Chapter 17
HIDDEN TRUTHS
A few days later…
It was only a few days later when Brandon was summoned by the Order, and he knew he was going to answer.
As he entered the discreet clubhouse, he looked at himself in the mirror.
There was a big bruise around his nose, his knuckles were still in fresh bandages, and his ribs still hurt, but other than that, he was recovering very well.
“You look terrible,” Owen welcomed him the moment he stepped inside the private room.
“It looks worse than it feels,” he fired back.
“I am sure that Marigold is helping you take care of your wounds.”
Brandon glared at Owen, but he didn’t seem deterred.
“What happened?” Thumb demanded. “I want a detailed account.”
“They were waiting for us,” Brandon said. “Not specifically for us, they didn’t know who we were and that we were coming, but they have been alert. Organized.”
“Those men are mostly brawlers,” Thumb said thoughtfully. “To act this organized means they are planning something big, and they need to be on their toes.”
“Perhaps our little stunt will push them to the surface,” Brandon said.
“If that’s the case,” Owen said lightly, “then it was worth it getting beat up. And on the plus side, you got the nurse treatment by your wife.”
“It was quite lucky,” Thumb said somberly, “that your wife was already informed of your little side project. Otherwise, it would take some explaining to do, and not all women would be ready to stomach this.”
Brandon thought of Marigold, the way she sprang into action, how she took care of him while holding back her anger, how she was afraid for him. For the first time after so long, someone cared.
“This is the reason why I find marriage such an inconvenience to our campaign,” Thumb muttered to himself.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Owen chuckled. “There are definitely some upsides to having a wife. For instance, I trust that the Duchess is taking good care of our friend.”
“She is my wife.” Brandon glared again. “It is her duty.”
“Duty,” Owen repeated. “I am certain that she is fulfilling all her marital duties.”
“Unless you want to find out exactly how a broken nose feels, I suggest you keep Marigold out of your mouth.”
Little snorted into his brandy, but Thumb didn’t seem quite as amused.
“All I am saying,” Owen persisted, “is that I have never seen a man quite so happy about being hurt.”
Thumb raised his eyebrow but said nothing. He was watching Brandon with interest.
“The information my wife provided has been invaluable,” Brandon decided to steer the conversation back to business. “We can use it to corner them and see if we can flush them out.”
“Agreed,” their leader said. “But first you need to finish healing. You are no good to us half beaten.”
“Hear that, my friend?” Owen smiled. “You can go back to your wife and recoup.”
And Brandon struggled to hide his smile at that prospect.
* * *
The next morning, Marigold appeared in his room with Beth at her heels, holding clean bandages, fresh water, and the salve.
Brandon was wearing his robe, and he expected her visit. It was somehow a little morning ritual they had, right before breakfast. Beth left the things and excused herself.
“You do not have to do this,” Brandon said.
“I am starting to worry that you got hit in the head, Your Grace,” Marigold replied. “Because you keep saying this every single day, knowing that I will do this no matter what you say.”
Brandon sat back on his bed. It was true. No matter how hard he tried to convince Marigold to call the physician or let someone else take care of his wounds, she wouldn’t budge.
She started with the bandages on his hands, taking them off, cleaning the wounds, and examining them very closely before rebandaging. Then she checked the set of his nose and applied a cold metal that she had left overnight in the ice room.
“This would have set even better if you let me ice it three times a day,” she protested.
“I think I have better things to do than sit around and have cold metal on my face for that long.”
“I am sure you do.” She looked at him strictly. “I bet those thugs down at the docks have already missed their punching bag.”
Brandon chuckled at her cruel comment.
“Glad you find your broken ribs entertaining,” Marigold said. “Open your robe, please, Your Grace.”
“It seems to me that you want to take care of me just because you get to see me shirtless.”
Marigold blushed but didn’t look up into his eyes, coldly examining the bruises on his ribs, applying the salve.
Brandon watched her as she worked. The concentration on her face and the cute little way that her tongue peeked out when she was fully focused. The sun hit her face just right and made her eyes look golden. He even noticed the soft curl that escaped her pin and fell on the nape of her neck.
“You are staring, Your Grace,” she said without looking up.
“I am wondering. How do you know how to do all this? Dress wounds, clean injuries. I am not complaining, it’s best that we didn’t involve a physician. I am just curious.”
Her hands stopped for a fraction of a second. She swallowed, and that’s how Brandon knew that he was touching on something tender. Her hands resumed taking care of his bruises.
“My father,” Marigold said, trying to keep her tone neutral. “He was sick and bedridden for more than a decade.”
Brandon waited, just listening, because he knew there was nothing right to say in this moment.
“He developed sores from lying in the bed so long. He was also weak and got hurt a lot. I just watched the physicians take care of him, and later, I did it myself. I dressed his wounds and kept them clean and prevented infection. I had to learn. No one else would.”
Brandon just looked at this woman who had the resilience of a mountain.
He was already admiring her for putting up with the gang, taking care of the household, struggling to keep them afloat, and dealing with her malicious mother.
And now, he learned that she had to endure the long illness of a parent.
Everyone in the ton was talking about how she was not fit to be a duchess, that he was way above her station, but Brandon started to see that maybe he would have to step up to be able to stand by His Duchess.
“He was the only one who was ever kind to me,” Marigold said as she wiped her hands on a towel.
She then looked up at him, finally, and Brandon could see that mask he admired so much crack a little.
“I loved my father so much, and I had to watch him die. Slowly. Daily. Eaten away piece by piece by something that couldn’t be stopped.”
He reached out and took her hand. Her eyes were bright as they stared back at him. Brandon was not sure what to say. He was not very good with words or feelings or considering other people and their struggles. But she was not just like other people.
“I am so sorry this happened to you. I cannot even imagine how it is.”
Marigold nodded and swallowed. He was happy that it seemed that his words were enough for her. Her eyes fluttered, and tears ran down her cheek. There was a sharp sting in his heart when he saw that they were slipping, as if it were a personal failure that he couldn’t prevent from happening.
“Thank you,” Marigold whispered.
That sting became an unbearable pain. He couldn’t bear seeing this admirable woman suffer. And the thought that his recklessness had triggered those memories and those emotions again. He had made her feel vulnerable and helpless. And no words could mend that.
He didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he gently pulled her towards him as he sat up. His other hand cradled her face, his thumb against her chin. Marigold’s golden, bright eyes looked at him, caught between sorrow and surprise.
He leaned in and kissed her. He had kissed her before. God knows they had done way more than that. It was always a hungry kiss, needy and devouring. But not now. Not in this moment.
He kissed her softly, merely his lips against hers, touching her featherily. He pulled her lower lip with his mouth, just a grounding reassurance that he was still there. He tilted his head again and inhaled her breath.
Marigold responded in the same soft way, both hands resting on his shoulders. As he kept caressing her lips with his, her body melted into him, and her hand rested on his chest over his heart.
“I don’t plan on going anywhere, Marigold.”
Her hand still on his chest, she looked up at him for a fragment of a moment, looking like a girl lost in the world.
“Then don’t do any more reckless things. You promised. I cannot bear seeing you hurt, too.”
“It must have been so painful seeing your father go.” He put his hand on hers and let his thumb caress her knuckles. “I have lost people too, but I haven’t seen them decline for so long.”
The moment those words slipped out of his mouth, he realized without even knowing he had opened up to the thing that he had bottled in since he was a kid. He expected to clam up again and perhaps retreat back to his cold self, but as Marigold looked up at him, he felt none of these things.
“You loved someone too?” Marigold said with genuine interest. “Was it your parents?”
Before he could stop it, a bitter laugh gurgled up his throat. Marigold was taken aback by his reaction, but it would be even more painful to talk about that. It might scare her away.
“Yes, I have lost both my parents, but that is not the loss I am talking about.”
“Brandon?”
He tightened his jaw. Even after all those years, like her, he retreated to being a helpless little boy when his mind traveled to the past. He, the Duke that everybody feared and respected, was helpless under his wife’s touch, held hostage by memories.
“My mother was never present,” he said as coldly as he felt. “It seemed that her own world held greater interest than her own child. And I am not sure she even noticed when I left for Eton. She certainly wasn’t there to bid me farewell.”
“I am not even going to comment on motherly love.” Marigold lightened the mood with an ironic chuckle. “It seems that we both lucked out on this department.”
Brandon nodded in a conspiratorial way.
“You still had your father who treated you nicely, and you seem to genuinely love him in your heart,” Brandon observed.
“Am I to guess that this was not the case with you? Was he absent like your mother?”
“That would have been the better scenario in this situation.” Brandon looked away, almost ashamed.
Marigold’s fingers on his shoulders tensed, sensing the pain she was about to hear. For one moment, Brandon thought that his wife had endured enough. She had troubles of her own to think of and her own pain to carry.
But she squeezed his hands, forcing him to look into those golden eyes. For a second, he bathed in that light as Marigold nodded, assuring him that somehow, she still had the strength to carry his burden a little.
“My father… he noticed me,” Brandon said, his jaw tightened.
“Especially when he wanted to watch me suffer. He never hit me, not physically, mostly because he was bored. But he made sure I knew I was unwanted and unworthy. I barely remember a day around him that I didn’t feel like a disappointment. ”
“Not everybody who bears a child can call himself a parent,” Marigold commented. “But still, you said you lost someone. There had to be someone who shed a little light in your life and made you who you are now.”
Brandon smiled, a warmth brought forth from the depths of his memories. From inside the darkness, there was one little ray of light.
“Her name was Greta,” Brandon said. “She was my governess. My parents didn’t care too much about me, but Greta was different.”
“I am sure she was,” Marigold said softly.
“She was very, very young when she came to work for us. She was kind and looked at me as if I truly mattered. I am not sure how parents treat their child, but I believe that Greta really cared.”
He heard his voice go rough but knew he couldn’t stop. Marigold never shied away from the dark and ugly parts of her life, and he needed to be at least as brave.
“She didn’t only teach me how to read and write and speak French, which I truly hated.”
“I hate French too,” Marigold confided.
He chuckled.
“She was the only person in that empty house who loved me. She sat with me when I was sick and held my hand when I got too afraid of the darkness.”
“This sounds really wonderful.”
“One day, I was about eight years old, and I was playing out in the garden. I had begged her to take me to the part of the garden that my family kept for their parties. She could never say no to me. While I was not paying attention, I tripped and fell on the rose bed. My mother’s favorite rose bed. I completely crushed it.”
“You were just a child,” Marigold said.
“My mother was livid. Corporal punishment was not enough for her. She blamed Greta for what happened, saying that she was the one who was not watching me closely enough and allowed me to enter the garden.”
Marigold braced herself, realizing that he was getting to the end of his story, and yet she didn’t even know the worst part.
“Greta was fired on the spot. No references. Just gone.”
“I am so sorry,” Marigold muttered.
“She just knelt down and took my face in her hands and said that I was a good boy, that it was not my fault, and she left. But it was my fault. It was.”
“Brandon…”
Brandon looked away, out at the garden. He had torn apart that rose bed, that part of the garden that had cost him so much, but the pain didn’t go away.
“A few days after,” Brandon said, his voice barely above a whisper, “my father threw a newspaper at me during breakfast.”
Marigold’s hand tightened on his, as if sensing what was coming.
“Greta was heading to her sister’s house when she was robbed. She, of course, had nothing of value on her, and they killed her out of rage.”
“Oh, God.”
“If I wasn’t so reckless, she would still be alive,” he said firmly. “As you can see, I haven’t changed much since then.”
“You were just a child who was playing in a garden. It was everyone else’s fault. Your mother, who was so cruel, your father, who didn’t protect his employee, and that gang that killed her above all.”
“Those men that killed her, Marigold,” he said, his voice harsh. “They grew. They came back to London.”
“Johnny’s gang.”
“I was following them that day, hoping they would lead me to their lair. Until I saw them corner you.”
“That’s why you’re so relentless in pursuing them,” Marigold finally realized.
“I won’t stop. For Greta. And for you.”
He squeezed her hand and looked at her deep in her eyes. He realized that this woman, thrown to him by chance and whom he saw as a tool, might finally be the reason he found peace.