The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(111)

Broderick’s chest tightened.

Nay, he was wrong. This was a place he wished to be . . . but with another woman.

He stared out at the tenor performing to a room full of people more fixed on gossip than on the song that soared throughout the room.

“There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, beside the river Dee;

He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he;

And this the burden of his song forever used to be.”

Reggie should be here. She belonged with him. And I want to share this with her. Every trill and note sung would have held her enthralled.

Broderick shifted his focus over to the young widow Ophelia sought to partner him with. The delicate planes of her face a study of ennui, she passed a bored gaze around the hall, surveying the lords and ladies present and merely skimming past the performers on the stage below.

Feeling his gaze, the dark-haired beauty glanced over. She snapped her fan open and waved it lightly before her mouth, her encouraging little smile flickering forward and then disappearing behind that satin scrap.

Restrained. Practiced.

There was nothing real or sincere about the tilt of her lips.

Another woman flashed to mind, one who laughed with abandon and whose cheeks blushed bright with her mirth. One who’d never attend a theatre all for the purpose of engaging in gossip.

Ophelia jammed her elbow into his side. “You can at least smile,” she whispered from the side of her mouth.

He forced his lips up.

“That’s a damned grimace,” Ophelia muttered. “Bloody hell. What is the matter with you?” His sister dragged her red velvet chair closer. “She is the answer.” As if there were another “she” in question, Ophelia glanced pointedly over at the dark beauty still surveying the crowd. “She represents your salvation.”

His salvation.

Yes, because once survival and the future of his club had mattered above anything and everything. How narrow his world had been. He’d placed profit and power above all else.

The tenor, a portly gentleman with a crooked wig, pranced to the middle of the stage.

“I envy nobody, no, not I, and nobody envies me.”

Only now acknowledging the truth—there had been safety in that. For it had been something he’d controlled. The Devil’s Den couldn’t hurt or disappoint. And even as he’d been saved through his ownership of that gaming empire, it had also left his life—empty.

“It is a perfect match. You both enter into it as any other arrangement. You’ll have your duchess, and your neck, of course. Bethany’s late husband left her in dire straits, so your fortune will—”

“I can’t,” he whispered.

Ophelia cocked her head. “What?” she blurted. Her husband and the dowager duchess glanced over. She offered a sheepish smile. “Apologies.” As soon as everyone’s attention was trained forward, her smile faded. “What?” she repeated. “But the marquess . . .”

“I can’t marry her.”

His sister sat back in her seat. “But you don’t even know her. She might make you a perfect bride and—”

“And I don’t love her.”

That silenced the remainder of her words.

“But you don’t love anyone,” she noted, a befuddled wrinkle between her brows.

That was to be the legacy he left upon his hanging. Siblings who didn’t know how much they’d meant to him. He’d swing, and they’d never know that when he’d joined their family, they’d saved him in ways his own father hadn’t. They’d given him a sense of purpose and renewed meaning in a world where those he’d relied on before had so easily cut him out.

“I’ve been a rotted brother,” he said quietly.

Ophelia gasped. “No. Don’t say—”

“It’s true,” he cut off that undeserved defense. In a nearby box, Lord Landon was stroking his fingers across the expanse of his companion’s plunging décolletage. Broderick stared at that gentleman, who’d courted two of his sisters, a man whose suit Broderick had encouraged and whose offer he would have allowed. “I thought noble connections were best for you,” he said hoarsely, clenching his hands into fists. “I was wrong.” About so much. “I am so very sorry.”

It had been Reggie, however, who’d shown him what was in his heart. Who’d opened his eyes to what mattered.

Ophelia worked her eyes over his face. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You did the best you could. You were a brother to us.” Her hand covered his, and she gave a light squeeze. “You saved us,” she said simply.

“I live by my mill, God bless her! she’s kindred, child, and wife;

I would not change my station for any other in life.”

And after years of searching and fighting to be somehow more, a weight lifted, leaving in its place a peace: in who he was and what he wanted and who he wanted to be, for as long as he had left. “I have to go,” he said, climbing to his feet. Eyes throughout the auditorium swung to him. “Forgive me,” he said gruffly, taking a step back.

Ophelia stood. “Broderick? What is . . . ?”

The velvet curtains were whipped open, and Gertrude stumbled in.

Their sister blinked, and squinting, she searched the darkened box. “Gertrude?” Ophelia asked, but the elder sister’s stare went past her, landing square on Broderick.