Page 51 of Ella’s Desire

His words might have swayed her from this conversation moments before, but not now. Not when the hurt of realization echoed through her like something hollow and barren.

She shook her head, beyond any lustful temptations. “I need time to think.”

There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke again. “Take all the time you need, my dove.”

And with that, he was gone. But his tenderness lingered behind. He wanted to be with her. Because he loved her.

How often had he shown her the depth of his affection for her?

Enough for her to believe it. Enough for her to feel as though she was in love with him. Only now she was beginning to realize mayhap she did not know him at all. For if a man truly loved a woman, how could he allow himself to be separated from her?

And if she truly loved him, would she doubt this marriage so much?

The following day, Bronson did not see Ella when he broke his fast. Eager as Bronson was to hunt with the Earl of Werrick, he’d wanted the opportunity to speak to Ella before their departure.

He paused in the sunlit solar and cast a guilty glance at the neat row of books. He had stopped reading Ella’s stories. Based on her reaction to him the prior evening, he had stopped being her hero as well. The thought left an unpleasant sting in his chest.

She did not wish to go to court, and yet he could not imagine his life without it. The merriment, the brilliance of life, the hope that the king might one day seek his counsel. Bronson was an earl. It was his duty to be at court, to be with his king.

He stood before the row of books and reached for a red one with no markings to be seen upon its creased leather spine. One Ella had written.

The sound of laughter trickled up from outside. A glance out the glass window showed Leila and Lark darting about on a stretch of grass with Hardy tearing ahead of them in a gray blur. A smile stretched over Bronson’s lips.

“Bronson,” Brigid’s familiar voice pulled his attention from the window.

“Good morrow, Brigid. I trust you slept well.”

“Aye.” Her eyes swept around the sunny room and flicked up toward the colorfully painted rafters. “How could I not amid such beauty?”

Her awe struck Bronson in a tender place. This was not how her life should have been. Brigid was a countess, a woman who should not be impressed by a leaded glass window and a bit of paint.

“My father should have taken you to court,” Bronson said.

Brigid lowered her gaze from the brightly colored ceiling. “I don’t know that I would have liked it.”

“You would have had fine clothes, costly furnishings such as these, food to eat.” Bronson glanced at the book in his hand. Mayhap Brigid and Lark might even have learned to read. “He didn’t give you the option to go, did he?”

“Nay.” Brigid strode toward the shelves of books and her fingers hovered over the neatly lined spines. As if reconsidering, she withdrew her hand.

“And you never asked him?” Bronson pressed. He drew a book from the row, one with gold leaf layered over the soft leather, and handed it to her.

Brigid opened her mouth, as if to protest, but she closed her fingers around the book. “I did not.”

“Why did he leave you there at Berkley Manor, Brigid?” Bronson clenched his jaw in frustration. “We had wealth enough at court, and he always told me we should care for women, but then the way he treated you and Lark…” The whole mess of it was too baffling.

“I should like not to speak ill of the dead.” Brigid opened the book and ran her finger along a painting of a woman peering through a castle window, the blues and reds vibrant against the parchment.

Bronson fisted his hand at his side. “I have plenty ill to say of the dead when it comes to my father, and the whole of it centers on you and Lark.”

“It was my fault.” Brigid kept her gaze fixed on the book, wandering over letters she could not read. “I got with child immediately after we were wed. I was ill through most of it and when Lark came, it was too soon. Your father…” Brigid paused, as though collecting her thoughts. “He did not believe Lark to be his child.”

“That’s preposterous,” Bronson growled. “One need only look at the child—”

“He did not.” Brigid closed the book. “He would not.”

“And so, he left you in the country with nothing.” Bronson’s stomach churned with disgust for the man he had once regarded so highly. The life they led had been a good one, filled with feasts and hunting and carousing. Aye, his father had had his share of mistresses, as did most men at court. While it never sat well with Bronson, he overlooked it. Everyone did.

It sickened him now to think of the fine lodgings those women had been kept in, the silks they wore, the gems glittering at their throats and fingers.