Chapter Fourteen
Sometime in the night, Katherine fell into silence, lulled by the absence of sound into a fitful slumber haunted by dream images of anger and loss. The next morning, she found a note on a silver platter atop the table at the center of her sitting room.
Lady Bromton—
Enclosed is a list of shops where I have arranged credit. The carriage is at your disposal.
I will be—smudge—absent for a few days. If you’ve a need the housekeeper cannot attend, please send word to Lord Farring.
—Giles Everhart Langley, Marquess of Bromton
Her eyes lingered on the smudge for an appalling length of time. Her heart thumped against her ribs. How she hated the flicker of hope even pulsing anger failed to extinguish.
Using her body to form the words she could not say, she’d given him what had remained of her still-broken heart. And instead of fighting to save them both, he’d fled.
Of all the things Bromton had done, suggesting she take a lover just minutes after she had dissolved in his arms was, by far, his nadir.
How many times need he prove he was a fool until she took him at his word?
Coldness entered her heart, an icy protection against further harm.
Long ago, Lady Katherine Stanley had retreated in the face of less provocation. Fleeing to the country, she’d hid from her shame and from her mistakes. But she was no longer Lady Katherine Stanley, was she?
She flipped the paper, rereading the address:
To Katherine, Marchioness of Bromton
The world had yet to meet Katherine, Marchioness of Bromton. She tested the title on her tongue and decided it would suit. Decided? No, resolved.
Her heart was broken and bruised, but life would continue. Julia would be coming to stay with Lord Farring’s family, and someday soon Markham would return. She would not be entirely alone.
To hell with Bromton and his wounded pride, his twisted sense of honor, and his stupid castle. She would live here, surrounded, during the Season at least, by her family. She would transform tragedy into triumph, one extravagant evening at a time.
In that spirit, she set out to shop. With the solicitous and kind assistance of the milliner, Katherine discovered something else she’d been wrong about—a pretty hat could indeed, on occasion, enhance one’s person. Next, she visited a jeweler. She admired his pieces as he cleaned and restrung her mother’s pearls.
Armed with her hat and her mother’s pearls, she stopped at Gunther’s for some refreshment. Then, unfortunately, her day went awry.
Her new maid deemed the shop far too crowded, and there, in the busy street, she recognized a lady with whom she’d made her curtsey to the queen. She could not remember the lady’s name, yet her gaze remained fixed. The lady held the hand of a small child, the child with a face near-identical to the lady’s.
The phantom punch came out of thin air.
While Katherine had been hiding in the country, busily priding herself on reducing her wants, life had moved on without her.
The pink-cheeked child smiled up at her mother, with worlds of love and possibility shining in her eyes.
Envy filled Katherine’s mouth like raw cotton—thick and fibrous and steeped in something awful and bitter.
Why had claiming their place been easy for those other ladies? Why?
Heated and weary, she knocked on the carriage ceiling and asked to proceed to the next destination on her list—the modiste Bromton had suggested.
The sight of a single child had hollowed out her heart. The vacant space cried out, not just for her husband, but for the hope for family he’d resurrected. She ran her fingers absently across her throat. There was some small chance she could be with child after last night, wasn’t there?
Wetness gathered behind her lids. What good would that bring? If Bromton had convinced himself that she was better off without him, even a child would not bring them back together.
She sank back against the carriage cushions and dropped her hand. Despair threatened to engulf her once again. She forced herself to think of Julia. Of Markham. For them, she must, at least, present a brave face to the ton.
The modiste’s shop was small and neat with walls lined by bolts of fabric and interspersed with mirrors. Tables and chairs scattered about the main area, each table cluttered with the latest fashion plates. The modiste greeted her with great excitement.
“Your dresses,” she said in a faint accent, “are ready to be fitted.”
“My dresses?” she asked.
“Yes,” the modiste nodded enthusiastically. “I followed your instructions, and I promise you the results will not disappoint.”
She frowned. “Are you certain?”
“Of course,” the modiste replied. “The marquess delivered your message in person, just last week.”
Katherine could only nod. How had Bromton obtained her measurements? She pursed her lips. No doubt, Julia had been involved. And the seamstress in the village. Had everyone she’d ever known conspired to bring her together with the marquess?
Traitors, one and all.
The modiste and her assistants brought out three evening dresses, each more exquisite than the last. Infuriating.
How could one man be both thoughtful and thoughtless all at once?
“You have fine taste,” the modiste said. “However, only one dress can be finished by the evening.”
She had no place to wear any of the dresses, but she selected the green.
The dress was as daring as it was beautiful. A white underdress comprised of two layers of gauze gathered at the waist. Fern-like leaves edged with gold thread embellished the base, but the true masterpiece was the heavier taffeta manteau that fitted over the dress and then descended into a long train.
Embroidered to complement the underdress, the manteau cinched just above her waist, making her appear taller and thinner while boldly hinting at the cleft between her breasts. The dress’s puffed sleeves revealed a small length of her upper arms, before they disappeared within the matching kid gloves, stitched of leather so fine they felt like an extension of her own skin. Her favorite part, however, was the pleated fichu that rose up from the low-cut bodice, lending the dress Elizabethan court-style elegance.
The dress was at the height of fashion. Indeed, it was fit for a queen. Was this how Bromton saw her? A grand lady of consequence?
She struggled to quell another mortifying flicker of hope. She had no proof Bromton had ever truly seen her. He was a man who held patriarchal bloodlines above honesty, dignity, and respect. This dress was meant to suggest consequence—his consequence, not hers.
She wondered when she’d have the opportunity to wear such a masterpiece as she allowed the ladies to undress her and help her back into her clothes.
She sent her maid to retrieve the carriage and then stood at the counter, admiring a bit of ribbon.
“Would my lady like to take the rest of the order, or should I have the box delivered?”
Katherine frowned. “The rest of the order?”
“Of course,” the modiste replied. “Surely, you remember! Your note was quite specific.”
The modiste retrieved a box. Slowly, Katherine lifted the lid. A range of pale-hued stockings nestled inside the box. Silk, wool, cotton…all beautifully gored and of the finest knit. Stockings to indulge her every whim. Her one indulgence.
He’d remembered even this.
She swallowed an odious lump. But despite her efforts, the lump continued to swell. She stared dumbly at the collection of gorgeous stockings, fighting the urge to cry. What would the modiste think of a marchioness who allowed stockings to reduce her to a weepy mess?
The shop bell trilled, announcing the arrival of a new party. Katherine did her best to master her tears.
“Thank you, Madame.” Only a slight tremor marred her voice. “I will take them now.”
She turned, intending to stride past the new patrons, head down. Instead, she came face-to-face with Farring’s twin, Lady Darlington, who was every inch as beautiful as she remembered.
Katherine’s gaze slid to Lady Darlington’s companions. She was flanked by two equally arresting women—a brunette with pale brown eyes and a dark-haired lady whose strong chin and wide light eyes were also, somehow, familiar.
Katherine clutched the box of stockings to her chest like a shield.
Farring’s sister broke into a smile. “Lady Katherine,” she said, extending her hand. “Oh, but you must pardon me, it is Lady Bromton, now, is it not? I am Lady Darlington, though you may remember me as Lady Philippa.”
Katherine forced herself to respond with the appropriate pleasantries. She extended her hand too quickly, and her box fell to the ground. Stockings scattered across the floor like a wilted rainbow.
“Oh!” The dark-haired lady knelt to the floor. “Oh my. Aren’t these divine!”
The modiste hurried over. “Never you mind, my lady, I will collect them.”
So, whoever the woman was, she was a lady.
“Oh, but I just have to touch them.” The lady rose from the ground, clutching a pair of pale yellow stockings. “So divine. I do love a good pair of stockings.” She dimpled. “Philippa, won’t you be a dear and introduce us?”
“Yes, of course!” Lady Darlington said, a touch too brightly. “Katherine, if I may introduce Lady Clarissa.” She indicated the dark-haired lady. “And,” she pointed to the third woman who had been, so far, silent. “Mrs. Katerina VanHeldt, a widow from Amsterdam.”
“How do you do?” Mrs. VanHeldt’s voice held a lovely Dutch lilt.
Lady Clarissa held out her hand. “Charmed.”
Katherine hesitated only for a moment, though the blood rushing to her cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Clarissa, Mrs. VanHeldt.”
“My brother,” Lady Clarissa said quickly, “is a friend of Lord Bromton.”
“Yes.” Katherine’s words vanished into the uncomfortable silence. The ladies must think her a right fool. “I’m so happy to have made your acquaintance. I—I was just leaving.”
Philippa and Clarissa exchanged a significant glance.
“We do not wish to delay you, of course,” Lady Darlington said. “But—” Her glasses amplified a pleading glance to Clarissa.
“But we haven’t heard a thing about your wedding!” Lady Clarissa exclaimed. “We simply must have every on dit. Lord Farring’s letter was abominably brief; well, you know men. Imagine! He did not even describe your dress.”
“I’m afraid the on dits can only disappoint.” She glanced to Lady Clarissa, hoping she had not been insulted. “I mean, it was a simple affair.”
“Simple?” Lady Darlington scoffed. “Not once in his existence has the Marquess of Bromton done anything without pomp befitting his station.”
She imagined her husband as he’d been a week ago—stretched out on a blanket, winking as he suggested wicked things. The man she had come to know was not the same marquess Lady Darlington described.
She missed that man. Dreadfully.
Her lip quivered.
“Madame,” Lady Clarissa said quickly. “Would you be so kind as to bring us some refreshment?”
“Of course,” the modiste replied.
Katherine followed the modiste with her gaze until the woman disappeared into the back. Mrs. VanHeldt and Lady Darlington withdrew and then busied themselves exclaiming over a pile of fashion plates at the far corner of the room.
Lady Clarissa took the box of stockings from Katherine’s hands and set it down on a chair. Then, she looped her arm through Katherine’s.
“I must confess,” Clarissa whispered. “I recognized the carriage. This meeting is no accident.”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” Katherine stammered.
“I will speak for us both, then.” Lady Clarissa lowered her voice even further. “We would have met eventually, and wherever that meeting happened, all eyes—and ears—would have been fixed on us.” She slanted a grin. “I must say, I am glad I acted on impulse. If you blush that way now, I can’t imagine what you would have done in front of a room of gossiping biddies.”
Katherine frowned. “Forgive me, Lady Clarissa. I cannot tell if you mean to be kind or cutting.”
“Cutting?” Clarissa exclaimed. “Why would I be cutting?”
Katherine eyed Lady Clarissa for a long, silent moment. No guile shone in her eyes, only sincerity. “I—I know you were attached to Lord Bromton. I am sorry if I imposed.”
Clarissa blinked. Then, she laughed. “Oh heavens, no!” She smiled slyly. “Allow me to call a spade a spade and honestly admit you’ve saved me a lifetime of trouble.”
Extraordinary. She, too, decided to speak in truth. “I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Now that is over with,” Clarissa said, “you mustn’t allow us to keep you. You must be anxious to return home.”
Lady Darlington and Mrs. VanHeldt’s laughter wafted across the room. With a wave of homesickness for Julia, Katherine sent a longing glance in their direction.
Clarissa searched Katherine’s face. Then, she appeared to come to a decision.
“Lady Darlington, Mrs. VanHeldt, and I are going to the theater tonight,” Clarissa said. “You and Lord Bromton are more than welcome to join us.”
Katherine met her gaze. “Lord Bromton is otherwise occupied.”
“Well then,” Lady Clarissa said, “you simply must come.”
“Is the play a comedy?” Katherine asked with a twist of her lips. “I could use a happy ending.”
Clarissa broke into a grin. “I have a feeling we are destined to be fast friends, Lady Bromton. I, too, love a happy ending, especially when I must arrange one myself.”
…
The sleeping quarters at Giles’s club had not been designed for an extended stay. By the end of Giles’s third night on the cot, muscles he did not know existed screamed in protest. By the end of the week, his stride had turned into a hobble.
He did not want to be at his club. Nor, he suspected, did the club’s manager wish to house him, though the man would never have been so bold as to forcibly remove a marquess. However, the man clucked with impatience every time Giles made a request.
Giles ignored the clucking and the significant looks and requested a light repast in “his” chamber. He gazed balefully at the cold beef before lifting a forkful to his lips.
He chewed the tough meat. And chewed. And chewed. And—
Farring burst through the door. “Not one more day, Spades.”
Farring? Angry? Giles forced a swallow. “What seems to be the trouble?” He set down his fork. Whatever the trouble was, he would not be able to eat another bite.
“Were Lady Bromton alone, I could manage.” Farring’s gaze narrowed. “But now, there are four of them. Four. All hell-bent on setting tongues a-wag. And if you fail to put a stop to this, you deserve whatever they dish.”
“Four of who?” he asked.
“Four females. All of them feral!” Farring held up his fingers and counted. “Philippa, Katerina, Clarissa, Katherine.”
Giles frowned. Clarissa? And Katherine?
“But Katherine doesn’t know Clarissa.”
“Did you think they wouldn’t meet?” Farring threw up his hands. “My sister, of course, had the honor of introductions—there isn’t a scandal she doesn’t touch. Apparently, the four of them have discovered a sisterhood of mythic proportions.” He snorted. “Did I say sisterhood? I meant coven.”
“Coven.” Giles passed his hand over his face. “Katherine and Clarissa?”
“And Philippa and Katerina—they’ve become positively inseparable. Plays, soirees, shopping on Bond Street, even an impromptu trip to the Hampton maze. Is this what you were trying to accomplish? You, my friend, are a laughingstock.”
Giles’s cheeks darkened. “Of course, I don’t relish the idea of my wife and my former betrothed with their heads tilted together, but better I bear the brunt of Society’s condemnation then either of them.”
Farring scoffed. “You don’t mind that your wife is all they can speak about downstairs?”
Giles flashed him a look. “I haven’t gone downstairs.”
“You haven’t—” Farring stood straight. “You mean you’ve been holed up in these rooms for seven days? What have you been doing?”
Well, he’d meant to join the living. Only he hadn’t.
He’d caught up on correspondence, paged through a few treatises, but mostly he’d stared, concocting and discarding plan after plan, and coming back to the same, relentless truth.
Giles could see the ceiling with his eyes closed at this point. And, none of his plans had solved the essential problem—Giles himself. The Marquess of Bromton, formed in the imperious image of a man who was not his father, but who had passed on his despicable nature nonetheless.
He did not deserve Katherine. He’d set her free. And that was where his part in her story had to end.
He and Katherine were both in hell. He could not save himself, but he could save her—if he kept his distance.
“If you have to work this hard to remember what you’ve been doing, then you must not have accomplished anything of value.” Farring grasped the edge of Giles’s chair. “And while you’ve been diddling your fingers, your wife has become the toast of the Tory set.”
Ah. Pain lanced his ribs. She’d taken his suggestion, then. She’d set out to find a lover.
“The marchioness’s attention is hers to bestow as she pleases.”
Farring stared at him for a long moment. Then, he hit the table hard enough to rattle the dishes. “I’ve always known you to be a vain and prideful sort, but never before have I known you to be a fool. What happened to the man who loved a challenge?”
He thought about Katherine—about the afternoon of passion they’d shared. He’d felt her tenderness. But he’d also felt the depth of her despair. If he had even a modicum of a gentleman within, he would not have treated her body with such abandon. Not when he could still feel remnants of her hate.
“She hates me, Farring. And rightfully so.” He looked away. “I deserve whatever punishment she delivers.”
“You are an ass-headed fool,” Farring growled. “And you haven’t any idea what you are saying.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You may deserve whatever punishment Katherine chooses, but she does not.”
How dare Farring suggest he was hurting her? “I am not punishing my wife.”
“Aren’t you?” Farring asked. “Consider the question, Brom. Should she continue down this path, lucky as I am, even I cannot summon enough resources to prevent disaster.”
“Disaster?” Giles ran tight fingers over his lips. “All you’ve told me so far is that the marchioness is a triumph among my friends.”
“Dis-as-ter.” Farring towered over him. “Your friends have surely taken note of your absence, and it will not be long before they begin acting as if your absence is permission to court your wife.”
A wave of nausea threatened the contents of his stomach. He pushed away his plate. “I am well aware.”
“At least you haven’t completely lost your sense,” Farring said. “Now, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing,” Giles replied. “I told you. She hates me. I will not stand in her way.”
Farring threw up his hands. “Leaving her to the mercy of the vultures is truly unforgivable, you beef-witted bounder. I don’t believe she hates you, but she will.”
“She does hate me. She told me she hates me.”
“Even I hate you right now. You forget, I watched the two of you together. And I’ve served as her escort since you disappeared. She searches the crowd for you everywhere we go. She puts on a brave, uncaring front but she loves you. I have six sisters; I recognize the signs. If anything, her actions are crying out for you to prove your esteem.”
Giles stared at his friend, wanting to believe, knowing he could not. Farring did not know the whole truth. Farring did not know he’d coldly planned to use Katherine to assuage his guilt.
Farring straightened his coat. “I’ll escort her to Lady Darlington’s soiree tonight, but I can only fend off sharks for so long.” His look hardened. “If you leave her to those sharks, without even an attempt to prove your worth, you are not the man I thought you were.”
Farring slammed the door.
Giles kicked his chair away from the table, a strangled cry tore from his throat.
Find the wound, stem the bleeding.
He’d found the wound, blast all. But how could he stem the bleeding when he was the wound?
He glanced to his food, suffering another bout of nausea. Leaving his food untouched, he set out in search of the street’s chaotic comfort. He hadn’t a plan. In fact, he wasn’t even aware which streets he chose.
Until, that is, he found himself face-to-face with a shining brass knocker.
A sickeningly familiar, shining, brass knocker.
Revelry sounded beyond the door—the sounds of mutually enjoyed company. He knew he was not welcome among their number. He knocked, anyway. On hearing his name, a nervous servant showed him into a small, comfortable parlor, and asked him to wait.
This time, it wasn’t his mother who greeted him. It was her husband.
“Why are you here, Marquess?” Mr. Blackwood asked.
He’d vowed he’d never occupy the same room as this man. Yet, here he was, in unpressed clothing and wilted cravat, looking every inch exactly as what he was—a man at the end of his fraying rope.
“Why?” Bromton demanded. “Of all the women in the world, why did you choose the marchioness? Why did you have to tarnish her name?”
“I did not choose ‘the marchioness’; I chose Lydia,” Blackwood responded. He studied Giles for a long time, his gaze traveling from Giles’s unshaven cheek to his rumpled coat, to his mud-covered boots. “Do you believe my wife feels she has tarnished her name?”
Giles glanced beyond Mr. Blackwood. The cluttered shelves and tables in the small but comfortable room spoke of a happy life. The furniture’s simple arrangement welcomed conversation—not unlike his mother’s sitting room before he’d redesigned it for Katherine.
His mother’s sitting room, he realized with a start, had been the only room in the house designed for repose. The only one with any warmth.
Too bad he’d never set foot inside before he had to tear it down.
“No,” Giles whispered, defeated. “I suspect she is”—he swallowed—“happy.”
“I was the one left tarnished, though gratefully so,” Blackwood said. “I divorced because of your mother.”
Giles looked up. “What did you say?”
“I tell you this not to shock you but to make you understand. My former wife and I had been long-estranged. And when I told her I had fallen in love, she had the oddest notion that a human institution should not be held above personal integrity.”
There was that word again. Love. Love existed between his mother and this man. Love existed between Markham and Julia and Kate. Love existed all around. Only he was left parched and wanting. Why?
The shadow of a woman filled the space behind Blackwood.
“Warren?” His mother placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Who is—Ahh.”
“The marquess was just leaving, my love.”
“No,” Giles whispered. “He’s not.”
Mama. He stared at his feet.
“Are you here to hurt me, Bromton?”
Bromton. Always Bromton. A sob escaped his throat. He shook his head no.
His mother and her husband spoke in tones he couldn’t understand. Then, the door closed. He did not know if either, or both, had left. He didn’t want to look. If she had stayed, she’d curtsey. He could not bear if she curtseyed.
“Don’t curtsey,” he said.
“Very well,” his mother answered. “I curtseyed because it was correct. And, like your father, you always demanded I be correct.”
He exhaled and opened his eyes.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I—I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He looked at his feet. “Was coming here,” his voice cracked, “a mistake?”
“You are hurting.” She approached him slowly, as if he were an injured wild animal. “So, I’d like to think not.”
He glanced up. “I’ve made so many mistakes.” Mortifyingly, his eyes filled. “I do not know where to begin.”
She wrapped an arm around her waist and held her other hand over her mouth.
“I would have done anything,” he continued, “anything, to restore the Langley line.” He held his lip between his teeth until it ceased to quiver. “Can you forgive me?”
“Are you sure it is my forgiveness you seek?” she asked. “Or is there someone else to whom you should be speaking?”
Again, he hung his head. After a long silence, he felt his mother’s hand against his arm. She guided him to a chair and, together, they sat.
“I should never have told you,” she said quietly. “It was just—you’d grown so remote. You refused permission for me to wed.” She inhaled. “Not that those things excuse the things I said.”
“I told you never to darken the halls of Bromton Castle. I did not mean—” He stopped. He had meant those words the night he’d spoken them. He began again, this time, with a clearer truth. “I—I would take back my words, if I could.”
She placed her hand on his cheek. Her touch was enough to break him.
“Why are you here, Bromton?”
To say he was sorry. To ask forgiveness. To find out if there was anything inside him worth being redeemed.
“I love her,” he said, in an awkward summary of all of the above. “I love her and she hates me, just as you hate me. Justifiably. I’ve lost any chance I might have had to make things right with you both.” A tear dropped onto his cuff. “And I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh.” She leaned forward. “Oh, darling.”
He closed his eyes. “Mama,” he whispered.
For the first time since his fifth year, Giles Everhart Langley, third Marquess of Bromton, tenth Earl of Strathe, and twelfth Baron Langley, found himself enveloped in his mother’s arms.
“Hush,” she crooned into his hair.
“She isn’t going to forgive me. And I deserve that, because I did not forgive you.”
She held his cheeks as she looked into his eyes. “Do you forgive me, now?”
He nodded.
A crease appeared between her brows. “But you have yet to forgive yourself.”
He shook his head no. “How could she want someone like me? I have nothing to offer. The marquess made me what I am.”
His mother sighed deeply. “You were the son of his—I’d say heart, but I am not fully certain he possessed a heart, in the usual sense.”
“Such bitterness lives inside in your words.”
She raised her brows. “Yes, I know. Decades of fear leave acid residue.”
“He hurt you. Physically.”
She sniffed. “He did.”
He’d never considered that she, too, had been huddling in fear. Not when she’d moved with grace and confidence, with a smile for everyone but him.
“I am sorry I did not protect you,” he said.
“How could you have known I needed protection?” Her lips trembled. “I never allowed anyone to see.”
They held each other, for a long, silent moment. The comfort penetrated the layers of regret and pain.
“Did you love him?” he asked.
“The marquess? Of course not. My father arranged our marriage.” She wiped tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hands. “And the marquess did not improve with a longer acquaintance.”
“Not the marquess.” He forced the words. “My real father.”
She sent him a guarded glance.
What did she think he’d do? He hadn’t the power to cut any longer. He hadn’t any power at all.
“Is it your husband?” he asked.
She scowled. “Do you think the marquess would have allowed a man of lesser rank to father his heir?”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“I told you. The marquess insisted I conceive by any means.”
“No,” he said, slowly. “You said you had to conceive by any means. Are you telling me the marquess knew I was not his child?”
Her spine stiffened. “Of course, he knew,” she said. “He arranged for the beddings. Above all else, he wanted his heir.”
Giles closed his eyes, an attempt to stop the pounding. “Did—did my real father know I was his son?”
She pursed her lips and then sighed. “I imagine he did and does, though he has been too discreet to mention so to me.”
He was reeling. Once again, everything he thought he’d understood had been wrong. This time, he would not attempt to claw his way from the mire.
“You said the marquess would not have allowed a man of less rank than his own to father his heir—that leaves dukes and the royal family.”
His mother’s wince contained the truth, though the secret of his father’s identity hovered between them like a ghost.
“Do you truly wish to know?” she asked. “Would knowing change how you feel?”
One word from her, and his uncertainty would be silenced. One word, and he’d know. He’d know, but he’d never be able to acknowledge. In the eyes of the law and the world he would forever belong to the marquess.
He thought of Katherine. Of the future he wanted. Of the future he’d believed he did not deserve. Would knowing his father’s name—his rank—give him anything of value to offer his wife? Would it make him, at last, a gentleman?
Suddenly, the answer was clear—no. He did not need a bloodline to prove his worth. Only his actions could make him the kind of man he wished to be.
“No,” he answered.
His mother exhaled, clearly relieved. He turned his full attention to her.
“You love Blackwood, don’t you?” he asked. “You called him Warren.”
“Yes.” Her eyes grew watery. “Oh, yes. I would have risked losing you for nothing less than love.”
He nodded and placed his hand over hers. “I hope we can begin again, Mrs. Blackwood.”
She kept her lips pressed together until she mastered her tears. “Warren always said you would come around.” She kissed him on both cheeks. He pressed his forehead to hers. “Now,” she sniffed, “what do we do about this lady of yours?”
“I want to prove to her I’ve changed. I want to prove to her I love her, and I will never hurt her again,” he said. “I just do not know how.”
“Love exists in order to work miracles,” she replied, cradling his face. “Never give up hope.”