Douglas: Lord of Heartache (27 page)

Douglas resisted the urge to wrap his arms around Guinevere again. If you are not married to Victor, then marriage to me puts any other marriage for you out of consideration, at least during my lifetime.”

Guinevere shook her head, and even that gesture looked tired to Douglas—tired and defeated. “Marrying you might make me a bigamist—don’t you think the duke will pounce on that, bring charges, snatch Rose, and so forth?”

Would Moreland brand Rose’s mother a criminal? Douglas considered the peer who’d verbally court-martialed two grown sons in the park, and came up with an answer between maybe and quite possibly.

“That is a risk. But I suspect the duke will have you marrying one or the other of his sons directly. I can think of no other way to spike his guns.”

And not for lack of trying, and trying, and trying yet again.

“One or the other of his sons?” Apparently Guinevere hadn’t allowed herself to consider that there were three ducal sons yet in whacking good health. “I may already be married to one of his sons. Whatever are you talking about?”

He was talking about a fate he could not countenance, not for Guinevere, not for himself. Douglas also could not stand to have this conversation at a distance, so he settled for taking both her hands in his.

“Assuming you are unwed, the duke will likely be unable to force Victor to marry you, Victor’s health making it harder to bully him. That leaves Westhaven, with whom you get on well enough, whom Rose has met, whom we both know to be a dutiful, marriageable son. It also leaves Valentine Windham, who, if rumors are to be believed, would have little objection to a white marriage if it allowed him to remain in the country with his music. And there’s a firstborn bastard, Devlin St. Just, who served honorably against the Corsican.”

She scowled up at him but did not drop his hands. “Where do you get such notions? The duke would not…” But her protest died, perhaps as she recalled the scene in the park. “I was worried before,” she said, going back into Douglas’s arms. “I am terrified now.”

“Don’t be terrified. You have allies, and for whatever it’s worth, you have me.” She nodded, but Douglas knew his words had provided little comfort.

To either of them.

“You need rest, Guinevere.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I will be in my own quarters, as they’ve yet to sell,” Douglas said. “I’ll be with you in spirit until I collect you for our meeting with the Windhams. Tonight, you must sleep, and things will look less daunting in the morning.”

The door opened, admitting Heathgate. The marquess raised a sardonic brow. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Douglas replied, not removing so much as a finger from the person of the lady, for his hands upon her person had been intended for her comfort. He was immensely gratified that Guinevere also made no move to leave his embrace. For good measure, he kissed her cheek then forced himself to step back.

“Good night, Guinevere.” He looked down at her, troubled by the fatigue and upset he saw in her eyes. “Sleep well.”

He let her go and waited while her cousin wrapped her in a fierce hug before bidding her good night and sending her up to bed. An hour later, Douglas and Heathgate had each won a hand of cribbage, the brandy decanter had been soundly defeated, and yet—even aided by the brandy decanter—neither man had come up with one hopeful or encouraging thought regarding Guinevere’s dealings with the duke.

***

Westhaven had the dubious honor of moderating the discussion among the group arranged in the ducal formal parlor, and Douglas didn’t envy him the job.

His Grace wanted to bluster and rant as befit a cavalry-officer-turned-duke, Her Grace looked like she wanted to cry, Guinevere clearly wanted to leave, while Victor…

If Victor hadn’t exactly looked forward to death before, he was probably contemplating it a bit more fondly as the morning progressed.

“I am here,” Guinevere said, “at Victor’s request, and I would like to hear what
Victor
has to say.”

“What
Victor
has to say,” the duke barked, “is of no moment, young woman. You and he have conspired to drag the name of this family through the mud, to deprive my only grandchild of the loving care I would see her provided with, to
upset
my
duchess
, and to render what little honor remains to your own family a joke in very poor taste.”

“Victor?” Guinevere asked pleasantly in the pause while the duke gathered momentum.

Victor tugged at the cuff of a beautiful dove-gray morning coat that had likely stopped fitting him two years ago. “I’d spare you this if I could.”

“If that’s all you have to say, Victor, then I can spare myself,” Guinevere said, rising.

“Miss Hollister,” Westhaven interceded, “please have a seat. His Grace is understandably upset.”

“We are all understandably upset,” Guinevere shot back, “but only His Grace is behaving with less decorum than a five-year-old.” A look that contained both humor and foreboding passed between the brothers, but it was perfectly translatable to Douglas as well.

“And that,” the duke volleyed, “is
precisely
the kind of disrespectful, impertinent influence my granddaughter should no longer be exposed to.”

Firing his big guns early in the battle, typical of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

“If I might be so bold?” Douglas kept his tone deferential.

The duke looked surprised Douglas could speak, but Victor looked hopeful, and Westhaven relieved.

“The duke and duchess have every right to feel their trust has been abused,” Douglas began, “but Miss Hollister has come here, has in fact entertained Westhaven in her home, and introduced Victor to his daughter in an attempt to create trust, not destroy it. It is unfortunate Their Graces learned of Rose’s existence in the manner they did, but Miss Hollister was quite appropriately leaving the determination of how to tell them to Victor. And he,” Douglas finished in the same tone he’d use on a skittish horse, “has not had time to absorb the news of his paternity before finding a way to bring the situation to the attention of others.”

“He had time to tell his damned brother,” the duke groused, but Douglas’s diplomatic homily had mollified him, no doubt to the relief of all present.

“The question before us,” Douglas went on, “is how we might each, as adults who care for Rose, work together in her best interests.”

“That is a pretty speech, sir,” the duke said, “but when the girl’s mother keeps her existence from her father until she receives his deathbed summons, then we’ve established such a woman cannot act in her daughter’s best interests.”

“Westhaven,” Guinevere said icily, her gaze trained steadily on Victor, “Their Graces remain ignorant of certain facts, and it is not my place to malign my daughter’s father to his parents.”

“Victor?” The duchess spoke up for the first time, her tone gently bewildered.

“It’s complicated, Your Grace.” Victor’s expression had become stoically blank and fixed on the toes of his shiny boots—Hoby, if Douglas weren’t mistaken.

“Then you had best begin your explanation, boy,” the duke blustered.

“I did not behave honorably,” Victor said. He directed his words to Guinevere, and Douglas heard both apology and profound regret in his admission.

“We damned well know that much,” the duke expostulated. “But why shouldn’t I have this woman arrested for prostitution?”

“Because I didn’t pay her one farthing?” Victor replied, a flush suffusing his pale features. “Because I used her badly indeed, lied to her, abused her good name, broke my word to her as a gentleman, and then convinced myself my abandonment of her had no lasting consequences to her, but was, in fact, the best I had to offer her?”

Victor dissolved into a fit of wracking coughs, and the duke fell silent, watching his son with eyes that abruptly looked old and tired.

“I raised you to be a gentleman,” Moreland said. “And you are a disappointment to me and to your mother.”

“Moreland,” the duchess reproved. “You are not a disappointment, Victor.”

“He is,” huffed the duke.

“Disappointment I may be,” Victor said, seeming to find some resolve, “but I am also Rose’s father, and I have behaved in a manner that does not allow you to cast aspersion on her mother. Miss Hollister would have been within her rights to have me called out, and the marquess, I am sure, would have cheerfully settled the matter for her.”

The duke blinked. “Marquess?”

Guinevere raised her chin in a manner that did not bode well for the civility of the proceedings. “My cousin, Your Grace. The Marquess of Heathgate, my other cousin being the Earl of Greymoor, my cousin by marriage being Viscount Fairly, and through those connections, I am also family to Lord Amery.”

“And none of ’em could keep your virtue safe,” the duke pointed out with satisfaction.

“The only threat to her virtue,” Westhaven countered implacably, “was raised in the ducal household, Your Grace.” The duke looked chagrined at his heir’s reproof, but Guinevere—bless her, damn her—seized the opening.

“So what is it you want of me, Your Grace?”

“Nothing,” the duke snapped. “From you, nothing. All I want is my granddaughter. She is to be raised with the privileges and standing of a duke’s granddaughter, and that is all there is to say on the matter.”

Moreland had raised two by-blows with his eight legitimate progeny. Douglas gave the man credit for not even mentioning the question of Rose’s legitimacy—fleeting credit.

“And how do you hope to gain possession of Rose, when she has both mother and father able to care for her?” Guinevere parried.

“Her father”—the duke shot a pitying look at Victor—“is not able to care for himself, though it pains me to say so before either my sons or my duchess. Her mother is a female. Unavoidable, but there you have it.”

“Your Grace has spoken in haste.” The duchess looked less concerned and more affronted. “Guard your tongue, if you please.”

Startled, the duke turned to his wife, perhaps realizing too late he’d blustered past the lines permitted him by his bride. “Apologies, my dear. Meant no offense—to you, that is.”

“You just offended mothers the world over, Moreland. Rose has known only her mother’s care, and she is clearly a delightful child. You cannot expect Rose will appreciate the grandpapa who tore her from her mother’s loving arms. If the child has one-tenth of her grandsire’s stubbornness, you will have lost the match with your opening moves.”

“But, Your Grace,” the duke retorted, “our only grandchild must have
every
advantage, particularly when the same has been denied her for the first five years of her life.”

In the duke’s words, Douglas heard an interesting—an
encouraging
—note of wheedling.

“Your granddaughter has never known material want,” Guinevere said. “She has been raised at Enfield, my grandfather’s baronial estate, where within the limits of proper discipline, she has been given everything a child needs to thrive, excepting perhaps, the love of her father. For that last, I have already apologized to Victor. I apologize to you and Her Grace as well, for having denied Rose the benefit of association with you. Given the circumstances of her birth, however, I could not be sure you would welcome her into your lives, or that you wouldn’t try to wrest her from me and my family.”

In the silence that followed, a look passed between the duke and duchess, one that spoke of love, understanding, and decades of shared life and loss. This silent communication fascinated Douglas even as it broke his heart. From the tenor of the discussion, it was clear Douglas and Guinevere were not going to have the opportunity to develop such a depth of understanding with each other.

“I would like to meet my granddaughter,” the duke said, “and under propitious circumstances, if you please.”

The entire room breathed a sigh of relief, because the duke’s reasonable request—albeit stated as anything but—signaled a departure from the name-calling and posturing.

“I’m sure Rose would like to meet you too,” Guinevere said, giving the duchess a look of gratitude. Somehow, when Her Grace had expressed her displeasure with Moreland’s disparagement of motherhood, the duke had become human. He’d become capable of acting like a loving, if high-handed, grandpapa.

“Your Grace,” Westhaven addressed his mother, “I’ll ring for tea, if you’d pour. I’m sure you have questions for Miss Hollister about our Rose.”

Our
Rose.
Douglas didn’t know if Westhaven made a diplomatic overture with his words, or a bid for possession. He did know another cup of perishing tea would be a trial.

“Miss Hollister,” the duchess began in tentative, if pleasant, tones, “perhaps you could tell us a little more about the child?”

“What would you like to know?”

“Anything,” the duchess said quietly. “Anything at all.”

***

Two hours later, the farewells were observed with the protocol necessary in the presence of such exalted company—protocol that struck Gwen as ludicrous given how Moreland had comported himself.

Almost as ludicrous as Douglas taking the backward-facing seat in the coach.

“For the love of God, would you please sit beside me?” She wanted him to do more than that—much more, even in a moving vehicle, but contented herself with his arm around her shoulders when he shifted seats. “Can you imagine what a Tartar the duke was as a younger father?”

“He might have been less autocratic,” Douglas replied, “but even half the current complement of self-assurance would be a difficult thing in one’s sire. The duchess is delightful, however, and your ally.”

In Douglas’s calm assessment of the situation, Gwen gained a measure of peace, but only a measure.

“She is not my ally. She is the duke’s ally, first, and maybe Rose’s, second, then her sons—though that’s a near thing—and with whatever kindness and civility is remaining, she will not oppose me.”

He did not argue with Gwen, when she wished he would. Heathgate met them in the mews, which meant Gwen had to keep her hands more or less to herself when she wanted to cling to Douglas and not let him out of her sight.