Douglas: Lord of Heartache (34 page)

“Douglas.”

A familiar blend of arousal and gladness suffused Douglas as he simply beheld her.

“Sit.” Douglas gained her side in two strides and took her arm to lead her to a bench. “You are quite pale of a sudden, and I do apologize again for appearing this way. Rose, could you fetch your mama a glass of water?”

Rose scampered away on her mission, and Douglas busied himself removing his greatcoat, gloves, and scarf. When Rose reappeared with a half-full glass, Douglas handed it to Guinevere, who had yet to say anything besides his name.

“Shall we feed Regis his carrot?” Rose asked worriedly.

“May I ask you, Rose, to take him the carrot for me?” Guinevere’s color still hadn’t returned, and she looked to be in shock. “You will have to wait until Ezra has him in a stall, though I know the beast would appreciate it.”

“I’ll pet his nose and everything!” Rose trotted off, carrot clutched in her fist like a sword.

“You came to see Rose,” Guinevere said, watching her daughter depart. “I should have known you would.”

“May I fetch you a cup of tea?” Douglas leaned back against the wooden counter, arms crossed over his chest lest he use them to enfold the quiet creature before him. And tea would be no damned help at all in any case. “Or would you like something stronger? You still look wan to me.” And more beautiful than ever.

“No spirits.” Her smile was wan too. “I couldn’t keep them down, I’m sure.”

“I suppose a woman in anticipation of a blessed event can expect some digestive upset,” Douglas observed, turning to rummage for tea, cream, and sugar, or perhaps to search for his wits.

“But, Douglas, I’m not in expectation of any—”

He turned back to her quickly enough to see her expression flit from diffident to bewildered, to utterly, fiercely joyous. Her hand flew to her mouth then drifted slowly, reverently, to her abdomen.

In those few seconds, profound relief coursed through Douglas from two distinct sources. Relief came first from the joy on Guinevere’s face:
she
was
overjoyed
to
be
carrying
their
child.
He’d harbored such a miserable load of fear—for her, and for
them—
fear that for Guinevere, pregnancy, any pregnancy, might carry so many negative associations the renewed prospect of motherhood could bring her only worry and resentment.

He’d been wonderfully, blessedly wrong. Her pleasure radiated from her like an angel chorus in full song.

The second source of Douglas’s relief came from the momentary disbelief on Guinevere’s face.
When
she’d gone to marry Westhaven, she hadn’t known she carried Douglas’s child.

More than anything, he’d wondered how she could have done that—allowed their child to be raised by another man. That decision had seemed so unlike Guinevere, so deceptive and just plain wrong.

The damned lump was back in Douglas’s throat, so he turned to the counter and busied himself pouring hot water from the kettle into the teapot, then preparing Guinevere’s tea. When he was once again in possession of himself, he brought the tea to her.

“Sit with me?” she asked, turning a hesitant smile on him.

Douglas lowered himself to the bench beside her, feeling abruptly unsure. It had never occurred to him Guinevere, having been through one pregnancy, wouldn’t have put together the symptoms—nausea, fatigue, tender breasts, missed courses—though apparently she hadn’t.

He wanted to take her hand in his, but didn’t dare.

“I thought,” Guinevere said, wonder in her voice, “I thought I was upset and overwhelmed. I
was
upset and overwhelmed. Very upset, and exhausted. I thought I was simply…”

“Yes?”

“Simply missing you,” she said, some of the wonder dying.

“I’ve certainly missed you,” Douglas muttered testily.

She bowed her head and addressed herself to her teacup, the self-same little green cup with white unicorns Douglas had seen her with the day they’d met. “I was to wed Westhaven. How could you miss me when I’d accepted another’s proposal and rejected all of yours?”

The urge to touch her was overwhelming, but Douglas held back, needing truth more than comfort. “Did you turn to another, Guinevere, or were you simply trying to manage matters on your own, without the aid of those who love you?”

She dithered by consuming her tea, but her expression had become solemn. “I could not jeopardize Rose. Surely you did not expect me to let Moreland simply whisk her away?”

“Of course not, though surely
you
didn’t expect
me
to let you and Rose walk out of my life?”

“I thought it for the best.”

“Why?”

***

Douglas was here in Gwen’s kitchen, he was being civil and considerate, and she was going to bear his child. Gwen’s mind could not grasp those three happy facts entirely, but she could hear his tone of voice.

“Why?” Douglas asked. He wasn’t accusing. He was curious, as if he couldn’t puzzle the situation out without Gwen’s assistance. Gwen stood, took her empty teacup to the sink, then turned to face Douglas as he remained sitting on the bench a few feet away.

“Do we have to have this discussion?”

“We do,” Douglas said, glancing at her waist meaningfully.

“Promise me something first,” Gwen said, because Douglas’s word was utterly reliable. “Promise me you won’t seek retaliation against Moreland.”

Douglas’s expression cooled to that of the polite, distant viscount Gwen had met weeks ago. “You have my word.”

“Moreland made a few casual comments when we were alone in the stables,” Gwen said, shuddering at the memory. “He implied he would have David brought up on charges of maintaining a common nuisance for his ownership of the Pleasure House. He was also prepared to restart all the rumors about Gareth sabotaging the boat that sank with his family aboard years ago. For Andrew, recently back from years traveling abroad, the unhappy widow Pettigrew could be prevailed upon to stir up all manner of mischief. He’s a very inventive fellow, the duke, very determined. He confided in me—the old wretch. Told me his heart is troubling him, and he’s loathe to burden his family with that news, though he’s desperate for grandchildren. Can you believe he cares not so much for the succession as he does for leaving his duchess with more children to love?”

Douglas closed his eyes for the space of several heartbeats, then stood and crossed to her, coming so close she could smell the cedary fragrance of his shaving soap.

“And for me, Guinevere? It took me days to fathom the real threat hanging over you. Your family was willing to weather scandal on your behalf, and that you might have allowed. But what did the duke have planned for me?”

She had hoped he would not puzzle this out, but Douglas was a man who noticed details, particularly when those details affected
her
. Tears spilled down her cheeks, tears not for herself, not even for Rose, but for Douglas.

“Guinevere, you have to tell me.”

His scent wafted to Gwen as she stood a few inches and an ocean of regret away from him. Douglas hadn’t said he loved her, hadn’t said how he felt about the baby, hadn’t said he’d forgiven her. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and rejoice with him that they were to be parents, but he had come for answers, and to see Rose, not for Gwen.

All she had left to give him was the truth.

“Moreland said”—Gwen controlled her voice with limited success—“he said he’d known your father, knew how hard he was on the horses and the help, how profligate with the family finances. Peer or not, His Grace would have seen you ruined. He implied that he knew the extent of your late brother’s debts, knew how close to disaster your family had come. Not a passing scandal for you, Douglas, but complete ruin.”

“Merciful God.” Douglas’s hands fisted at his sides, and when Gwen peeked up at him, his eyes were closed, his jaw clenched. The silence in the kitchen filled with frustration and suppressed violence.

“So you think Moreland would have carried out his threats?” Her worst fear was that the duke’s intentions had been so outlandish, she’d been foolish to be swayed by them.

Douglas heaved a sigh and looked down at her, bringing his attention to her as if with great effort.

“He need not have carried out half of them. All he would have had to do,” Douglas replied, “was grumble a few innuendos in his club, or mutter about his suspicions in the Lords, and there is no telling where the momentum of gossip and maliciousness would have taken things, particularly given the tenuous nature of my finances at present. Your fears, Guinevere, were more than justified. And were Heathgate, Greymoor, Fairly, and myself aware of the nature of his threats, somebody would have been settling matters on a field of honor. Probably several somebodies, not any of whom were guaranteed to survive.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said, letting out a long exhale. Douglas might not forgive her, but he at least understood why she’d done what she’d done.

“We need to talk, Guinevere. It isn’t so cold outside. Will you walk with me?”

Gwen’s heart sank. Of course they would talk, about the baby, about what to tell the rest of the family, about what to tell Rose, but Douglas still hadn’t touched her, and that spoke volumes. She took down a worn cloak of brown velvet while Douglas shrugged back into his coat and left his scarf—a soft gray wool—dangling around his neck.

“Come,” he said, holding the door for her. When they gained the out-of-doors, he surprised Gwen by not offering his arm, but rather, by taking her bare hand in his. He walked her through the dreary winter gardens, the sunshine doing what it could to soften the crisp air.

Gwen waited for him to do this talking he seemed to think was so important, but he merely led her to a bench and sat beside her, still holding her hand. He sat with her thus for long, silent minutes, and Gwen had the sense he was trying not to put his thoughts together but to find the courage to speak them aloud.

“Douglas,” she said softly, “whatever it is, it can’t be so terrible as marrying a man I do not love without giving you my reasons. If you cannot see your way clear to continue our dealings, I will find a way to accept that.”

He glanced down at her, consternation in his eyes.

“Guinevere…” He brought her knuckles to his lips, then kept her hand in his and rested it on his thigh. He didn’t look at her again but began speaking in the soft, reasonable tones she’d come to expect from him.

“My parents,” Douglas said, looking out over the dreary landscape, “should not have had children. Moreland’s innuendos were very likely based on truth. My mother no longer went about in Society because she was too mortified by our circumstances. My brothers’ lives were monuments to self-indulgence and venality, which ultimately resulted in their untimely deaths.” The strength of Douglas’s grip on her hand was desperate. “My father and grandfather were no better. Before we traveled to Sussex, my thoughts dwelled on little else.”

He paused and hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees, shielding his face from her view. From his defensive posture, Gwen suspected he was battling mightily to maintain his dignity.

Still.

Gwen could not bear for Douglas to struggle so. “I vow, Douglas, Moreland should be pilloried for using such an unfortunate family history to get his hands on an innocent child. Perhaps his conscience plagues him, because he’s since sent Heathgate a sum to be held in trust for his granddaughter’s needs, and a florid little note about family misunderstandings and best intentions. You are free to give Moreland the rough edge of your tongue when next we see him.”

He shot a look over his shoulder, as if she spoke nonsense, which she did. She’d say anything, promise anything, to keep Douglas from parting from her in anger.

“
We
, Guinevere? Is there still a
we
for us, when I have hurt you? When I have doubted you and convinced myself you had played me false, cast me aside for a duke’s heir, when all along it was me you were protecting from the duke’s machinations? Not Rose,
me
. You had given me back parts of my soul I was resigned to living without, and still I doubted you.”

He was angry with himself, and that Gwen could not tolerate. “If you were truly convinced I’d thrown you over, you would not have stopped the wedding, and you would not be here today. And, Douglas”—she had to pause to swipe her knuckles over her cheek—“had
I
not doubted
you
, I would never have been at that church.”

She felt him absorb this, for it was the truth, and Douglas Allen dealt most easily with truths.

“I could not let you wed another Windham under false pretenses,” Douglas said. “You were legally married to Victor, and even when you eventually figured that out, you would not have repudiated Westhaven.”

“How did you know I was legally married?”

“Small clues,” Douglas replied. “I haven’t seen proof. Victor was surprised when you introduced his daughter to him as Rose Hollister. In hindsight, I gathered he expected her to be Rose Windham. And Victor knew his father, knew if there were evidence of marriage the duke would search it out and either destroy it or use it for ducal ends. Victor no doubt found a safe place for the documents, but we might perhaps never know where he secreted them.”

“He passed them to his mother,” Gwen said, “sealed in a letter to Rose, which was to be given to her upon his death. The duchess was too distraught at the loss of a second son and the marriage of the heir to attend to that detail until several days after the intended wedding. She didn’t know the letter to Rose contained the lines and the registry page.”

“Have you told Westhaven?”

“I haven’t wanted to see the man.” Did not
ever
want to see him, unless Douglas was with her to endure such a trial.

“Did Westhaven misbehave, Guinevere?” Douglas asked with ominous quiet.

“Not in any substantial way. He treated me with every courtesy and promised me a white marriage if that’s what I wanted.” And what did one brief, presumptuous kiss matter when Douglas was holding her hand?