Douglas: Lord of Heartache (20 page)

“I am well,” she repeated more strongly, “and you are a bit glorious yourself.”

She was so brave, and he was in such trouble. Such glorious trouble. He took a steadying sip of his tea, though the case was hopeless.

“Am I really, now? Good to know. A fellow likes to hear these things from time to time. Would you prefer cinnamon for your toast? And you’ve some letters from your lady cousins. I brought them down for you in hopes they’d make a pleasant start to your day.”

They passed the remainder of breakfast in companionable silence, parting so Guinevere could check on Rose—the letters unread on the sideboard—and Douglas could steal off to the library. He set himself to the task of drafting projections of the income and expenses needed to put Linden in good enough repair that it could serve once again not merely as a gentleman’s country retreat, but as a home where dreams could be shared.

***

Douglas Allen had been
whistling
when he’d jaunted off to cavort in the library with his abacus. As Gwen made her way to the nursery, she realized that whistle might mean Douglas was leaning toward buying the property.

This notion
hurt
.

Gwen had hidden away at Enfield, burying herself in the agricultural cycles of land and livestock for more than five years. She’d been close to no one, save Rose, and she’d managed to convince herself it was a good life.

Compared to the lot many faced, it was a very good life.

But compared to the prospect of becoming Douglas’s wife—his viscountess—the years stretching before her at Enfield loomed bleak, lonely, and empty. More bleak and empty to think Douglas would choose Sussex and this pretty property.

Though he should. Absolutely he should choose Linden, and she would encourage him to do so.

Douglas was her miracle, a reserved, burdened man who nonetheless brought her caring, joy, and passion. She would not seek his like in another. She would not hope for other affairs to alleviate her loneliness. The price of Douglas’s regard was that Gwen saw, in stark relief, how far gone into isolation and despair she’d fallen.

And when Douglas left her…

She reversed her steps, slipped into the library, and stood just inside the door, watching Douglas at the desk. He had his spectacles on and scratched away with a pen in one hand, while he flicked at an abacus with the other.

“Are you spying?” Douglas did not look up but frowned at the paper before him. “I am stuck on a column of figures. You must come pull me out of the morass.”

Gwen shifted to stand beside him, to look over his shoulder while he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“I can’t get the columns to tally the same across and down,” he said, nuzzling the underside of her breast, “but you should look them over anyway, because I have the nagging suspicion I’ve left out myriad expense categories. Come here.”

He levered her around to sit between his legs, her weight braced on one of his thighs.

“You’re right—you’ve left out all kinds of expenses and revenues, that I can see.” Gwen pretended to study his figures for another few moments, though she also examined the way Douglas’s golden hair grew in a swirl from his crown. “And you’ve no contingency fund.”

“Do your worst,” Douglas challenged. He let her go to perch on the corner of the desk, which was fortunate for the remnants of Gwen’s wits. “Will you allow me to come to you again tonight, Guinevere?”

Gwen glanced up and then went back to his figures, or tried to.

“Guinevere?” He’d moved silently and stood beside her as she sat on the corner of the desk. A little hint of his cedary scent teased her nose, and the numbers on the page blurred. He leaned in, and by virtue of a hand on her shoulder urged her to rest her weight against his chest.

“I didn’t know how to ask you,” she said, putting the figures aside.

He let go a sigh that Gwen suspected meant he was relieved—as if she
could
have refused him—and then his lips cruised over her temple, and it was her turn to sigh. Some moments and several more sighs, groans, and caresses later, Douglas went to the door, locked it, and returned to the desk to stand immediately before her.

He was gentle with her, drawing her skirts up, letting her be the one to unbutton his falls. He slid into her body easily while he kissed her insensate, and despite the novelty of the location and the position, Gwen felt as if this coupling in the broad light of day, in a public room of the house, completed them somehow. She watched the place where their bodies joined, watched the thick column of his erection glide into her, and then back out, wet, glistening, virile, and to her eyes, beautiful.

A few minutes of that, a few minutes of knowing Douglas watched her as she watched
him
, and her desire began to gather in anticipation of more intense pleasure. Her last coherent thought was that this joining was different from its predecessor, intense but deliberate too, like a deep, rumbling roll of thunder rather than a sudden, sharp crack. Douglas joined her on a soft groan, and she felt wet heat when he spent deep in her body.

She drowsed on his shoulder, unable to speak, think, or move while Douglas tidied them up and restored their clothing, all without moving away from her. She was drifting somewhere toward sleep or pure oblivion, when Douglas scooped her up off the desk and carried her to the sofa. He sat them down such that the arm of the sofa supported Gwen’s back, and tucked her head against the crook of his neck.

“Douglas?”

He kissed her temple then laid his cheek against her hair. “Right here, love.”

“I slept.”

“In my arms,” Douglas replied softly. “I wore you out—you may be sore.”

“Sore?”

“Intimately,” he clarified. “I was rather exuberant.”

“I know.” Gwen arched her back and tried not to start wishing and wishing. “One would not suspect Lord Amery capable of such lovely, decadent,
gratifying
exuberance.”

“Nor Miss Hollister,” he agreed, nuzzling her again. “But if one doesn’t get the library door unlocked fairly soon, the entire household will promptly begin considering the possibility.”

“Blast.” Gwen kissed his jaw. She loved the angle of his jaw, finding it metaphor for his personality in general: resolute, clean, strong.
God
help
her.
“Just when I’ve a mind to inspire you to exuberance again.”

When Mrs. Kitts came bustling in with the tea a while later, Gwen was ensconced on the sofa, chewing the end of her pencil and sitting amid a sea of foolscap. Douglas sat at the desk, his booted feet propped on one corner, the only sounds the crackling of the fire, ticking of the clock, and the clicking of the abacus.

“So serious, you two,” Mrs. Kitts remonstrated. “It can’t always be work, work, work, you know.” She set the tea tray down as Douglas abruptly went looking for something in the bottom drawer of the desk. “Well, it can’t,” she repeated, nodding for emphasis.

Gwen recovered enough from her coughing fit to thank the woman and shoo her on her way, but when the door had closed behind the housekeeper, she dissolved into fits of laughter. It took two cups of tea—and keeping several yards between her and the hardworking Lord Amery—before she felt sufficiently composed to leave the library.

“I’m going to see Rose,” Gwen announced, standing and stretching and sounding—she hoped—like she couldn’t possibly have been thinking of straddling Douglas’s lap as he sat ciphering away at the abacus. “Shall we have luncheon in here or in the dining parlor?”

“Why not in the dining parlor, and why not invite Rose to join us?” Douglas suggested as he got to his feet.

“Rose?” If Douglas had suggested Gwen ride naked through the town, she could not have been more surprised.

He peered down at her. “Well, all right. Mr. Bear, too, though I understand he might be under the weather.”

“How do you understand that?”

“I usually stop by the nursery for the daily report on my way to breakfast, and then again before I change for dinner. Rose is most informative. My judgment is reserved about that bear, however.” He kissed her nose then returned to the desk.

“I see.”

“I will look forward to the company of you ladies at lunch.” Douglas had his feet propped and his spectacles back up on his nose before Gwen had left the library.

As she made her way to the nursery, Gwen decided it didn’t matter
when
she’d fallen in love with Douglas. It might have been when he rescued Rose from the hornets, when he’d first grasped Gwen’s hand, when he’d been sufficiently interested in her to win her intimate trust, when he’d fought so hard to keep Rose well, or when he’d casually announced he made regular visits to the nursery.

But fallen, she had—into his arms, as he’d said, but also in love.

“Guinevere Hollister, you are in such trouble.” She’d probably fallen in love with Douglas on each of those occasions and a few more besides, and there was not one blessed thing she wanted to do about it.

“I miss Daisy,” Rose announced at lunch. “Cousin Douglas, will we go home soon?”

“We shall,” Douglas replied, which was fortunate, for Gwen could not think of a response. “Your mother and I have almost completed our business here, but we must now wait until the weather is promising to make our journey home. You could write Daisy a letter, and I’m sure your Cousin Andrew would read it to her.”

“Mama? Can I?”

“May I,” Gwen corrected automatically, though thoughts of home did not bring the joy and relief they ought. “Yes, and I commend you for not pelting off without asking to be excused.”

“Can I be excused?”

“May I,” both adults chorused. Gwen followed up with permission for Rose to leave the table, after which Rose rocketed out of the dining parlor, intent on her correspondence.

“So we’re soon to leave for home?” She did not meet Douglas’s gaze while she posed this question. A leaden feeling settled in Gwen’s stomach, having nothing to do with Cook’s excellent meal.

“I’d rather tarry here and let the rest of the world go hang.”

He looked as morose as Gwen felt, which was some consolation. “Is that an irresponsible sentiment from Douglas, Viscount Amery?”

“Irresponsible, selfish, lascivious, and heartfelt. What becomes of us when we return, Guinevere?”

Us
—troublesome, wonderful word. “I don’t know.” She dreaded the exchange that must ensue, even as she was grateful that Douglas, at least, had the courage to face it. “I can’t see beyond the fact that we must leave.”

Douglas propped his elbows on the table—which astounding breach of etiquette Gwen found endearing—and turned the teapot in a steady circle by its handle. “As I see it, we have several options. We can continue our liaison, though it will be more difficult with family underfoot and familiar retainers about. We can allow this aspect of our dealings to come to a close and trust each other to behave civilly when our paths inevitably cross, or we can make an effort to disentangle our lives, ensuring we need not interact in future.”

So
rational, so blasted logical.
“None of those options appeal.”

“Indeed they do not,” Douglas agreed, still twirling the teapot thoughtfully. “There are others.”

“Others?”

“I can buy this property, and you can accompany me here as a nominal cousin, acting as my hostess and lady of the house, or you can marry me, though I understand you do not regard that possibility as realistic.”

Douglas was persistent. Bless him and damn him, he was persistent. “Do we have to have this conversation now?”

“We need to start it, Guinevere,” Douglas said, his tone painfully gentle. “We face a difficult business, and if we cannot come to some understanding of our preferred outcome, we could part in anger or distrust. I could not abide that.”

“Nor could I.” Though assuredly they would part in sadness. “I have no answers, Douglas. I do not want to part from you, but neither can I see smiling pleasantly through little Lucy’s birthday party, treating you as if you were simply her dear godfather and uncle. Nor, however, can I conceive of a future without you in it, though in some ways, a clean break might heal most easily. This idea of living together here at Linden had not occurred to me, honestly, but I will give it thought.”

She would likely think of little else.

He left off twirling the tea pot and seemed to come to some decision. “Why, given how you say you feel, would you not allow me to marry you? Your position makes no sense to me, and I am a man who must have his plain answers and commonsense explanations. I believe you care for me, and whatever holds you back is real to you, but I wish you could share it with me. I
beg
you to share it with me.”

Oh, wretched, dear man. He would offer that—that
too
. “The reason is very real to me, and all I can say is I am abjectly sorry. If you cannot continue to offer me your affections, I will understand.”

Because of this much, she was certain: if Douglas knew her circumstances, he would end their liaison immediately—would never have embarked upon it, in fact.

Douglas was silent for a moment, no doubt shifting the beads on some internal abacus.

“I want to shout at you, Guinevere.” Douglas spoke very softly, a note of bewilderment in his tone. “I feel like shaking you, like galloping away on Regis and never looking back. This vacillation of the emotions—from ecstasy to despair in the course of a morning—is beyond what I can bear, yet bear it I shall. I sense defeat looming, though, and without even being able to name my foe. I can’t bear that either.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I will have any place in your life you’ll allow. As Lucy’s uncle, as your former lover, as your friend, as your cicisbeo. I will leave you in peace if that’s what you ask of me, but Guinevere, it will be the loneliest, most pointless peace either of us has ever known.”

“I know,” Gwen said, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Douglas, I know.”

Gwen got up so quickly Douglas barely had time to get to his feet before she snatched her cousin’s letters from the sideboard and quit the room.

What she wanted was to throw herself on the bed and dissolve into tears—except that bed was where she and Douglas had first made love. The vanity was where Douglas had taken such care with her hair. The hearth rug was where she had waited for her lover…

She took the letters to the escritoire by the window, promised herself a good cry later, and tried to focus on the words her cousins’ wives had penned to her. When she’d read the first, never mind the second, she climbed onto the bed and cried as if her heart was broken and would never mend.

***

“You didn’t see her?” Victor Windham asked again, though Westhaven’s note had been clear enough, and several days of rereading it hadn’t changed the brief contents.

“No, I did not, and neither did I see portraits of her hanging about the place that would tell me how her looks have changed in six years,” Westhaven said, drawing open curtains to let cold autumn light fill the small parlor. “She is surrounded by a phalanx of concerned, titled, wealthy, and protective male relatives now, and a butterfly on a pin would have been more comfortable than I was taking tea with them.”

Victor’s older brother paced the confines of the smallest family parlor in the Moreland ducal mansion, a distaste for both confinement and secrets part of his nature. Westhaven was a good sort, duty bound and conscientious about the land—also possessed of vibrant animal health, for which Victor gave thanks every night. God knew, Westhaven would make a better duke than their late brother Bartholomew would have, and he was by far a better brother than Victor deserved.

“I appreciate that you tried,” Victor said, staring at the blanket on his lap. He was often cold of late, and their sister Jenny had knitted him the blanket. She’d used a blend of wool and angora, and the blanket’s soft, plush feel was a tactile reminder of her love. “I hope you’re willing to try again.”

“I’ll see her, Victor, and I’ll put your request to her.” Westhaven squeezed his shoulder gently.

Everyone handled him gently these days. Everyone except his father, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland. The duke, a hale, bluff curmudgeon of a former cavalry officer, expressed his disappointment in his remaining—
woefully
unwed
, according to His Grace—sons at every opportunity.

Westhaven paused to straighten a frame that held a sketch Jenny had done of her five brothers years earlier. “I will not fail you on this. Fairly seemed confident Miss Hollister would admit me, though I suspect it would be to give me a royal dressing down.”

“She has nothing to castigate you for,” Victor retorted. “I’m the one who used her badly and made no reparation.” None at all, though he’d intended his distance as a kindness—not that Gwen could understand it as such.

Westhaven made another circuit of the parlor, boots thumping in the confident rhythm of excellent health. “At the time, she truly did not want to marry you, and I think you’ll find her mind unchanged. If she has any sense, she regrets trusting you. She does not regret her unwed state.”

Guinevere Hollister had had buckets and bales of sense, and if Westhaven hadn’t met with her, he could hardly speak to the woman’s regrets. “I have to try, Westhaven.”

The earl did not argue—Westhaven was the soul of discretion and courtesy—but instead summoned a footman to wheel Victor’s Bath chair from the room.

Gayle Windham watched his brother’s departure with a sinking sensation that had become reflexive where poor Victor was concerned. This quest—for in Victor’s eyes, it was a quest—to offer reparation to Miss Hollister seemed to be the main reason Victor clung to life.

And while their parents hovered around Victor, Westhaven was left to manage the vast acreage of the ducal estates. Their youngest brother, Valentine, chose to rusticate, and kept an eye on matters at the family seat in Kent, but Val was typically so lost in his music, Westhaven relied on him as little as possible. As the fourth legitimate son by birth, Valentine now approached the status of presumptive heir to a dukedom. If the title befell him, he’d have little enough time for his music.

While Devlin, God love him, continued to jump at shadows and hear the cannons of Waterloo in his dreams.

And God help Guinevere Hollister, because diligent, discreet searching had turned up no evidence that she’d married a man of her own choosing these past six years, meaning Victor’s scheme for her faced no impediment. No impediment whatsoever.

***

Astrid and Felicity’s letters said the same thing, no matter how long Gwen stared at them, no matter how many times she reread them: Gayle Windham had come to call, and he’d introduced himself as the Earl of Westhaven. Six years ago, he’d not assumed one of the duke’s lesser titles, that being the privilege of his older brother, Bartholomew, Marquess of Pembroke, the duke’s heir. Why had Westhaven—now the ducal heir—called upon her all these years later? Where was Victor?

And what did it all mean for Rose?

Dread congealed in Gwen’s stomach, and her imagination threatened to gallop away with her reason. She curled on the bed, desperate prayers winging up as despair threatened to swamp her.

When a knock on her door interrupted her flights of panic, Gwen dragged herself from the bed and opened the door to find Douglas standing in the corridor in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He took one look at her, stepped into her room, and closed the door behind him.

“Guinevere, what in God’s name is wrong?”

She threw herself at him, and his arms wrapped around her, without questions, without hesitation.

And without hope. “He’s going to take Rose,” she moaned into his shoulder. “Oh, Douglas, after years of leaving us in peace, he’s going to take Rose.”

“Nobody is going to take Rose without a damned nasty fight,” Douglas replied, tightening his embrace. “I won’t allow it. Now breathe.”

She gulped a breath, the scent of him calming her as much as his embrace.

“Again,” Douglas ordered, “and let it out slowly.”

He held her for long moments while she literally caught her breath, then walked her over to the bed, where he sat her down, fetched her a glass of water, then sat beside her.

“From the beginning, if you please,” he instructed, taking her free hand and holding it in his lap.

“I did not want to tell you, not ever. I’ve never told
anybody
.”

Douglas looped his arm across her shoulders. “Sooner or later, we are given an opportunity to trust again, Guinevere. Whatever misery looms over you, I suspect it affects me as well, and probably every person who cares for you and Rose.”

Before anxiety could claim the last shred of Gwen’s coherence, she made herself start speaking. “Rose’s father—”

The words hurt. Even those two small mundane words hurt unimaginably.

“Guinevere, I might not like what you have to tell me, but I will not judge you, and I most assuredly will not judge that dear little girl for matters far beyond her control. I am, and ever shall be, your friend.”

Such
a
stern
friend, though a true friend, one who would listen.
The thought gave Gwen emotional ballast, as Douglas’s physical presence calmed her bodily.

“Victor Windham,” she began again, “is a younger son of the Duke of Moreland. Victor is Rose’s father. His brother Gayle came to call on me at Enfield last week. Fortunately, David, Andrew, and Gareth were there at the time, and they received him without disclosing my whereabouts or Rose’s.”

Douglas held up the water glass, as if he’d known this recitation had left her mouth dry, then passed her a handkerchief with three simple letters monogrammed at one corner in black thread.

Gwen took a sip of fortitude and soldiered on. “Gayle is the brother who found Victor and me when we eloped. He knows Victor dishonored me. At my request, and then Victor’s, he did not go to his father with the tale. Gayle, however, is now using the title Earl of Westhaven, and is the Duke of Moreland’s heir.”

“You believe they know of Rose’s existence?”

“They easily could.”

“I would not be so sure, Guinevere. Your own cousins weren’t aware of Rose until she was almost four. You didn’t live quietly at Enfield, you were an anchorite.”

“This is why,” Gwen cried. “Because I didn’t want Victor’s family finding out about Rose.”

“If she is illegitimate,” Douglas reminded her, “the father and his family have no claim on her.”

“But what if she’s not?” Gwen wailed, five years of uncertainty loading her question with panic. “What if the damned wedding was real? What if they can
make
it real? Then they can take her away and I have nothing to say to it and I won’t even be able to s-s-see her.”

She dissolved into tears, great, noisy, terrified sobs that robbed her of dignity. Douglas laid her back on the bed, straddled her, and crouched over her, sheltering her with his body. Gwen clung, wept, and clung more tightly still, while Douglas comforted her with his touch, and with his very presence. When she lay spent and boneless, and her breathing calmed, Douglas brushed her hair back from her forehead and regarded her solemnly.