Heaven Sent the Wrong One (15 page)

Perhaps he had a sweetheart back home
—wherever that was, she realized how little she actually knew about him. He must have changed his mind and decided to return to his true love—the girl that he truly wanted to marry. Or perhaps... perhaps he wanted to aim higher. He was an extremely attractive man, after all. Too good for a simple maidservant like her. Perhaps he had a lady with better standing waiting for him. He'd tendered his resignation to his employer and informed him of his plans—perhaps right after they'd returned from the fair, before Mister Carlyle left with Anna. The very last night they'd shared—where he'd asked her to marry him out of the blue—and she'd agreed without thinking.

Alexandra felt the burn of hot tears behind her eyes, but she could no longer allow herself to cry
—so she laughed aloud instead, even as the tears trailed down the side of her face.

"My lady
—are you alright?" Thomas peered at her with concern as she wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hands.

"Yes. Yes
—I'm fine. Let's go home," she replied with a chuckle, wondering if she'd gone mad. The whole ordeal had been madness in itself—a bundle of confusion and illogical decisions so unlike her old, practical self. What had she been thinking, dashing about half the country after a man she hardly knew? It was a good thing she had not revealed her true identity to him. She must have temporarily lost her mind to believe that something could come out of an illicit affair—for that was what it truly had been. A fortnight of insanity capped by a passionate tumble in bed that caught her off guard and corrupted her sensibilities. Thirteen days of living in a fantasy—lost in love with the man of her dreams—whom she was well aware of—was the wrong one.

The empty laughter died on her lips.

She'd loved, lost, and learned two things from her "adventure"—a more fitting term for her brief sojourn in Bath. Her virginity—which she did not regret, and her heart—which would eventually heal with time.

And, as for Andrew
—his handsome face appeared in her mind, just like it always did every time she closed her eyes—she never really lost him.

He had never been hers to s
tart with.

She peered out the window and stared at the lush, beautiful grounds of Rose Hill as the carriage sped away from the estate. For reasons she could not explain, she saw herself running across the wide lawn with a little boy and a little girl with
honey-blond hair, into the arms of a tall, handsome man who had a remarkable resemblance to the children.

Their children.

She pressed a quivering hand to her mouth, mourning the dream that would never be.

"Goodbye, Andrew," she whispered against the glass,
watching through tear-filled eyes as the illusion slowly faded into thin air—until nothing else remained.

Except the broken pieces of her heart.

Sow the Wind

Six weeks later

White's

St. James Street, London

J
eremiah Devlin Huntington, the Marquess of Waterford, leaned on the doorframe in the gaming room with a glass of brandy in his hand. He shook his head in dismay as he watched his brother-in-law, Allayne, lose another hand at cards, and beckon the footman to pour him another drink.

He had been sitting in the same chair since dusk and now the clock was signaling the fourth hour of the morning. His cravat hung shoddily about his neck and his coat was pleated in wrinkles. Within a single month, he had gone
through the two, perfectly good valets Morton had hired to take Andy's place. The last one promptly tendered his resignation after he found himself staring at the barrel of his master's pistol when he tried to wake him from his drunken slumber on the library floor.

Jeremy sighed as he placed his empty glass on the tray atop the sideboard next to where he stood. Allayne had been acting like a louse since his return from Bath. His dissipation and untidiness was uncharacteristic of him. He used to be obsessive abo
ut his manner of dressing and neatness. He also had impeccable taste and never indulged in anything that could be harmful to his health or finances.

His unusual behavior caused a stir and tension amongst his family, friends, and servants. He was moody, ins
olent, and reclusive. His mother and Cassie had repeatedly made an effort to inquire about his moroseness, but to no avail. He would not even confide his troubles to him and Richard—his two best friends.

Jeremy pushed himself away from the doorframe and st
rolled towards the table where Allayne sat, dealing another deck of cards. If his brother-in-law did not restrain himself from all this gambling, he would exhaust the fortune he'd made from his shares in their business ventures.

"I think you've had enough
for tonight, old chap." Jeremy took the goblet of Brandy out of Allayne's hand and gave it to a passing footman. "Come, I'll drop you off at Rose House."

"No
, thanks." Allayne arranged his set of cards in one hand.

Jeremy caught the eyes of the two young l
ords seated with him at the table. Rigsby and Bronnell looked obviously uncomfortable and unwilling to further enrich themselves at his inebriated friend's expense. He signaled at the men to leave them.

Both stood up without argument.

"Where are you going?" Allayne growled. "Sit down!" He slammed his fist on the table.

Rigsby and Bronnell froze and glanced at each other.

"Let them go." Richard, the Duke of Grandstone, squeezed between the two young men and sat on one of the chairs they vacated opposite Allayne.

Rigsby and Bronnell hastily removed themselves from the brewing altercation.

Jeremy took the other chair next to Richard, relieved that he received his message and had arrived on time. They had decided to step in and intervene with Allayne's self-imposed downward spiral.

"What the fuck do you want?" Allayne threw his cards on the table, causing some to glide across the sleek mahogany surface and spill onto the floor.

Richard leveled his piercing blue gaze at him. "Why are you doing this to yourself? What's wrong with you?"

"It's none of your business," Allayne glared at him. "Leave me the fuck alone!"

"Look old chap," Jeremy interjected, "there's no need to make a scene. Talk to us—we just want to help—"

"I don't need your fucking help!" Allayne abrupt
ly stood up on unstable knees, knocking his chair backwards.

"Be careful with your language, my friend." Richard slowly came to his feet and narrowed his eyes at him.

"Or what, Your Grace?" Allayne yelled, eliciting a few glances their way. "You'll challenge me to a duel?"

Jeremy exchanged a speaking look with Richard. Both of them knew that sober or not, Allayne could shoot with precision.

"No one's challenging anyone to a duel," Jeremy said in a conciliatory tone as he rounded the table and set Allayne’s chair to rights. It would not serve to quarrel with Allayne. True, he might be the most agreeable, good-natured person of the three of them, but he also had a beast of a temper when angered.

In all their years together, Jeremy had come to know his best fri
ends by heart. They got along well because they complemented each other—especially when it came to business. Richard was the spokesperson, the suave diplomat—who opened doors to potentially profitable enterprises. As for himself, he was the negotiator, the shrewd entrepreneur—who figured the numbers and managed the cash flow. But Allayne had the most interesting role. If a venture turned awry—and some of them do—mostly from theft by employees or associates who were supposedly trustworthy—he made sure their assets were recovered.

Normally, the man was reasonable, but if the people responsible dared lead him in circles by the nose, he simply used them for target practice until they returned every single quid
—down to the last shilling. So far, he had blasted off two ears, three knees, and four fingers from unscrupulous individuals with neither a blink nor remorse.

Allayne's reputation amongst the gentlemen of the ton was likewise well known. Most of them were cautious not to cross him. Talk of his ruthlessness h
ad circulated, ever since he sent four ruffians to an early grave—and rendered the cunning peer of the realm who'd hired them, physically incapacitated for the rest of his life. The pompous, debt-ridden lord owed them an enormous sum, but instead of sitting down to negotiate repayment terms, he ordered their carriage overtaken and the three of them assassinated. None of the hit men even had the chance to take aim and pull the trigger. Each one received a bullet through the head from four different pistols fired two at a time, courtesy of Allayne—who always traveled equipped to the teeth with several firearms.

Jeremy watched his friend and brother-in-law slump back onto his chair. No
—Allayne Carlyle was a man not to be trifled with. He might have the face and demeanor of an angel, but hell—he was the most dangerous devil of them all. In his current state, drowning in his cups and sexually deprived for weeks—a peculiar condition for someone as randy as a goat since he'd hit puberty, one of these days, he could become so overwrought and eventually murder anyone who as much as mistakenly peeked in his direction.

Richard flicked his eyes at Jeremy. Drastic measures were in order, to deal wi
th Allayne. They could not allow their friend to destroy himself. There must be a reason for his disturbing conduct. Something had happened in Bath and they needed to get to the bottom of it. The sooner they could accomplish this, the faster they could get their old friend back—the one with the cheerful deportment, the apple of his mother's eyes, the doting brother his wife, Cassie, adored.

Jeremy gestured at the footman to deliver the glass of watered-down brandy he'd ordered earlier. Surreptitiously, he
slipped a small dose of laudanum while Richard distracted Allayne, before he placed the drink on the table.

"Here, have another drink," Jeremy said, pushing the wine glass towards him.

Allayne snatched the glass without a word and drained it to the last drop. "That tasted like horse-piss!" he exclaimed, putting the glass down with a thump.

A few minutes later, two burly footmen helped Richard and
Jeremy heave the six-foot-four physique of their unconscious friend into the waiting ducal carriage.

~

In the g
rand residence of the Earl of Weston in Oxfordshire, Alexandra paced back and forth in front of the window in her bedchamber. It had been six weeks since she returned from Bath. If she added the week prior to her trip and the entire fortnight of her stay in the resort city, the total would equate to nine weeks.

Nine weeks
. Alexandra rubbed her hands on her arms and shivered. Her monthly courses had not occurred in more than two months.

A sudden nausea rose in her throat and she ran to the chamber pot, retch
ing every single morsel of her morning repast. Cook had raised an eyebrow when she ordered nothing but kippers for breakfast for the past few weeks, and then eyed her as if she'd grown an extra head, when she wanted cherry bonbons for lunch and dinner—with more kippers as the main course.

Alexandra rinsed her mouth in the basin and splashed the tepid water from the pitcher on her face. She wasn't so naï
ve to not realize what was happening to her. Of course,—she knew. She was carrying Andrew's child.

Stunnin
g green eyes and a dimpled smile flashed in her memory. She had dreamt of Andrew day and night. He was never far from her thoughts. And oh—how she tried to forget about him! She did everything and anything to keep herself from thinking of him. But, in those inescapable moments when she was lonesome, his image would drift back into her consciousness and occupy her heart once again.

"T
ime could mend a broken heart,"—she'd read that statement in one of her favorite books, but it did not prove true in her case. Instead, each day without Andrew had crushed her heart repeatedly. The passage of time had only worsened her yearning for him. It had evolved into a constant physical and mental agony that would not relent. Time, she now learned—could work both ways for the wounded. It could be one's ally—but it could also be one's adversary. Moreover,—the precious commodity of time—given her condition—was quickly running out.

The reality of the consequences of one night of passion came back with a vengeance. Yes
—it had nagged at the back of her mind during the deed, but she had conveniently ignored it.

Sultry images of hard muscles pressing against her soft skin, of clean musk invading her nostrils and a deep masculine voice whispering endearments in her ear, inundated her
senses. Her chest constricted and she gasped, as a pool of heat slithered between her legs. She quickly trampled down the budding ache of her desire and longing for Andrew. Their lovemaking had resulted in something wonderful and yet—Dear God, what was she going to do now?

She wiped the beads of water off her face and sat on the stool facing the looking-glass on her vanity table. Her skin glowed with health and her hair shone brilliantly in the late morning light. She had been uncannily lazy and at first,
she'd attributed the subtle changes from her frequent naps during the day. However, once she had her rest, she brimmed with a burst of energy—which she spent having endless tea—taken with more bonbons and kippers.

Her eyes skimmed her figure. She'd gained
weight, but not so much as to be blatantly noticeable—although she could swear her breasts had grown fuller since she'd last looked. Her gaze alighted on her belly. There could be no denying it. She was certainly pregnant and in a few more weeks, it would become obvious.

An ache began to throb on her temple. She propped an elbow on the table and massaged it with her fingers. The very minute she recognized her condition she toyed with several scenarios in her mind. Her father would learn of it sooner or lat
er. The responsible, correct thing to do would be for her to tell him—now—so he could decide on what to do with her.

Good Lord, but her papa would be enraged! She had disgraced herself and the family name, dragging her papa's dreams of a well-connected mar
riage for her, down the vile River of Thames.

Alexandra's eyes blurred with tears. Her papa may be a bit overbearing, but she knew deep inside, he was just a lonely old man who
missed her mama and yearned for a gaggle of boisterous grandchildren, and envied his friends who had them.

The thought made her pause.

Perhaps she could go abroad for an extended stay and write her papa that she'd met someone and had gotten married. She could come back in two years’ time with her child in tow and declare that she'd been widowed.

The scheme sounded good theoretically, but then... who would corroborate her tale? Besides, her papa was no fool. He would sail in search of her in no time
—whether she'd written or not. He would locate her for certain. He was a man of power and wealth, with a multitude of connections abroad. And once he found her, he would get the shock of his life to discover her condition.

Perchance, she could dare lie to him that she had wedded, but he would demand to meet her non-existent husband and her no
n-existent in-laws. Moreover, his solicitors would press for documentation to make sure her marriage was legal and her settlement in order. In the end, she would be making a bigger mess rather than solving her situation.

Alexandra heaved a troubled sigh. N
o matter how daunting it would be—she must be honest and forthright. If she told her papa the truth now, he could opt to send her to one of his smaller, far-flung estates where she could discreetly stay until she birthed her baby.

But then afterwards... wh
at would happen to her child? She could not claim him as her own—she was an unmarried woman. And no—she could not bear to make her father suffer any further and insist on adopting the child as a distant relative. The servants have eyes and the secret would eventually leak out. There would be plenty of curiosity and inquiries concerning the child's paternity and family tree. Everyone would most probably assume he was her father's by-blow, she thought in chagrin. What future could a child have—faced with such disheartening stigma?