Page 58 of A Baron's Scandalous Quill
He nodded at William’s face. “I see my same hair that could never be tamed, no matter how much I tried to flatten it. I see me…in you.”
William didn’t move. His palms were clammy as he realized it was hardly a surprise that when he looked at Lord Longfellow, he saw so much that was familiar in the man. Now it had been pointed out to him, he realized that he, too, saw his own eyes staring back at him.
“I think she was trying to tell me in her letter that George was not your father after all, not by blood, William. She even…” He breathed deeply, clearly struggling to say the words before his tears could come again. “She even Christened you William. That is my name. She named you after me.”
Chapter 21
Becca watched, unable to form a single word. From the moment the Earl of Longfellow had entered the room, she had seen the likeness. It was why she had gasped, and why, when Lord Longfellow had deepened his voice, she had nearly dropped her cup, for he sounded so like William, too.
They are father and son. No wonder they are alike!
Her eyes went to William, but he was staring at his father, his gaze unblinking. For a minute, she thought it was pure disbelief as the two men stared at one another, not moving a muscle.
“You mean,” William began but faltered, inhaling sharply, “I am not related to George Dorset? His blood is not my blood?”
“Look at you, William. Look!” Lord Longfellow urged him to stand, taking him by the shoulders once more and steering him across the room to look into a mirror set above the fireplace. Becca stood, moving to follow the pair of them, wishing to protect William from what had to be a hurricane of emotions. “Look at us,” Lord Longfellow said as they stood beside one another, looking in the mirror together. “Do you not see what I see?”
For a second, Becca thought William might cry, then the most wondrous thing happened.
He laughed.
He chuckled deeply and wiped his eyes, stopping the tears that threatened to fall.
“Thank the lord!” he said suddenly between his fits of laughter. “I hated being his kin. To think that I always thought his blood ran in my veins. God’s blood, you do not know how that thought has haunted me.” Lord Longfellow turned William to look at him again. “I’m not his blood.”
“You’re not.” Lord Longfellow laughed, too. “You are my blood. Oh, Anne, how I wish she had been plain with me, that she had told me the truth, but I imagine she was protecting you. If George had ever realized that you were my son, who knew what he was capable of?”
“He might have known. He might have guessed,” William said in a rush. “The number of times he told me I was nothing like him. Born a weakling.”
“A weakling, eh?” Lord Longfellow asked. “I’ve heard such insults myself in my time. Anne always told me it meant I had abigger heart. No harm there, my son. Believe me, nothing wrong with that.”
Becca could see it was the words ‘my son,’ which broke William this time. He closed his eyes tightly and leaned forward. Lord Longfellow moved to embrace his son and held him tight. Becca stood at a distance, her hands over her mouth as she felt her own tears prickle her eyes. She feared she was invading on this private moment between father and son discovering each other, but she could not bring herself to turn away, in case she was needed.
“You do not know how I have dreamed of this,” Lord Longfellow confessed between his bouts of laughter as he pulled back, still holding onto William’s arms. “I had often dreamed of what could’ve been had Anne and I married, and your father never come along. To have had a son of my own.” He smiled with utter joy gleaming in his eyes. “To find out I have had a son all along but missed out on knowing you. I am so sorry, William.”
“Don’t be.” William shook his head. “I am just glad to know now.”
They embraced again and as they did so, Becca capitulated back down into the chair behind her. The movement made the chair leg squeak, and Lord Longfellow looked toward her.
“Well, William,” he tried to control his laughter, “perhaps you could now introduce me properly to the young lady here with you.”
“Yes, of course.” William sniffed, holding back more tears, and took Lord Longfellow across the room with him. “Miss Thornton is a writer. She is truly gifted, and I have engaged her to write a book about my fa…I mean, about George Dorset,” he said with a sudden smile. “I want the world to know what kind of man he was, and I will endeavor to repay all of his debts.”
“Truly? That is an impressive thing. Miss Thornton, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and from the way William looks at you, I imagine you are not just a writer to him.”
“Oh.” She could only gasp as he took her hand and bent toward her in a deep bow. It was as if her frayed gown did not matter to the man before her,; that or he hadn’t even noticed it.
“Please, you must both stay for lunch,” Lord Longfellow turned to William with enthusiasm. “I may have missed out on so many years of knowing you, but I will make up for lost time. Come back tomorrow. There is so much I wish to tell you, and so much I wish to ask you, too.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” William said in agreement.
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Lord Longfellow shook his son’s hand. “Ah, why on earth have we got tea? Hang the early hour, we must have champagne to celebrate a moment like this. Horace! Horace? Where are you, my good man?” He burst back out of the door. “Ah, Horace, would you mind bringing us some champagne please, and three glasses.”
As Lord Longfellow’s voice disappeared down the corridor, Becca moved toward William. He looked back at her, his eyes wide, his lips parted.
“Amazement? Disbelief? Or relief?” she asked softly.
“All of the above. Come here,” he whispered in a gentle tone. She moved toward him and embraced him tightly. He held onto her, burying his head in his hair. “You do not know what this means to me, Becca. Had you not found those letters that day in my father’s chamber, I might never have known who I truly am. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
