The Earl is Mine (33 page)

“No,” said Mama. “None of this is your fault. Give him a moment. And don’t despair. He has something to say to
you
now.”

“All right.” Gregory wiped a tear from her eye with his thumb. And then he stepped away from Mama and advanced a few steps toward Father.

“Don’t!” Father held up a palm, his eyes on the fire in the grate. “Don’t take another step, boyo.” His brogue was so thick, Gregory could barely understand him.

But he froze, as ordered.

It was his worst fear come true.

Mother’s plea for silence came back to him full force:
“It would only hurt your father’s feelings and embarrass the family.”

Father hated him.

So did the marquess—for what he’d done to the House of Brady.

“I’m going to tell you the true story of your birth,” Father said suddenly, and looked up at him.

“Wait a minute.” Gregory’s mind raced. “You
knew
?”

“Yes.” Father’s face was sad yet also loving. “I’ve always known.”

The world as Gregory knew it dissolved at that moment, the way an etching in the sand is carried away by the sea.

Father came to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I asked you to stay away a minute ago because I needed to come to
you
—and not the other way around. You’re my son. And I will fight for you and run after you, and
I will be your father
. If I’d known you’d been bearing this burden all these years—alone—I’d have told you myself the story of your birth. Because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. Never in a million years would I not love you—my own boy. My firstborn. The son of my heart.”

The son of my heart.

New words for Gregory to brand upon his soul.

“Father.” For that’s what Michael Sherwood truly was … his father. And it felt so good to say the word, to beckon the man he’d needed to know loved him for who he truly was.

Father pulled him toward him, and they held on to each other for a good, long minute, basking in the truth of their love for each other, a truth unfettered by secrets.

And then Father released him, and in a voice that was soft and informative, without a trace of rancor or disappointment, told Gregory the story of his birth.

“I met your mother through one of my best friends, Daniel Jeffers, at Trinity,” Father said. “He was madly in love with Nora. She was exciting and amusing. She was also very pretty.”

Gregory sent Mama a questioning look. With a soft smile and a nod, she confirmed that she was familiar with this story—which was another shock to Gregory:
Mama knew, too!
—and that he could safely assume Daniel Jeffers was his natural father.

The knowledge filled a gap in Gregory’s understanding of his personal history, but other than his feeling a keen interest in his origins, no emotions accompanied the revelation.

“Nora came over to Dublin every chance she could get,” Father went on. “I got to know her quite well. They were a special couple, those two.” He chuckled then was silent for a moment, lost, it seemed, in good memories.

When he came back to the present, his eyes grew sad. “It was three days after we graduated that Daniel came to me and told me he was off to get a special license to marry Nora. He confessed he’d slept with her, and he loved her desperately. But on his way back from seeing the bishop, Daniel’s curricle overturned, and he was killed.”

“I’m sorry you lost a good friend,” Gregory said, and felt a pang of loss himself.

How tenuous was his own existence! Were it not for Daniel, whose life had been cut tragically short, Gregory wouldn’t be here in this room, now, with the parents he loved.

“Aye.” Father grimaced. “It was a sad day. It still hurts to recall it. I had to tell Nora, of course, and in her grief, she came to rely on me for comfort, as I relied on her. We’d been friends for several years by then. I truly cared for her, and she for me. She’d no idea I knew she’d slept with Daniel, and I never said that I knew. I didn’t want to embarrass her. But it seemed like the right thing to do, a mere five days after Daniel’s death, to ask her to marry
me
by special license. I was a romantic lad. I knew Daniel would appreciate my looking after Nora, especially as she might be pregnant. And I believed I could come to love her.”

“Did you?” Gregory asked.

Father looked at him, and Gregory saw immediately that the source of his pain had to do with Mother.

“We did our very best to love each other,” Father said gently. “We had three boys together, and you brought us great joy. But it was more a friendship than love between your mother and me. We respected each other and had great affection for each other. I wish I could tell you we had more.”

“I understand,” Gregory said, feeling sorry for Father and Mother, both. “It’s sad.” He scratched his head. “Now that I know myself how close I came to marrying Eliza, the wrong girl entirely, I understand. Don’t feel guilt, Father. You did the best that you could.”

“Thank you, son.” Father heaved a sigh. “Your mother obviously never realized I knew she’d slept with Daniel. I thought it was the right thing to do, to protect her sensibilities. She relied a great deal on the good opinion of other people, although she pretended not to care. But now I regret my choice. We never spoke of why she had our first child a month before you were due. Babies do come early, after all. But perhaps if we’d shared everything, she never would have felt the need to burden you with her confession.”

“Father, you can’t regret your choice,” Gregory said. “You were thinking of Mother. Mistakes don’t change the big things. You and I—and Mama and the other children—we’re a family. A strong, loving family. And every day, it’s getting bigger. And better.”

Father and Mama exchanged a tender, private look.

“Gregory, son,” Father said, “it’s glad I am that you’re the spitting image of Daniel. It was clear from the day you were born that he fathered you. And the fact that I took an entire month before I dared consummate my own marriage to Nora is further proof of your origins. The size of you, your robust health—you were a full-term baby, lad, and you were the product of love between two wonderful people. But you’re also our son—mine and my lovely bride’s”—he grabbed Mama’s hand—“and what you just said confirms beyond our wildest hopes how ready you are to lead the House of Brady someday. You make us extremely proud.”

“Yes, dear,” said Mama. “You do.”

Gregory didn’t know what to say. He was overcome with gratitude. Love. Excitement about the future—

And then he remembered he had one more thing to say. “I haven’t been good to Peter. I’ve let misguided jealousy and guilt—guilt that I might be usurping his place as your heir, Father—come between us.”

“You don’t need to feel that way anymore, darling,” said Mama. “You’re exactly where you should be. The law says so, and our hearts do, as well.”

“Thank you, Mama. But I want Peter to know the whole truth. I need to explain why I made it impossible for him to confide in me. And I want his blessing as next in line to the marquessate.”

“He won’t be second in line to the marquessate for long,” Father said with a chuckle. “You’re bound to have a passel of sons.”

“I’d like nothing more.” Gregory grinned. “Meanwhile, I want his unwavering, honest support, and I can’t get that unless he knows me completely. I think once I explain the circumstances, he’ll see that Mother is not to be judged ill. And you said so yourself, Father—my beginnings don’t matter.”

Mama and Father exchanged glances, then looked back at him.

“I think it’s a fine idea,” said Father.

“I agree,” said Mama.

“If Peter gives you any grief—” Father began.

“We’ll come to grips with it,” Gregory said. “Nothing’s worse than secrets.” He paced back and forth a moment. “In fact, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell all my brothers and sisters the story of my birth. It’s no more exciting or interesting than Mama’s. It will become another family legend.”

“He’s right!” Mama stood. “Why not?” She turned to Lord Brady.

There was a moment’s stunned silence, and then Father said, “Yes, why not?”

The three of them laughed at the same time. Gregory couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so free, so ready to take a step forward and claim his real life as his own.

“This calls for a celebration with some fine Irish whiskey.” Father’s excitement was palpable as he took out his flask, hurriedly poured three drams into glasses Lady Thurston had provided them in their dressing room, and passed them around. “To new beginnings,” he said. “
Sl
ā
inte
.”

“
Sl
ā
inte
,” Gregory and Mama said in return.

They clinked glasses and downed the whiskey in a gulp.

It was a Brady tradition
par excellence.

Gregory grinned.

Father waved a hand at him. “Go on with you now. Don’t say another word. You’ve been through enough as it is today—and the past dozen years. Go see your ladylove with a light heart. And if we don’t get another private moment with you before you leave, your mother and I wish you Godspeed on your journey tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he finally managed, and with a quick kiss to Mama’s cheek, and a slap on the back from Father, he departed their bedchamber, a new man.

Chapter Twenty-four

The next morning, dressed in Lady Eliza’s second-best sprigged muslin in honor of the special traveling day, Pippa sat next to Gregory in the carriage, her head leaning on his shoulder. She loved that they’d been able to depart Thurston Manor without a chaperone. She was already ruined, they were as good as married, and the entire household as well as all the guests were bursting with pride that such a scandalous affair had taken place while they were in residence.

The fact that the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady were there, as well, to witness the unfolding of the drama added yet another layer of excitement. And when Lady Brady presented Gregory with his own father’s marriage coat from long ago—properly mended under the left arm, of course—to wear on his wedding day, every woman in the household cried.

How serendipitous that she’d brought it to Dawlish! Who cared that she always carried her mending?

“It was the Irish in her,” said the marquess, even though his wife hadn’t a drop of Irish blood in her veins. “She’s fey as they come.”

And then he’d kissed her on the nose, as if she were his own little leprechaun, which disgusted Marbury. He told everyone so behind Lord Brady’s back, including Pippa. In his haste to spread his mean quip, he’d forgotten she was to be the marquess’s new daughter-in-law.

But Pippa merely pointedly stared at his crotch as punishment, and walked away.

“It’s the height of fashion, my cravotch!” he’d called after her.

She’d taken special delight in ignoring him.

Of course, everyone said they’d known from the beginning that Harrow was a woman disguised as a man, except for Lady Thurston, who upon first seeing Pippa descend from the carriage in breeches and with her hair in an aureole about her face, fainted on the spot.

Or so she pretended.

Because she revived instantly and then fainted again when her husband—along with the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady, of all people—walked into the house with Gregory and Pippa. After Lady Thurston recovered the second time, Lady Damara made sure to tell her hostess—and Gregory’s parents—that she’d always known about Harrow’s identity but was too proper to say anything.

Whereupon the marquess and marchioness, apparently unfazed, left the room for tea. Meanwhile, Lady Thurston objected to Lady Damara’s silence—how could she not have told her dear friend the great secret?—and pained at being left out, even questioned how proper Lady Damara truly was.

Whereupon
that
lady packed her bags and departed in a snit the next morning.

But no one noticed her leaving. Everyone had eyes only for Pippa and Gregory, the two lovers whom Lady Thurston made sure to separate properly their last night as her guests. She placed Pippa with Lady Eliza for safekeeping, and Gregory and Dougal slept above the stables—Gregory in Oscar’s bed and Dougal on the floor. The two friends were up drinking half the night with Oscar, who retired at three o’clock in the morning to Gregory’s bedchamber.

It was a story that Oscar would share with his children and their children for the rest of his life, how he’d slept in an earl’s bed and woke up to a servant laying him a fire, bringing him a cup of chocolate to sip before he’d even set his feet on the floor, and greeting him with, “Good morning, my lord.”

But what Lady Thurston didn’t know is that right before dawn, Gregory stole into Eliza’s room, winked at her when she woke, and kidnapped Pippa right from beneath her friend’s nose.

Only for a few minutes, he assured Eliza, who yawned and went back to sleep.

He rushed Pippa out of the house and down to the folly. And there, sitting side by side on the stone wall, they ate pears and drank wine—“It’s not Italy but close,” Pippa said—and watched the sun rise together while Gregory told her the story he’d held secret for so long.

When it was done, Pippa wiped away tears. “I wish you’d told me,” she said. “All those years, I thought you didn’t like me—”

“I
didn’t,
” he admitted with a laugh, and hugged her close. “But that was only because I was angry. And confused. And desperately afraid. Out of everyone in the world, you were the closest to learning the truth. No one else even guessed, except you. Because you knew me better than anyone.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She sniffled, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit proud.

He nodded. “Even at age three, you’d poke and prod and demand that I take you out on the moor to find a grass snake because you knew I’d like it. And when we eventually saw one, I did, because of course, we don’t have snakes in Ireland.”

“No.” Pippa giggled. “I really did that?”

“Oh, yes,” he murmured back, and they shared a long, delectable kiss.

If Marbury hadn’t shown up, demanding to know why Pippa was in a night rail and why he hadn’t been invited to drink with Gregory, Dougal, and Oscar above the stables, it would have become far more than a mere kiss.