Shayla Black (42 page)

Maybe Maddie had never truly been his. Maybe she’d always been repelled by his lowborn blood. Still, he could hear her voice,
You do realize that money will never buy you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, especially happiness
. Brock knew she meant that he couldn’t buy her. But he’d already figured that out.

He cursed.

“‘
Ello, Guv. ‘Aven’t see ye in a bit. Are ye well?”

Brock blinked, focused on the present, and looked down. Molly stood before him with her candle tray draped around her neck and her gaunt little cheeks smudged with dirt. She looked hungry and tired. Very hungry. But she still wore a smile for him.

“
Hello, Molly. How have you been?”

“
Fair, I s’pose. Me ma took sick a while back. She was dismissed.”

Brock knew what that meant. Her mother hadn’t been able to work and had lost her job. If she didn’t get well and find a new post soon, they would starve. Chances were Molly had never known her father. So only the money Molly made selling candle scraps kept food in their mouths. A terrible burden for a girl of six.

He did his best to keep the pity off his face, but Brock hurt just thinking about the plight this little girl had endured.

She lifted her tray over her head and set it at her feet in the foul-smelling dirt. “But ma will get better. When she starts workin’ again, I’ll teach meself to read.”

“
That’s an admirable goal. I taught myself as well.”

Molly nodded solemnly. “Someday, I’ll ‘ave a job workin’ in a fancy house.”

Someday, he hoped she was mistress of that fancy house. “You may have more,” he said, “if you want it enough. Dream big, Molly. Never let anyone make you feel badly for what you want.”

“
More, Guv? Ye think I can?”

Brock smiled. “If you want it—”

“
I surely do!”

“
Then you will find a way.”

Molly sighed, contented by the thought. Brock realized then that he could help her as no one had helped him. He wouldn’t give her charity; likely she would not accept it. But he could give her a start...

“
What does your mother do, Molly?”

“
She’s a kitchen maid, Guv.”

A kitchen maid. A meaningless post to him, really. He didn’t even know if Maddie’s household needed an extra one. “I would be pleased to hire your mother.”

Molly’s brown eyes rounded. “Ye would?” Then she frowned. “Where?”

Ah, removing the skeptic from the Whitechapel bred was nearly impossible. He hoped that innate caution would serve Molly half as well as it had served him over the years.

“
In Hampstead Heath.” He gave her a card with his office address. “When your mother is well enough, tell her to come to this office. You come as well. If you’ll accept it, I have a very important job for you, too.”

If possible, Molly’s eyes widened. “Ye do?”

“
Certainly. The girl you helped me find was my daughter. She is a bit younger than you, but she’s lonely and needs a companion. She’ll be learning to read soon, as well. Would you consider attending her classroom and helping her?”

Molly’s little face fell. “Me, help ‘er to read? Cor, I don’t know how.”

“
Neither does she, but you can help each other. I will pay you as well. Fifty pounds annually. Is that acceptable?”

Her dark eyes widened to impossible widths. “Fifty pounds! That’s more than I made in me bloomin’ life! Aye!”

A shining grin illuminated Molly’s little face. Her expression lightened his mood. In fact, he was pleased with this bit of work.

Brock said goodbye and reminded Molly to bring her mother to his office as soon as may be. Molly assured him she would do just that, whistling as she walked away.

The thought of leaving this baseborn life, of being more, clearly made the girl happy. As it had all his life.

Whitechapel had done that to him; it had carved ambition in his gut. Every night Brock had gone to bed hungry or cold, he had wanted more. Every day he’d spent fleecing the pockets of rich folk to stay alive, he had vowed life would be better. Someday. Now that day had come. And why? Because memories of the dank hopelessness that Whitechapel bred had driven him, shaped him.

Sighing, Brock looked around at the darkened streets of squalor. For once, the sting of resentment did not curl his belly. When he considered the past, he actually felt curiously... grateful.

Why should he be ashamed when he’d done so well for himself?

All these years, he’d been railing against his serving-class birth, bemoaning the one thing he damn well could not change. But poverty had given him the guts and the heart to achieve his dream. Yes, being disadvantaged at birth created obstacles. But he had overcome them through determination and sweat. Crossing those hurdles had taught him far more than a life of privilege ever could.

Brock laughed aloud, not caring who heard him. Had he ever imagined he would think that? Never. But he sensed a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and the relief of it filled him with gladness.

In fact, he was almost proud of his achievements. With the burgeoning railroad, he would soon accomplish everything he had dreamed of.

Well, nearly everything.

For five years, he had craved Maddie by his side, in his bed, as his wife. He had achieved his boyhood dreams—at the destruction of his heart.

Puzzled, Brock turned away from Finch Street and the past. On Whitechapel Road, he found a hack and climbed inside the musty vehicle. Though he focused his gaze on the world passing by his window, he saw nothing.

Why had Maddie not been more pleased when he’d given her her freedom? For months she had sought nothing else. Hell, he had even granted her complete financial freedom as well as autonomy. She should have been ecstatic.

Instead, her face had seemed so cold and unmoving, she might have been carved from stone.

Why wouldn’t she be happy with her independence?

She bloody well should be. Instead, she’d behaved unexpectedly, as if... well, as if she did not want freedom.

The thought staggered Brock. Was that possible, or wishful thinking?

He considered the conundrum from every angle. Again and again, he came back to the theory that Maddie did not desire his departure from her life anymore.

But why? Perhaps because, despite everything that had passed between them, she cared?

He found that thought seductive, alluring as hell, just like Maddie herself. Still, if she wanted him to stay, why did she not say so?

The drone of activity on the street resounded like a buzzing in Brock’s head. He blocked it out, certain the truth lay just out of his grasp.

Why would a woman not tell a man she cared? Most obviously because she thought him beneath her. But if she cared nothing for him, wouldn’t she have been elated with her freedom? One would think so.

If she wanted to be by his side but did not tell him she loved him...why would she keep her sentiment to herself? Certainly not because she believed he did not reciprocate her feelings. Remembering the hurt swirling in her gray eyes when he’d given her freedom, he paused. Could she believe exactly that? Brock frowned. Was it possible Maddie thought—even for an instant—that he did not love her?

She had made the same assumption five years ago. Why not now?

Brock tried to imagine their earlier conversation from Maddie’s perspective. Immediately, the truth hit him. She had viewed his gift of freedom as another abandonment on his part. Maddie believed he would leave her alone and pregnant again.

Foolish, stubborn woman! But he’d been stupid, as well. Instead of assuming he knew what she wanted, he should have simply asked.

Now, with a little luck—and a great deal of devotion—he could win her back again. Even earn her love.

But she would have to believe he had not married her for the Warwickshire land.

The thought rocketed through his head. Brock tried to push it away, duck it. Once there, however, the notion took root and expanded.

What proof did he have to give Maddie of his love, beyond his words? None. None at all. Repeatedly, she had accused him of pursuing her for her land, marrying her for the money the railroad would bring him. Maddie believed he had put money above her once and would do so again.

And now he knew exactly the means by which he could prove her wrong.

Brock hesitated. Such a step would change his fate—his entire life—forever. He sighed, wishing he could pace. A glance out the window proved he was still miles from home.

Still, the choice was clear: Continue and live a life filled with pounds and pence, or seize the opportunity to claim Maddie once and for all.

Peace settled over Brock instantly. There was no choice, not really. Fortunes could be acquired. He’d proven he had the determination and wits to amass one already. Maddie, however, was irreplaceable.

Smiling, Brock stopped the hack driver and directed the man to his office. He had a few letters to write...

#

The following afternoon, Maddie sat upon the sofa in her worn parlor in Hampstead. Misery had never felt so terrible, never seeped into every joint, roiled her stomach, caused such heartache.

Despite the fact she knew it was abject stupidity, she loved Brock. She had loved him as an idealistic girl who believed love could conquer all. She loved him now as a woman who knew love was imperfect and sometimes caused pain.

But he did not love her. That fact hurt, just as badly as the realization that she could not make him love her in return.

Back in her own home and after the hot journey to the country, Aimee had been hiding her yawns behind her little hands. Though Maddie would have appreciated the diversion her daughter always provided, she put Aimee down for a nap. Amazingly, the girl had fallen asleep immediately.

Vema was communing outside with her garden, as was her wont. And Aunt Edith, upon hearing of the generous account Brock had established for the refurbishment of Ashdown Manor, had immediately left for London to visit friends and look at all the latest fashion in furniture.

And while Maddie knew the house needed a great deal of work, she could not muster the energy. The resulting sadness from Brock’s most recent abandonment sapped too much of her energy to spend any elsewhere.

Maddie rose, intending to stare aimlessly out the window once more, when she heard a shuffle from the foyer. A raised voice—a man’s voice—followed.

Brock
?

Stomach tightening with anticipation, Maddie ran to the parlor door. She opened it only to find Cousin Gavin filling the portal, wearing a thunderous scowl. Disappointment stung Maddie, and she hoped the surprise rolling through her would crush her uncharitable sentiment.

“
What in the hell is happening here?” Gavin barked.

Maddie faltered, shrugging. “Well...I’m merely spending a quiet afternoon at home.”

“
You can spend a quiet year at home, if you like,” Gavin interrupted. “What I am trying to determine is the meaning of this?”

Her cousin held up a missive written in a scrawl of black ink on thick vellum. Instantly, she recognized Brock’s penmanship. She frowned, feeling the absurd need to hold her breath.

“
While I see it is from Brock, I know nothing of that letter.”

“
You have no notion what it says?” To say that Gavin’s expression held disbelief was an understatement.

“
Should I?”

“
He did not tell you?” Before she could answer, Gavin held up both his hands. “No. He must have said
something
. You are his wife.”

Yes, she was his wife, but so far in name only. And the fact that Brock had informed Cropthorne of some great news or event, rather than her, told Maddie she would never be anything but a wife in name only. Yet more proof that he did not love her.

Hiding her embarrassment, forcing down her hurt, she returned to the sofa, gesturing to Gavin to sit. “I’m afraid Brock has told me nothing. Perhaps if you spoke with him yourself...”

“
I’ve tried. He is nowhere, apparently.” Gavin leaned forward and peered at her as if in examination. “He told you nothing?”

Maddie wished he would cease asking the same question that would only result in the same discomforting answer.

“
Nothing, Gavin. Truly.”

Oddly, Gavin smiled. Maddie wished she felt like smiling. At the moment, however, she doubted less than twenty years would pass before she experienced that urge again.

“
Do you love him?” her cousin asked suddenly.

The question took Maddie aback. Why would he ask something so personal? How could she answer and bare her heart to her cousin, particularly when he must know Brock did not love her in return?

“
It’s really of no concern.”