He half expected to find his mother waiting for him, as if the last twenty-five years had never occurred.

When no one answered his knock, Nick did just that. With a push of his hand, the door swung inward. The overwhelming stench of urine and stale sex greeted him. Pressing a hand over his nose to ward off the pervading stink, he surveyed the room, smaller and more pitiable than he remembered. Almost as if he summoned her, a woman lay there, curled on her side with her back to him. His throat constricted at the sight of her long dark hair. It couldn’t be.

“Mama?” His voice sounded strange and far away to his ears.

The woman rolled over. The face of a stranger stared at him. Of course it wasn’t his mother. His mother was dead. Still, in his mind she was forever trapped in this room. The prostitute staring at him didn’t possess a fragment of her beauty. She was an older woman. The haggard lines of her face told the depravity of a life long accustomed to the abuses of poverty.

She extended a hand as thin as a skeleton’s. “For the right coin, I’ll be anything you want.” Her burst of coarse laughter further reminded Nick this woman wasn’t his mother. But she could have been had his mother spent another fifteen years plying her trade in this slum. For the first time, Nick saw her death as a blessing. Better she had died when she did than suffer another day of this life.

Perhaps his mother’s death had guaranteed him life, freeing him to pursue his own happiness.

What kind of fool was he to throw away a chance at happiness when true happiness in life was so hard won? Just because his mother suffered— because the man she had loved destroyed her—

didn’t mean he couldn’t find a measure of happiness, love. Love with Meredith.

Following this realization, something unfurled deep in his chest and he breathed easier. Only one thought emerged, buoying him even in the abject misery of his surroundings.

 Meredith.

He’d been lucky enough to find her. Lucky enough to win her love. Only a damn fool would throw it away.

He whirled from the doorway, love for Meredith spurring him to run. Hopefully his stupidity hadn’t chased her away. Sudden self-doubt assailed him, stopping him in his tracks. What if she didn’t want him anymore? What if he had succeeded and pushed her completely out of his life?

His future yawned before him, a vast bleak hole at the possibility of life without her. With a single hard shake of his head he resolved not to let that happen. He would prove his love—or spend the rest of his life trying. She didn’t have a choice. He was hers whether she wanted him or not.

The need to reach Meredith consumed him. So much that he didn’t notice the three burly figures coming at him from the shadows until they knocked him off his feet. Lying there, head reeling, the grisly appearance of his attackers took more definite shape. The features of one face in particular stood out, and Nick felt the absurd impulse to laugh. Trust life to toss up another hurdle the instant he came close to easing the gnawing emptiness inside him.

“What have we here? Looks like you lost your way,” a thug sniggered, slapping a slat of wood in the palm of his hand.

“Hello, Skelly,” Nick murmured, wiping the salty trickle of blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

“Caulfield,” Skelly greeted, his gaunt face stretched wide in smile. “I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since that night you and your bitch humiliated me. Just didn’t think you would make it so convenient.”

“Bloody nob,” another thug sneered. “Cocks always get them in trouble.”

“Is that it?” Skelly asked. “Got tired of that bit of lace? Wanted to come slumming for a whore from the old neighborhood? You should have come to my place. I could have had one of my girls show you a real good time.”

The three closed in, and Nick knew from the deadly gleam in Skelly’s eyes that he was interested in more than a bit of rough play. He braced himself, instinct tightening every muscle to singing awareness. When the first blow came, he was ready, old instincts soaring to life as he deflected it and disabled the attacker with a kick to the groin. The fists of the others rained blows on his back. Turning to meet their attack, he made out a flash of silver in the gloom. The blade descended in an arch toward him. With a strange sense of detachment, he registered that someone was going to die. Nick vowed it would not be him.

Chapter 26

Vicar Browne’s voice droned like a bee in Meredith’s ear. She tried to concentrate on his words, but it was pointless. Shifting uncomfortably on the hard pew, she refolded her gloved hands in her lap and relived her encounter with Nick for the hundredth time, wondering if she could have done anything differently. She had bared her heart and soul right along with her body on that road. The only thing was to beg. Or confess to him that she carried his child. The irony wasn’t lost on her. To find herself with child after everything—

Nick probably wouldn’t even believe her. True, he would know soon enough. The whole world would, but she wouldn’t use their child as a weapon to hold him to her.

Sir Hiram’s pew was inauspiciously vacant—or auspiciously—depending on how one viewed it.

The church buzzed with titters and disapproving stares this morning, a testament to the fact that everyone knew Nick had thrashed Sir Hiram before immediately returning for London. Such did not bode well for her reputation. In everyone’s eyes, his actions meant only one thing. He had cast aside his wife due to her improper relationship with Sir Hiram. Yet she didn’t possess the heart to care. All she wanted was Nick. Not Society’s approval.

Felicia Stubblefield sat looking very pleased in her pew. She arched an eyebrow in smug silence when Meredith risked a glance in her direction. It was evident who had a hand in spreading the rumors. Perhaps she would have minded and even sought to correct the misapprehension everyone was under concerning her relationship with Sir Hiram. Perhaps. If she weren’t so numb.

If she could muster a modicum of concern. Instead, she clung to the remaining scraps of her dignity and faced the front of the church.

Stares penetrated her, burning into her profile, drilling into her back. With everyone behaving as though she were some sort of fallen woman, Nick’s long ago comments questioning the charity of her fellow churchgoers surfaced in her mind. He had been right. People were fickle. Society was fickle. Neighbors were quick to condemn.

A small part of her did not blame him for shunning these people—this life.

She was suddenly pulled from her musings. Not by any particular sound but rather the abrupt halt in Mr. Browne’s voice. A quick look up revealed his startled expression focused on the back of the church. The heavy fall of footsteps thudded down the center aisle, a murmur of whispers following in their wake. Her pulse quickened and her right eye began to twitch. Still, she could not force herself to turn around.

At last, those footsteps stopped beside her pew. She waited one long, interminable moment, struggling against the fear and hope warring inside her. Finally, she risked a glance and swallowed a cry of dismay at the sight of Nick’s bruised and battered face. He lowered himself beside her, pressing his fingers against her mouth, silencing her questions. His eyes burned brightly, drinking in the sight of her face, looking at her in such a way—

“Later,” he whispered, and turned to the front of the church, giving a slight nod for Mr. Browne to continue.

Her mind reeled from his presence beside her. In church, of all places. She knotted her hands in her lap and didn’t think it possible to remain silent for the remainder of the service. As if understanding her confusion, Nick removed one fist from her lap. She trembled as he laced his fingers with her gloved ones, calling her attention to the cuts and bruises marring his knuckles.

What had happened to him? The back of his tanned hand stood out in sharp relief against her white gloves. She gazed at their clasped hands with nothing less than shock, as if they belonged to some other couple.

Mr. Browne cleared his voice and resumed his sermon.

She never heard a word.

* * *

His steady grip kept her from pulling her hand free. He knew she was dying to pelt him with questions. Yet he waited. He wanted privacy when he said everything he had to say. He would have preferred to look more presentable before joining her at Sunday service, but last night only brought home to him the fleeting nature of life. So, flaunting a black eye and split lip, he took his place in the Attingham village church for the first time in over twenty-five years.  And he didn’t go up in flames.

In fact, he felt oddly content sitting in the Brook-shire family pew with Meredith pressed to his side. As if he had arrived home. At last. The thought that he almost missed the chance tightened his heart. If Skelly had his way, he would be lying dead in that alley and not the other way around. And Meredith would never have known that he died loving her. As they filed out of church, she tried to tug her hand free, glancing self-consciously at the gawking speculation sent their way. He would have none of it. He fought a life and death battle to reach her. He was never letting her go. With a tender smile, he kissed the back of her hand and tucked it firmly in the crook of his arm. Her eyes widened. He chuckled.

Aunt Eleanor beamed at him in approval. “About time. Although you could have waited until you looked more like yourself, you scamp.”

“And leave my wife languishing?” His thumb traced small circles against the inside of her wrist where her glove ended. She flushed a becoming pink. “I couldn’t have waited that long,” he said in husky tones that had even Aunt Eleanor blushing.

“Who are you?” Meredith leaned close to hiss as they stepped outside. “Where is Nick?”

“You’ll not get any explanations from me,” he replied with a mischievous smile. “Not yet.”

Then Meredith gawked as Nick greeted Mr. Browne and praised him on his sermon.

“Er, thank you, my lord,” the young vicar stammered, his thin chest puffing out and his face brightening a delighted red.

Nick moved to greet other neighbors, dragging a speechless Meredith with him. He did not even feel bothered at rubbing elbows with neighbors who stood by wordlessly when he and his mother were cast out. Not as long as Meredith’s fingers stayed twined with his.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered in her ear. “We need to talk.”

“We have to wait for Aunt Eleanor.” She eyed him nervously, as if uncertain she wanted to go anywhere with a madman.

“Trust me,” he assured her, catching Aunt Eleanor’s eye and sending her a meaningful wink.

“She won’t mind.”

“But we can’t leave Aunt Eleanor. She’s talking with Mr. Browne right now—”

“Isn’t he coming for dinner?”

Meredith nodded warily.

“Perfect. She can ride with him. Or,” Nick added wryly, “any of the other dozen people she’s inviting.”

“Nick, we can’t—” Meredith paused as his words penetrated and exclaimed, “Oh, she is not!”

“I’m afraid she is.” He nodded his head to where Aunt Eleanor now chatted animatedly to a large group of ladies, her words drifting to where they stood.

“I insist. You must come. The earl would love nothing more than getting better acquainted with his neighbors.”

“Oh no,” she groaned, closing her eyes.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward his horse.

“We can’t both ride Solomon,” she protested as he grabbed her by the waist and swung her up.

“Why not?” He swung up behind her.

“People are watching—”

“And what do they see?” His eyes locked with hers, the moss green pulling him in, warming him.

“The Earl and Countess of Brookshire so in love and eager to be together that they’re sharing a mount. They’ll think it’s romantic.”