All he’d ever wanted . . . had been precisely that—a connection to the peerage.
She spoke of his marriage to a nobleman’s daughter. It was logical. It was clever. And it did fit with every last wish he’d ever carried for respectability. A link, cemented not through his clubs but through marriage, had represented the culmination of what he’d aspired to. What he’d always wished to be.
Marriage to one of those ladies would give him entry to a world he’d longed to return to ever since Lord Andover had cast him out.
So why did the idea of it—marriage to a proper lady—leave him . . . empty? Cold inside.
For the first time since he’d put his request to Gertrude, he reconciled himself to the truth of how narrow minded and foolish he’d been. He’d asked her to bind herself to someone as a matter of business while denying her the right to be loved and love in return.
Reggie, however, had seen and known, and had fought him and his intentions for Gertrude at every turn. And she opened your eyes to this, as well. It was an awakening. A dawning understanding that had at last taken root and grown.
He’d been so fixed on building an empire, he’d not given thought to marriage. To any woman, regardless of station. His love, life, and mistress had always been the Devil’s Den. Given that he’d treated his sisters’ then-potential matches as more business transactions than anything, the least he should seek for himself was a like match.
It was therefore the height of hypocrisy and selfishness that he found himself wanting . . . more. A tall Spartan beauty with a tangle of crimson curls flashed to his mind. Wanting Reggie. He wanted Regina Spark. A woman who’d go toe to toe with him. A woman who’d be part of his life and business, whom he could share both with.
He froze. My God. I want to marr . . . The air hissed through his teeth.
“Broderick?” Ophelia prodded.
He set his glass down hard, splashing liquor over the rim, staining his fingers, marring the table. “I . . .” His voice croaked. Tugging at his cravat, he tried again. “My existence isn’t one that allows for a wife.”
It could, if it were the right woman . . . one who understands you. Who challenges you and demands you be better in every way . . .
Cleo scoffed. “You aren’t the only Killoran who runs a business.” Ophelia lifted her fingers in a proud, affirmative signal. “We are capable of love, marriage, and business all at the same time. It just takes work. And no Killoran has ever been afraid of work.”
Nay. But neither were his sisters destined for the gallows. For Broderick, soon there wouldn’t even be an existence when Maddock finally came calling.
Ophelia clapped her hands. “Given that Broderick isn’t in love, debating love and marriage is rather a moot point. What we can and should focus on is his survival.” Her lower lip trembled in the faintest hint of misery before she stilled it. “Marrying a lady and hoping the marquess is too polite to come for one who moves in his ranks—”
“He’s a recluse,” Gertrude pointed out. “He doesn’t move in any ranks.”
“—is really the only hope that I can see,” Ophelia went on as though her elder sister hadn’t spoken.
And just like that, a different noose was tossed around his neck, tightening, squeezing. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Our rivals were nearly destroyed when they married ladies.” It was a pathetic grasp on his part at avoiding a fate that, as Ophelia pointed out, could spare his life.
Ophelia waved a hand. “You aren’t like them.” She shook her head. “You aren’t like us.” She spoke over his protest. “You joined our family when you were already a young man. You were well read and spoke the King’s English. No one believes you are somehow the same. Not even us.” She lifted a finger. “A nobleman would be glad to have your fortune, as would one of their daughters.” Broderick finished off another drink, downing it in a long, slow swallow, welcoming the trail it blazed down his throat. He quickly refilled it. “You will have your links to the nobility.” She dangled that promise that would have once been everything.
“No!”
It took a moment to register that explosive denial didn’t belong to Broderick but another.
Splotches of crimson filled Cleo’s cheeks. She adjusted her slightly smudged spectacles. “No,” she repeated with a decisiveness that erased Ophelia’s pleased smile.
“No?” Ophelia echoed.
Cleo nodded. “He can’t marry”—she glanced over at him, and there was a frantic desperation there in her eyes—“someone he doesn’t love.”
“Do you think I don’t want him to marry for love?” Ophelia cried, exploding to her feet. She stormed over to Cleo and jammed a fingertip toward the floor. “I do. I want him to know everything, every happiness that you and I know in our marriages.” She dropped her voice, and when she again spoke, emotion husked her words. “But do you know what I want more? I want him alive.” She looked back at Broderick, and a sheen of tears glazed her eyes. “I want you alive,” she whispered.
“Did ya feel the same way when Connor was going to marry another in order to save ya?” Cleo snapped.
“It’s not the same thing,” Ophelia cried, lunging forward on the balls of her feet. “There is no woman he loves. If there were . . .”
If there were . . .
Reggie’s freckled face flashed behind his mind’s eye.
His heart knocked an odd, panicked rhythm against his rib cage. His palms moistened.
“Wot?” Cleo spat. “Then you wouldn’t ask ’im to sell himself to some desperate nob and ’is daughter?”
“Broderick?” This time, Gertrude yanked him back from a muddled mess of thoughts that didn’t make sense. “What do you want?”
Filled with a restiveness, he strode to the window. Locking his fingers behind him, he stared out those crystal panes to the streets below. What did he want? After his own father had ripped up the Killoran name and left Broderick with nothing more than shredded honor, an empty currency in the Dials, his aspirations had always been clear. These were the streets he’d aspired to. He’d craved respectability. Honor. He’d equated all with a link to the ton.
And approval. He’d clawed his way from the bottom, reaching for the top, in the hope that he’d one day atone for his father’s sins.
What his sister put forward, however, moved far beyond mere connections. Just like he had sought safety and security for them, she desired the same for him.
Nor was the irony lost on Broderick; she’d essentially turned his own plan on him.
His gaze caught on a passing couple, a young lady with crimson curls and a cane in one hand, on the arm of a gentleman. He leaned down and whispered something into the lady’s ear, earning a laugh and a blush. She gave her partner’s arm a playful swat. The ease of that exchange stirred a melancholy.
Broderick followed that pair, so comfortable with one another, watching the way they leaned into each other, the tall gentleman’s gait deliberately matched to the crippled wife at his side. There was no frosty indifference there, but a couple who moved . . . as friends. What did he want? Broderick stared on as they continued past his townhouse before disappearing within a pink stucco residence.
That. I want that closeness. But not with any woman. He wanted it with Regina Spark.
He gave that truth light in his mind.
A realization that came too late.
A coldness washed over him.
For what he wanted didn’t truly matter. It never had. His life had always been about something more: his family . . . and all those at the Devil’s Den dependent upon him. He provided a home, food, and safety to people who appreciated the rarity of each gift.
And soon Reggie would be gone. She’d begin a new life on her own in her own establishment. There was no future there. Not with her. And then what became of all those reliant upon him?
An odd ache settled in his chest, and he discreetly rubbed at it. His efforts proved futile in even that.