Douglas: Lord of Heartache (24 page)

Gwen struggled not to let the strength of that blow show on her face, but it was difficult. A life estate here was one thing, but Westhaven had stated the truth. She might live at Enfield, but it wasn’t
hers
.

Just as Douglas was not, in the ways that Society valued,
hers
.

“I am sorry,” Westhaven said in the same quiet voice. “I do not seek to distress you, but rather to prevail on you to grant the favor I ask.”

“You want me to meet with Victor. Is that all?”

“That’s all he is asking, as far as I know.” Westhaven was dodging. He was doing it politely and subtly, but he was dodging.

“Does your father know anything of our dealings six years ago?”

This question had the earl glancing at the hound above the mantel again, and at the litter of eight fat pups cavorting around her. “I said nothing, and I doubt Victor did either. One word to His Grace, and you would find Victor here in my stead, on bended knee, ring in hand, and a horse pistol at his back.”

Bad, if predictable, news. “Your father is that old-fashioned?”

Westhaven’s smile was rueful. “To put it mildly, though Her Grace would be the one to make sure the gun was loaded. Victor behaved dishonorably toward you, and I colluded with him after the fact.”

Such
self-castigation—now, when it did no good whatsoever. Gwen shoved to her feet. “Is it you who seeks forgiveness, my lord? If so, then hear me well. Had you forced me to solemnize that farce of a wedding with your brother, you would have earned my undying enmity, not to mention that of my cousins. One thing you need to be very, very clear about. Your brother’s intimate attentions were rendered with an abominable lack of consideration for me, and the prospect of suffering similarly at his hands for the rest of my life would indeed be enough to put me to flight.”

Westhaven’s expression had gone from stunned to stern to impassive.

“I suspected as much,” he said when it was clear Gwen had finished. “And for that reason, I respected your wish to return quietly to your aunt. Victor behaved abominably, but this merely makes his request to see you that much more emphatic.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Gwen asked, resuming her seat. Sparring with Westhaven, a man who shared Douglas’s ability to keep his own counsel, was draining. The oppressive, unhappy fatigue she’d struggled with since coming home from Linden and parting from Douglas abruptly robbed her of the energy to argue with his lordship further.

“Victor must tell you some things himself,” Westhaven said. He took his seat next to her and examined his teacup. Gwen would not have been surprised had he upended the thing to inspect it for a maker’s mark. “Let’s try it this way. Under what circumstances would you consider meeting with Victor?”

“I don’t understand.” He was attempting to
lawyer
her now, though if asked, he’d no doubt say he was being
reasonable
. Gwen dropped her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Had she permitted Gareth, Andrew, or David to attend this interview, they would simply have tossed the man out for her, earl or not. “I do not want to see Victor. How much more blunt can I be?”

“But he does want to see you, and I would not be carrying his request to you did I not think it was made in good faith.”

Gwen opened her eyes, and of course, Westhaven was still seated beside her. The earl was not going to go away, but perhaps—it was a silly hope—perhaps if Gwen met with Victor, he might be willing to leave her in peace thereafter. Victor was, after all, the only person who knew if they were truly married.

“Fine. I will meet with your brother, accompanied by you and the escort of my choice. I will not set foot in any of the ducal residences, and this meeting will be within the next week or not at all. Victor is not to accost me here at Enfield in the meanwhile, and he will have no more than one hour of my time. Now,
will
you
please
go
away
?”

She had rattled off her conditions with admirable ease, but they represented hours of thought and second-guessing.

“If I promise to leave soon, will you at least let me have a bit of cheese and a bite of apple before I go? It’s a two-hour ride out here and another two hours back to Town.”

Gwen resigned herself to more civility. Six years ago, she’d thought him the dull older brother, good-looking enough, but without joie de vivre, humor, or even much conversation. Now, she saw him as undeniably handsome, unpretentious, and
safe—
an impressive set of characteristics on the unmarried heir to a dukedom.

“Why aren’t you married?” Gwen asked as she set about fixing him a plate.

“I haven’t met the right lady,” he replied, watching Gwen’s hands as she piled his plate with sustenance. “I am considered eligible, but I suspect I’m too much of a chore for the sweet young things to bear. I dance well enough but cannot abide inane gossip. I am also lamentably indifferent to fashion, and I only come up to Town when His Grace insists upon it. These are egregious shortcomings, even in the son of a duke.”

“I danced with you,” Gwen recalled, pouring him another cup of tea. “You dance as well as Victor ever did.”

Westhaven looked preoccupied as he demolished his apple. “I led you out for your first waltz. I remember thinking it a pleasure to dance with a tall woman for a change.”

“How flattering, to be memorably tall.”

“And graceful,” the earl said, moving on to a slice of cheese, “and blessedly willing to simply enjoy the dance rather than chatter your way through it from start to finish.”

Something in the way he looked at her—wistfully?—made Gwen think he did recall dancing with her, and it was a pleasant memory for him. How odd that now, after six years, she should become aware of it.

Though the memory was no longer pleasant for her. The best that could be said was that the dance hadn’t been
un
pleasant. “When shall I meet with Victor, and where?”

“You can use my new town house, though I’m not yet residing there,” Westhaven suggested, wrapping his second slice of cheese in ham. “I’m assuming you will bring one of your cousins, so we should have no problem with the proprieties.”

Gwen found that comment ridiculous, but if it comforted Westhaven to think she was still within the ambit of the proprieties, she’d allow him that fiction.

“When?”

“What about Saturday?” More food disappeared, making Gwen wonder if anybody ensured Westhaven had proper meals. “My parents will have taken my sisters off to a hunting party by week’s end, and Victor will be able to maneuver with more privacy.”

“Is he ashamed of me?” Oh, drat. She hadn’t meant to ask that. Hadn’t meant to think it—ever again.

Westhaven paused on the verge of inhaling another wedge of cheddar. “I think it rather the case he is ashamed of himself, as well he should be.”

Gwen frowned at her tea, trying to come to peace with the bargain she’d made.

“Am I making a mistake?” she asked, even more appalled at herself, but sensing Westhaven’s counsel would be honest.

“The mistake was made six years ago, I should think. All you are doing now is meeting with the man and hearing what he has to say. I cannot see how that can compound the earlier error in judgment.”

“It still feels like a mistake.” And an imposition and an intrusion, though the opportunity to confront Victor also held an odd, powerful appeal, and it was a chance to learn the truth of their marital situation.

“Bring both your cousins, then,” Westhaven suggested, passing her back his empty plate. “Heathgate could intimidate the devil himself, and Greymoor is doubly lethal because he charms as he moves in for the kill.”

“You know my cousins?” For his description of them was deadly accurate.

“Mostly by reputation,” Westhaven answered. “They are impressive men, even in my father’s eyes.”

Probably because neither would care a fig for Moreland’s estimation of them. “They weren’t so impressive six years ago.”

“They were impressively naughty,” Westhaven suggested, draining his teacup with the dispatch any yeoman might show his ale. “But they have accepted the civilizing influence of matrimony admirably, in His Grace’s opinion. Neither one has been seen misbehaving since speaking his vows.”

This exchange bore the pull of Town gossip, where everybody knew and commented on everybody else’s business. For herself, Gwen did not care that she might soon be the subject of such speculation, but for Rose, and for Douglas…

“Both of my cousins are thoroughly besotted with their spouses,” Gwen said. “Absolutely, thoroughly devoted, and their wives are lovely, lovable women.”

“Sounds as nauseating as His Grace and Her Grace,” Westhaven replied, smiling openly. The change in expression was remarkable, making him younger, lighter, and altogether breathlessly attractive.

Gwen scowled at him as a consequence. “You should smile more often, Westhaven. The sweet young things would be more inclined to overlook your many shortcomings.”

Westhaven’s smiled dimmed, becoming… wistful? Pained? “That leaves us with the question of how I am to overlook theirs, and why I would want to. Hmm?”

“A dilemma,” Gwen conceded. But not her dilemma. “Have some more tea, or if you need fortification for your journey, I have brandy about here somewhere.”

Westhaven let her fill his traveling flask and walk him to the front hallway.

“You have been more than gracious,” he said. “And I don’t think you’ll regret this decision.”

She already did. “I certainly hope not. Safe journey, my lord.”

“Until Saturday, then.” He bowed the same formal, correct bow he’d offered her in greeting and then was blessedly gone.

Gwen’s relief was accompanied by profound, inexplicable fatigue, and a longing for Douglas’s embrace so intense it made her ache. She was tempted to ride over to Willowdale simply to see him, but knew such behavior would merit her nothing but another sorrowful leave-taking.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a footman bearing a note. “This arrived from Willowdale, madam.”

Gwen opened a missive sealed with the marquess’s crest, but addressed in Felicity’s hand. Douglas would not write to her unless it was a dire emergency, and yet, Gwen was disappointed. The proprieties were back in place between her and her lover—her former lover—and they rankled more than ever.

“Thank you.” She sent the footman to make sure the messenger was offered hot food and drink in the kitchen, then took herself into the library.

Felicity hoped Gwen’s meeting with Westhaven had gone well, and warned her to expect both of her cousins after breakfast tomorrow. She added that Lord Amery had been called to Amery Hall, his mother having suffered an apoplexy, and her prognosis being dubious.

At the bottom of Felicity’s note were two lines in a beautiful, flowing script:

Madam,

I hope you are faring well, though you have my abject apologies for being unable to keep our appointment later in the week. Until next we meet, I remain,

Your devoted servant,

Amery

A devoted servant was not a lover, and likely never would be again.

Gwen added to her aches and miseries not only the desire to feel Douglas’s arms around her, but also the need to comfort him, though anything that prevented Gwen from further intimacies with Douglas Allen was a good thing.

A miserably difficult, unfair, painful, hard thing, but a good thing.

Douglas had been sure he was capable of hating her.

Looking down at his mother’s shrunken form, he admitted his error, for all he felt was pity and a vast regret. Pity for himself, that this was the mother he’d been given, but pity and regret for her.

When had she become elderly? When had she grown so small and frail and gray?

“She wakes occasionally,” the nurse informed him. “Say something to her, and she might stir a bit.”

Douglas pulled a chair up to the bed and took his mother’s cool hand.

“Mother.” The word came out much less resolute than he’d intended. He tried again. “Mother.”

Her eyes opened, and a ghastly, lopsided caricature of a smile pulled at one side of her mouth. “Da…” she said softly, lifting her right hand toward his face.

“She can get initial consonants,” the nurse observed, “and that’s encouraging.”

“Please do not refer to Lady Amery as ‘she’ within her hearing.”

“Da…”

Douglas captured his mother’s hand and returned it to the bed. “I’ll stay a bit,” Douglas assured her. “Would you like something to drink?”

When his mother looked confused, Douglas scanned the room for a pitcher.

“She can’t…” The nurse, a stout older woman with tired eyes, caught herself. “Drinking from a cup can be difficult after an apoplexy.”

“Then how do you ensure your patients are getting sufficient liquids?”

“Sometimes a drinking straw will help, but it’s difficult, your lordship.”

Difficult. A monumental understatement. “When did you last offer her water?”

She smoothed a hand over a starched white apron—a spotless, starched white apron. “Before tea.”

“That was almost six hours ago.” He tucked his mother’s hand against her side and crossed the room to the pitcher and basin on her dresser. Pouring a small amount into a glass, he brought it to the bed and set it on the nightstand. When he had Lady Amery propped against her pillows, he held the glass against her lips, scowling mightily when it became apparent she was desperate to drink.

Some of the water dribbled over her chin, but enough of it made it down her throat that her eyes reflected gratitude. When Douglas returned to his chair by her bed, she reached for him again.

“Gi…” she said, her gaze trained on him beseechingly. “Gi… me.”

“Give you?” Douglas asked, feeling her frustration keenly.

“Gi… me.”

Douglas wracked his brain but could not discern her meaning.
Give
her.
Give her what? She refused more water, so he gave her his hand and sat with her thus, holding her thin, cold fingers in his until she’d drifted back to sleep.

Douglas spoke for a few minutes with the nurse, ensured his mother would not be left alone through the night, and took his leave of the sickroom.

He’d stopped by his town house long enough to gather several days’ worth of clothing, and had paid a call on David Worthington, Viscount Fairly. The purpose of that visit had been to educate himself regarding apoplexy and some other relevant medical issues, Fairly being the only thing approaching a trustworthy physician among Douglas’s acquaintances.

The information Fairly had shared regarding apoplexy was daunting. Victims of apoplexy often became incapable of clear speech or incapable of moving an entire side of their bodies. Their prognosis was grim, particularly if the ability to speak, chew, and swallow was affected. Those who survived a massive seizure often died of its consequences or in a subsequent attack.

So Douglas had ridden hard the entire day, prepared to arrive in time to arrange his mother’s funeral. The relief he’d felt to have her still on this earth, albeit speaking gibberish and looking a hundred years old, had shocked him. But she was his only adult relative, and she was his mother. That apparently counted for something, despite Douglas’s unbecoming wish that it did not.

He took himself downstairs, past the formal parlor, the music room, the estate offices, breakfast parlor, and dining room to the kitchen. The kettle was warming on the hob, so he rummaged until he found the fixings for a cup of tea, some cheese, and a red apple.

Sitting at the scarred plank table in the middle of the room, he assembled his simple meal and added sugar—and cream—to his solitary tea. The sound of his spoon clinking against the teacup reminded him of Guinevere, stirring his tea before passing it to him, perfectly prepared on every occasion.

He missed her with a relentless, bone-wracking ache. The hours he’d spent in the saddle allowed him to consider, at length and in detail, their situation. Two things had become obvious: First, if Guinevere were married to Windham, the situation was grave, indeed. Married was married, in his eyes, in Guinevere’s, and in the eyes of the law. Second, regardless of the legalities, he did not see how he could build a life without Guinevere in it.

More tired than he could recall being in many a month, Douglas climbed the stairs, stopping to check on his mother. She lay as if asleep, a maid curled in a chair by her bed. Douglas withdrew without alerting the maid to his presence and found his bed.

He drifted off to sleep, hoping he would dream of Guinevere. To see her, even in his dreams, would be a comfort—or, more accurately, a welcome torment.

When he awoke early the following morning, he hadn’t dreamed of Guinevere, but he had puzzled out an understanding of what his mother had been trying to say.

Not “give me,” but rather, “forgive me.”

***

“Your escort is here.” Guinevere’s hostess for her stay in Town, her aunt, the estimable dowager Marchioness of Heathgate, said this a bit loudly, as if Guinevere might have lost some hearing since Douglas had last seen her.

“My escort?” Guinevere perched on the middle of a green velvet sofa, looking tired and severely pretty as she went through the motions of a game of solitaire.

Lady Heathgate shot a glance of maternal exasperation over her shoulder at Douglas and took two steps into the room. “You are in another world completely. I’ll fetch your cloak and bonnet while you greet his lordship.”

Her ladyship brushed past Douglas, leaving him in full view of the little sitting room. “Guinevere?”

Her head came up, and where her posture had been diffident and listless, at the sound of his voice, she came alive. “Douglas!” She flew across the room in two strides. “Oh, Douglas, I have missed you so.” She buried her face against his shoulder, burrowing into his embrace.

And even as Douglas reveled in the feel of her in his arms and positively wallowed in her flowery scent, somehow, he missed her still. Missed her and resented bitterly that he’d had to leave her alone, because he and Guinevere both knew what it was to remain alone, even when surrounded by family.

“I’ve missed you, too.” He made himself step back, made himself leave the parlor door open, though such propriety would soon render the room chilly. “You look fatigued.”

“I am,” she said, keeping a grasp of both of his hands. “I can’t seem to keep my eyes open, and I am a veritable watering pot of late.”

Her hands were cold, and to Douglas’s unending dismay, she teared up again as she spoke.

“This will not do.” He offered her his handkerchief, inadequate though the gesture was. “If you are not inclined to go forward with this meeting, Guinevere, I will convey your regrets to Westhaven.”

She paused between dabbing at the left eye and dabbing at the right. “
You
are my escort? I asked David to attend me.”

“He would, except he has come down with the flu and has asked that I serve in his stead. He explained to me that you wanted neither Heathgate’s glowering nor Greymoor’s splenetics on hand for your meeting with Lord Victor.”

Though why in the bloody perishing hell hadn’t Fairly observed the courtesy of sending Guinevere a note? And what sort of flu was it that left a man capable of summoning a friend from the wilds of Kent and suffering no fever whatsoever?

“I can’t ask this of you,” she said, fresh tears welling. “Douglas… This won’t be civilities over tea. You of all men should not have to listen to the conversation between Victor and me.”

“I disagree.” He had to put some space between them though, or Lady Heathgate might be scandalized by what she found going on in her parlor. Douglas clasped his hands behind his back and paced over to the fireplace. “I will protect your interests with my last breath, Guinevere, and I would have no secrets between us. If you are to be Victor Windham’s wife, then all that remains is for me to serve as your friend and very distant relative.”

For soon, distant relatives would be all that was left to him. Lady Amery had not rallied in the least during Douglas’s tenure in Kent, but her condition had stabilized sufficiently that Douglas could heed Fairly’s summons—thank God.

Guinevere clutched his handkerchief as if her firstborn child were threatened—which, in effect, was the case. “Don’t refer to me as that man’s wife. Don’t say it, don’t think it.”

Douglas spoke as gently as the miserable truth would allow. “You have been thinking it for at least the past week.”

His handkerchief was summarily jammed in a skirt pocket, as if a sword had been sheathed. “Thinking it and accepting it are not the same thing.”

Just
as
saying
it
and
accepting
it
were
worlds
apart.

Lady Heathgate appeared with a brown velvet cloak and a plain straw bonnet. Douglas escorted Guinevere to the coach, but only lasted until they’d pulled out of the mews before he shifted to the place beside her and took her hand in his.

“We need a signal.”

Guinevere ceased tracing his knuckles with her free hand, though she really should not have removed her gloves—and neither should he. “A signal?”

“You need a way to tell me to get you out of there in a hurry, something that won’t be obvious to Westhaven and his brother. And you need a way to tell me you want privacy with Windham as well.”

Her fingers went still. “Why would I want privacy with Victor?”

“To state your terms if he reveals you are in fact married?” The words lay between them, making a verbal corpse of hope.

Guinevere took her hand away and jerked on her gloves. “Married—I cannot contemplate such a thing. I’m hoping he doesn’t know about Rose, and I’m not inclined to tell him.”

“You must trust yourself to do what is appropriate when the moment arises,” Douglas said with a calm he did not feel, and then conscience, honor, or some damned fool penchant for martyrdom prompted him to let his idiot mouth yammer on. “If she were my daughter, I would most assuredly want to know.”

Guinevere glowered out the window as they passed a flower girl standing in the bitter chill, bedraggled yellow chrysanthemums in pots around her.

“If she were your daughter, I would not have been lied to and mistreated, then left alone for the past six years to muddle along with her as best I could.”

Douglas cracked the window enough to toss the child a coin. “If you want privacy, you mention that life at Enfield is prosaic. If you want to leave immediately, you mention the dreary weather. Privacy—prosaic; depart—dreary.”

“Privacy—prosaic; depart—dreary.”

“That will serve.” A few minutes later, Douglas reached past her to open the door. “Now, chin up, and on your dignity.”

For he surely intended to be upon his. He preceded her out of the coach, exemplifying his own advice by showing her the greatest courtesy as he helped her alight and tucked her hand around his arm. A footman opened the door to the quietly impressive Mayfair town house, and Westhaven himself was on hand to greet them.

“Westhaven.” Douglas returned the man’s formal bow while Guinevere’s cloak and bonnet were taken by a servant.

Westhaven’s consternation was lovely to behold. “Amery? I wasn’t expecting you to serve as Miss Hollister’s escort.”

Gratifying, to be a ducal heir’s inconvenient surprise. “Despite your expectations, I appear to have that honor. It’s been some time since our paths crossed in Kent. I trust your family is well?”

He offered the small talk because civilities were Douglas’s specialty, and because Guinevere was peering around while trying not to look intimidated.

“My parents and sisters thrive, while Lord Valentine rusticates. Miss Hollister, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea for us in the small parlor. Shall we get out of this drafty hall?”

“By all means,” Douglas replied, winging his arm at Guinevere before Westhaven had the chance. Their host led them through the house, pausing outside a closed door and turning a grave expression to Guinevere.

“Victor is not… as you knew him. I would ask, out of decency, you not dwell on his infirmity.”

Guinevere shot Douglas a puzzled look, but Westhaven had already turned to open the door.

“Victor?” Westhaven led the way into the room. “Our guests are here.”

To Douglas’s eye, the brothers bore a resemblance to each other, though Victor’s bow to Guinevere was
careful
, not the casually graceful display his brother made. “Miss Hollister. Thank you for paying this call.”

“Douglas Allen, Viscount Amery joins us today,” Westhaven said by way of introduction. “Amery, my brother, Lord Victor Windham.”

“My lord.” Douglas bowed, trying to keep his conflicting emotions from his expression. Victor was slender to the point of gauntness. His eyes were tired beyond mere fatigue, his complexion was pale—even his lips were pale—and his mouth was bracketed by grooves suggesting chronic pain.

Part of Douglas wanted to howl with frustration, because Guinevere would not turn her back on this weary, hopeless man. She would accede to his wishes, hear him out, offer him her sympathy, and even her complicity.

Because it was plain to Douglas the poor bastard was dying.

A
dying
husband
was
better
than
one
in
the
pink
of
health.
Only the merest scintilla of guilt accompanied the thought. Perhaps two scintillae, or three. And a wagonload of pity.