Page 63 of Beyond Scandal and Desire
The flat of Aslyn’s hand struck quick and hard, its meeting with the woman’s cheek echoing around them, the jolt of pain going up her arm, the sting of her palm taking her by surprise. She’d never before hit anyone. It took everything within her not to strike again. “You’re let go. I don’t care how you make it back to London, but you’ll not be traveling with us.”
“The duke and duchess—”
“Are not going to hear a single word about this day. You will pack up your things and leave quietly and thank God that I don’t have charges for attempted murder brought against you.”
“He’s worth nothing. No one cares about him.”
“I care! And who do you think a jury is going to believe? You or the daughter of an earl?”
“Don’t forget the fate of Charlotte Winsor,” Mick said quietly. The maid’s eyes widened slightly. “Aye, you remember her, don’t you? They hanged her for killing a by-blow.”
“My lady—” She held out a hand imploringly.
“Off with you now, Mary,” Aslyn said. “Before I change my mind and seek out a constable.”
As the maid shuffled away, weeping, Aslyn wandered over to where Nan sat on a blanket, rocking the boy who had fallen asleep. She lowered herself to the wool, spread out her skirts and held out her arms. “Give him to me.”
As she gathered him up, he barely stirred, weighed hardly anything at all, couldn’t have been any older than four or five, was all long limbs. He’d be a tall fellow when he grew up. The fact that someone thought he might not be worthy of growing up broke her heart.
“We need to get you dry, my lady, before you catch your death,” Nan said.
“The sun is warm enough to dry me in no time at all.” Still she welcomed the blanket Mick draped over her. “Nan, go help Fancy with the other children.”
Her maid left her, heading toward the young ones, gathered in a circle around Fancy, with Jones keeping watch, enjoying ices. Mick dropped down beside her, facing her, partway on the blanket—they weren’t in her world any longer; they were without boundaries—his thigh lightly touching hers.
“She was watching him,” she said, hating the words even as she spoke them, “watching him struggling in the water and doing nothing. How could she just stand there and do nothing?”
“Some people believe those born in sin have no right to life.” Gently, with his thumb, he slowly swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t cry, Aslyn. The boy’s alive thanks to you. Although your parasol is broken.”
“My parasol?” It seemed an odd thing to think about at that moment.
He held up the mangled object. “Apparently you stepped on it in your rush to get to him.”
The tears started up anew, stinging. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get to him in time.”
Tenderly, he cradled her cheek. “But you did, sweetheart.”
The endearment again, used so casually. She should have objected, but it brought such comfort. For the longest moment, he merely held her gaze and she found herself becoming lost in the blue of his eyes, thought he might lean in and kiss her. For a moment, she thought she wanted him to. No, she didn’t think, sheknew. As a reaffirmation of life. Only he didn’t. Perhaps because there were people around, strangers they didn’t know, his sister, Nan, Jones, the children. Or perhaps he feared she’d rebuff the overture.
“Who was Charlotte Winsor?” she asked.
With a sigh, he dropped his hand, looked past her to the others, and she rather wished she’d kept quiet, missing so much his touch. How could she long with such yearning for something she’d barely had, probably shouldn’t have had at all? “She advertised that, for a modest fee, she was willing to take in babes born out of wedlock. Then she would strangle them, wrap them in newspaper and leave them on the side of the road, to be carried off by wild animals, I suppose.”
“My God.”
His gaze came back to her. “Someone saw her disposing of a child, authorities were notified. They have no idea how many she murdered. It was about four years ago, I think, when her trial brought to light the darker aspects of the baby farming trade.”
She couldn’t recall reading about it, but she’d have been sixteen at the time and her focus had been on preparing for her first Season that would take place a year later.
A corner of his mouth hitched up, and he said dryly, “Well, today certainly didn’t turn out to be the sunny, pleasant day I’d planned for you.”
“I’m sorry for what this little one had to go through, but today has given me a clearer understanding of things. The circumstances under which children are brought into the world is not their fault. They shouldn’t carry the stigma.”
“Yet, they do.”
Even as adults they carried it, which she suspected was the reason he hadn’t leaned in to kiss her earlier. There was a barrier between them, even if it wasn’t visible. In the shadows of the night, sin could take hold. But not at a sun-bright seaside.
He watched her sleep on the large sofa in the center of his car, the urchin curled against her lap, her chest, where Mick longed to be. She’d relinquished claim to the lad only long enough for Mick to carry him from the sand to the railway station and into the car. Then she’d settled on the sofa like a queen and signaled for the boy to be handed over. He’d have handed over anything she asked.
