Page 6 of Bedding the Marquess
“It was not a love match in any sense. Their families forced the marriage from the cradle despite their obvious incompatibility. My mother loathed my father for his drinking, spending, volatile temper, and, of course, his blatant dalliances. She found them humiliating, and I cannot blame her for that.” He watched Mrs. Black nod in agreement, her keen eyes watching his every gesture as he continued speaking. “My father,in turn, hated my mother for her disgust of his behavior, her censorship, and how she attempted to bring him to heel by any means necessary. This included causing public scenes, berating him, hurling vases at his head, even removing the soles from all his right boots so he would not leave for a holiday with another woman.” Gideon shook his head—that last one had been creative, if childish.
“The only reason I was conceived was my father’s fleeting sense of duty following a near-death experience. After being thrown from his horse and remaining unconscious for the better part of a day, he dedicated himself to wooing and apologizing for his wicked ways enough for my mother to allow him back into her bed. Little did she know, he’d already molested the new upstairs maid.”
Gideon watched the dread bloom in Mrs. Black’s luminous eyes—she was quick enough to predict where his tale was headed.
Gideon waved a negligent hand. “Some years later, a former maid arrived with a little boy in tow, claiming he was Swanleigh’s son. He had a shock of black hair, silver eyes, and a sturdy build despite his malnourishment and tender years. She said she could barely afford the extra mouth to feed since she’d been forced to find employment elsewhere, and all she asked was for a bit of money so the boy might eat.” Bile rose to the back of Gideon’s throat, but he choked it back. His voice was rough, and he averted his eyes in shame when he continued. “My father had her turned out without even bothering to see her or the boy.” Mrs. Black remained silent, but he could see how tightly her hands were clasped together.
“It is important to note how, in the course of my parents’ marital war, the servants had divided themselves into factions of their own—the marquess’s side and his wife’s. A maid on my mother’s side of the divide caught wind of what had happenedwith the former maid and the young boy and told her. From then on, the bitterness exploded with new rancor. Infidelities had been committed before, but not to my mother’s knowledge had there ever been a child born of them. That was a blow she simply could not stomach.”
“But you couldn’t have been more than a small child when Oli—when the boy was brought ’round. How did you know of it?” she asked in a small voice.
“Because my mother made sure to tell me at every opportunity what a lecher my father was, how disloyal a scoundrel he’d become.” As harsh as his words were, his tone was flat with acceptance. He’d long ago resigned himself to the tragedy of his youth wasted in a household devoid of kind words. “She didn’t doubt that he’d raped the young maid and then crawled into her own bed shortly thereafter to get her with child—with me. Apologies for speaking so bluntly.” Mrs. Black inclined her head and urged him to continue. “For my father’s part, hardly a day passed that he didn’t remind me that all women were like my mother: controlling, ungrateful harpies. He did his best to discredit everything she said.” Gideon didn’t say it outright, but he could not recall a time when he wasn’t used as a pawn between his parents in their war, each spilling as much venom into his young ears as possible. Even now, decades later, he still experienced the echoes of their arguments and heard the tinkle of shattering crystal.
“On her deathbed,” he said, forcing himself to continue, “my mother was feverish and insensible, ranting again about the bastard child my father had sired, but letting slip that she’d once located his family in London, that he was only a few months older than I…” Gideon had to clear his throat. “I never found out why she’d tracked him down, nor what she’d intended to do with the information, because she lapsed into delirium. Despite trying to follow the little information I had, I was unableto discover where my half brother was, following a stint in Newgate, but it had confirmed to me that there was a possibility—no matter how slim—that I would one day encounter him. I’d just about given up hope, but last night was that moment.”
Though she’d listened intently, he could still see disbelief playing around the edges of her expressive features. There was one more thing that might just make her believe in the truth of all this, as he did. Gideon stood and held his hand out to his brother’s wife. “Come.”
He led her out of the room and down the hall.
“Has my brother had a truly terrible life?” he asked, snapping the tense silence between them. Her tight lips were answer enough, and it made every inch of him ache. “I’d been afraid of that.”
From the time he’d first heard of Oliver’s existence, Gideon had wondered what life was like for his mysterious half sibling. If he enjoyed riding as much as Gideon did; if he preferred dogs to cats; if he struggled with Latin; if he excelled in math, too. If he’d had enough food or any education to speak of. As he’d grown older, however, Gideon had realized more and more that it was far more likely that the bastard who shared his blood had had none of the privileges Gideon did, and likely even fewer comforts. The tragic reality was that bastards bore a stain upon their very existence, and the world did not take kindly to anyone who did not fit a prescribed mold. The child of a working-class family in London could struggle, the bastard child of a disgraced maid whose employment had been terminated…that child would suffer. Often, he’d gone between wishing the brother he’d never met had died young without experiencing the cruelty of the world, and hoping that he’d been strong enough to grow into a man whom Gideon could one day meet.
Gideon was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t expected Mrs. Black to delve into her husband’s upbringing, but, whenshe did, he wasn’t certain it wasn’t intended to twist the knife in his gut just a little bit. “His mother died of the drink—probably not that long after Oliver had been brought to your doorstep in an attempt to seek aid from the old marquess.” Gideon’s fragile stomach lurched. He couldn’t blame the woman for seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle—not if her rape had brought about a child she could not support and cost her a stable position. Life had dealt her a cruel hand and, had he been a religious man, Gideon might have crossed himself and said a prayer for the unfortunate woman, hoping that she’d found peace in death she’d been denied in life. “The man Oliver had always believed to be his father exhibited no love or gentleness toward him… Now it makes more sense, in a horrid sort of way. He may have married Oliver’s mother and at one time believed Oliver was his son, but somewhere along the way, the truth must have been revealed, or perhaps the child’s appearance offered doubt as to his sire.”
“I suppose he didn’t take too kindly to raising the child—the by-blow—of another man, begotten on his wife.”
Mrs. Black made a thoughtful sound.
It was likely no consolation after a life such as he’d had that Oliver was actually the son of a peer, so Gideon refrained from pointing that out. Instead, he showed Mrs. Black into the library. The scent of parchment and leather would have been comforting, were the room not haunted.
“The timing makes sense, and there are similarities in your appearances, but I am still unsure as to why you are so certain my husband is this missing child.” Mrs. Black was looking up at him, and he could see her clutching her skepticism like a weapon. Most women would have jumped at the chance to have their husband welcomed by a wealthy, titled relative, but Gideon recognized Emily Black was, at her heart, unique. She wished only to protect her husband, even if it cost them connectionsand anything else they might gain from being kin to a marquess. Gideon found that more than a little admirable.
His lips twisted into a sardonic smile, and he gestured up at the larger-than-life painting mounted above the hearth. “Meet my father, Harold Bray, Third Marquess of Swanleigh, philanderer, vile bastard, and man absent of morals.”
He should have felt satisfaction over her reaction, the evidence of her belief, the blatant astonishment splashed across her face, but he experienced only intense sadness.
She clapped her hands over her mouth.
As similar as Gideon and Oliver had appeared to be, the painting of the young man looked as if Oliver, himself, had sat for the portrait.
“And that, dear sister, is why I am so very confident.”
Emily left SwanleighHouse a short time later, silent and contemplative. Before she’d stepped from the Mayfair townhouse and into the burgeoning bustle of London life, the marquess had extended an invitation for both her and her husband to call at any time—especially if Oliver had any questions. “We are, after all, family,” he’d said. And now, that was a nearly impossible statement for her to refute; she’d all but stared down the evidence hanging in the Swanleigh library.
It had been overwhelming to listen to everything the marquess had to say about his history and what he knew of the tragic circumstances of Oliver’s early years, but it had been downright shocking to come as near to face-to-face as one might with a dead man. One thing was certain: she hoped there was a hell so that man might burn for how he’d damned Oliver to his lot in life…and also how he’d treated his only legitimate child. Emily never thought she’d pity a lord—a man born to money, power, and unfathomable privilege—but it was difficult when he was humanized in such a way. She could almost imagine him asa child, torn between bickering parents and privy to all manner of things to which a child should never have been exposed. The old marquess had clearly been a man who damaged indiscriminately.
As she walked along the street, Emily felt more than saw a tall, dark man fall in step beside her. She wasn’t at all surprised when Oliver spoke up.
“I see your curiosity won out.” His voice was low and perfectly modulated.
“How did you know where I went?” she responded without looking up. She could, however, feel the droll look he aimed at her.
“Compared to my past profession, tracking my wife when she sneaks out of bed is child’s play.”
She should have known better than to try to pull one over on a former spy for the Crown. Though he’d been retired for some time now, he’d not lost any of his finely honed skills or his fighter’s physique. Following her had likely been one of the simplest things he’d done in years, but she’d had to try to meet with Swanleigh on her own to gauge his intentions. It was absurd to believe her husband needed protecting, but she couldn’t help herself. He’d spent so long putting the greater good before his own well-being, and it was well past time someone looked out for him.
She sighed in resignation. “Are you very cross with me?”
