The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(39)

Henderson stopped dead, watching until the carriage was out of sight. This was his chance to speak with Lord Hubbard about marrying Alice, but he hadn’t had time to formulate his thoughts. While he knew Lord Hubbard liked him well enough, that didn’t mean he wanted a bastard for a son-in-law. What father would? The Hubbards’ pedigree was immaculate. Richard was the son of a duke, Elda was the daughter of a marquess. From his experience, sons of dukes and daughters of marquesses did not want their children marrying low-born bastards.

Henderson’s sire could be anyone, but was almost certainly not a member of the peerage. His grandparents and mother refused to discuss the matter, and the only thing he did know, from an overheard conversation when he was ten years old, was that the man was a laborer. Henderson still remembered the distaste in his grandmother’s voice when she mentioned his father. No one loved him more than his grandmother, so to hear her speak ill of whomever had sired him had made Henderson slightly sick to his stomach. Tainted.

His mother, Sylvia, wanted to get rid of him after she pushed him out into the world. She’d made arrangements with a woman who promised to find a good home for the baby. Like a puppy, he was to be given away and never thought of again. To Sylvia, he represented nothing more than a foolish decision that she wished would go away. It was his grandmother, with her soft heart, who had taken one look at his wrinkled little face and vowed to keep him in their home. His grandmamma simply could not bring herself to take him to the woman or to a foundling home, which was where most bastard children ended up. Henderson had learned much about his early years from loyal servants who adored his grandmother and had a less than favorable view of his mother.

Sylvia had refused to look at him, hold him, touch him. If she ever had, Henderson had no memory of it. When he was a boy, he was not allowed to eat with the family and was instead fed in either the kitchens or his small room on the third floor, as far away from his mother as possible. If she did refer to him, which was infrequent, she called him “that thing.”

“That thing trampled on my flowers this morning.” He’d been ten, old enough to realize who he was, who she was. Other mothers were kind. They laid their hands atop their children’s heads and ruffled their hair. They embraced them when they were hurt. They did not call their children things.

“I’m not a thing,” he’d said, his cheeks burning hotly. “I’m your son.”

She’d wheeled around, her face filled with rage, and slapped him. “You are not my son.”

After she’d stormed off, his grandmother had drawn him into a warm hug and held him, reassuring him that he was not a thing, that he was a fine little boy whom she loved with all her heart. Henderson had been comforted by her words, but the terrible hurt that his mother didn’t love him, and indeed loathed him, never truly went away.



*



As he walked slowly toward Tregrennar, rehearsing in his head what he would say to Lord Hubbard, the circumstances of his birth loomed large. The Hubbards did not put on airs, but how would they feel about a son-in-law who didn’t have an ounce of blue blood running through his veins? Not only that, but a man who was born from sin? Giving his head a hard shake, Henderson tried to put such doubts from his mind. The Hubbards thought of him as a son. Hadn’t Mrs. Hubbard said just yesterday that everyone in the family loved him? Surely they would welcome him as a true member of their family.

The house was silent when he entered, and a light shining in the parlor told him the ladies of the house and perhaps Lord Hubbard were likely there spending a quiet evening. The door to the parlor was ajar, and he walked in without a thought. Certainly without a thought of what he might find on the other side: A man on bended knee, Alice looking at the gentleman, her eyes soft. And the words she spoke that felt like a shot to his heart: Perhaps we can.

“Perhaps we can what?” The two separated guiltily, and that’s when Henderson recognized the chap who’d been holding his future wife’s hand in his. Lord Northrup. “What the bloody hell is he doing here?”

“Henderson, please.”

Lord Northrup stood, stepping slightly in front of Alice as if he were protecting her, which only caused Henderson’s blood to run hotter. “Who is this man?” Northrup asked, looking him over as if he were in laborer’s garb and not wearing a finely cut suit.

“This is Henderson Southwell,” Alice said. “I believe I’ve mentioned him. Joseph’s friend.”

“Ah, yes. The charity case,” Northrup drawled.

“I never implied such a thing and you know it,” Alice said, glaring at the viscount.

“Very well,” Northrup said easily. “My apologies. I thought I was being kind in my description, given he stands before us looking as if he would like to commit murder.” Northrup raised one eyebrow, all charm, as if he hadn’t a care that Henderson itched to pummel the man within an inch of his life. Something dark and primitive had uncoiled inside Henderson when he saw the other man touching Alice.

Henderson looked from one to the other, hating that he suddenly felt like an outsider. It seemed obvious that Alice had told Northrup more about him than he cared for the man to know; it put him at a severe disadvantage. “I asked a question,” he said, directing his attention to Alice, his voice softening only slightly. “What is he doing here?”

Alice opened her mouth to answer, but Northrup spoke. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Southwell, but I am here making amends with my fiancée.”