Waking Up With the Duke (London's Greatest Lovers)

by Lorraine Heath

  Then he appeared around the screen and she sank more deeply into the water, folding her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tormenting myself, obviously. I’ve only ever seen your hair loose and your shoulders bare in shadow. By God, but you’re magnificent.”

  She didn’t need his words to know his thoughts. They were evident in his smoldering gaze.

  “Your mother?” she rasped, her throat raw, as though she’d inhaled cinders.

  “I’m certain she thinks herself magnificent. I’ve never given it any thought.”

  “Ainsley!” she whispered harshly. “Have they departed?”

  “No, unfortunately. That cute little scar still requires my attention, doesn’t it?”

  Yes. “No. Please stay on topic. What are her plans?”

  “To stay the night and pray for clear skies on the morrow.”

  “How did you explain my presence?”

  “I told her you were here on holiday.”

  “And she believed you?”

  “Why would she not?”

  He prowled toward her, reached down and skimmed his fingers over her knee, sending delicious tingles toward her toes and shoulders. Everything curled.

  “Shall I finish what I began earlier?” he asked.

  She stared at him in horror. “No! You should not even be in here. Where’s Lily?”

  “In the hallway. Everything will be all right, Jayne. My mother is not one to gossip.”

  “I don’t know that I can face her.”

  “If you don’t, she’ll think that your presence brings you shame. And if it does, then I shall escort you home tomorrow. I’ll not have you associate shame with what we’re doing here.”

  He turned away before she could respond. She heard the door close with a quiet snick and realized with increasing sorrow that she’d hurt him. She thought of a time when she wanted to cause him pain, when she would have taken joy in his agony. But no longer. He suffered as they all had. She knew that now. How complicated it all seemed of a sudden.

  Her feelings for Ainsley were not what they’d once been. She’d begun to enjoy his company, looked forward to seeing him. But far worse, she wanted a rumpled bed in the afternoon.

  Ainsley listened to the slow ticking of the clock, each second an eternity. He had not seen Jayne since he’d left her in the bath—appearing so delectable with the dew coating her exposed skin. He’d wanted to skim soapy hands over her, was prepared to do just that. He shouldn’t have taken offense at her embarrassment for being found in his company—and yet he had. He’d always been so careful to protect every other lover, to ensure their relationship was not the fodder of gossip. Why not Jayne?

  He wanted her to want to be with him because of him, not because of something with which he might gift her.

  “It’s not often I see you brood.”

  Ainsley glared at his mother, sitting on the sofa beside Leo. She wore a burgundy velvet gown that accentuated her dark features. She did not look her age of fifty-two, although he noticed that the salt in her hair was beginning to overshadow the pepper. She and Leo were each sipping wine, waiting for dinner to be served.

  Standing beside the fireplace, his elbow resting on the mantel, Ainsley relished the smoothness of the red wine on his tongue. “I’m not brooding.”

  He was, devil take it, and that irritated him.

  “Perhaps I should check on Jayne,” his mother said.

  “She knows what time dinner is served. It’s quite possible she’s decided not to join us. The choice is hers. She is here with no expectations or responsibilities. Certainly not to serve as my hostess. She is here to do as she pleases.”

  “Who are you striving to convince—yourself or me?”

  “I simply want to ensure you understand the situation.”

  His mother’s eyes narrowed, and he feared she understood it only too well.

  “How is Walfort?” she asked.

  “The same as he was three years ago. Crippled.”

  “And you still feel guilty over it.”

  “Of course I do. I held the reins and urged the horses into a frenzy. And I believe we’ve talked this subject to death. Shall we move on to something else?”

  “Do you think I should offer Leo’s services to Walfort?”

  Ainsley felt his gut clench. “For what purpose?”

  “I thought he might like to have his portrait painted. He and his wife.”

  Ainsley downed the remainder of his wine. He’d thought she was offering stud services. What the devil was wrong with him to even have such an absurd thought?

  “Is that decision not Leo’s?”

  “Of course it is, but I’m presently his benefactor, so he paints the portraits I would like to see done.”

  “How long do you intend to be his benefactor?”

  “Until you marry and have a wedding portrait done.”

  “You do realize that when I marry you will become the Dowager Duchess of Ainsley?”

  “And it shall make me feel remarkably old, but I shall make that sacrifice for your happiness.”

  To change the direction of the conversation, Ainsley shifted his gaze to Leo. “Does it not bother you that my mother speaks as though she owns you?”

  He smiled, clearly amused. “She owns my heart.” He lifted her hand, kissed the back of it. “The rest of me comes with it.”

  His mother laughed as though she were a young girl, infatuated with her first swain. “Oh, Leo, you are such a charmer. Is it any wonder I adore you?”

  “For his sake, I should probably never marry,” Ainsley said.

  That got his mother’s attention directed at him. “You need an heir. But more important, you need someone so you won’t be quite so lonely.”

  “I’m not lonely.”

  “You’re not brooding. You’re not lonely. Are you saying that I don’t know how to read my youngest son?”

  “I’m saying—” The words died in his throat as Jayne glided into the room wearing a magnificent red gown. The sleeves were long but the square neckline left a delectable amount of skin visible from her throat to the gentle swells of her breasts. Her upswept hair was held in place with a pearl comb that matched the pearls at her throat. She wore her wedding ring—that had been absent since that first night—preparing to play a role of nothing more than guest.

  She curtsied before his mother. “Your Grace, forgive me for rushing upstairs earlier without properly greeting you.”

  “Oh, my dear girl.” His mother rose gracefully, embraced Jayne, then put her at arm’s length. “Don’t be ridiculous. I daresay you were freezing in all those wet clothes. I didn’t blame you at all. Ainsley informs me that we’re not to use titles here, so you must call me Tess. And of course you know Leo.”

  The artist was already standing. He took Jayne’s hand and pressed a kiss to it. “A pleasure, m’lady.”

  “Jayne will suffice—since we’re not to be formal. I have seen your work. It’s truly remarkable.”

  “It is only as remarkable as my subjects. Perhaps someday you will honor me by allowing me to put you on canvas.”

  Her gaze jumped to Ainsley. “Perhaps. I must apologize for being late. I took a nap and fell quite asleep. My maid didn’t think to wake me.”

  Ainsley was certain her words were a lie. He had no doubt she’d been fighting with her conscience, trying to determine if she should join them.

  “It was no hardship to wait for you,” he said. It would, however, be a hardship to be with her all night and not touch her. He, too, would be playing a part: uninterested host. When all he wanted to do was approach her, slip his arm around her and nestle her against his side.

  “Shall we go into dinner now?” his mother asked, as though aware that Ainsley was too preoccupied with Jayne to think about anything as mundane as food.

  “By all means.” Before he could reach Jayne, his mother was escorting her out, murmuring low as though they were sharing secrets. Leaving him wi
th little to do other than glare at Leo.

  “I’ll have your mother in her carriage and on our way as soon as possible in the morning,” the artist said.

  “Stay as long as you like. As I said, Jayne is merely here on holiday.”

  “And I’m a descendent of Rembrandt.”

  “Are you? Is that the reason you’re so secretive regarding your last name?” Leo never discussed his family, his parentage, or his last name.

  “Let’s join the ladies, shall we?” Leo asked, ignoring Ainsley’s inquiry.

  As they strolled toward the dining room, Ainsley said, “I know Mother has a tendency to be dramatic. So how bad off is Lady Lynnford?” The earl had served as guardian for him and his brothers after his father died. He’d always felt loved by the earl and his countess.

  “Very, I’m afraid. I suspect Lynnford will be a widower before the next Season is upon us.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. Although I have always wondered if he is the reason you’ve yet to make an honest woman of the duchess.”

  “Who is to say? She craves her independence.”

  “I don’t see you taking that from her.”

  “It is not an easy thing to love a woman knowing she belongs to another. But I don’t suppose I need to tell you that.”

  “She is here on holiday,” Ainsley repeated.

  “And who said I was referring to Jayne?”

  Ainsley cut his gaze over to Leo. “I’m beginning to understand why Westcliffe found you irritating when he and Claire were trying to reconcile.”

  “Why? Because I knew he loved her long before he did?”

  Because he was too observant and meddled more than his mother. “I shall have your carriage readied at dawn.”

  Leo gave him a sympathetic look. “Love is hell, my friend.”

  Ainsley knew he wasn’t in love, but he was damned glad Jayne had decided to join them for dinner, because in truth, he wasn’t certain he’d have had the strength to carry through on his threat to return her home on the morrow.

  Jayne had expected the evening to be awkward, with the duchess prying and seeking to get to the truth behind her presence, but the woman spoke of her travels, her sons, her grandchildren. It was the talk of her grandchildren that put a pang in Jayne’s heart. The duchess would have a grandchild she would never know—although Jayne knew she certainly could find a way to involve her in the child’s life. Oh, why had they started down this path? But even as she questioned it, the ache for a child blossomed into something almost unbearable. If she were fortunate to meet with success here, she would find a way to make everything right.

  “You know,” the duchess began, directing her attention to Jayne, “I thought Ainsley was tossing good money after bad when he set about putting this cottage to rights. It was fairly a hovel when he purchased it. But I find it rather peaceful now. It is as though one can leave one’s troubles at the door.”

  “Quite,” Jayne concurred. “It has been a welcome escape.”

  “I’m sure it has, m’dear. You are so young to carry such burdens. I was not much younger when my first husband passed. Left me destitute. I had not a clue we were in such unfortunate circumstances until the solicitor paid his visit. Westcliffe and I did not converse much at all. I was to provide him with an heir and little else. I did my duty by him, but I must confess they were the longest—and the loneliest—years of my life.”

  Although the circumstances were different, Jayne had to admit that the past few years were the longest, loneliest, and most nightmarish of her life. “And your second husband?”

  Even as she asked, she knew she was being rude, but she wanted to keep the conversation turned away from her.

  “Ainsley’s father was a dear. I would not go so far as to say we loved each other, but we respected each other, cared for each other, enjoyed each other’s company from time to time. He was a good man, your father,” the duchess said to Ainsley.

  “I barely remember him,” Ainsley said.

  “He was fit, an excellent horseman, and a good conversationalist.” She shifted her gaze to the artist. “But I believe it is only Leo who has ever made me laugh. We underestimate the importance of laughter, I think. It did my heart good to hear yours echoing through these halls this afternoon. You’ve been too somber of late.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about me, Mother.”

  “But I do. I worry about all my boys.” She glanced over at Jayne. “No matter how old they get, you still think of them as boys.” As though realizing that she might have stepped in it, with sympathy in her eyes she reached over and patted Jayne’s hand. “No matter. I have heard wonderful things about the fox hunt you hosted. I daresay, you outdid yourself.”

  “Thank you, Your—Tessa. I believe we shall return to making it an annual event.”

  “So much effort, though, isn’t it?”

  “We enjoyed having the company.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The topics moved on—to the weather. Would the rain cease by morning? Christmas. Where would the family gather for the holiday? It seemed Westcliffe’s ancestral home had become a favorite haunt. His wife, Claire, was apparently an excellent hostess. Jayne thought of all the children who would be there. The squeals, laughter, and pounding of running feet. She wondered if Walfort wanted her to have a child so their home wouldn’t be quite so quiet.

  She felt the weight of Ainsley’s gaze and wondered if he was thinking the same thing—or if he was contemplating all the Christmases he would have without his child.

  After dinner, they played cards until the clock chimed ten, then retired to their separate rooms, all saying good-night in the hallway. Closing the door behind her, Jayne pressed her back to it. Ainsley wouldn’t come see her tonight. She would be alone.

  Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she wondered how it was that she could miss him.

  Chapter 13

  Before his next visit to the cottage, Ainsley intended to have a door placed between his bedchamber and the one next to it. Meanwhile, he prowled his room, listening to the infernal ticking of the clock, marking away the time he would have with Jayne.

  Finally, at midnight, he opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and froze, as Leo was apparently concluding the same actions. They stared at each other for the span of a heartbeat before Leo finally nodded and sauntered into the bedchamber that had been given to Ainsley’s mother.

  He knew they were lovers, of course. They’d been together for years now. He wasn’t naïve, believing his mother kept Leo around simply for his talents with the paintbrush. Still, it was unsettling to have proof of their dalliance. It was time he found out what the man’s intentions were regarding his mother. Only he knew his mother well enough to know she’d have none of that, none of his interference. Unfortunate for her, but there was no hope for it. He would talk with Westcliffe and Stephen about this matter when next he saw them.

  Leaving behind thoughts of his mother and what might be transpiring across the hallway, he slipped into Jayne’s room. She was perched in a chair beside the window, gazing out. Horror washed over her features.

  “You can’t be here tonight,” she said in a harsh whisper.

  He ambled over to the window and pressed his shoulder against it, much as he had that first night. Odd to think how much had changed between them in such a short time.

  “What if tonight is the magical night?” he asked.

  With a quick shake of her head, she turned her attention back to the rain. “I don’t know if we should be doing this.”

  “Why not? You want a child. I want to give you one. Walfort wants you to have one.”

  “Your mother will never know he or she is her grandchild.”

  “Jayne.” He knelt in front of her, took her hands. “She’d understand.”

  “I don’t see how she could.”

  With a sigh, he released her, pressed his back to the wall, raised his knees and draped his wrists over them. “If I tell you a secret,
you must swear to never tell a soul.”

  “I’m slightly insulted you don’t realize that all you have to tell me is that it’s a secret. I understand the importance with which they are kept.”

  “We’re alike in that regard, yet here I am, considering sharing this one with you.”

  “I swear.” She settled her chin on her upturned knees. “Does it have to do with your mother?”

  “Everything has to do with my mother.”

  “She loves you very much.”

  “She loves Stephen more . . . because she loved his father.”

  “But I thought she detested Westcliffe. She even implied so during dinner with veiled mentions of her loneliness.”

  Ainsley arched a brow, gave her a pointed look. He could almost see the wheels turning through her mind, then her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide.

  “Are you implying Westcliffe isn’t his father?”

  “I’m implying that my mother would understand—and forgive—your situation.”

  She was watching the rain again. Her toes curled around the edge of the cushion as though she was thinking so hard she needed the purchase to remain where she was. He wanted to slip his hand beneath the hem of her nightdress, slide it along her calf and find that little scar he’d been giving attention to earlier. Complete the journey that had haunted him all day.

  “That’s why she loved Stephen,” she said on a whispered breath, before jerking her gaze back to him. “She loved her lover. Do you think that’s it?”

  He shrugged.

  “It must be,” she insisted. “Who is he?”

  “That, I can’t tell you.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  He nodded. “But the man’s family never knew. His parents didn’t know that Stephen was their grandchild.” He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and wrapped his hand around her foot. “My whole point in sharing this is that it’s something we’ll live with, but we needn’t feel guilty over it.”