Heaven Sent the Wrong One (25 page)

"Oh, Allayne
—but you did," she wailed, her expression full of reproach. "And, the way she looked at you—anyone could tell—"

"We fell in love, in Bath." Allayne blurted, raking his fingers slowly through his hair.

The unexpected boldness of his admission shocked Marion into silence. "I-I see—" she finally managed to croak, after a few moments. "T-There's nothing left to discuss, then—"

"It was one of my mother's outrageous, matchmaking plots," Allayne cut in. He owed Marion a mountain of apologies and explanations, and by God
—he was going to give them to her, whether or not she chose to listen. "I found myself stuck, for a fortnight, at a house party full of elderly people and I wanted to get away without my mother hearing about it—so I traded places with Andrew, my valet."

Marion's eyes widened. "Y-you switched identities with your valet?"

Allayne nodded. "It's unbelievable, I know," he said with an empty, mordant chuckle that trailed into an awkward lull, before he motivated himself to speak again. "And then—I saw her. Alexandra. She wasn't a Duchess back then." Allayne strolled towards the open window, craving some fresh air to relieve the suffocating constriction in his chest, stirred by the memories he'd long ago tried to suppress. "In fact, I had no idea who she was. She introduced herself as Anna, a lady's maid. Apparently, we both had identical ideas, except neither of us were aware we were pulling concurrent schemes." He shook his head with a small smile in remembrance, despite the sensitivity of the topic.

"Y-you pretended to be a valet
—a-and the Duchess pretended to be a maid?"

"Precisely." Allayne l
eaned against the windowsill and watched Marion's countenance plainly express her bewilderment. "The charade was good while it lasted. At the end of the fortnight, neither of us were ready to face the repercussions of our involvement that could arise from our social disparity. She believed I was a valet, and I believed she was a maid. You can probably imagine that it did not,—could not,—end well. We have not seen, nor heard from each other since then. It had been four years—until tonight—when I discovered that Anna and Alexandra were one and the same person."

"And, she found out that you were not a valet, but a viscount's heir." Marion covered her mouth with her hand and sat on the edge of the bed. "My God
—she was the reason why you left England."

"I loved h
er and I was devastated." Allayne braced an arm against the window frame, peering at the stars twinkling in the night sky. "And then—I met you."

A long pause yawned before Marion spoke again. "You're still in love with her."

"I didn't know for certain, till I saw her again today." Allayne turned around to look at her, trouncing the guilt from the pain he'd inflicted, distinctly evident in her eyes. "Marion—being with you helped me escape the past and move on. I owe where I am today—to you." Allayne struggled against the tightness in his throat. He had to tell her—he owed her that much. "I thought I was over Alexandra, but I was wrong. Forgive me."

Allayne expected Marion to be angry
—lash out with a fusillade of scathing words he utterly deserved, but she averted her face instead and stood up, ambling her way toward the vanity table cleared of any personal possessions save for an arrangement of roses in a vase.

"I have always been a romantic, you know," she said, in a voice that was surprisingly calm, and cle
ar. "I have always dreamt that I would fall in love at first sight, get married, have a gaggle of children and live happily ever after," she paused, brushing a forefinger along the petal of one rose. "Then, I saw you in Papa's office—you were too handsome for your own good and when you spoke with that English drawl—you were just too charming to resist," she chuckled softly. "When you smiled at me—dimples and all—my God—I didn't stand a chance. You were my dream come true. I fell head over heels in love with you." She plucked the petal from the rose, her smile fading, as she let the delicate crimson leaf slip onto the floor. "I should have known—it was too good to be true—too fragile to last."

"Marion
—"

"Did you think I didn't know?" She interrupted in earnes
t. "I knew you were broken hearted. You were so sad, I could see it in your eyes, in your face—behind your smile. But I was determined to win you. I did everything I could, to cheer you up, to make you forget whoever she was—so you'd look my way and notice me. I was so in love with you that I refused to see the glaring truth. The way you'd flinch when I touched you a certain way, the way you sighed with that faraway look in your eyes when you thought no one was looking. Sometimes, when you held me—I felt like you were not really there. I was aware of it, Allayne—all along—but I was too selfish, you see—because I wanted you for myself."

"Marion
—I won't let you blame yourself for my faults. I shouldn't have courted you when I knew I was not—"

"Courted me?" A s
mall laugh with a twinge of bitterness escaped her lips. "I was the one who chased you about, if you remember. I persuaded Papa to bring me to your meetings and invite you to dinner and parties. I even went as far as asking you to escort me to every ball in town," she said, with a shake of her head. "I suppose, I'm a true Ellery. I'm as stubborn and persistent as my father."

"Your father
—"

"
—would not take it against you if things between us did not go as planned. If you are concerned about your enterprise with him—don't be. Your company is one of his best clients and my father is a shrewd businessman. He doesn't mix personal issues with financial matters. It will be a cold day in hell before Sam Ellery allows you to take your business elsewhere."

"Marion
—I will not dishonor you by crying off on our betrothal—"

"Then I withdraw my acceptance." She pulled off the ring he'd given her with quivering fingers and offered it back to him in the palm of her hand.

Allayne stared at the magnificent diamond ring, its facets winking against the candlelight.

"Please, Allayne
—take it." Her hand trembled visibly beneath his gaze.

"Marion
—don't—" Allayne plunged his fingers through his hair, grabbing a fistful of locks at the back of his head to assuage the stiffness spreading through his nape. "Please, put the ring back on."

A tear cascaded down her cheek. "I don't want the ring, Allayne," she said, in a small voice. "I want your
love
—I won't settle for anything less."

"And you'll have it
—" Allayne faltered, feeling the tension rise up from the back of his neck to his temples. "J-just give me a little more time—" he choked back the nausea that swiftly followed the throbbing in his skull. "You need not fear that I'll rekindle my affair with Alexandra. That's all in the past. She's married now—"

"She is a widow."

Allayne stared at her, dumbfounded—unsure if he had heard her correctly. "Pardon me?"

"Her husband, the duke, died more than a year and a half ago."

"Where did you—" The pounding in his head intensified with the sensation of dread that gnawed at his gut. Why had Alexandra tried to make him believe that she was still married?

"I inquired
—and your sister, Cassie, told me." Marion moved towards him and grasped his hand, placing the ring upon his palm. "Look at you," she whispered sadly. "You look so stricken, it’s almost tangible how much she means to you." She squeezed his fingers closed around the ring. "Go to her." She stood on her tiptoes and placed a gentle kiss on his chin. "I set you free."

"Marion
—" Allayne shook himself from the overwhelming hope and confusion that mingled in his heart in a tight knot. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—" he gathered her, into a fierce hug.

"Don't be
—" she shrugged, looking up at him and visibly forcing a grin. "Besides, I'm homesick as hell. England doesn't agree with me. I don't like the food and I hate the weather. I stick out like a sore thumb. The ton looks down its aristocratic nose at me, because my father actually works for a living—never mind if he makes millions. I have offended half the ladies, because I can never seem to remember all the godforsaken protocol. They furtively snicker at my strange accent and none of them like me. Allegedly, I'm too outspoken and laugh too much." She touched his cheek with her hand and regarded him with eyes glistening with tears, a sharp contrast to the distant smile pasted on her lips. "I miss my friends and family in America, Allayne. I don't think I could ever call England, home."

"Of course, you could
—"

She press
ed her fingers against his lips. "Please—say no more—or I'll change my mind—because I want to. I really, really do. But, I can't be selfish anymore. You deserve to be happy as much as I do—and we both know that neither of us can give that to the other."

"M
arion, I don't know what to say—"

"Say yes to love, Allayne. This is your chance.
—Take it and go after her. It's not too late. And as for me, I haven't given up on my dream. I still want my "happily ever after." I will fall in love again—and this time, I'll make sure—heaven sends the right one."

Allayne filled his lungs with air and looked into her eyes before pressing a firm kiss on her forehead. "You are a remarkable woman," he whispered, in her ear. "I will never forget you."

"Nor I, you." She held him in a tight embrace for a long moment, neither of them speaking, until she pulled away from his arms with a strangled sob and walked briskly towards the door.

"Goodbye, Allayne," she said over her shoulder, then, she ran out into the hallway, her rapid foots
teps fading with the sound of a distant opening and closing of a door outside, followed by the pounding of horses' hooves and the rattle of a carriage.

Allayne remained standing where Marion had left him until the maid returned with an army of footmen to r
etrieve her luggage. The grief of losing Marion clawed at his heart, but instead of bleeding gashes, newfound hope seeped from its wounds. As he finally willed his legs to move and carry himself from the room, the thought of Alexandra's deliberate intent to make him believe she was still married bothered him. Why would she deem it necessary to do such a thing?

The heaviness in his gait gradually became lighter as his hunter's instinct took over. It's about time he managed this goddamned mess between him and
Alexandra. Beginning at first light—he would embark on the long-delayed process of recovering his most valuable asset. A surprise visit to wherever she was staying in London should be easy enough to arrange.

Allayne's strides quickened. He could feel the
tingle, the thrill of the hunt, increasing the beat of his heart and rousing his nerve endings. This time around, there would be no more excuses, no interruptions, and no commitments to hold them back. "No more games, Alexandra," he murmured with a grim twist of his lips. "I'm coming for you and you better be ready to tell me your secrets."

Father and Son

A
llayne sidled along the side of the imposing mansion located at St. James Square that belonged to the Duke of Redfellow. He had had no trouble finding Alexandra's whereabouts. After the incident at the soiree, he had slipped out of Waterford House while everyone partook supper to avoid prying eyes and the dreaded interview with his family. He'd headed straight for White's and asked around, and discovered that almost every older gentleman there knew her deceased husband, whom he'd learned was quite famous and well-liked.

"You've chosen well, my love," he murmured, as he climbed on the sturdy branch of an old tree that grew proximal to the lone window he'd spotted on the second floor that was partially open. He had purposely bided his time at his club to ensu
re all the servants were abed and Alexandra had come home from the soiree. He would rather surprise and confront her now, than visit her on the morrow, for he was quite certain that she would refuse his call or worse, try to flee again.

Allayne held on to
the branch with one hand to balance himself, and reached out with the other for the crevice between the windowpanes. He carefully pried the glass frames wider so he could slip in. The well-oiled hinges gave easily. In one smooth movement, he leapt and braced himself with both hands on the window ledge, hauling his long legs over the sill. He landed with a soft thud on his feet onto the carpeted floor and remained on the spot, letting his eyes get accustomed to the gloomy bedchamber, partially illuminated by the flames in the fireplace.

His gaze traveled around the room. It was large and opulent, furnished with gilded, elaborately carved furniture, the walls covered in elegant blue and gold damask paper. An enormous canopy bed occupied the center. He cautious
ly inched nearer, straining to see if someone was abed, but the mattress was vacant, though the counterpanes were turned down. Allayne blew a sigh of relief, allowing himself to admire the exquisite craftsmanship of the four-poster, evident even in the shadows, giving the impression that it belonged to someone very important in the household.

As if in answer to his curiosity, a handsome portrait of a man peered at him over the headboard. A large brass plate mounted on the bottom of the frame indicated the m
an's identity.

Henry Gabriel Strathearn,
Seventh Duke of Redfellow.

Bloody hell. He was in the late duke's bedchamber!

Allayne circled the bed to gaze closer at the man in the painting. Playful eyes the color of hazel green, bright with sprightliness and keen intelligence looked back at him. The man's lips curled upwards on one side, as if on the verge of laughter. Wisps of straight blond hair fell over his cheek from his thick mane that was slicked back and tied with a black ribbon. He was impeccably dressed, tall, and lithe of form, every inch the aristocrat from the tip of his proud nose to the toes of his gleaming Hessian boots. Perched on one shoulder and possibly the source of His Grace's amused expression, a monkey holding a banana in one hand, and peeling it with the other, had its long tail coiled around his midriff for support.

Allayne couldn't help but smile at the man in return. According to the gentlemen at his club, the duke was a clever, fine-looking devil, with a wicked sense of humor in his t
ime. He traveled extensively and had never married, until four years ago when he shocked the entire ton by declaring his betrothal to the beautiful, but elusive Lady Alexandra, who was forty-two years his junior. A few months after the wedding, he once again sent the polite world reeling on its ears, by announcing the birth of his son and heir. Then, a little over two years later, the duke stunned the beau monde with one last piece of news. In the winter of 1828, he took his final breath and died of natural causes, months shy of the age of seventy, bestowing all his assets to his widow and son—and not a single farthing to his next of kin.

That final piece of information sickened and mystified him. Alexandra had not mentioned anything about a son. But, then
again—she had not mentioned anything about being a widow either. It seemed that she'd purposely evaded telling him the most important details of her personal life after they parted in Bath.

Allayne regarded the youthful countenance of the man in the painti
ng. The portrait had obviously been done many decades earlier, when the duke was in his prime. There had been rumors that he had been secretly betrothed to a certain Lady Marjorie, whom Allayne had discovered—was none other than Jeremy's dear departed mother—Alexandra's maternal aunt.

The gaucheness of that particular detail was astonishing. For all her sensibility
—and though the duke was by far an excellent catch, he could not fathom what compelled Alexandra to marry a man more than twice her age who was formerly betrothed to her aunt. Moreover, Alexandra was a passionate woman—he doubted if the old duke could satisfy her in bed. Rank and monetary considerations aside—things that Alexandra certainly never lacked—nothing made sense as to why Alexandra chose to wed the duke. But the most nonsensical of all, was the timing—which he'd heard, to his utter vexation—was so sudden that it provoked unsavory gossip among the ton. Could the rumors be true? Was she carrying the duke's babe even before she had walked down the aisle? The bitter taste of bile percolated in Allayne's throat.

"Don't move." The press of a gun barrel dug into the small of his back.

Allayne froze with a muffled curse, angry for letting himself get distracted and failing to notice that someone had sneaked up behind him.

"Get on your knees." The gunman's speech sounded unusual
—as if he's trying to disguise his real voice. He pushed the gun barrel roughly against his back.

Allayne flinched at the sharp thrust of the gun on his spine. Goddammit! N
ow, he would have to break the fellow's nose and knock him unconscious. He just hoped the poor fellow was not one of Alexandra's relatives—but then again—why would a cousin be sleeping in what obviously was the ducal chambers?

His eyes narrowed with the s
udden flare of his temper. If this fellow—God help him—was Alexandra's
lover
—he would put a bullet between the bloody fucking sorry ass' eyes and send him to Hades.

In one quick movement, Allayne swiveled, swiping the man's gun barrel to t
he side with one hand as he pulled his own pistol from the holster attached to his belt with the other. He cocked and pointed the firearm at the gunman's face.

But no one was there.

"Whoa." A little voice said. "That was good!"

Allayne looked down at the s
ource—and found himself staring at his own image.

He had seen many shocking things in his life, but none had prepared him for this one. His mouth went dry and his jaw slackened in open-mouthed astonishment. A leaded weight seemed to have secured his feet
to the floor.

The boy was an exact replica of himself
—from the color of his hair, to the distinctive Carlyle green eyes, to the deep dimples indented on both cheeks.

Allayne's entire body went numb, save for his heart that beat with the speed of a gallop
ing horse. A dull hum resonated in his ears and stiffness spread at the back of his skull to his temples.

"Are you a stranger?" the boy asked.

Allayne blinked. Good God, he still had his pistol poised in mid-air, with the safety lock unhinged, ready to fire. "Uh—no. I—I'm your Mama's friend."

"Oh, good. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, you know." The boy's gaze dropped to the pistol in his hand. "That's a nice gun. Can I see it?"

"Er—of course." Allayne forced his limbs to move, uncocking and emptying the gun of powder and bullet in his pocket.

The boy jumped in delight and placed the toy gun he held on the bed.

"Be careful with it." Allayne kneeled in front of the boy and let him handle the pistol, watching his little fingers curl around the trigger and raise it with both hands to aim at some figurine by the fireplace.

"It's heavy." the boy glanced at him.

"It's not a toy." Allayne's chest clenched upon closer inspection of his face. The boy even had long, curly lashes identical to his own. The certainty of his discovery began to sink and make some sense in his addled brain. "How old are you?" He asked in a hoarse voice, even though, at the back of his mind, he already somehow knew.

"T
hree," the boy replied without taking his eyes off the pistol.

Three. Allayne did not have to have Jeremy's prowess for numbers to figure out how long it had been since he had last seen Alexandra, the period of time it took for his seed to take root and gr
ow in her womb, added to the years he spent in America. The boy was most likely three years and some months old.

The hairs on the back of Allayne's neck stood. Was this boy the reason why Alexandra plunged into a swift marriage with the duke? A flicker of
suspicion burned in his gut. There could be no other reason—she must have done it to save her reputation, thinking she had disgraced herself with a servant.

By God. Allayne swallowed the mixture of elation and nausea that rose to the roof of his mouth. So
, this was what she had been trying to hide. Now, that she had discovered that he was not a valet, but a viscount's heir—did she think he would be angry at her, when she'd had no other choice, but to marry for her sake and that of their son's? Was that why his interrogation had visibly agitated her?

Allayne watched the child before him with increasing curiosity. The stamp of a Carlyle was clearly evident in the boy's features, down to the color of his eyes
—not to mention his proclivity for firearms. Allayne reached out to touch a lock of the boy's long honey-blond hair, rolling it in his fingers. There could be no denying the truth. This boy—this beautiful boy—was
his son
. Goosebumps rose on Allayne's skin and he resisted the sudden urge to gather his little body in a fierce hug.

"What's your name?" Allayne peered at him, unable to keep himself from staring at his cherubic face.

"Gabriel." He closed one eye and aimed the pistol at the ceiling. "Same as my Papa."

A stab of something close to jealousy lanced Al
layne's heart. He may have fathered the child, but he was in no way his own son's Papa. "Is that your Papa over there?" Allayne pointed to the painting on the wall at the head of the four-poster, quelling the feeling of guilt and loss that unexpectedly filled his chest with heaviness.

"Yes." Gabriel lifted his shoulders with a sad sigh. "I miss Papa. He lives in heaven now."

"I'm sorry," Allayne said, and was surprised that he genuinely meant it. Here was a boy who had lost a parent—a beloved parent—as far as he could tell, from the way Gabriel's expressive eyes shadowed at the memory of the old duke. Allayne took the pistol from his little hands and tucked it back in its holster at his waist. "Come." he opened his arms towards Gabriel. "Let me give you a hug."

Gabriel wordlessly went to him and rested his head on his shoulder, clinging onto his neck with both arms.

At that very moment, Allayne didn't know what to think. Holding Gabriel—his own flesh and blood—infused him with a feeling akin to euphoria—something he hadn't felt in a very, very long time. He scooped the boy in his arms and stood up, carrying him to the four-poster. "It's late," he whispered in Gabriel's hair. "You should go to bed."

"I can't sleep," Gabriel said, as Allayne laid him on the mat
tress. "Papa used to read to me before bed."

"Is that so?" Allayne replied, remembering how his own Papa used to do the same thing.

"Will you read to me?" Gabriel asked with large, imploring green eyes.

"Of course." Allayne lit the lone candle on the beds
ide table and picked up the book next to it. His talk with Alexandra could wait until the morning. He sat on the bed and leaned against the headboard next to Gabriel, crossing his booted feet at the ankles on top of the coverlet.

Gabriel crawled alongside
him, circling an arm over his chest and clamping a leg across his hips, before finally settling his head just below his shoulder.

Allayne wrapped an arm around him, overwhelmed by the tenderness and protectiveness that flowed like a flood into his ribcage
. He began to read the book, a story about an explorer's adventures, which he recognized as one of the popular publications written by the old duke. The book was full of anecdotes, which they laughed at together and the pages had plenty of interesting illustrations, which they studied closely. After quite some time, Gabriel yawned and his lids began to flutter. Allayne gently stroked his hair until he closed his eyes and fell asleep on his shoulder. Then, he carefully leaned towards the side table, with Gabriel still in his arms, and blew the candle out.

Allayne settled his head onto the pillows and stared at the shadows on the ceiling, cast by the dwindling fire in the hearth. Now, he understood how Richard and Jeremy felt about their children. The natural
inclination to spend every waking moment and provide his child with all that he needed—a home, a family, a legacy—a Papa who would always be there for him—filled him with anticipation. Gads—his mother and father had no idea they had another grandson—the long awaited heir. He could not wait to for them to meet Gabriel. His father would probably shout with joy and his mother would probably swoon—but not before she showered her grandson with kisses.