Chapter 3
After a miserable night spent alternating between unbearably heated dreams about his copper-haired bride-to-be and horrid nightmares about the demise of his first wife, David wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over his head and hide from the world.
But that was a luxury he couldn’t allow himself.
Trying to summon a bit of Lady Clarissa’s indomitable spirit, he rang for his valet and braced himself for the dreadful day ahead.
He needed to screw on a smile and talk to Timothy.
Then he needed to lay down the law with his scapegrace brother, and then he had to meet with his superior officer and soon-to-be father-in-law.
What a simply marvelous calamity of a day! Is it too late to contract the plague and never speak to anyone again for the rest of my life?
All too soon, David found himself crouched beside the blue sofa in the drawing room, searching for words, as Timothy sat clutching his much-loved stuffed bunny.
As David glanced around, desperate for inspiration, he found the outdated room utterly unhelpful.
The heavy, baroque furniture and gilded frippery his father had wasted money on held no answers worth hearing.
But he was only dithering to avoid a delicate conversation. So he made himself look at his son’s face, a cherubic version of his own but with Laura’s blue eyes, and so much love welled up in his chest that he nearly choked on it.
The problem was that there was nothing Timothy wanted more than a real mama.
David didn’t know how many times he’d tried to put that particular fantasy to rest. How could you explain to a four-year-old that our fondest hopes turn to ash when we get what we think we want?
How could he crush his dreams by explaining that his actual mama wasn’t the paragon of all things good and loving that David had led him to believe?
And now, somehow, David was going to have to explain a bride who wouldn’t be staying, a bride he didn’t want, one whom he was marrying under duress.
Lady Clarissa was a beautiful, warm, charming, yet deeply deluded woman, and Timothy would fall for her like a pebble off a cliff.
Even David wasn’t immune. During their brief meeting, there had been moments when she’d managed to kindle a response in his long-dead heart.
It troubled him. After all that had transpired, there shouldn’t have been any romantic sentiment left in him, but her daft optimism about their arranged marriage growing into a love match made him almost wish it was possible.
Even as it devastated him to hear her call him her perfect match, it melted something in his scarred heart.
Dangerous. Very dangerous. Which was why he’d spent an hour puzzling over the exact words to use with Timothy. “A lady is coming to visit us next month. She’ll be staying for a while.”
Timothy’s sweet face fell. “Is she a new governess? Because I don’t want a new governess. I want Mrs. Drake.”
The last thing David wanted was for Timothy to fear he was losing his beloved governess. Mrs. Drake was practically a second mother to him. “She’s not a new governess. Mrs. Drake is staying, I promise. She’s a friend I recently met named Lady Clarissa.”
“Then why is she staying with us?”
He didn’t want to lie, but he also wanted to steer clear of talking about marriage if he could. Lady Clarissa wasn’t here to stay, and he didn’t want Timothy getting attached. It would break his tiny heart. “She needs a place to stay for a few months, and we have lots of extra rooms.”
Timothy’s big blue eyes widened. “Is something wrong with her house?”
“Not exactly.” Was this too much deception? After all, a lie of omission was still a lie. But Timothy was too young to understand. Wasn’t he?
His son’s eyes went wider still. “Is she your sweetheart? Is she going to be my new mama?”
Damn. He was caught. So much for avoiding talk of marriage.
“She’s not my sweetheart, and she definitely isn’t going to be your new mama.
But…” Why was it more terrifying to confess to a four-year-old than to face down a soldier at the end of a bayonet?
“I am marrying her. She’ll be Lady Whitcomb.
But she won’t be staying for very long, and she won’t bother you at all.
You’ll hardly notice she’s here.” He hoped.
Timothy’s achingly adorable little face fell. God, this was agony. “You don’t think she’ll like us?”
“Anyone who meets you will adore you, precious. But she and I aren’t marrying because we’re sweethearts. It’s because she needs some help. Once I’m finished helping her, she won’t need to stay. She’ll be free to go live her life as she pleases.”
Timothy nodded gravely. Then he straightened, eyes alight. “What if we ask her very nicely? Then would she stay?”
How had David gotten himself into such a tangle? This was exactly what he wanted to avoid. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweet pea. It’s better if we let her go, and then you and I can go back to living just as we do now.”
Timothy’s shoulders drooped, and he nodded without looking up. “I wish you would ask her to stay.”
“Why, poppet?”
“Because I would like a real mama so very much.”
And there it was. If a bayonet stabbed him in the heart and twisted, it couldn’t have hurt more than his son’s quiet plea.
David was bleeding out on the carpet, and no one could see.
He wanted so much to be everything that Timothy needed.
He would face a thousand armies to put a smile on the boy’s face.
He would tear the sun from the sky and hand it to him on a platter if Timothy asked for it.
And with his bare hands he would throttle anyone who made his son sad.
Except this time, he was the one disappointing the lad.
Damn you, Charles! This is all your fault!
As if summoned by his mental curse, Charles popped his head into the drawing room. “Ah, there you are! So tell me everything. How did it go with the Black Widow?”
“Who’s the Black Widow?” Timothy asked.
Charles rubbed his hands together and made himself at home on the chesterfield across from them. If Timothy hadn’t been there, David would have been sorely tempted to leap across the room and give his brother a black eye, something he hadn’t done since childhood.
“The Black Widow is a mean old lady who spins sticky webs like a spider,” said Charles, gesticulating with unnecessary drama. “And if you’re not careful, you’ll get caught, and she’ll suck your blood until you’re nothing but a husk.”
Timothy drank in every word with rapt attention, clutching his bunny. Again, his eyes rounded. “Papa, did you go see the mean spider lady? Did she try to suck your blood?”
Damn it all! Now Timothy was going to have nightmares.
Much as he loved scary tales in the daylight, he was too tenderhearted.
He’d be up all night worried about spider ladies.
“Don’t believe a word Uncle Charles says.
Why don’t you take Mister Flopsy-tail and go find Mrs. Drake?
Tell her I said she could take you to Gunter’s for a cherry ice. ”
The word “Gunter’s” worked its magic, and Timothy ran from the room squealing in delight. David listened for the patter of tiny feet running up the stairs and waited until he was certain Timothy was out of earshot to round on Charles.
“You.” David rose, looming over his brother who lazed on the chesterfield.
Charles grinned up at him, his long lashes not quite disguising his bloodshot eyes. He lounged like an unrepentant Dionysus with his customary impish expression fixed on his irritating face.
“Do you have any idea the cost of your folly?” David braced his arms on either side of Charles, gripping the upholstery to keep from throttling him.
His brother only continued to smile. “I’m certain her ruffians informed me of the figure at some point, but I’m afraid I was too foxed to remember specifics.”
“You gambled away more money than I have, you ass.” He annunciated each syllable carefully.
At last, Charles’ smile faltered. “What? But that’s not possible. You said the estates were doing well.”
David pushed away from the sofa with a growl and started pacing. “It’s taken me years of painstaking effort to undo Father’s neglect. We are now solvent, no thanks to you. But solvent doesn’t mean a bottomless coffer.”
“But… But…” his brother sputtered. “You aren’t going to let her send me to Marshalsea me, are you?”
“I should, you know. It would serve you right.”
Charles blanched. “You wouldn’t. You can’t! There must be some way you can convince her to call off her hounds.”
It was so tempting to let Charles marinate in terror. David crossed his arms and watched his brother squirm, wishing it gave him more satisfaction than it did.
“She arranges marriages, doesn’t she? Couldn’t I marry some chit whose wealthy father is willing to pay to be rid of her?”
Looking down at his brother, David was glad Mrs. Dove-Lyon had the good sense not to foist Charles on some unfortunate woman.
In the morning light, Charles’ boyish good looks could not hide the haunted soul that looked out of his brother’s golden-brown eyes.
Where had the carefree boy of their childhood gone?
The worst part was that he could have imagined himself going the same way all too easily.
After all, Charles was only following in their father’s footsteps.
David was grateful he had inherited Mother’s resolute stoicism rather than Father’s feckless ways.
He may have resented her coldness as a boy, but as a man, her example served him far better than Father’s dissolute selfishness.
But sympathy for the devil had cost him too much this time. “No, you can’t. You’re too wretched for even Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She has no use for you.”
Charles collapsed on himself, head in his hands. “Then I’m doomed.” A quiet noise that could have been a sob shook his back.
David unfolded his arms and sighed. “Not quite.”