazy and a drunkard. She looked at me. ‘I don’t suppose you’d have an affair with me. He has vowed to divorce me if I’m ever unfaithful.’ I wasn’t going to take advantage of a desperate woman, but I agreed to pretend to have an affair with her. We worked out the particulars and within a year she had her divorce. The fancy buttons on my waistcoat are a gift from my tailor for helping his sister obtain a happier life. Having learned sewing at her father’s knee, she went to work as a seamstress. A few months later she wrote me asking if I’d help one of her clients. And it has gone from there.”
“But it does your reputation as a man to be trusted no favors.”
“It does, however, drive my father to distraction, and I take great pleasure in that. He was determined that I should be a clergyman, absolve him of all his sins. I felt guilty, tainted, for taking what he provided—food, shelter, clothing, education. I decided I was destined for the church as well, to absolve me of my guilt. But while I was at Oxford, I found a circle of friends who had their own burdens to bear, who wanted to break free of their restraints as I did. To do that, we needed money. And thus we strategized together and found a way not only to gain funds but to forge our own paths. If he’d shown my mum a scintilla of kindness, I might care about his opinion of me. As it is, the more miserable I make him, the more satisfied I feel. Revenge of sorts, I suppose.”
“It hurts you in the process. What woman would want to marry you?”
“I have no plans to marry.”
“We’re of like minds there. I would hate being forced to come to you and pretend to have an affair in order to get a divorce to correct my error.”
