They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
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Josephine was drained as she slowly made her way up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She desperately wanted to see her father, but she didn't want him to see her dressed like a servant, looking as though she'd spent a few days being ravished. Which she had, but still. He didn't need to know that.
Jenny prepared the bath and Josephine sank into the steaming water. She was sore and miserable. And that was the good news. While nothing would remain of her reputation, she would deal with that problem later. Right now, her main concern was Hero. She didn't want him to be alone tonight.
But she was so exhausted that it was all she could do to continue breathing.
When she was finished with her bath, Jenny began drying her. "Shall I help you prepare for bed?"
"No, I want to visit with my father for a while, and as he's not seen me in a few days, I think a simple dress would be appropriate."
She felt a little more herself as she walked down the hallway to his bedchamber. His nurse rose as Josephine stepped into the room.
"How is he?" Josephine asked.
"Doing well, my lady."
He couldn't speak coherently, he couldn't move about on his own. He had to be fed and bathed—how in the world could he be doing well?
But he lifted his withering, shaking hand, and Josephine could have sworn that a welcoming light appeared in his fading blue eyes. Sitting in the chair beside the bed, she took his hand and pressed a kiss to his fingers. Then she combed her fingers through his thinning silver hair.
"Did you miss me?"
He gave her the barest of nods.
"Tomorrow, if the sun favors us, we're going to go out to the garden. I have it on good authority that it won't harm your health at all. As a matter of fact, it might improve it." She felt the tears sting her eyes. "Oh, Papa, I've done something terribly silly. I've fallen in love with someone, and he loves another. The strange thing is, as much as it hurts, I only want him to be happy. And if she'll make him happy, I want him to have her."
He squeezed her hand. She moved up and laid her head on his chest, felt his hand come to rest on her hair. "I think you'd like him."
She heard a low rumble in his chest. "I know you don't think he's good enough for me, but then you don't think any man is good enough for me."
She sat up. "Avendale has been beating Mia, Papa. Some friends and I hid her away, so he couldn't find her. But I want to go see her tonight. I don't want you to worry. I think I have an inspector from Scotland Yard watching over me. So I'll be fine. And tomorrow we'll go into the garden, and I shan't stop reading to you until we've finished Faulkner's story."
Leaning up, she kissed her father's forehead and whispered words she'd never be able to say to Hero, "I love you, with all my heart."
The portrait of his father hadn't changed, but it seemed that it had. Or perhaps it was only he who had changed. Or maybe it was because he looked at it through a drunken stupor, his first bottle of whiskey drained, the second dangling between his fingers. He'd have to find a new supplier.
