Respectfully yours,
Lovingdon
It didn’t escape Jack’s notice that even now, he hadn’t signed it “Father.” But then Jack recognized it wasn’t a title Lovingdon had earned, and tried to grasp some consolation in the fact he had not made a mockery of the term.
“I can see the resemblance now,” Olivia said quietly.
Jack looked up at her.
“I think it’s more difficult to notice because you are so dark and he was so fair. But sometimes when I walked into a room and saw you, for the briefest of moments I thought I saw him.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t quite ready to talk about all this, didn’t know if he ever would be.
“Are you all right?” Olivia asked. “You’ve been sitting out here for the better part of an hour.”
It hadn’t seemed that long to Jack. It seemed as though no time at all had passed. “I suppose I should have brought one of your clocks.”
“Or your father’s watch.”
Jack shook his head. “He was not my father.” He shook his head again, trying to deny the truth. “My mother was only fifteen when she gave birth to me. All my life, I thought she was a whore. He did that to her. His cowardice, his lack of strength.”
He flung his arm toward the residence. “Do you know what Beckwith was talking about in there?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “The law does not allow a man to marry his father’s widow.”
She paled. “I’d not even considered that.”
“The fortunate part is I have no desire to claim him as my father. I think he was more a bastard than I am.” He leaned forward, burrowed his elbows into his thighs, and buried his face in his hands, crumpling the letter against his jaw. “Beckwith indicated he would hold our secret, but what if someone finds out? Our marriage could be declared illegitimate, our children will be bastards. Is there no end to the damage Lovingdon has wrought?”
She knelt before him, wrapped her hands around his, and pulled them away from his face. “Look at me,” she demanded.
It was so hard to meet her gaze. It had been so much easier when he’d thought his father was a stranger, a man who had paid for the privilege to be intimate with his mother.
“I don’t care,” Livy stated emphatically. “I don’t care if our marriage is nullified. As for our children, they will be loved and they will be taught to laugh at society’s rules when they don’t suit them. They will have your strength of conviction, Jack, and your mother’s strength of purpose. We will all honor her. She was a remarkable woman. I wish I’d had an opportunity to know her. She gave me something very precious. “I love you, Jack Dodger. I love you with all my heart and soul. If I must live with you without benefit of marriage, so be it. I shall do it with no regrets and with an amazing amount of pride that you’ve chosen me to stand at your side. And when I go to hell, I shall gladly dance with you.”
Reaching out, he bracketed her waist and drew her up and onto his lap. He blanketed her mouth with his own, drinking deeply of her sweet nectar. How was it that this remarkable woman could love him, could want him, could look beyond his past—a bastard, an urchin, a thief—and appreciate him for the man he’d become?
Drawing back, he held her gaze. “You’re all that matters, Livy. You and Henry.” He dropped his head back. “Good God, he’s my brother.” He released a brittle laugh. “That’s the reason Lovingdon named me guardian.”
“I think our family tree will be more a maze than anything.” She wrapped her arms around him, laid her head against his shoulder. “It all seems so wrong.”
“The only thing of importance is that I love you. And I love Henry. From the moment I met him, I recognized something in him that touched something in me.”
She lifted her head. “I’d rather not tell him until he’s older. I think he’s too young to understand all the ramifications.”
Jack nodded, agreeing with her. Besides, Henry was young enough he might even lose the memories of his father.
“It’s probably an awful thing to say, because you’ve had such a hard life, but it’s shaped you into the man I love. And if Lovingdon had acknowledged you sooner, marrying you would not have been possible.”
Jack smiled. “We’d have found a way, Livy. The wicked always do.”
Epilogue
From the Journal of Jack Dodger
I was born Jack Dawkins, beloved son to Emily Dawkins, bastard son of Sidney Augustus Stanford, Duke of Lovingdon, Marquess of Ashleigh, and Earl of Wyndmere—a man who cared more for the pristine lineage of his titles than he did for either my mother or me.
I’ve yet to forgive him for allowing my mum to be turned out, and I doubt I shall ever hold him in high esteem. I consider it a blessing not to have been raised under his tutelage. He was never a father to me. That honor was held by another.
Feagan was a criminal destined for the gallows. That he managed to escape and live to a ripe old age was his good fortune and mine. He taught me to steal without getting caught. He taught me to survive and to harm others as little as possible while doing it. He gave me a family and he made me feel safe. In all ways that are important, he was my father.
When I was five, my mum gave me into another man’s keeping. I vaguely remember the last winter we were together, the winter that changed my life. She developed a deep, rattling cough that kept us both awake. She bloodied her handkerchiefs and ate little. I think she must have known she was dying, and she sought to provide for me as best she could—and she thought my father’s cousin was the way to go. She died before spring and was buried in a pauper’s grave, hopefully without ever learning the truth about the devil who’d taken me in.