Page 4 of Bedding the Marquess
Gideon offered her his most charming smile as well as a bow. “Gideon Bray, Fourth Marquess of Swanleigh. And you are?”
“Mrs. Emily Black,” the other man growled dangerously. “My wife.”
“Oh. Oh!” Gideon’s drink-addled brain caught up, and he turned to Mrs. Black. “My apologies for mistaking you for a prostitute.” There was another low rumble from her husband’s direction. “You must understand, you are lovely and, in the context of this establishment—” His word died when he caught sight of the other man’s glare and clenched fist. Gideon cleared his throat, deciding it was prudent to quit before he proceeded down that avenue. “And you are?” he asked the man.
“Oliver Black,” was the flat reply.
Neither exchanged hands or pleasantries.
Mrs. Black took it upon herself to break the silence again. “There must be some explanation for this…situation.” She looked between them once more. “There is more than a passing resemblance here. Even I had difficulty telling you apart at first, and I am Oliver’s wife.”
Gideon experienced the simultaneous effervescent and sinking realization that the day he thought might never come had finally arrived. The drinks he’d enjoyed that evening had delayed the weight of it, but now it sat on his chest with the crushing heft of a building. He’d told himself time and time again that the possibility was slim…that the odds of finding this man and recognizing him were almost nonexistent—especiallyafter his years of searching. Alone in the world, he’d been driven by the inexplicable desire and naïve hope that he would find kinship with the bastard his father had sired, and years of searching had turned up fruitless. But there he was, facing the man whom he’d only seen once from afar when they’d both been children.
Though his heartbeat was deafening, he forced himself to meet Oliver Black’s eyes—eyes so uncannily like their father’s—a pair he’d once believed would never stare him down again.
“The reason we share such similar appearances is because…you are my brother.”
There was a heartbeat of silence before Oliver snorted disbelievingly. “Impossible.”
“I assure you, it is possible as it is the truth.”
“You’re much too deep in your cups,” Oliver insisted.
Gideon scoffed. “Did your mother ever work for my family? Is the name ‘Bray’ or the title Marquess of Swanleigh at all familiar?” He watched as Oliver raked his memory.
“She was employed by a marquess, yes, but that could be easily explained as a coincidence. There is more than one marquess in London, each with many maids in their employment. The odds are simply astronomical.”
“Is it only a coincidence? There is a reason your mother was a maid in the household of a marquess, and you and I share such physical likenesses,” he drawled.
The words were formed only one second before Oliver charged him more quickly than Gideon’s eyes could follow. To a man who was no stranger to the fighting ring, it was shocking to be caught so unawares once, let alone twice in the evening. How the hell did the man move like that? The wind was knocked from Gideon’s chest as he was thrown up against the wall.
“Are you calling my mother a whore?” Oliver roared in his face.
“Never.” Gideon shook his head as best he could, grappling with the hands at his throat. “I simply know the kind of monster our father was.”
Oliver released him as abruptly as if he’d been scalded and scrubbed at his scalp as if trying to scour his very mind.
Gideon sucked in a gulp of air and straightened. “You were born in the spring of 1794, correct?” Oliver’s eyes met his, and Gideon didn’t need to hear an answer; the silver irises said it all. Gideon nodded and pressed a hand to his own chest. “July of 1794.” He saw the moment the truth set in in the other man’s mind as his storm-cloud eyes darkened: He was Gideon’s elder brother. And, had he been born on the right side of the sheets, he’d be the current Marquess of Swanleigh instead of living and working in Covent Garden.
Oliver’s eyes were wide, and his breathing grew ragged and uneven. Gideon had known for years the atrocities committed by his father; he’d had time to come to terms with them. This conversation must have been nothing short of earth-shattering to a man who’d made it three decades without ever questioning his sense of self.
Gideon scrubbed his face, suddenly feeling far too sober to confront these demons despite the drinks he’d imbibed. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Emily. “Feel free to call when you’ve both had time to process this information. I am happy to discuss this at your convenience.”
She examined the embossed card before looking back up at him with doe-like sapphire eyes. “You are taking this remarkably well.”
He offered her a sad smile in return. “I knew I’d have to face Father’s sins sooner or later. ‘The sins of the father are visited upon the son’ and all that,” he said, waving dismissively. He tilted his head in another bow to her. “Again, I do apologize for what happened earlier. And, do not fret, I’ll not be frequentingthis establishment again. Nothing against the business or its fine employees, I merely think it prudent to keep pleasure separate from family in this situation.” He turned on his heel to return to the bar room, retrieve the rest of his clothing, and return home to his dark, quiet house and the ghosts awaiting him.
So much for that evening being the cure to his addled mind.
Emily Black turnedback to her husband. He stood, palms braced flat on a table, eyes wide and haunted as his mind sped. To watch a man usually as composed and unflappable as he experience an existential crisis was nothing short of unnerving. So often, he’d been her shelter and her anchor, but he was now the one adrift.
She didn’t know what to think about it—the confrontation, the story, the possibility that Oliver was not who he’d always believed he was: the son of a maid and a dockworker. Emily knew Oliver’s parents had wed eight months before his birth, but, even if it was frowned upon, this was not unheard of. Oliver’s arrival, approximately four weeks earlier than expected, would not have created a great stir and might not have raised a moment of question. Whether Mrs. Black had known she was expecting another man’s child at the time she’d wed Mr. Black was something she’d taken to her grave.
Of course, there had been no love lost between the deceased Mr. Black and his son, but that didn’t mean it made the possibility that Oliver had, in fact, been sired by a marquess any less shocking. Emily wondered if the man had known—or at least suspected—Oliver was not his. If so, perhaps that might explain the enmity he’d aimed toward a defenseless boy. It did not make it right, but it made a sick sort of sense. His wife had died, so any animosity was now solely directed at the child he was left to care for.
There was no denying the uncanny resemblance between Oliver and the current Marquess of Swanleigh, and he’dsomehow correctly predicted the general date of Oliver’s birth. Oliver’s mother had at one time been a maid in the household of a marquess, but she knew Oliver had been too young—or perhaps, not even born yet—to recall the circumstances of her departure from that position. No one who might be able to confirm it was alive any longer. There was little tangible proof above these things; however, the encounter had clearly left her unshakable, worldly husband rocked to his very core.
Oliver started a little when she touched his sleeve, but he allowed her to hold him as he took stock of everything he’d ever believed about himself. Emily buried her face in his chest, sinking into him as he lowered his head and pressed his lips to her collarbone.
