Douglas: Lord of Heartache (28 page)

“How did you fare?” Heathgate asked.

“The duke was perfectly obnoxious,” Douglas replied, “but he calmed down when the duchess put a firm hand on the reins.”

“I trust you were ready to add your whip and spurs if necessary?” Heathgate patted his horse on the rump as a groom led it away.

“Guinevere had him in check. A bit of the home brewed and he was more humble.” Douglas sounded proud of her, which gave Gwen an odd pleasure.

Heathgate’s gaze shifted from the mare’s quarters to Gwen. “Is that how you’d characterize matters?”

“Close enough. Rose is to meet Their Graces at their home on the day after tomorrow. I can’t help but fear, however, that I’m being lulled into a sense of security I’ll come to regret.”

“What do you mean, Gwennie, and don’t think to spare my sensibilities?”

“The duke all but called me a strumpet, and made it clear he wants Rose but has no use for me. He did turn up sweet when Her Grace went to work, but I do not trust Rose’s grandpapa.”

Douglas whipped off his gloves. “He’s a wily old devil and wields considerable charm, though only when it suits his purposes. I don’t trust him, and given what we saw, I do not trust his sons to hold him accountable for his actions.”

Heathgate smiled an unpleasant smile. “Then you both might be interested to hear what Fairly had to say over breakfast this morning.”

As they made their way into the house, and Gwen absorbed what Heathgate had to pass along, she felt relief that David had located leverage to use against the duke.

But beneath the relief of having put the meeting with the duke behind them, beneath the fatigue dragging at her constantly, and beneath the comfort of knowing she was well supported, Gwen still felt a persistent sense of foreboding, a sense that if she blinked, her entire world would be knocked on its pins.

And she was increasingly certain when that happened, she would have to choose between her child and the man whom she loved more with each passing hour.

“Hello, Rose.” The duchess dipped gracefully to her haunches. “How are you today?”

“My stomach feels funny,” Rose said, gripping her mother’s hand while Douglas observed the exchange in silence. “Are you my grandmama?”

“I am. I am your papa’s mother, and this is his papa.”

Rose scowled up at the duke and dropped her mother’s hand to plant both small fists on her hips in a posture reminiscent of Guinevere in a taking. “You had better not say mean things to my papa or my uncle Gayle,” Rose admonished His Grace. “It isn’t nice.”

To Douglas’s unending surprise, the duke blinked then came down beside his wife.

“I apologize. I was very unhappy with your papa.” The duke cleared his throat and looked beseechingly at his wife, who seemed to be stifling a smile.

“You needed a nap,” Rose pronounced.

“I very probably did,” the duke allowed. “But I am quite well rested today, and I would like to introduce you to someone.”

“Another uncle?”

“No, not another uncle.” The duke rose and assisted his wife to do likewise. “Not yet, though you do have another uncle named Valentine and one named Devlin. You also have a proper gaggle of aunties, but they will have to wait their turn to make your acquaintance. This person I’d like you to meet lives in the stables, and he’s a very lonely fellow.”

The old reprobate was cozening his granddaughter, and he was a natural at it. Beside Douglas, Guinevere’s lips had flattened, and her expression had gone mulish.

“We have lads at Enfield,” Rose said, “so does Uncle Andrew. He has lots of lads and grooms.”

“Let’s fetch your cloak so you can meet this lad, shall we?” the duke suggested conspiratorially. “Her Grace will remain here, but your mama will want to come along. Westhaven”—the duke’s expression lost its genial quality—“you will entertain Amery in our absence, if you please.”

Westhaven bowed his acquiescence, a look of resignation crossing the Moreland heir’s face. Douglas accepted Guinevere’s cloak from a servant. As he fastened the frogs at her throat—doubtless a presumption in present company—and he presumed further by whispering, “courage,” just loudly enough that only Guinevere should have heard him.

She smiled faintly and trailed dutifully after her daughter, who was now holding the duke’s hand with every evidence of trust.

“Unscrupulous old buzzard,” Westhaven muttered when he and Douglas were alone. “I realize it’s early, but shall we fortify ourselves?”

“It’s late enough, and the day has been challenging,” Douglas allowed. “I suppose he’ll offer to give her that pony and then lament that Guinevere won’t have any room here in Town to keep the beast?”

“Oh, probably,” Westhaven said, handing Douglas his drink. “I love him, though I find it increasingly difficult to like him. He is upset about Victor’s illness, feels guilty for having been caught unawares by a granddaughter several years old, and is likely to behave badly as a consequence.” Westhaven stared out the window of the Moreland formal parlor as Rose traversed the back gardens, one hand held by her mother, the other by her grandfather. “He also no doubt feels guilty because he permitted my late brother Bart to join the military, and he is certain I will make a miserable excuse for a duke.”

“That’s rather harsh.”
And
what
were
all
these
confidences
in
aid
of, anyway?

“The miserable part is accurate enough,” Westhaven rejoined. “In truth, I don’t think my father is as hale as he once was, and his own death looming before him while a second son shuffles off this mortal coil has put him rather out of charity with the Almighty.”

“I’m sure God will muddle through somehow.” His Grace, Rose, and Guinevere disappeared into stables that looked as clean and tidy as the Moreland mansion itself.

“Amery,” Westhaven said, all humor gone. “Mad George and the Regent both know not to cross my father. Though I do not consider my interests the same as yours, I cannot warn you clearly enough you’re underestimating him.”

“Perhaps I underestimate His Grace,” Douglas said, eyeing his brandy, “and perhaps he underestimates the support available to Miss Hollister should she find herself in difficulties. Your father’s finances are dangerously overcommitted, my lord, and the funding for his linchpin canal project will be withdrawn, without notice or mercy, should he overstep his role of doting grandpapa. I trust you will advise him of this development should the need arise?”

“I would honestly rather not,” Westhaven said, tossing back his drink far too easily for the early hour. “Were that man to publicly fall flat on his arse even once, it would appease every instinct for justice in the known world. And then, just perhaps, I might wrestle the ducal finances into my own hands, where I can begin to put things to rights.”

What a curious disclosure to make to a virtual stranger—or was this where the posturing attendant to any negotiation became convincing? If so, Westhaven was both a brilliant strategist and a talented actor.

“Then I will have to convince His Grace either that he is not giving up on Rose by becoming merely her grandfather, or, in the alternative, that it will cost him something more dear than his wealth to pursue this beyond what Miss Hollister will tolerate.”

“You are not threatening to harm my father, I hope?” Westhaven asked with soft menace.

“Oh, for God’s sake. You, yourself are threatening to withhold information he would find quite useful, Westhaven. I am no more a threat to your dear papa than he is to Rose or Miss Hollister.” And that was nothing more than fact.

Douglas took a sip of brandy, the very quality of which suggested the ducal resources would be formidable too, despite what Fairly had passed along regarding the Windham family finances.

“I hope your intentions are benign,” Westhaven said, staring out the window toward the stables, “for I have no wish—no wish whatsoever—to assume Moreland’s place.”

That much was obvious, and Douglas did not envy the man what lay before him. “Yours is not a happy family.” Though compared to the Allen family, the Windhams seemed to muddle along adequately. Douglas spared his mother a silent prayer, though whether for recovery or for admittance to the celestial realm, he could not say.

“Would you be happy were your brother dying?” Westhaven asked.

“My brothers are both dead,” Douglas said, “and yet happiness is within my abilities.” He wasn’t boasting—the words were a surprise to him, and yet they were true.

They had become true when he’d made a certain journey to Sussex.

“I shall be inspired by your example, then,” Westhaven said, refilling his glass. Westhaven might well be slowly getting himself drunk, though seeing the despair in the earl’s green eyes, Douglas felt not disgust, but compassion.

“If it weren’t for the way His Grace dotes on my mother and sisters,” Westhaven began, but he caught himself and offered Douglas a rueful smile. “Shall we join the others in the stables, Amery, or philosophize away our afternoon over cards and liquor?”

“I would prefer to keep an eye on His Grace, if you don’t mind.”

And on Guinevere.

And Rose.

When they got to the stables, Rose stood on a box, grooming a fat, furry bay pony known as George. George was in equine transports to have the attention, and the duke stood by, beaming at one and all.

While Guinevere was pale, tense, and making a visible effort to hold herself together. Douglas took a position beside and slightly behind her, standing a trifle closer than propriety allowed.

“If you groom him much longer, Rose,” Douglas said, “you will have more of his coat on you than he has on himself. I believe there’s a playroom in the house your grandmother would like to show you.”

“Cousin Douglas,” Rose caroled, “this is George, but I am going to call him Sir George, and he looks just like Sir Regis. He’s a bit shorter, so I might be able to ride him by myself. Grandpapa says I may have him, because George is lonely, but I will have to come here to visit him.”

“How lovely,” Douglas remarked, larding his comment with sufficient irony to penetrate even the duke’s thick skull. “I’ll bet George will canter for you, too, won’t you, George? But George doesn’t have to live here in his lonely stall, Rose,” Douglas went on. “You have plenty of room for him at Enfield, or even at your cousin Andrew’s stud farm at Oak Hall. We could also keep him on one of your cousin Gareth’s twenty-two different properties, or at a holding of dear Cousin David’s, who has land on at least three continents.”

Douglas met the duke’s glare and charged on, heedless that he was engaging in tactics as childish as the duke’s. “Of course, I can only add my few properties to the available list, but they are all close at hand, and each has adequate mews as well. If your grandpapa has truly given you this pony, you may choose from one of many, many other places to keep him besides this
lonely
stall here at your grandpapa’s.”

Rose’s hand stilled. “George can stay at Enfield with me, like Daisy used to?”

“If he is truly yours.” Douglas shot a cool stare at the duke, daring His Infernal Almighty Grace to take away the equine bait he’d dangled before Rose.

“Is he truly,
truly
mine, Grandpapa?” Rose asked, heart in her eyes.

The pony’s grooming having been interrupted, the little beast stamped an impatient hoof.

“I suppose he is,” the duke conceded. “I gave him to you, so he’s yours. Shall we go tell your grandmama?”

And so back to the house they went, Rose tugging on her grandfather’s hand, Guinevere silent on Douglas’s arm, and Westhaven sending Douglas brooding looks from Guinevere’s other side.

“And when will you be coming back to visit us again?” the duchess asked her granddaughter as the party gathered later to say their farewells.

“Mama?” Rose asked, swinging her mother’s hand. Guinevere’s glance slid furtively to the duke’s bland smile before she met the duchess’s eyes.

“Any time Your Grace would like,” she said. “Rose and I have unlimited welcome in my aunt’s households, and estate matters at Enfield are quiet this time of year.”

If Douglas hadn’t been looking directly at the duke, he would have missed the gleam of satisfaction in the older man’s eyes. It flickered, unnervingly bright, and then disappeared.

As soon as Douglas had mother and daughter ensconced in the coach, Rose began to blather merrily about her new pony, though Guinevere looked almost haggard. Her complexion was pale, her expression taut, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and nameless dark emotions.

When they got to Lady Heathgate’s stables, Rose hopped out and bounded down the barn aisle, squealing her delight to find her cousin Andrew unsaddling his tall black gelding.

“Magic!” Rose crowed to the horse.

Magic, not the steadiest of fellows generally, nonetheless met the oncoming charge by lowering his big head to Rose’s level and sniffing at her delicately.

“Greymoor.” Douglas nodded a greeting to Guinevere’s younger cousin. “Guinevere and I would be in your debt were you able to keep Miss Rose occupied for a few minutes.”

“Hullo, Gwennie.” Greymoor swung under his horse’s neck to greet them. He hugged Guinevere with one arm around her shoulders, then stepped back and frowned, surveying her. “Town life is not agreeing with you, sweetheart. Shall I take you and Rose back home with me?”

To Douglas’s shock, that simple, barely teasing comment shattered Guinevere’s control. She turned and fled, tears falling, leaving Rose, Greymoor, and Douglas to gape after her.

“Why is Mama crying?”

Douglas lifted Rose up and tossed her onto his back.

“She needs a nap, Rose,” Douglas improvised. “She very badly needs a nap.”

As
do
I, preferably in the same bed at the same time.

“Greymoor, until later?” Douglas bowed low enough to provoke giggles from the child on his back then followed Guinevere into the house. A nursery maid took over the job of putting Rose down for a nap, and when Douglas caught up with Guinevere, he found her in her bedroom, sound asleep.

He debated the kindness of waking her when she clearly needed rest, but it simply wasn’t in him to wait for an explanation for her tears, for her brittle mood, for the despair he’d glimpsed in her eyes. Anxiety nagged at him, a sense that doom was closing in on them even as death stalked Rose’s father.

“Guinevere.” He spoke her name quietly and got no result. Thinking to do no more than hold her, he eased his coat, boots, and stockings off and slid onto the bed beside her, and thank a merciful God, she was at least wearing her chemise.

“Guinevere,” he murmured, lips near her ear. “My dear, we must talk.”

He sensed when she drifted up from sleep before her eyes opened. Lying on her back, she gazed up at him with such hopelessness, Douglas’s sense of foreboding nudged toward panic.

“What?” He brushed his fingers across her forehead. “What did Moreland threaten you with? Tell me, Guinevere, and I will see him held accountable.”

Brave words from a penniless viscount, when it was a powerful duke whose actions were in question.

She brought her hand up to cradle his jaw. “Make love to me, Douglas. I need you to make love to me.”