Douglas: Lord of Heartache (22 page)

For once, an equestrian analogy made Andrew wince. He went to the sideboard and poured a round of whiskeys, ignoring the pond-muck scent emanating from the spent bouquet. “Westhaven must have understood how badly Victor behaved on his wedding night, or he would never have allowed Gwen to flee the marriage.”

“Or maybe,” Fairly suggested, folding the letter and setting it aside, “Westhaven hoped the damned wedding was indeed a sham. Gwen is the mere granddaughter of an obscure earl who came very late to his title.”

“But what is Westhaven up to now?” Heathgate wondered aloud, accepting a drink from Andrew. “And where is Victor?”

“In Town,” Fairly supplied. “His social calendar has become increasingly inactive over the past few years, and it is rumored he does not enjoy good health, though the details are vague. If he’s given Gwen the French compliment, I will be hard put not to hasten the man’s death.”

On that lowering thought—when was any conversation improved by mention of syphilis?—Andrew took a bracing swallow of his drink.

“If I find my cousin has been raped, lied to, and abandoned to raise a child on her own,” Heathgate said, “I will at the least challenge the man responsible.”

And those whom Heathgate challenged tended not to enjoy a pleasant old age.

“As would I,” Andrew said, though he favored winging his opponents—usually.

“But if the bastard doing the abusing turns out to be her lawful spouse,” Fairly said, “then what you propose is murder in the eyes of the Crown.”

As
if
that
mattered?

“And we would be tried in the Lords and acquitted,” Heathgate growled.

“Only to be subsequently drawn and quartered,” Fairly countered pleasantly, “by my sisters.”

“And there, my logic fails.” Heathgate tossed back his drink and handed the glass to Andrew. “We’re left with nothing to do but bide our time until Gwen and Amery return, and then take our cue from Gwen. Then too, the ladies might have some ideas.”

“I’ll put it to Astrid,” Andrew said, collecting Fairly’s glass.

“And I will arrange a jaunt out to that chapel near Richmond,” Fairly said, looking thoughtful—which generally boded ill for somebody. “Shall we return at week’s end?”

“Plan on it,” Heathgate replied. “And attend to a bit of target practice and swordsmanship in the meanwhile.”

Before departing, they chose a time to gather again, and on his way out, Fairly paused by the spent bouquet. “Best tell the staff to tidy up in here. Gwen will not appreciate a mess like this in her study, much less that foul odor.”

He touched a tired blossom, and petals showered the sideboard and the carpet. Andrew bellowed for a footman and hoped a passing stink was the worst of the problems Gwen would face.

Breakfast passed quickly, with both adults complimenting Rose on the progress she’d made with her attempts to improve her company manners. When all had finished eating, Gwen bade Rose to retrieve Mr. Bear and her small traveling satchel.

“So how much did you hear?” Douglas asked, topping off their teacups.

“Hear?” Gwen had a suspicion about what he was really asking.

“You lurked in the doorway to the nursery this morning when I stopped off to listen to Rose’s final report. You heard some of our exchange.”

“I heard you tell Rose you loved her,” Gwen said, feeling an ache in the center of her chest. “For that, I will always be grateful.”

“It’s the simple truth, Guinevere.” Douglas added sugar to his tea and stirred at exactly the same tempo he always stirred his tea. “She’s too bright to accept anything less.”

His tone was brisk, but Gwen wasn’t fooled. Douglas didn’t merely love Rose, he was attached to her, and he dreaded the possibility she too might be taken from him.

“I love you, you know,” Gwen said, wishing she’d given him the words under more auspicious circumstances.

Douglas set his teacup down and closed his eyes as if in pain. “Must you, Guinevere?”

“It’s the simple truth,” she quoted him. “You are too bright to accept anything less.”

He opened his eyes, and Gwen found humor and regret in his expression. “You are braver than I, and I thank you for the declaration, untimely though it may be. The sentiment is, of course, reciprocated.”

“Say it,” Gwen said, ready to beg if she had to. “Just once, Douglas, please?”

He considered his tea. He folded his serviette and placed it near his plate. He arranged his cutlery just so, then he stood and went to where the bright, chilly sunshine streamed in the window.

“Come here, Guinevere, if you please.” When she joined him, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him.

“The weeks spent with you here have been the happiest I can recall. You have put warmth, affection, and meaning in the empty places inside me. You have challenged me, touched me, teased me, and confounded me by turns. Your generosity and strength put me in awe of you, your integrity and determination put me to shame. I love you, I will always love you, and I will always be glad I love you, come what may. Because of you, there is a joy in me, Guinevere, even as we face separation, difficulties, and unknown challenges. You have no idea how much you have restored to me, and all I can do in return is offer you my love, little comfort though that may be.”

His sentiments, offered so quietly, buffeted her with the strength of an emotional gale. “Douglas, how will we ever bear what lies ahead?”

“You shall.
We
shall.
I can bear it because I know even though we might part, we bear it together.”

Gwen simply held him, unable to respond. She didn’t share his sense of optimism, didn’t believe they could have any kind of life together, at least not without it costing her—costing them both—Rose. Maybe Douglas could have faith enough for them both.

Or maybe even Douglas’s great determination would not be equal to the challenges they faced.

***

The journey home started with the entire estate staff turning out to see the travelers off. Douglas rode out on Regis, and Gwen and Rose contented themselves with talk of home—particularly talk of Daisy—throughout much of the morning. They made good time, the roads having no traffic and the lanes being frozen rather than muddy.

The morning set the tone for the entire journey. Rose was pleasant and easily distracted by short jaunts on Regis’s back, the weather was cold but dry and sunny. Douglas parted from them after supper at night, and met them the next day over breakfast. Part of Gwen resented the separation; another part of her understood it was preparation for the greater separation to come.

All too soon, the heavy coach lumbered up the drive to Willowdale, where Gwen planned to spend a night before traveling on to Enfield the next day. Abruptly, the prospect of facing her cousins, most especially the marquess, was not the insignificant detail she’d tried to label it.

Neither was facing her cousin, the earl, or their in-law, the viscount—much less the ladies.

So Gwen climbed down from the coach and took Douglas’s arm with her chin held high. Rose fell silent beside her, clutching her mother’s hand as a cold wind whipped up the drive.

“The prodigal returns,” Heathgate growled, stepping down off the front terrace and striding up to the coach. Gwen dropped Douglas’s arm and raised her chin another fraction of an inch.

“I am back,” Gwen countered. Gareth wouldn’t upbraid her before Rose; he was enough of a parent himself to behave better than that. Her cousin studied her for long moments, his expression stern and unreadable.

“About time,” Gareth said, putting his hands on her shoulders and pulling her against him. “About damned time you came back to us, Guinevere Hollister.”

Gwen returned his embrace with a sudden, fierce joy. “I am back,” she said again, hugging him tightly, both laughter and tears threatening.

“Cousin Douglas,” Rose whispered, “Cousin Gareth is squashing my mama.”

“That I am.” Heathgate stepped back from Gwen and scooped Rose up. “And now I’m going to squash
you
.” He hugged Rose against his chest and made loud papa-bear noises as he pretended to squash her in his arms.

“Gareth,” Felicity’s soft voice chided from behind him. “Put the poor child down before you make her ill.”

“Shall I squash you too, my dear?” Heathgate asked, as he did, indeed, carefully return Rose to terra firma.

“What?” Douglas inquired. “No threat of violence for me, Heathgate?”

The marquess pulled Douglas into a quick hug and thumped him between the shoulder blades, perhaps the first time Gwen had seen Douglas surprised.

“You’d leave too big a mess were I to squash you properly.”

Felicity followed up her husband’s greetings with more ladylike hugs and kisses to cold, rosy cheeks, then ordered everyone inside, where hot drinks awaited. To Gwen’s delight, Andrew, his wife Astrid, and David waited for her in the entry hall, and more hugs and greetings were exchanged before Felicity had Rose on her way to the nursery and the adults ensconced in the library.

Gareth took up his seat on the desk, Andrew and Astrid perched on the hearth, and David lounged against the French doors, while Gwen and Douglas sat beside each other on the long couch facing the hearth.

Without touching, because that was how it must be.

“You will wait until I at least have some hot tea in these people before you begin your inquisition,” Felicity warned her husband.

“Yes, my love. Douglas takes all the sugar you have in the house in his, but it won’t sweeten his disposition one bit.”

“I will buy the property in Sussex,” Douglas said, “if only to ensure my neighbors are not also my relations.”

Gareth looked around the room when Felicity had everyone’s teacup filled. “Any more obligatory insults? All right then, Gwen, prepare yourself, for we’re no end of confused regarding this little contretemps you’re in.”

This contretemps was huge, but Gwen loved her cousin for referring to it otherwise. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Well, for starts, are you married or not?” Andrew tossed out the question then followed it up with an apologetic smile.

“I honestly don’t know,” Gwen said—and how oddly simple it was to admit something she’d kept bottled up inside for years. “Victor claimed the ceremony was a sham, but only after he complained at length to me about what a dismal spouse I was going to make. The revelation that we were not truly married was withheld until his brother came upon us the next morning.”

“Did Victor have a license?” Gareth asked.

“I saw something that certainly looked like a license, but I haven’t seen any other to compare it to.”

“The registry of that little chapel north of Richmond has had the last few pages carefully excised,” David said. “My guess is the facility fell into disuse shortly after your visit there, or that it already had. Somebody got there before I did and removed any evidence that could support—or undermine—the legitimacy of your nuptials.”

And he had made this journey without Gwen having to ask it of him.

“Are you suggesting the marriage is legal, but Victor wants to suppress evidence of that?” Gareth looked none too pleased with the notion.

“It’s one theory,” David said. “Perhaps he’s met another lady. Perhaps he’s sired another child, and he’s hoping for a boy this time. Perhaps in a surfeit of well-deserved guilt, he sought to support the outcome Gwen said she wanted.”

Did David have to have such a facility for hypothesizing? “This grows complicated,” Gwen said, and yet the urge to reach for Douglas’s hand was so simple.

“It does,” Gareth replied. “Did you know, Gwen, that Gayle Windham is now heir to the Moreland dukedom?”

He put the question so casually, and yet, it was not a positive development. “I believe that makes Victor the spare and the only one of the remaining brothers to marry,
if
he married me.” And the spare’s first duty was to see to the succession. Also his second, and his third.

“I don’t suppose Westhaven is considering matrimony any time in the near future?” Douglas posed the question to the room at large.

“He is not,” Gareth said. “My mother has checked her trap lines and found no gossip to that effect in any quarter. He’s considered eligible, if dull, and unenthusiastic about his marital responsibilities.”

“So what does Gayle Windham want with me?” Gwen asked. “And does he know he’s an uncle?” The library was warm, and the support of Gwen’s family also a comfort. Douglas’s quiet presence beside her was the dearest comfort of all.

“I doubt Windham knows about Rose,” Andrew said. “We’ve had no casual inquiries of the household staff regarding a small child. Nobody has seen strangers about the property, not even in passing. Hell, Gwen, if we didn’t know about Rose until last year, you can bet any member of the Windham family, ensconced in Town and socially in demand, would have no clue as to her existence.”

From there, the discussion moved on to speculation regarding the purpose for Westhaven’s call, and Gwen’s next move. After much consideration, Gwen penned the earl a note stating that she would anticipate a call from him at his convenience. She agreed with her cousins nothing would be gained by dodging the confrontation Westhaven sought, and much could be learned. Gwen handed the epistle off to Gareth for delivery, and Felicity declared the war council at an end.

For now.

***

“You and Rose are home. How does it feel?”

As conversational gambits went, Douglas didn’t consider his question particularly inspired, but it served to gain Guinevere’s attention as he escorted her through the dead gardens to the Enfield manor house.

“Coming home isn’t the relief I thought it would be,” she said as they reached the entrance hall. “I thought Enfield was my sanctuary, but with Westhaven’s visit looming, this place no longer feels as safe. It’s still home, though.”

“So you and Rose have both had your peace cut up with this homecoming,” Douglas observed, slapping his gloves on his thigh.

“You aren’t going to stay for a bit?”

He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay for the rest of his life, building walls and barricades to keep the Windhams of the world away, and to keep one mother and her child safe from all of life’s difficulties. “I will come in, if you think it advisable.”

“I do,” Guinevere said, her chin coming up. “I’ll ring for tea. Now off with that coat, and stop looking so dour. You’ve already told Rose her pony died, surely nothing could be more onerous than that.”

They’d handled that chore on the ride over, with Rose sitting up before Douglas on Sir Regis—and a miserable, damned, two-handkerchief business it had been, putting positively grim overtones to a situation already ominous.

“I can think of at least one thing worse than Rose’s pony dying,” Douglas said. “Saying good-bye to you.” At the stricken look in Guinevere’s eyes, he regretted his words. They were true, of course they were, but one needn’t utter every inane, painful truth that came to mind. “I am sorry. My remark was thoughtless.”

“Perhaps you don’t want to stay for tea?” she retorted, her voice carefully controlled.

Oh, lovely. Now she was aiming her ire at him.
“It is more the case that I dare not stay for tea, but I will not allow us to part in anger or confusion, Guinevere. I’d rather make my good-byes to you in private, however.”

Her bravado wavered, and she led him to the small informal parlor where she’d first agreed to journey with him to Linden.

“It hits me now, it has been hitting me for the past few days, really, that we truly are going to part.” She spoke with her back to him, looking out the window facing the stables. “My mind won’t accept the reality of it, but my heart is breaking all the same.”

She’d closed the door, which saved him the trouble. Douglas locked it then slipped his arms around her waist without turning her to face him.

“I would never have engaged your affections had I known how painful this was going to be for you. I am more sorry than I can say, Guinevere.”

“If I hurt, Douglas Allen, it is only because I understand the magnitude of the loss I will suffer when you walk out that door.”

Did she have to be so damnably brave? “I will walk out the door, Guinevere. I am not yet ready to walk out of your life.” As a gentleman, he ought not to have said that last part, not to a woman who could well be married to the son of a duke. As a man who had made love with her and who loved her, he had to give her the words—the assurances.

She turned in his arms to face him. A shaft of sunlight fell across Guinevere’s brow, revealing fatigue as well as beauty. “So what will you do now, Douglas?”

Weep, possibly. Get blind drunk, very likely
.

“I am to be a guest of the marquess for the next week or so,” Douglas replied. “All of my properties in Town are for sale, and because my solicitor has had no luck finding a purchaser, Heathgate has put his man of business to the task. I didn’t want to return to Town only to find prospective buyers interrupting my morning tea.” And he’d been damned sure he wasn’t going to repair to his own family seat, there to be harangued by his aging mama about the need to secure the damned succession.