The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(84)

She shook her head. She’d come here to talk to him, and now she didn’t know how to do it. She had hoped to ask a few impersonal questions, but he wasn’t treating her impersonally. If she started her story now, under the weight of all his kindness, she would burst into tears. And she’d already left water everywhere. “I’m so sorry,” she heard herself say, “so sorry, Your Grace. I won’t be a bother. I’ll leave first thing in the morning. I never intended to presume on so slight an acquaintance. I just didn’t know where else to go.”

His hands froze on hers. He was on his knees before her—which seemed impossibly strange given that it was his cream carpet that she was befouling. He looked up at her, and let out a long, slow breath before he sat back on his heels.

“You’re not a bother,” he said.

“You’re busy. You’re important. You have a wife and children, and—”

“And I have a brother,” he said.

Her throat closed up. “Yes, but—”

“No buts.” He gave her a short smile. “You may have a slight acquaintance with me. I suppose I should be calling you Miss Marshall. I suppose we should even keep Louisa here in the room to safeguard your reputation. But as strange as it might seem to you, Oliver is my brother, and I am deeply grateful to you for sharing him with me.”

Free let in a breath. “Yes, but—”

“As I said, you have a slight acquaintance with me.” He looked away. “I know you somewhat better. He used to read me all his letters from home when we were at school together. I didn’t have any of my own, you see.”

She felt a faint flush rise in her cheeks.

“It’s how I knew what I wanted.” He wrapped her feet in the towel, tying it off. “It’s how I knew what it looked like to have a loving family and a little sister who sent her brother her first scribbles before she could write. I remember the first letter you sent him.”

“Oh, God.” She put her head in her hands. “This is going to be embarrassing.”

“You dictated it to your father,” the duke continued. “And you said: ‘Dear Oliver, please come home. What are you going to bring me? Love, your Free.’ And I remember thinking…”

Frederica felt herself blush. “How mercenary.”

“I remember thinking,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “that I would give everything that I had for a little sister.”

The heat died away from her cheeks. She found herself staring at the top of his head in surprise and puzzlement.

“For anyone,” he continued, “who rejoiced when I came home for any reason at all. I would have sent you a million presents if you would have agreed to be my little sister, too.” He sighed. “Alas, after the way my father treated your mother, I didn’t think the offer would go over well. So I never made it.”

She searched his face for signs that he was joking. Perhaps poking fun at her a little. He looked serious.

“But you have a family now. Everyone respects you.”

He raised a dubious eyebrow.

“Well, they may call you names,” she amended, “but they’re mostly respectful names. You have a wife, and unless Oliver is completely wrong, it’s a love match. You have children who must adore you. And…” She trailed off and looked at him.

He looked away. “I spent years imagining you were my little sister. Love is not a finite quantity.” He smiled at her. “And yes, I know you’re not my sister—you’re Oliver’s. Still, I’m glad you came to me. Whatever it is you need…” He spread his hands. “It’s yours. Even if it’s just a towel and a room for the evening.”

She hadn’t known quite what she’d been hoping for. She’d imagined posing him a few abstract questions, receiving a few desultory answers. She certainly hadn’t expected…this.

She swallowed hard and looked away.

“I was hoping you’d have dinner with me,” he said. “Minnie is out for the evening with some friends; she’ll be back in a few hours. London is dreadful in the summer, and the children are with Minnie’s aunts for the next two weeks. I’m at loose ends and was just feeling a mite lonely.”

“Your Grace—”

“I wish you’d call me Robert. If you keep Your-Graceing me, I’ll have to stop thinking of you as Free, and as much as Oliver has talked of you, I don’t think that’s possible.”

“But—”

“Or call me Your Grace, if you must, and I’ll invent you a title of your own to match. Something that fits you. If you call me Your Grace, I shall have to call you…” His finger tapped his lip in contemplation.

She felt an unaccountable urge to laugh. She had a title now. She was Lady Claridge, a stuffy, stupid peeress. She’d never wanted anything to do with the nobility. And yet here she was, accepting a duke as her brother and a viscount as her husband. The entire day was completely impossible.

“I shall have to call you Your Fierceness,” he was saying. “Like this: Would you like anything to eat, Your Fierceness? You must be starving, Your Fierceness.”

“Stop, Your Grace.”

“As Your Fierceness wishes.” His eyes twinkled at her.

“Have it your way. But I’ll have to go in stages.” She took a deep breath. “Can I just call you…you for the next little bit?”