The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(85)

He shook his head.

Ophelia nodded.

“She means you,” Gertrude said with a quiet, dawning understanding.

Broderick froze. “Me, what?” he blurted.

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “You will marry a proper young lady with noble connections.”

He . . . ?

His pleased-with-herself sister gave another nod. “Youuu,” she repeated, drawing out the syllable. “You’ve only ever wanted noble connections.” She gave a pleased little toss of her head. “Well, now you can have them.”

All he’d ever wanted . . . had been precisely that—a connection to the peerage.

She spoke of his marriage to a nobleman’s daughter. It was logical. It was clever. And it did fit with every last wish he’d ever carried for respectability. A link, cemented not through his clubs but through marriage, had represented the culmination of what he’d aspired to. What he’d always wished to be.

Marriage to one of those ladies would give him entry to a world he’d longed to return to ever since Lord Andover had cast him out.

So why did the idea of it—marriage to a proper lady—leave him . . . empty? Cold inside.

For the first time since he’d put his request to Gertrude, he reconciled himself to the truth of how narrow minded and foolish he’d been. He’d asked her to bind herself to someone as a matter of business while denying her the right to be loved and love in return.

Reggie, however, had seen and known, and had fought him and his intentions for Gertrude at every turn. And she opened your eyes to this, as well. It was an awakening. A dawning understanding that had at last taken root and grown.

He’d been so fixed on building an empire, he’d not given thought to marriage. To any woman, regardless of station. His love, life, and mistress had always been the Devil’s Den. Given that he’d treated his sisters’ then-potential matches as more business transactions than anything, the least he should seek for himself was a like match.

It was therefore the height of hypocrisy and selfishness that he found himself wanting . . . more. A tall Spartan beauty with a tangle of crimson curls flashed to his mind. Wanting Reggie. He wanted Regina Spark. A woman who’d go toe to toe with him. A woman who’d be part of his life and business, whom he could share both with.

He froze. My God. I want to marr . . . The air hissed through his teeth.

“Broderick?” Ophelia prodded.

He set his glass down hard, splashing liquor over the rim, staining his fingers, marring the table. “I . . .” His voice croaked. Tugging at his cravat, he tried again. “My existence isn’t one that allows for a wife.”

It could, if it were the right woman . . . one who understands you. Who challenges you and demands you be better in every way . . .

Cleo scoffed. “You aren’t the only Killoran who runs a business.” Ophelia lifted her fingers in a proud, affirmative signal. “We are capable of love, marriage, and business all at the same time. It just takes work. And no Killoran has ever been afraid of work.”

Nay. But neither were his sisters destined for the gallows. For Broderick, soon there wouldn’t even be an existence when Maddock finally came calling.

Ophelia clapped her hands. “Given that Broderick isn’t in love, debating love and marriage is rather a moot point. What we can and should focus on is his survival.” Her lower lip trembled in the faintest hint of misery before she stilled it. “Marrying a lady and hoping the marquess is too polite to come for one who moves in his ranks—”

“He’s a recluse,” Gertrude pointed out. “He doesn’t move in any ranks.”

“—is really the only hope that I can see,” Ophelia went on as though her elder sister hadn’t spoken.

And just like that, a different noose was tossed around his neck, tightening, squeezing. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Our rivals were nearly destroyed when they married ladies.” It was a pathetic grasp on his part at avoiding a fate that, as Ophelia pointed out, could spare his life.

Ophelia waved a hand. “You aren’t like them.” She shook her head. “You aren’t like us.” She spoke over his protest. “You joined our family when you were already a young man. You were well read and spoke the King’s English. No one believes you are somehow the same. Not even us.” She lifted a finger. “A nobleman would be glad to have your fortune, as would one of their daughters.” Broderick finished off another drink, downing it in a long, slow swallow, welcoming the trail it blazed down his throat. He quickly refilled it. “You will have your links to the nobility.” She dangled that promise that would have once been everything.

“No!”

It took a moment to register that explosive denial didn’t belong to Broderick but another.

Splotches of crimson filled Cleo’s cheeks. She adjusted her slightly smudged spectacles. “No,” she repeated with a decisiveness that erased Ophelia’s pleased smile.

“No?” Ophelia echoed.

Cleo nodded. “He can’t marry”—she glanced over at him, and there was a frantic desperation there in her eyes—“someone he doesn’t love.”

“Do you think I don’t want him to marry for love?” Ophelia cried, exploding to her feet. She stormed over to Cleo and jammed a fingertip toward the floor. “I do. I want him to know everything, every happiness that you and I know in our marriages.” She dropped her voice, and when she again spoke, emotion husked her words. “But do you know what I want more? I want him alive.” She looked back at Broderick, and a sheen of tears glazed her eyes. “I want you alive,” she whispered.