Page 41 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“Who are your parents, Connor Jackson?”

What did she hope to gain by all the questions? He laid out the bald truth for her. “My mother was a governess. My father was her employer.”

Meg’s expression closed over, and she muttered something under her breath. Then she asked, “What happened to your mother?”

His mother’s dying words came back to him. She’d squeezed his hand. Don’t hesitate to take a leap of faith, she’d said. We don’t always need to see the end to know the path we should take. Find your courage to do what you know is right.

What had she been trying to tell him? On the surface, her words had seemed an encouragement to live an honorable life. But he’d gotten the feeling there was more to it that she was trying to say.

Feeling Meg’s gaze, he pulled himself back to the present. He tried to swallow the next words, but they rushed out anyway as years of bitterness seeped out of his heart. “He used her, sired me, then sent us away.”

She made a sound rather like a cat coughing up a hairball. “Men!”

Aristocratic men did seem to be the worst of the lot, especially considering his own background. If his own father had been honorable, Connor’s life would have been so much different.

“There are plenty of deplorable women, as well,” he pointed out. “Especially those on the highest rungs of society.”

“True.” Sorrow settled over her expression. She let out a sigh and shifted on the nag she rode. “Where is your mother now?”

“She’s buried in Beckenham.” Normally, speaking of her left him feeling like the ground was crumbling beneath his feet. Today, it only felt like an old wound that would never heal.

“Ohhh…” She breathed in a long sound of sympathy. “I’m so sorry. Truly I am. I lost my mother nearly four years ago. I miss her every day.”

He focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

“Did she never find anyone else?” she asked gently.

“No. He was her one true love, not that he deserved her devotion.”

“I suppose there’s not much hope for me, then. I had my one chance at love.” A portion of her fire faded.

What could he say to that? They reached a crossroads and turned onto the highway.

He half expected her to question his sense of direction, but instead, she said, “My parents were absolutely in love.” Absently, she stroked Ginger’s mane. “They were married thirty-two years before my mother passed on. It was a rather sudden illness. My father died of a broken heart less than two years later.”

Not finding love or loving so deeply that it could kill those left behind were both miserable options. Of course, his mother had survived the heartbreak of being rejected by his father and had lived in relative contentment for thirty years. Perhaps she had been in possession of greater strength than many.

“My brothers and their wives are also very happily married,” Margaret said. “I’m glad—truly, I am. But sometimes I wonder why the men in our family were rewarded with joy when my sister and I have not been.”

“Joy is fleeting,” Connor said.

“Yes, I suppose. But some seem to be blessed with it in greater measure than others.” She tilted her head. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Jackson?”

“Jackson is enough. Or Connor, if you prefer.”

“It would seem disrespectful to call you by your Christian name. Only the lowest house servants are addressed as such; the rest are called by their last names, or by Mr. or Mrs.—not that you are a house servant.”

He glanced back. “I mean no disrespect calling you Margaret or Meg. I will stop if you wish.”

A faintly amused pursing of her lips came in reply. “I believe I have grown accustomed to Meg. And yes, you most certainly did mean disrespect when you first started calling me Margaret. I believe it was your own cheeky way of telling me that we were equals, as far as you were concerned—that you did not recognize my social standing as higher than yours.”

Guilty. Sheepish, he turned back to the road as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Either that,” she continued, “or you were attempting to claim we have an intimate friendship.”

The word intimate shot through him in a particular way he had no desire to explore. “Your first assessment was accurate.” Or was it?

She delicately picked a speck off her sleeve. “Truly, I no longer mind. I prefer it to Lady Hennessy, anyway; it rids me of any connection to that man or his family.” Her mysterious glance reawakened his suspicions. “If you wish to atone for your cheekiness, you may call me Lady Margaret, since I am a lady in my own right.”