“Well, I am your husband,” he offered.
Bridget shook her head. “But not a very good one. Believe me, I have had more than enough experience to be able to claim authoritative knowledge of what constitutes a terrible spouse. If you can’t bring all that you are with you to this home, Stephen, and I mean more than just your things, you don’t deserve to be here.”
Please. Please.Step up and be the man I need. I have so much love to give you.
“You have my all. And that includes my love. I love you, Bridget.” There was rapture on his face as Stephen spoke the word which had eluded him for a lifetime. Love.
And then he smiled. She swore it stretched a mile. He brushed a hand on her cheek. Through a glassy haze of tears, she met his gaze. Tears shone in his eyes.
Oh, sweet lord, he is crying too.
“I mean it. I love you, Lady Bridget Moore. My wife. My heart. I will do everything I can from this day forward to be worthy of your love.”
She sniffled. “What makes you think I love you? You are nothing but a rogue. How could any sensible woman fall for a man such as you?”
Stephen laid a hand on his wife’s pregnant belly and whispered, “Because when it comes to me, you can’t resist. You never could.” He drew her into his arms. “Say you will give me a chance to be worthy of your love. I will never take it for granted.”
“My love for you is precious. I am trusting you to keep it safe.”
He lowered his lips to hers, sealing their pact with a tender kiss. Held safe in her husband’s embrace, Bridget exalted. She had won. Her rogue was finally hers.
I am never letting you go.
Chapter Forty-Four
“Have a seat,” said Stephen.
Toby took one look at the plate of biscuits the housekeeper had laid out on a nearby table and quickly snatched one up. With oat goodie in hand, he took his usual spot on the comfy green-and-white floral sofa.
The hard leather couch and chaise lounge had been moved to another private room, which only Stephen and Bridget used. The main drawing room had been freshly painted in a softer green palette and repurposed as the family room.
Stephen turned from where he had been staring out the window and considered the young boy. In the months since he had come to London and been in the care of first Alice and now Bridget, Toby had blossomed. The shy lad who had hidden behind the skirts of Mrs. Granville was long gone. In his place was a bright, confident boy.
“I wanted to talk to you about my father,” said Stephen.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember much about him? I mean, from when you lived at the house in Witley.”
Toby bit off a big chunk of biscuit and chewed on it for a minute. His expression was one of careful thought. “He was nice to me sometimes. But mostly he just told me to stay away. I don’t know if he liked me much.”
Stephen gritted his teeth. Even in his later years, his father—their father, couldn’t find it in his heart to show affection to a small boy.
Cold, callous bastard.
“I don’t think Sir Robert liked anyone. It wasn’t in his nature,” said Stephen.
Toby screwed up his face, and Stephen silently chastised himself.
Of course, the boy doesn’t understand what you mean. He is six years old.
“I mean, it wasn’t your fault he wasn’t nice to you. He was the same with me when I was little. I spent many years in the kitchen at Moore Manor.”
“Anyway. What I want to talk to you about is . . . you and me.”
It was harder than he had imagined it would be to finally tell Toby the truth of his sire. Bridget had been right; he should have done it as soon as he brought the boy into his care.
Even now, it was a struggle to think of his brother as being more than a boy, a lad, or a responsibility. But he owned it to his family to try.
