Page 3 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“I am a bastard,” he declared, his voice remaining even and flat, as if they were discussing the weather.
Her eyes went wide, for she had never known a person to openly admit such a thing. Sure, baseborn children were common, even in Norfolk, but such things were not generally discussed. No person of dubious parentage that she’d ever known would ever openly declare themselves as such.
“My father was a viscount,” he went on. “He ensured I was raised alongside those titled snobs in there, that I was taught to emulate them, and move about society like them. But, there is not a person in that room who would hesitate to put me in my place on a whim. So, little angel, that is why I do not belong in that ballroom.”
Inclining her head, she wrinkled her brow, trying to untangle the mystery of this man who spoke so freely to a stranger about the circumstances of his birth. He did not know her, yet seemed surprisingly content to stand here on the edge of a wall, speaking to her of how he did not belong.
“Why would they invite you, then?” she asked. “Why would you come?”
He seemed to mull that over for a moment before responding. “I suppose they invite me because I make a titillating guest. They can boast having me in their midst, scandalizing their staunch neighbors with my sullying presence. It might also have something to do with the fact that I’m wealthier than half the men in that room, despite having no title. As for why I come … I suppose it amuses me to do so. Half the room avoids me, while the other half engages me for the simple aim of being able to say they’ve done so.”
She shook her head, bemused. “I will never understand this world.”
His head turned suddenly, his gaze pinning her to the spot. “Then you are a bastard, just like me.”
She flinched, rearing back as if he’d struck her. “I-I most certainly am not! My parents were wed and bore two other children before me.”
Uncertain why his assumption should upset her so, she turned her head to break the connection of their locked gazes. Aside from being impertinent, this man was quite shameless.
As if to further prove this, he reached out and touched her face. His fingers came against her jaw, gentle but firm, his thumb pressing her chin.
Her lips parted, a little huff of surprise emitting from between them as she was forced to look at him again. He did not smile this time, only studied her with a solemn expression.
“I did not mean that you are baseborn,” he amended. “I simply meant that you clearly aren’t one of them. You are too … something.”
She frowned, uncertain whether he was insulting her or complimenting her. “Toosomething?”
He nodded, still holding her face, his gaze moving as if he catalogued the various details of her aspect. “Too warm. Too loud and sunny and witty. Too real.”
Her breath hitched, and her belly quivered as she realized that he had just whispered everything that was supposedly wrong with her in the eyes of thetonwhile making them sound like the attributes of a goddess.
“So, you see,” he continued, his thumbnail skimming the edge of her lower lip for a brief moment before he dropped his hand. “In that sense, you are like me. An outsider. We are all bastards in their eyes.”
It was true, she realized. Just like him, she seemed to have become athingfor them to amuse themselves with. Good enough to garner invitations due to her family connection to a marquis, but too green, too much the wide-eyed country girl to fit in with their porcelain dolls.
“You should go back inside,” he said abruptly.
Despite his warning, he was pulling himself up onto the limb to sit across from her, mimicking her posture and straddling the thick branch, legs dangling.
“Why?” she asked, still too shocked by him to do anything other than sit there.
He was too …something. Just as he’d accused her of being. Too handsome, too charming, too utterly irreverent and incorrigible.
She liked it very much.
“Because to be found in the company of a man like me could ruin you,” he told her.
She scoffed. “I hardly care about anything like that. Besides, it isn’t as if any of the men in that room will ever offer for me.”
He shifted closer to her—so close now their knees touched. He was hot beneath his clothes, the warmth of his skin searing her through the layers of his knee breeches and her stockings. She was more aware than ever of her bared legs, her skirts revealing more of her than she’d ever displayed in front of a man who was not one of her brothers.
“If it is any consolation, the loss is entirely theirs,” he remarked.
Not for the first time, she found herself taken aback by his words. “You are exceedingly bold.”
“Yes. A man in my position can afford to be.”
She wondered if he meant because of his wealth, or because being a bastard without a title meant he was freer than most to say and do what he pleased.
