Chapter Eighteen
T he carriage had barely jolted to a stop in front of Rosilee’s home before she flung the door open and leaped out, her slippers landing on the gravel in one seamless motion, leaving Blake and his curses inside.
But how could she wait?
She couldn’t.
She spotted Leopold the moment she lifted her gaze—tall, lean, and looking like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days, but still unmistakably her brother. He stood at the entrance, looking agitated and concerned, yet the moment his eyes locked with hers, she saw the tension in his face melt away.
Lord, his face was a beautiful, beloved sight.
Without a second thought, she hitched up her skirts and ran. “Leopold!” she shouted, her voice cracking.
“Rosilee!” He rushed over to her, and she flung herself into his arms. His arms wrapped around her tightly, lifting her off her feet like he had when they were children.
He was really safe.
“By God, you’ve gotten heavier,” Leopold teased, though his voice was tight with emotion as he set her down.
“Heavy! Perhaps I’ve been chomping up all of your troubles! And it’s your own fault for allowing that rat, Baston, to trick you!” Rosilee retorted, punching him in the arm. “How could you do that?”
“I’m sorry,” he said miserably, rubbing the spot. “I made a mistake.”
“Don’t make it again,” Rosilee said, but she was unable to scold her brother too much. They were both safe and unharmed. That was all that mattered.
“I won’t,” Leopold promised, a line forming between his brows when his gaze shifted over her shoulder. Rosilee followed his line of sight, turning just in time to see Blake striding toward them, his expression a medley of concern and irritation—likely because she had bolted from the carriage without so much as a word. He had that look about him again, like a storm barely contained. A look she loved.
“Who, exactly, is that?”
Rosilee’s heart gave a nervous flutter. Right. Introductions. How was she going to explain this? She glanced at Blake, who, while impeccably dashing if plainly attired, looked quite formidable at the moment.
“That,” she said with a wry smile, “is the Duke of Crane. Also known as Blake.” The man of my dreams. My world.
“The Duke of Crane?” Leopold’s voice rose an octave, his brows shooting up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. He stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest as he gave Blake a long look. “You’re jesting. The hermit?”
“Don’t call him that!”
Leopold’s expression shifted to one of suspicion, his eyes narrowing as he sized Blake up. “And what, exactly, is a duke doing with my sister?”
Blake, having reached them now, raised a brow, his voice as smooth as ever. “I married your sister since you got yourself, herself, and your home in trouble. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You did what ?” Leopold spluttered.
“We are not married,” Rosilee exclaimed, then pulled a face at Blake. “Not yet.”
“ Not yet ?” Leopold croaked.
Blake’s lips quirked, but before he could respond, Rosilee jumped in, eager to smooth over the introduction even though Blake seemed determined to give her brother heart palpitations. “It’s a long story,” she said quickly, linking her arm through Leopold’s. “But suffice it to say, Blake is your future brother-in-law, and the love of my existence.” Her eyes met the duke’s. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”
Her brother cleared his throat. Twice. “Well, then, I suppose I owe you a thank you, Your Grace.”
Blake inclined his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “It’s not necessary. Helping your sister has been my pleasure. And please, call me Blake.”
Rosilee narrowed her eyes on her brother when he cleared his throat again. “What’s wrong? Something happened, didn’t it?”
“Well . . . speaking of love and in-laws . . . I have news of my own.”
Rosilee blinked. “What is it?”
Leopold rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking sheepish, then glanced back and motioned for someone to come over.
Rosilee’s eyes widened as her maid and friend, Evangeline Green, joined them. “Evangeline?” Wait. “You and Leopold?
Evangeline nodded, her cheeks flushing.
Leopold grinned, a boyish expression that made him look far younger than he had moments ago. “She tried to sneak in and rescue me.”
Rosilee could scarcely believe what she was hearing! “Why would you do something so dangerous?”
“I wanted to help you,” Evangeline said softly.
“She was quite determined, too,” Leopold said. “Snuck into the house with a hairpin and a great deal of attitude. Unfortunately, she was caught right after she entered the chamber I was being kept in.”
Rosilee stared at him, dumbfounded, and a shiver raced down her spine when a hand sneakily settled on her lower back. “And what happened next?”
“Well,” Leopold murmured, smiling at Rosilee’s erstwhile maid, “she stayed. We were imprisoned together.”
Well, I’ll be!
“This is a rather interesting, yet delightful development,” Rosilee said with a smile. “I am happy for you both. I want to hear everything from start to finish.”
“So do we,” Leopold said, his gaze returning to Blake. “It seems Baston accidentally did something right, after all.”
“Do not even utter such words,” Rosilee exclaimed. That man would forever be a villain in her heart! But he had brought her to Blake. And now, they would all be a family while he rotted somewhere unknown.
Somewhere only Mrs. Dove-Lyon knew.
Suddenly six men strode from around the house—each one larger than the last, their faces marred with all manner of scars, cuts, and bruises. They walked in a formation, shoulders broad, eyes sweeping the area with a predatory intensity before landing on her, then flicking to Blake.
They all looked alike, yet not alike at all.
“Ah, yes,” Leopold said stiffly. “We have guests.”
Rosilee turned to Blake. “Are they . . .”
Blake’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on the advancing men. “My brothers.”
Leopold shot him a sideways glance. “Well, now it all makes sense. Care to elaborate?”
Blake’s smile was grim. “Let’s just say... the late duke was a man of many indiscretions.”
It seemed there would be more additions to their family. And Rosilee, for one, certainly didn’t mind.
She stared at her future brothers-in-law and said the only thing that came to mind. “Welcome.”
Not welcome.
They looked like a mismatched pack of feral dogs. Not that he could really criticize them. He might not carry any outward scars, but that didn’t mean the ones hidden weren’t just as jagged.
Damnation.
Bloody hell.
Christ.
They also shared similar features.
Neither man nor God could deny the resemblance, as much as he wished he could. Blake bit down on his teeth, fingers flexing at his sides to keep from tugging at his cravat. He didn’t want to have anything in common with them. They reminded him of the one man he wanted to bloody bury so deep down that no influence, no thought, no nightmare could reach him.
But—and perhaps it was a “but” worth acknowledging—they were not monsters.
No, they were.
But perhaps not the same breed as their father.
“Crane,” the man at the head of the pack greeted. Calm. Simple. Bloody infuriating.
“Maxen.”
Not even a flicker.
He didn’t ask how Blake knew his name, simply accepted it, meeting his gaze with the same steadiness that ran through the entire group of men at his back. It unsettled him to see so much of his own face—their father’s resemblance—reflected back in theirs.
But uncomfortable as he was at all this, he couldn’t even scoff. They had made such an effort, so he attempted a measure of civility in his tone. “I assume you didn’t come all this way to admire the architecture?”
A hand wove through Blake’s arm, drawing his attention to her. Rosilee. She smiled at him, the hitch of her lips enough to gather his heartbeats to match hers.
“Shall we all go in for tea and talk inside?” She glanced at the gathering men. “And sit down perhaps? It’s far less intimidating than presenting like a pack of wolves.”
Blake nodded.
He couldn’t deny her. He could never deny her.
He turned back to the men before him. They had, in all likelihood, suffered a form of the same nightmare he had. And here they stood, drawn together by blood none of them had asked for.
Blake nodded. It was the best concession they were going to get from him. “You can come in for tea.”
Maxen nodded in return.
Viscount Leopold coughed. “Of course, no need to ask my permission for anything.”
What the hell did a man say to that?
Fortunately, a whistle saved him from answering, followed by the rattle of an approaching carriage coming down the drive.
Thank God.
Blake turned to find Bishop—whose task had been to convey Mrs. Prune and Mr. Wiggins—snapping the reins, Ben beside him, while Reaper followed astride his horse.
Bloody everlasting hell.
He had never imagined his whole being would sag in relief at the sight of his butler, man of affairs, and friend.
“Well,” Bishop said, not missing a beat as he climbed down and strolled up to them. “What a delightful gathering. Quite the family reunion, eh?”
Could he retract that sentiment?
“Ah, Mr. Bishop,” Rosilee said with a grin. “Always a bright sight.”
Bishop laughed, smirking at Blake. “She likes me.”
Blake shook his head. Scoundrel. His gaze swept over the people gathered in the courtyard, Mrs. Prune and Mr. Wiggins exiting the carriage with the same optimism that matched the woman he loved.
He sighed. His brothers might be here now, and Bishop might be adding to the chaos, but Rosilee was his anchor, the one person who understood him beyond the scars of his past.
It almost felt . . . right.
And yet, not quite.
“Now,” Bishop said cheerfully, clapping his hands, surveying the group, “are we having tea with a splash of brandy? Or perhaps a brawl in the courtyard? Personally, I think the courtyard brawl would be quite fitting for this motley crew.”
Rosilee laughed. “I vote for tea.”
“I second,” the viscount said, followed by a muttered, “with that touch of brandy.”
Maxen inclined his head.
Damnation. Blake let out a sigh.
They had come to help, these half-brothers, even without ever having met him. They had, in some strange way, commanded a place in his life now, whether he liked it or not. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to build something from the ashes of his father’s cruel legacy. Something not just built on blood, but on choice.
But family?
He reached for his cravat, paused, flexing his fingers, before letting his hand lower to brush Rosilee’s back.
Very well.
“Fine,” Blake muttered. “Tea.”
Bishop flashed a grin, and Rosilee beamed, pulling him to the door of the entrance. He leaned into her just slightly, allowing her radiance to soothe him. As long as she remained at his side, light would pierce the darkness, and everything would bloom.
Rosilee.
His rose.