Page 76 of A Baron's Scandalous Quill
“After George’s death, I was determined to change the house. It was practically dark and black wherever you looked. I have made it much lighter now, but of course, it is your home. You can now change it in whatever way you like.”
Alexander looked quite daunted by such a thing and fiddled with the cake he’d been given so much that it crumbled beneath his fingers.
“A lot to take in?” William asked with a smile.
“Yes. Very much.” Alexander nodded.
“I know how you feel. Worry not.” William moved to sit beside him. “I’ll be here to show you everything.”
It was the vow William made as he thought of the man who had brought them together. So often had he felt that George’s ghost hovered in rooms, a shadow that stood there malevolently, but not anymore. Now, George’s presence had been replaced with someone else, with Alexander, the man who was so like George in appearance, yet so different in manner.
“There’s one thing I would like to know,” Alexander said, leaning forward suddenly.
“What’s that?”
“The young woman, the writer you introduced us to, is she to write about all of this?”
Sarah squeaked in apparent panic, hiding half of her face behind the handkerchief again.
“I would like her to,” William said slowly, “but if there are details about yourselves that you’d like left out, then, of course, we can do that. Becca is very good at what she does. She will write about what we wish her to and make it a good tale.”
“Becca?” Sarah repeated. “You did not address her as Miss Thornton, my lord, but Becca. Are you and she betrothed?”
Lord Longfellow looked sharply at William. Suddenly, William felt a great need to avoid his father’s eye.
“No.” William kept his voice as level as he could. “We are just good friends.” The lie made his chest hurt even more than before.
Chapter 27
“Well? How is it coming?” Frederick’s question made Becca look up from the writing bureau in their front room.
The fire was burning low, the few candles that kept them company also burning down until they were short stubs. In that apricot-tinged light, she could see the same expression of concern that had been on Frederick’s face ever since she had returned home three weeks before, crumpling into his arms, sodden to the bone from the rain.
She had told him everything that night, for he knew at once something was deeply wrong and would not rest until he knew it all. She told him about Mr. Fitzwilliam’s approach to her to write the book, how she kept it secret, for she feared what her father would think—they all knew his associates did not approve already of the idea of his daughter writing.
She even told him that she had fallen in love with William, but she was sensible enough to know their love could never be.
The lack of Frederick’s anger had startled her the most. He was more worried than anything else and comforted her for days on end, assuring her that wounded hearts did heal, but the thing that healed them was hard indeed to understand when the cut was fresh. Time. Healing took time.
“Well?” he asked again, smiling a little. “I have finished reading this section.” He held up the part of the book she had written that disclosed George Dorset’s true past, his bigamy, his crimes, and his betrayal of his first wife and son. “It’s an emotional read indeed, but I am not impatient to read the last part. How is it coming?”
“I think it’s about there.” She blotted the last page before her and returned her quill to her inkstand, and then sat back. “I’m eager to hear what you think.” She stood and crossed the room, passing the pages to him. She sat down on the footstool and stared into the fire as he bent forward, using the last light of the candles to read.
“Goodness,” he murmured after some minutes before commencing to read aloud.
“‘If any of you readers had seen as I had seen that day Lord Lancaster meeting Mr. Alexander Brackley, then you would know, too, what broken hearts George Dorset left behind him. Wounded hearts can heal, and from seeing these two gentlemen together, I have seen one good thing to come from Dorset’s actions. I believe Lord Lancaster and Mr. Brackley will be dear friends indeed.’”
Slowly, Frederick put down the pages in his lap. “You tell a heart-wrenching tale, love. I have laughed aloud when reading and sometimes even been close to tears, but perhaps nothinghas torn at my heart more than this statement here. Do you really believe Baron Lancaster will be such good friends with Mr. Brackley? This is a man that will be taking his place as heir.”
“I know.” Becca pulled her gaze away from the fire, staring at her father and the way the shadows danced across his face. “I know Lord Lancaster, Father. His closest friend is currently his butler. He does not see the limits of thetonas rigid as everyone else does. He believes in good hearts, loyal friends, and justice. Trust me. He will do right by Mr. Brackley.”
“He sees some limits,” Frederick said coolly, returning his gaze to the pages. “Or I would not have a broken-hearted daughter before me.”
She sighed and returned her gaze to the fire.
“There are some limits which can’t be crossed. Marriage is one of them.”
Frederick didn’t answer but continued to read. It was some minutes before he raised his head again. He shuffled the pages together and rested them down on a small table beside him.
