The Importance of Being Wanton - Christi Caldwell Page 0,62

that unkindness. Years later, wanting to protect Seamus as he did, he’d come ’round to understanding his family’s desire.

He closed the door, and the same tinny bell that had announced their presence jingled once more.

At the front counter, the proprietor, Mr. Garrick, glanced up and lifted a hand in greeting before returning his attention to the exchange with a pretty, dark-haired woman and her husband, the Marquess and Marchioness of Drake. The lady speaking with the young proprietor balanced a babe on her hip, speaking animatedly with her husband and Mr. Garrick. All the while, around them, three small children spoke over one another, the two little boys engaged in a pretend sword fight and the lone little girl mediating between them like she was the nursemaid that noisy crew so desperately needed.

In short, it was a loving, noisy family . . . the manner of which Seamus had been deserving of.

Charles may have protected his sister’s image and reputation, but he’d not been able to do that in the same way for Seamus. Just as he’d never be able to provide the boy with the respectability he craved and the family he deserved.

And what of what you wanted . . . ? a voice at the back of Charles’s head prodded.

A happy family, including a wife and a parcel of children, was not something he’d really ever given any consideration to. Because it had been a given, much the same as waking up and breathing. Because of that, he’d never thought about marriage. Just as he’d never thought about the family that he and Emma would have had. A bride for him had always been there.

Until she hadn’t been.

And now, seeing that happy family before him . . . and imagining, too late, what might have been with him and Emma . . . left a sharp ache in his chest, the very place where his heart beat.

Just then, the marquess glanced over and frowned.

Charles’s neck went hot at being caught watching the familial tableau; he bowed his head and resumed walking deeper into the bustling shop.

The shop hadn’t always been bustling. When Charles had first begun taking Seamus to the out-of-the-way, dusty old establishment, he’d done so because of the lack of crowds and patrons. Seamus had been allowed to run about freely. With the passing of Mr. Garrick’s father, however, the shop’s new proprietor had slowly and steadily transformed the place into a busy one. Charles and Seamus’s history with the shop, and the familiarity they had with the proprietor, made it impossible to seek out a quieter, safer-for-Seamus replacement.

Charles continued on through the establishment, familiar enough with the place and his nephew to know precisely where he could be found. Reaching the far recesses of the shop, he located Seamus sprawled on his stomach as comfortably as if he were before the hearth in the Hayden family home. It was the same way he’d perused the texts in this place since they’d begun visiting; however, that had been before . . . when there hadn’t been patrons filing about.

Seamus picked up his head and frowned. “Go,” he said, waving an arm in Charles’s direction.

“Perhaps we just purchase it?” he suggested. As it was, the world talked enough about the boy, and Charles would spare him further scrutiny where he could.

“It’s not the same reading at home as doing it here.” Seamus patted the book. “I have to make sure I like it.”

Charles tried once more. “But—”

“Go, Scarsdale.” His nephew cut him off, and then lowering his chin onto the floor, he resumed reading.

Charles gave his head a rueful shake. In moments such as these, he was rather certain he was receiving a taste of what his own father had contended with over the years in terms of Charles’s own displays of disobedience and rebellion. Granted, Charles’s displays had extended more to mischief-making than actual trouble.

Not that he’d not enjoyed his studies. He had.

But neither had he been a natural academic, as his nephew was. In fact, all society needed to do to see Charles wasn’t the boy’s real father was to look at how easily academics came to his nephew. Possessed as Seamus was of a keenly focused mind, one that wasn’t distracted, as Charles’s had always been, that would’ve been all the proof the world needed. But society didn’t look closely. They didn’t look at all. They were content to see only the surface, and as such, it was remarkably easy to convince the world