The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(86)

“Did ya feel the same way when Connor was going to marry another in order to save ya?” Cleo snapped.

“It’s not the same thing,” Ophelia cried, lunging forward on the balls of her feet. “There is no woman he loves. If there were . . .”

If there were . . .

Reggie’s freckled face flashed behind his mind’s eye.

His heart knocked an odd, panicked rhythm against his rib cage. His palms moistened.

“Wot?” Cleo spat. “Then you wouldn’t ask ’im to sell himself to some desperate nob and ’is daughter?”

“Broderick?” This time, Gertrude yanked him back from a muddled mess of thoughts that didn’t make sense. “What do you want?”

Filled with a restiveness, he strode to the window. Locking his fingers behind him, he stared out those crystal panes to the streets below. What did he want? After his own father had ripped up the Killoran name and left Broderick with nothing more than shredded honor, an empty currency in the Dials, his aspirations had always been clear. These were the streets he’d aspired to. He’d craved respectability. Honor. He’d equated all with a link to the ton.

And approval. He’d clawed his way from the bottom, reaching for the top, in the hope that he’d one day atone for his father’s sins.

What his sister put forward, however, moved far beyond mere connections. Just like he had sought safety and security for them, she desired the same for him.

Nor was the irony lost on Broderick; she’d essentially turned his own plan on him.

His gaze caught on a passing couple, a young lady with crimson curls and a cane in one hand, on the arm of a gentleman. He leaned down and whispered something into the lady’s ear, earning a laugh and a blush. She gave her partner’s arm a playful swat. The ease of that exchange stirred a melancholy.

Broderick followed that pair, so comfortable with one another, watching the way they leaned into each other, the tall gentleman’s gait deliberately matched to the crippled wife at his side. There was no frosty indifference there, but a couple who moved . . . as friends. What did he want? Broderick stared on as they continued past his townhouse before disappearing within a pink stucco residence.

That. I want that closeness. But not with any woman. He wanted it with Regina Spark.

He gave that truth light in his mind.

A realization that came too late.

A coldness washed over him.

For what he wanted didn’t truly matter. It never had. His life had always been about something more: his family . . . and all those at the Devil’s Den dependent upon him. He provided a home, food, and safety to people who appreciated the rarity of each gift.

And soon Reggie would be gone. She’d begin a new life on her own in her own establishment. There was no future there. Not with her. And then what became of all those reliant upon him?

An odd ache settled in his chest, and he discreetly rubbed at it. His efforts proved futile in even that.

He’d thieved, killed, and deceived countless souls. And now, if he went forward with this, he’d add selling himself to the list of sins that blackened his soul.

Ophelia glanced around. “It is settled, then?”

The noose gripped him by the neck and squeezed all the tighter.

There was, however, one last attempt at salvation he might seek, one that didn’t include a bride.

One that was long overdue.





Chapter 23

No doubt you have convinced yourself there is still a way out . . .

With the Killorans assembled for another family meeting, Reggie found herself with the unenviable task of watching after Stephen.

Oh, bloody hell.

“Yeah, well, Oi don’t want to be with you, either.”

Splendid.

“I didn’t say anything,” she gritted, walking at a brisk clip through an empty Hyde Park.

Stephen quickened his strides, keeping up. “Yes, you did. With your eyes.”

How did a boy see so blasted much? “Then mayhap you should try being a little friendlier.”

“To you?” He snorted.

Reggie stopped abruptly and dropped the basket in her fingers onto the dew-soaked grounds. “You’ve been horrid to me since the night I found you outside that nobleman’s residence,” she snapped.

The color leached from his cheeks, and he rushed over. “Shh,” he ordered, slapping a finger to his lips.

She dropped her hands to her hips. “No. No, I won’t be quiet. I was looking after you that night. I saved your blasted cap because I know it’s your favorite.” She flicked a hand at the very article. “And I said nothing to your brother about where you’d been.” When she should have. After the fires Stephen had set and the unpredictability of his volatile temper, she’d owed it to Broderick to report all the details of that night. She took a quick step toward him. “And yet you’ve treated me as though I’m an enemy.”

He flinched. There were few insults greater to one who lived in Seven Dials than that one. “I didn’t want Broderick to trust you.” He paused. “I thought you’d tell Broderick where you found me.”

So that was what this had been about? She sharpened her stare on his face. “Well, then congratulations are in order. I gave you my word, and you succeeded in driving a deeper wedge between your brother and me on nothing more than a fear I’d turn your secret over to him.” Though that wasn’t altogether true. She was the one most responsible for the lack of trust that had developed between them. Stomping over to the basket, Reggie jerked open the lid and pulled out the gingham blanket inside. She gave it several hard snaps, and then not sparing another glance at her sullen charge, she sat.