grandchild in her arms.
Hell, did he want a child? What was he thinking? He had vowed to himself he would never saddle himself with heirs. The Earl of Graham’s legacy would die with him. It was just the wildness of his emotions, the tumult of the last few days, the lack of sleep, playing tricks upon his mind.
Yes, that was it.
“Decker?”
There was his wife’s voice, sounding as if it arrived to him from the other end of a tunnel. So far away. There was a rushing in his ears. Damn it, he could not pass out. Not now. He inhaled slowly, trying to still his rapidly pounding heart, trying to regain control over himself.
“Look at me, my love.”
The insistence in her tone reached him, grasping him and hauling him out of the fog infecting his mind. He blinked, settling his gaze upon her. Love for her surged inside him, stronger than the grief. Bigger than the pain. He should tell her, he thought for at least the hundredth time.
But the words would not come.
Instead, he allowed his eyes to drift over her face. She had spent the entire night at his side. Little ringlets had come free of her chignon, curling around her face. She looked weary but beautiful as always, concern pinching the fullness of her lips into a firm line. He wanted to kiss her mouth back to lushness again, but he could not seem to move.
Gratitude slammed into him, stealing his breath.
“Drink the tea, Decker,” she urged softly.
He did, because she asked him to. It was sweet on his tongue, prepared just as he liked it. Of course it was. His Josie took note of everything. She cared.
“I need you to eat something. Just a bit,” she was saying. “It is nearly dinnertime, and you’ve had nothing since breakfast. I am going to speak with the servants, take care of a few matters. You stay here with Lila. I do not want either of you to worry about a thing. Let me take care of you. Will you do that for me?”
He wanted to argue. To tell her he must be the one to arrange for mourning drapery in the household, a funeral, his mother, everything. Instead, he nodded. Jo wanted to take care of him, of his sister. And he was going to let her.
“I will do that,” he rasped.
“Good,” she said, some of the tension easing from her countenance.
Perhaps she had supposed he would argue? His bloody mind had turned to porridge. He had not the capacity for thought at the moment. He was entrusting himself to his wife. His wife who loved him.
She turned to go. He caught her hand, moving with such haste, he splashed tea into his lap. But he did not give a damn.
“Josie?”
“Yes, my love?” The tenderness in her expression made him ache.
Tell her you love her.
Three simple words, you dolt.
“Thank you,” he said instead.
She nodded, and then she bustled from the room.
Decker turned to Lila. “You had better eat something, my dear. You did not eat enough for a bird earlier.”
His sister’s lips trembled. “I miss her already, Eli.”
No one called him Eli. No one but Mama and Lila and, a long time ago, Nora.
“I do too, Lila,” he said sincerely.
And he knew then that he always would.
Chapter Eighteen
Decker sank into the chair in his study, both relieved to be back in London and weary to the bone. Mourning was a draining practice. The last few days had been an endless sea of protocols being observed. His mother’s house had been draped in black, the glasses hung with mourning shrouds. A procession of somber callers had come and gone, including many of the local gentry, none of whom had known his mother’s true identity. She had led a quiet, unassuming life in Hertfordshire for the last seven years as the widowed Mrs. Decker, and none had pried into her past.
Undoubtedly most of those who had called to offer their sympathies would never have lowered themselves had they known the truth about his mother. That she had never married but was, in truth, Miss Decker. And, worse, that she had been the Earl of Graham’s mistress.
Yet, as Decker had spoken to them, a clear picture of the life she had created for herself there had begun to form. To those who had come to know her since her move to Hertfordshire following Graham’s death, she was not a ruined woman. Not a secret, not a source of shame, not a