“No, let me hold him a bit longer,” Megs murmured. “He’s quite beautiful.”
“Yes, isn’t he?” Hero’s mouth curved in maternal love.
A pang of desperate longing went through Megs’s breast. This. This was what she wanted.
She looked up and met Godric’s watchful eyes. As if he’d heard her thoughts, he inclined his head almost like he was making a promise. Her breath caught. What other man would be so good to her? He was so protective, so kind. He’d spent the day escorting her and the St. John women about to shops, never once making a demure or seeming bored by frivolous feminine things. The day had been so enjoyable that she’d remembered only as she’d been dressing for dinner that he’d promised to look for Roger’s murderer. And she knew she ought to ask him what his plans were, to press him on the point and make sure he wasn’t going to conveniently forget his vow, but she simply wanted a small respite from the matter.
From death and grief and loss. If only—
“Ah, Mandeville,” the duke drawled.
Megs turned to see that her other brother, Thomas Reading, the Marquess of Mandeville, had arrived. Beside him was his vivacious wife, Lavinia, whose hair had grown if anything more brightly red since Megs had last seen her.
“You’ve got a spot on your waistcoat,” Thomas said to Griffin.
“Yes, I know,” Griffin replied through gritted teeth.
Megs sighed. Her brothers weren’t the best of friends, but at least they now spoke to each other. For several weeks after Griffin’s marriage, that hadn’t been the case.
The gentlemen converged, speaking in low tones about politics before the butler interrupted with the call for supper.
Hero took sweet William from Megs’s arms, bussing him on the cheek before giving him over to his nurse with a murmured word and a lingering look as they left the sitting room. She caught Megs’s eye and smiled ruefully. “I usually put him to sleep myself. It’s silly of me, I know, but I hate letting someone else do it.”
“You can look in on him later,” Griffin said tenderly, offering Hero his arm.
She took it, wrinkling her nose up at him. “You shouldn’t indulge my sentimental quirks.”
“But I like indulging you,” he whispered into the auburn curls at her temple, and Megs blushed, rather thinking she wasn’t meant to hear that last part.
“Shall we?” Godric was at her side.
“Of course.” She laid her fingers on his forearm, realizing that they trembled slightly. There was something about being this close to him, a warmth that transmitted itself from his body to hers, a kind of vibration almost, so that her body seemed to tune itself to his. And she realized with almost horror that even if he weren’t the means to give her a baby, she wanted him.
That isn’t right, she thought shakily as he led her into the dining room and pulled out her chair. She sank into the seat without thought, her mind full of a confused buzzing. Her body wasn’t supposed to long for his. She’d loved Roger, and although she was grateful to Godric and had come to know him a little more, had, perhaps, a kind of admiration for him, that wasn’t love.
Her body shouldn’t respond without love; it just shouldn’t.
She realized that Charlotte sat to her left—the gentlemen were overmatched by the ladies—and, oh dear, to her right was the duke. Megs mentally sighed. The Duke of Wakefield was a rather daunting gentleman to make dinner conversation with. The footmen brought out great platters of fish and began serving as Megs searched her mind for something to say to His Grace.
Instead it was he who turned to her. “I trust you enjoyed the play at Harte’s Folly last night, my lady?”
“Oh, yes, Your Grace,” she murmured, watching as he tore apart a crusty roll. “And you?”
“I confess that the theater doesn’t entertain me,” he replied, his voice bored, but then something softened about his eyes as he glanced at her. “But both Phoebe and Cousin Bathilda like it very much.”
For the first time, Megs felt a faint liking for the duke. “Do you take them there often?”
He shrugged. “There or other theaters in London. They also like the opera, particularly Phoebe. I think the music partially compensates for the fact that she can’t entirely see the stage.” He frowned down at his fish as if it had offended him.
Megs felt a pang. “It’s that bad, then?”
He merely nodded and seemed relieved when Thomas’s voice rose farther down the table.
“The act hasn’t been given enough time,” he was telling Griffin. “When the gin sellers all have been arrested, then the drink must perforce be reduced in the streets of London.”
“It’s been two years,” Griffin growled back, “and your gin act hasn’t done much more than line the pockets of a few crooked informers. I could still buy gin at every fourth house in St. Giles were I wont.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed as the footmen brought in the next course—a roasted joint and various vegetables—and he opened his mouth to retort.
But the duke intervened. “Griffin is right.”
Both brothers turned to him, astonished. The duke was not a bosom-bow of Griffin’s—he’d been determinedly against the younger brother’s marrying his sister—and Megs knew Thomas considered him a friend and ally.
But the duke set his fork down and sat back. “The act has had two years to effect change and it hasn’t. The only real good it’s done is correct the faults of the ‘36 act, which”—the duke grimaced—“is faint praise indeed. We are at an impasse. London cannot continue with the loss of vigor and blood that gin sucks from it like some ungodly parasite.”
“What do you suggest?” Thomas asked slowly.
The duke pinned him with his cold eyes. “We need a new act.”
Griffin, Thomas, and the duke burst into furious political argument while Godric twirled his wineglass, his eyes intent as he followed the discussion. He wasn’t a peer, so he didn’t sit in Parliament, but every male seemed infected by the blight of gin these days and the discussion on what to do about it.
And, of course, the blight of gin affected everything in St. Giles.
Megs sighed and turned toward Charlotte on her other side. “Are you pleased with the gowns you selected today?”
“Yes, although I did want that sky-blue moiré.”
Charlotte cast a disgruntled glance at Jane across the table. The sisters had nearly come to blows over the gorgeous fabric before Mrs. St. John had hushed them with the simple threat that no one would get the sky-blue moiré if the matter wasn’t decided in the next second. Charlotte and Jane had looked at each other silently and Charlotte had huffed and conceded the silk to Jane. Ten minutes later, they were enjoying ices, elbows linked, bright blond heads together, and one would never have known the sisters had fought so adamantly just moments before.
Which didn’t mean that Charlotte had entirely forgiven her sister, of course.
“You did get that lovely turquoise brocade,” Megs reminded her diplomatically.
“Yes,” Charlotte said, brightening, “and those delicious lace mitts.” She sighed happily before turning to Megs. “That peachy-pink silk is going to look so pretty with your dark hair. I’m sure Godric will be smitten.”
Megs smiled, but she couldn’t help her gaze sliding away from her sister-in-law’s. Did she want Godric smitten? She glanced up and saw that he was watching her now, his gray eyes heavily lidded, his long, elegant fingers still playing with the stem of his wineglass.
Twirling. Twirling. Twirling.
Her face heated for some reason and she looked hastily away again, taking a sip of her wine to calm herself.
“Megs?” Charlotte asked hesitantly.
Megs focused her attention on her sister-in-law. “Yes?”
Charlotte was pushing together a mound of creamed potatoes and parsnips, pressing the tines into the fluffy vegetables to make small, parallel furrows. She leaned close to Megs, her voice lowering. “Do you think Godric will ever …” She cleared her throat as if searching for the word, her forehead compressing into furrows that matched the ones on her plate. “Do you think he’ll ever want to be close to us?”
“I don’t know,” Megs said honestly. Having heard Godric’s recollections of his youth, she knew now the broad gulf between him and the rest of his family had started long before Clara’s death had made him a near hermit. They were so very far apart. Could anything bridge a gap widened by both time and distance?
Megs bit her lip and sat back as the footmen cleared their plates and brought in individual glasses of syllabub.
“It’s just …” Charlotte was still frowning, peering now at her dish of syllabub. She picked up her spoon and poked the quivering mass, then sighed and set her spoon down again. “I remember when I was very young. He seemed so tall and strong then. I thought he was a god, my elder brother. Mama says I used to follow him about like a chick when he visited, though that wasn’t often. He must’ve found it very boring to be tagged by a girl child still in the nursery.”
Megs rather wanted to hurl her own spoon at her husband at that moment.
“I doubt very much that he was bored by you,” she said gently. “It’s just that your mother married your father when Godric was at a difficult age for a boy. And, too, he’d lost his own mother. …” She trailed off, feeling inadequate. The fact was that Godric might’ve been hurt as a lad, but he was a man now. There was no reason for him to hold himself apart from his sisters.
“He’s my brother,” Charlotte whispered so low that Megs nearly didn’t catch the words. “My only brother.”
And even the delicious syllabub didn’t make up for the sinking of Megs’s heart at those words. She had to find a way to make Godric see that his sisters and stepmother were important. This might be his only chance. Once they were married and had families of their own, they’d have far less incentive to want to bring him into their fold.
He’d end up entirely alone.
Megs slowly lowered her spoon to her empty dish at the thought. She’d promised to leave London—leave Godric—once she was with child. She’d have the baby and all her friends and relations in the country. She lived a full and happy life there—one that wanted only a child of her own. But Godric …
Well, who did Godric have, really?
There was his friend, Lord Caire. But Lord Caire had his own family—one that would no doubt grow and demand more of his time. She had a vision of Godric, old and alone, surrounded by his books and little else. Someday he’d have to give up being the Ghost of St. Giles—always assuming he didn’t die doing it—and then he’d have … nothing.
The thought was distressing. Megs looked over at Godric, who was now bending down to listen to something Lavinia was saying. She might not love him, but he was her husband. Her responsibility. How had she not seen before that she couldn’t leave him alone?
The gentlemen suddenly rose and Megs realized that she’d missed Hero inviting the ladies to the sitting room for tea. The duke held Mrs. St. John’s chair for her and then Megs’s—putting age before rank, and quite properly in Megs’s opinion.
Mrs. St. John linked arms with Megs on one side and Charlotte on the other. “And what were you two whispering about so seriously during the dessert?”
“Godric.” Charlotte sighed, and Mrs. St. John merely nodded because there wasn’t much to say to that, was there?
In the sitting room, Hero was already serving tea while Sarah sat at the harpsichord, experimentally plunking the keys.
“Oh, do sing, girls,” Mrs. St. John said as she took a cup of tea. “That old ballad you learned the other day.”
