The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(24)
He knew Kitty meant every word—and that she was right. He had no legal standing to take Primrose. Not only that, he had no money, no means to look after a little girl.
“I won’t be any trouble. I promise, Andrew! Please.”
His hands curled in helpless frustration; he wanted to punch something.
“I know you won’t. But where I’m going…”—he refused to dwell on his own grim future—“it’s no place for little girls.”
“I don’t care! I don’t want to be with Kitty. I hate her, I hate her!”
Primrose flung herself at his knees, sobbing. She’d never before voiced her feelings about her guardian. Or, indeed, said a negative word or showed any sign of temper. She was always a biddable, sunny child, and now he realized that she’d been too afraid to be anything else.
The recognition ravaged him, but what could he do?
Kitty has papers. And she’s right: you’re just a whore. His teeth ground together. What authority will entrust Primrose to you, even if you could take care of her?
He placed a hand on the weeping girl’s head and managed a soothing tone. “There now. It won’t be so bad. You’ll miss me a bit, and then you’ll meet new friends.”
As he said the words, fear shadowed his heart. He didn’t know for certain what lay in Primrose’s future. Kitty was steadfast in her resolution to sell the girl. The bawd had claimed that she would find a good home for Primrose, one where she would be well cared for.
But he knew Kitty, knew that she was moved by money more than sentiment. And he feared that she would sell Primrose to the highest bidder rather than the one best for the child’s welfare. While he would give anything to believe that some rich, childless couple would end up adopting Primrose, he couldn’t ignore the grim possibilities. The ones who hunted in the streets of the Seven Dials, using sweets and coins to coax crossing sweeps and flower girls into dark alleys. The ones who he, himself, had learned to evade as a boy.
Looking into Primrose’s upturned face, he was haunted by the possibilities. His gut twisted with guilt, rage, and hopeless despair. Yet what choice did he have? He could make a run for it with Primrose… but even if he could somehow evade the authorities, what sort of life could he offer her? One filled with pimps and whores, lechers and degenerates. She wouldn’t be any safer. And who’d take care of her while he was off fucking just to keep some leaky, crumbling roof over their heads?
At least with Kitty’s plan, Primrose had a chance at a happy ending.
“I don’t want new fr-friends. I want you,” Primrose said tearfully.
He let out a breath and cupped one of her cheeks, its wetness soaking his palm. “You’re a bantling yet, and you’ll forget me in time,” he said. “But I will always remember you. And I’d prefer to remember our parting as one of smiles rather than tears.”
“I’m not going to smile!” Primrose stamped her foot, flung the doll at him. “I h-hate you, and I’m glad I won’t ever see you again!”
She raced out of the room.
Slowly, he bent to pick up the grubby toy. He traced a fingertip over the dye-drawn smile, already fading. He thought of leaving it for Primrose—but she’d be better off without reminders of him.
He tucked the doll on top of his belongings, closed the case, and made his way out.
Chapter Nine
Clad in a dressing gown, Andrew sat at the side of his bed, looking at the object he held in his hands. Years hadn’t been kind to his little rag companion. Her expression had faded, her button eyes chipped, and she’d lost some of her yellow yarn locks. She’d accompanied him on countless journeys, had been there during his darkest hours and rise to success, and he’d never been able to let her go. She was a reminder of all the roads he’d traveled to get where he was; just looking at her caused emotions to swirl up in him like sediment in disturbed waters.
Right now, holding her in his palm, he felt… guilty.
What the bloody hell was I thinking?
The truth was he hadn’t been thinking. From his encounter with Primrose at the masquerade to the debacle at the plumassier’s a week ago, he’d been driven by a force that had nothing to do with rationality. It didn’t matter that his desire for her was intense, inexplicable, and irresistible: he had no excuse treating her like he had.
As if it weren’t bad enough that he’d abandoned her when she was a girl, he’d now done it to her again—and Primrose deserved better. Hell, she deserved everything.
Everything that you can’t give her.
Telling himself that he’d left her for her own good didn’t ease his frustration. Nor did he find consolation in the fact that he would continue to protect her from afar as he’d done in the months preceding his disastrous intervention at the masquerade. Now that he’d held Primrose, kissed her, touched her… his gut clenched, his groin burgeoning with heat.
He’d had sex with countless women, for profit and for pleasure; never once had he felt the way he had with Primrose. Never had he been so absorbed by another, body and mind. Never had another’s pleasure been so inexorably twined with his own.
She’s not for you. Let her go.
He yanked open the drawer of his bedside table, his touch gentling as he returned the doll to its rightful place. He got up, pacing the confines of his large and luxurious bedchamber. He’d purchased this grand house in Mayfair three years ago, and being in this room with its white marble fireplace, Aubusson carpets, and carved mahogany furnishings usually settled him. Reminded him of how far he’d come. He was no longer a whore living hand to mouth but a man who had businesses, properties, investments—everything he’d once dreamed of.