Page 77 of The Marquis's Misstep
Ginny pointed to the door. “Out, Celia.”
At the latch’s click, Brock grinned. “I can see we shall have to engage the lock.” He picked up a silk wrap and tossed it to her.
She was cinching the tie when the knock sounded again. “Enter,” she said, dropping into one of the chairs near the hearth as Brock moved to stir the embers to life.
Celia dashed in. “Mama, you should see the gardens. This house is a castle. The duke said James can work in the stables. And Lord Brock says he can attend our studies with me and Irene.”
“Good morning, Mama, Lord Brockway.” Irene followed more sedately. “Bring in the tray, Timms. I ordered chocolate.” She glanced at Celia down her straight and perfect nose. “No coffee.”
Celia stuck her tongue out at Irene, and Ginny ducked her chin to hide her grin.
“The duke said we can decorate our bedchambers anyway we choose,” Celia said.
“It’smay,” Irene corrected her with a pained sigh. “The duke said wemaydecorate our bedchambers—but that’s neither here nor there.”
Celia snatched a scone off the tray and took a large bite. “He’s very nice, Mama.” She spoke around a mouthful. “He was shocked when I told him about our safeguarding—”
Brock’s groan coincided with Ginny’s own.
Irene took over. “It’s all right, Mama. The duke quite understood. He said if Rachel had been lucky enough to have had the same instruction, she might still be with us.”
Slowly, Brock replaced the poker in its stand then turned, straightening his body. “He said that?”
Ginny ached for him.
“Yes.” Irene poured out chocolate, and Ginny accepted a cup with gracious aplomb, then leaned back for the sure-to-be stimulating production. “He said that Celia and I are years, perhaps a century, ahead of our time.” Irene took a sip from her cup, then set it down. “But that’s not what we came to speak with you about.”
Celia set her cup down as well and stepped next to Irene, presenting what could only be considered a united front as they faced Brock. Celia’s fingers found and clung to Irene’s.
A sudden, oppressive tension cloaked the atmosphere. Ginny held her cup with a white-knuckled grip she was surprised didn’t shatter the delicate porcelain.
Brock moved to the chair closest to Ginny and lowered himself into it.
It was difficult to breathe. Ginny couldn’t imagine what had wrought this change, but she didn’t believe it would fare well.
Irene squared her shoulders. She cleared her throat, then took a deep breath. “We—Celia and I—wanted to know if perhaps, um…” Her gaze fell to hers and Celia’s clutched fingers, then raised again. “If you, um, wouldn’t mind if we called you Papa?” Her voice trailed off on a whisper.
Blood rushed into Ginny’s ears, blocking out ordinary noises. Like the pop and hiss of the fire or her cup clattering against the tea tray before it landed upended on the beautiful Persian rug.
Uncertainty trickled into her daughters’ expressions, and Celia’s thumb crept up to her mouth.
Brock rose from the chair to his full height and held out his hand. Both girls put their tiny ones in his. Ginny thought she would die before anyone managed to utter a word.
He bowed, a formal bend at the waist fit for the prince regent. “I-I—” He cleared his throat of an awkward croak. “I would be greatly honored, my ladies.”
Celia’s thumb plopped from her mouth. She smirked “See, Irene? I told you so.”
“’Tis not very ladylike to say, ‘I told you so,’” Irene said primly, if not somewhat huskily, her eyes never leaving Brock’s face. Worry shown in the depths of her gaze.
Ginny was too emotion-filled to speak, barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks in rivulets.
Brock grabbed Ginny’s right hand and squeezed hard, then he scooped them all up in a hug full of future and promise.
****
