The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(107)

He’d resisted seeing that which he wanted, her standing there . . . So much damned time lost. “I don’t have much time left.”

Her face crumpled. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t,” he said matter-of-factly. It was why offering her love now was selfish. He would not be the man one day beside her. And that cleaved him in two. “One day there will be someone.” And from the corner of hell he found himself spending eternity in, he’d hate that nameless bastard. “A man who woos you and wins you—”

“Stop it.” She glared at him. “Don’t talk like that.”

“A man who is deserving of your love.” One who appreciated her in ways that Broderick hadn’t until it was too late.

“Stop,” she begged.

“Shh,” he urged, gathering the lone tear that tumbled down her cheek. That wasn’t why he’d told her this. How much time he’d lost . . . they’d lost together. “I want you to have your music hall and my staff as your own, if that is what you desire. But what time I have, I want it to be with you.”



He wanted to be with her.

Broderick, whom she’d spent years only dreaming of a future with, would abandon every hope for marriage to a proper lady for her.

Broderick palmed her cheek. “Will you not say something?” he asked, a hesitancy there that had never marked words from this man.

Surely he knew he was all she’d ever wanted. And yet . . . selfishly, this wasn’t enough. She didn’t want their time to be fleeting and ended by a crime committed by another, doled out by a man bent on revenge.

Her lips trembled. “I want that. I want you. I love you.”

He framed her face between his hands, and with an agonized laugh, Broderick dropped his brow to hers. “I love you,” he repeated. It had taken the threat of losing her to realize that she completed him in ways that he’d been empty before her. “Marry me?”

A sob burst from her throat, and she threw herself into his arms. He staggered under her embrace and then crashed down, landing hard. “Yes.”

A knock sounded at the front door, and Reggie glanced over. “Miss Spark?”

“Your architect.” He kissed her neck.

She giggled. “Stop. My builders are here.”

God, she was magnificent. How had it taken him so long to see it? Nay, to fully appreciate the true depth of her spirit and strength.

“May I stay?”

She drew back. “Stay?”

He wouldn’t impose himself on her plans. He’d take only what she was willing to share. “I don’t want to be underfoot—”

Reggie twined her arms about his neck. “You silly man. I want you with me. Always.”

He nipped at her earlobe, and she dissolved into a breathy fit of laughter. “Do you know you’re the first person to ever call me ‘silly’?”

“Surely not?”

He tickled her sides, until great snorting laughs spilled from her. “Minx.”

They remained there, the hours passing, reviewing designs and discussing the layout of her hall. Her enthusiasm was tangible, a lifelike joy that came from the dream she had for this place. It wasn’t borne of competition or a thirst to crush all who had a similar hope or vision. Rather, she was one who saw the world was wide enough.

Later that afternoon, after they took their leave and made the journey back to Mayfair, she glanced over, a question in her eyes. “What is it?”

“You are remarkable,” he said softly. Whatever time they had wasn’t enough.

She smiled and slid her long fingers into his. Broderick clung to her palm; callused and coarse, hers belonged to a woman unafraid to work. Just as she’d always been.

They arrived a short while later.

“Ophelia is here,” she noted as he caught her by the waist and helped her down. He lingered his hands there.

“Shall we go tell her?” he whispered against her ear.

“Hush.” She ducked out of his arms and rushed along the pavement. “People will talk.”

Broderick followed quickly on her heels. “Let them.” He laughed as the double doors were thrown open.

His and Reggie’s laughter immediately died.

A wide-eyed Ophelia stood in the middle of the foyer in her cloak, alongside a stunning, equally wide-eyed woman. She glanced up and down Reggie’s trouser-clad frame, and her eyes nearly swallowed her face.

“There you are,” Ophelia exclaimed, the first to break the awkward impasse. “I’m so glad you’ve returned! We were just leaving.”

Reggie dropped a curtsy and then started to go. Broderick followed her with his gaze, and she paused, lingering, their eyes locked.

“Broderick?” Ophelia pressed.

“Hmm?” he murmured. “Forgive me.”

Ophelia beamed. “Allow me to again present the Dowager Duchess of Argyll. She has been gracious enough as to invite us to her box at the theatre this evening.”

“How do you do?” the young duchess murmured, and as he bowed over her hand for the requisite kiss, Ophelia winked.

Broderick narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve found your bride,” Ophelia whispered.





Chapter 27

You took my wife . . .