Heaven Sent the Wrong One

by VJ Dunraven

  "I believe it's my turn to make the introductions," Jeremy quickly interjected. "Miss Ellery, let me present my cousin, Her Grace, The Duchess of Redfellow."

  "Oh—goodness." Marion reddened. "I muddled it all up again, didn't I? Your Grace,—I'm so sorry—," she curtsied and grimaced sheepishly at Alexandra. "I could never get used to all the English protocols. You must think I'm silly."

  "Oh, no. Please don't apologize," Alexandra replied with empathy, noting the woman's distinct foreign accent. "Even I could not remember all the formalities."

  "Thank you for understanding," Marion immediately brightened. "I'm afraid I've committed enough faux pas in one night to embarrass Allayne. We are a lot less conventional in America.'

  America? A nagging suspicion bloomed in Alexandra's gut. Didn't Allayne just come from there? She flicked her gaze from Marion's blissful countenance to Allayne's somber expression. His eyes had become distant—unreadable. He seemed to have transformed into a stranger, withdrawn from the bond they shared not a minute earlier.

  A sparkle caught her eye as Marion slid her arm around Allayne’s arm and interlaced her fingers with his, leaning her head affectionately just below his shoulder. Alexandra followed the source—a brilliant diamond on Marion's left ring finger.

  All at once—she comprehended everything with crystal clarity.

  This—was the culmination of their love story. This—was the conclusion she had been waiting for. This—was the tragic ending to her fairy tale.

  Then—as if on cue to the curtain call—the orchestra began to play.

  Acute despair knifed in her chest, reopening the old wound she presumed healed and obliterated. Her lungs emptied of air and she felt suffocated, as if a heavy brick fell and collapsed her ribcage. The fragile heart she guarded so closely and nurtured to recovery—shattered like brittle glass into a million pieces, all over again.

  With quavering knees threatening to buckle beneath her, she stumbled back a step, accidentally bumping into the Duke of Grandstone who was standing behind her.

  "Duchess?" The duke steadied her with both hands.

  Jeremy moved towards them with an anxious frown. "Alex? Is anything the matter?"

  She frantically shook her head in denial, raising her hand to pacify his concern, all the while trying to blink away the tears that had sprung in her eyes. No—she wouldn't make a scene and cry. Not in full view of the entire ton—and certainly not in front of Allayne and his fiancée.

  An overwhelming urge to disappear consumed her. She must go somewhere—anywhere—far from everything and everyone. Somewhere where she could curl up and hide; a dark, distant place where she could wither quietly away and die.

  "E-excuse me," she managed to choke out, the press of moisture weighing heavily on her lids, before she plunged into the crowd, and tore across the room in a half run.

  Chapter 22

  The Viscount’s Heir

  From the moment he saw her, the peaceful, carefree, mundane world Allayne Carlyle tried so hard to regain for the past four years—catapulted from its axis.

  Good God. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Her lustrous chestnut hair, done in a simple coiffure atop her head, showed off her long, elegant neck. Her gown, in a comely shade of red, flattered her tall, willowy figure. The tops of her breasts peeked alluringly over the wide scoop neckline and the bodice hugged the shape of her slim waist down to the gentle flare of her hips. She peered at him with those magnificent, dark, expressive eyes, a rich blush staining her cheeks. Allayne couldn't take his eyes off her. The joy that welled in his chest upon seeing her—took his breath away—riveted him on the spot—stunned him into silence.

  And then, Jeremy introduced her as Lady Alexandra Davenport. He could only but repeat her name, and gape at her in confusion. Anna was the earl's daughter—the woman his mother had been hounding him to meet. He was still reeling from the blow when he realized Jeremy had told her who he was. And the look on her face reflected what must have been on his.

  Then—Richard corrected the introduction and presented her as the Duchess of Redfellow.

  It took a moment for the words to sink in.

  She married a duke.

  And he found his elation turning into anger. Was that the reason she left him?—Because she had a duke waiting in the sidelines the whole damn time? But then—what did he expect? He pretended to be a lowly valet and she impersonated her maid—both of them bored aristocrats looking for amusement. Nothing meaningful should have come out of their ruse and yet—the attraction, the powerful pull that bound them to its web—blindsided, fascinated, swept them—into a fantasy, a dream neither of them wanted to awaken from.

  Liberated and unburdened from society's dictates—he lost his head—unaware that all the while, she knew when to draw the line, when to stop the charade, when to revert to reality as if nothing happened between them. Unlike him—who believed everything she said, fell for her meaningless words—her acts of affection.

  All of it—goddamn lies.

  He was such a fool—such a stupid jackass, for failing to realize she simply picked him as her shiny new bauble—to entertain herself for the moment. And, while he pined for her, punished himself for losing her, exiled himself from his beloved family and friends, she'd bounced right back to where she left off in her privileged life—and married her fucking duke.

  The confirmation that she favored someone else—better, richer—a far cry from the servant she presumed him to be, struck him with immense disappointment. She was no different from the rest—who measured his worth in terms of gold. Who vied for a man based on his title and properties, not on the merits of his character—and certainly, never on the foundation of love. Allayne never felt so unmanned, so insulted—grievously offended to the extent that he actually wanted to shoot someone, kill someone—namely, her. He wanted to hurt her—the same way she hurt him now.

  And then—he made one crucial mistake.

  He touched her.

  Allayne had been confident that he was formidable enough, indomitable enough—from succumbing to any more of that ridiculous, sentimental rubbish, that hopelessly amorous poets called love. His heart, hardened by cynicism and disillusionment over the years, had become aloof—wary of personal entanglements. He was now more careful, more logical than emotional, more objective in his choice of relationship, which he plainly viewed as a responsibility to his family; a suitable arrangement to expound important connections; a convenience to beget an heir. Never again would he allow himself to lose control and fall head-first. To need, to love, to give his all and trust another woman—the way he mindlessly had in Bath.

  But with just one touch, Anna—Alexandra—or whoever the fuck she was—tore the walls he'd erected around himself, charging his guard, breaching his defenses—exposing his vulnerability to the one thing he kept hidden—the one woman he disavowed ever gracing his life at some point in time in the past. Seeing her again—resurrected every unspoken question, every single emotion, every miniscule glimmer of hope he tried to suppress over the years. Touching her again—knowing she was here, she was real—made his heart soar—beat again—come to life—emerge from the grave.

  Allayne's resoluteness cracked. No. This could not be happening. Not after all the pain and heartache. Not after he finally dug himself out of his deathly existence and rejoined the land of the living. Not after he restored the balance of his neat, well-organized world. Not after all these years—all this time he'd spent picking up the pieces of his broken heart—which he could never attest—had truly mended.

  No—he could not go through that again.

  And then—she reciprocated his mistake.

  And touched him.

  And that was all it took to push him to surrender.

  Every cell in his body honed in on her—in awareness—recognition—that she was the missing piece of the puzzle, the essential component of his completion—his woman—his other half. The simple feel of her hand on his, made his blood boil a
nd his body react in ways that could put any decent man to shame. Recollections—of the softness of her body against his, of the weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of every inch of her skin, the slick, tight, heat of her sheath pulsing around him—filled him with mind-numbing need.

  Good God—but he'd never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her. She was his addiction—the opium in his veins, the obsession, and the object of his lust. He could never get enough of her, could never tire of making love to her, could never satiate his desire for the sultry oasis between her long, exquisite legs wrapped around his hips as he entered her repeatedly—harder and faster until both of them screamed in ecstasy.

  A woman's voice reached his ears.

  Marion.

  Within that short period of shock from seeing Alexandra again, touching her once more—he had forgotten he was engaged. It took him three years to even notice Marion existed, and another year to convince himself to appreciate what she had to offer. Given her wealth, beauty, and agreeable nature, Marion complemented his status. It was plain to see that she was his ideal match. His decision to marry her had been easy, predictable—the practical choice. But not once in his lifetime did the possibility of seeing Alexandra again cross his mind. He thought he'd lost her—that their saga had ended in Bath. That the moments they shared could no longer affect him—so long as he kept them under lock and key—never to be unearthed, buried, and forsaken in the confines of his heart.

  But now, standing here, face to face in the middle of a crowded ballroom, suddenly—everything fell into perspective.

  The mere nearness of her made him lose his footing, his sanity—his inclination to spend his life with another. Marion may have distracted him overtime, extended a hand, and rescued him from the darkness, encouraged him to move on and take a different path, but Alexandra made him see beyond today, made him want to rediscover his true destiny, stirred his soul to want to live—kindled his severely wounded heart—to love again.

  Much as he tried to erase her face, her scent, every morsel of her memory from his mind, deep in the very core of his soul—he knew. No matter how much he tried, no matter how long the passage of time—the gloomy days, the endless, lonely nights, the many changes in his life—one thing couldn't be denied.

  He had never stopped loving her.

  He loved her then. He loved her still.

  Even more so—than before.

  The simple truth knocked the wind from his lungs—brought back the uncertainty, the fear—of how much her love truly mattered to him.

  He steeled himself from the impact of that realization. Even as Marion unabashedly twined her fingers with his, openly showing her affection, his attention had shifted and focused solely on Alexandra.

  He watched her recoil—stagger. And for a fleeting moment, he saw in her eyes the very same emotions battling within him, before she turned around—and fled.

  Against everything he knew was right, against what other people might think—his family, his friends, Marion—his honor be damned—he muttered his excuses—and went after her.

  For nothing in this world could make him let her run away—not even the devil himself—and let her leave him without a word of explanation—again.

  Chapter 23

  Allayne and Alexandra

  Alexandra collapsed on the sofa in front of the fireplace in what must be the Waterford House library, judging from the collection of volumes on the shelves of the floor to ceiling bookcases. Away from the bustling crowd, she let her emotions run free, crying her eyes out in the silence of the room. Dear God, this was simply too much—too painful for her to bear. Seeing Andrew—or rather Allayne again—resurrected all the things she tried to escape from, resisted,—tried to forget.

  And feared the most.

  Weakness. Vulnerability. Disorientation. Things she suffered from in the last four years, rendering her paralyzed—helpless—powerless—a pawn at his mercy. For no matter how much she tried to enforce the dictates of reason and ignore the stirrings of her emotions, seeing him again validated her worst fears—that he still occupied a dangerously significant portion of her heart; unquestionably commanded her undivided attention, wholehearted affection, utmost loyalty—her fervent desires.

  She still loved him.

  Heaven help her, but nothing could rid her of that tender, soul-deep, ineffable truth. God knows how much she flagellated herself to forget about him—but she simply couldn't—she wasn't that strong. Every single effort she devised, sought, embarked on—to blot his image, to kill any shred of memory—only aggravated her longing, intensified her love, ignited her passion for him to a blistering flame that smoldered over the years.

  Yes—she learned to live with it. To cope with the constant yearning, the interminable agony of missing him, the persistent need for fulfillment that only he could bring. But it also left her exhausted and bereft, like a little fish washed ashore, gasping for breath, floundering just beyond the water's reach.

  She wanted him. She needed him.

  And God, how she loved him! So much—so desperately—that losing him changed who she was. Life as she knew it—ended that last day in Bath. She no longer was the bold, devil-may-care person who was full of laughter and good humor. Who was content with her independence. Who didn't need anyone to complicate her existence. The woman she had become was cynical, aloof,—reticent.

  And afraid.

  Frightened that another man would have the power to hurt her again; to chain her heart in a mighty chokehold and drain the very life from her veins. She died once before—buried herself in Sidmouth Manor—unable to expunge the grief of losing Allayne. She couldn't go through that again. Watch from afar as life sailed by. Hide from family and friends. Flee at the first sign of interest from eligible gentlemen.

  No—she couldn't go back there—couldn't relive the nightmare her life had become.

  "You never answered my question."

  She whipped around at the sound of that beloved baritone voice that echoed night after night in her dreams. "A-Allayne?" she abruptly jumped up from her seat, caught off-guard by his sudden appearance. He was standing by the doorframe, silhouetted against the light of the bright chandeliers along the hallway.

  ~

  Allayne gazed at Alexandra's tear-stained countenance, stifling the bubble of joy at hearing his name for the first time on her lips. He clenched his jaw, restraining the instinct to go to her and comfort her. He had followed her from the ballroom to the library, her scarlet gown and statuesque height, easing the difficulty of locating her in the midst of the crowd. His anger and frustration had escalated to a perilous degree—unfit for civilized company. He could not accept the fact that while he wallowed in years of self-pity and destruction, the woman he pined and mourned for to the point of insanity, married and moved on with her life, replacing him in her heart with another, so easily.

  Lord knows—that hadn't been the case with him.

  Year after year, he had struggled with himself, forced the dictates of responsibility to influence his decision to affiance himself with Marion, until he finally progressed far enough to regain his equilibrium, believing he'd done the right thing. But in a span of a second, the moment he laid eyes on Alexandra—everything deviated from the steady tenor of his life and reverted to the way it had been. His mind, his heart, his body, and soul, regressed to the feelings of yesteryear, rekindling the potent emotions that defeated him once before. It infuriated him—how she could just materialize from nowhere—and plunge him right back to where he'd started. So, he pursued her out of spite—out of sheer bitterness and indignation—only to dissolve into tender protectiveness at the sight of her weeping by the fireplace. She had been visibly disconcerted at seeing him again, shaken by his vicious interrogation—or perhaps—a notion stemmed in his gut—it had something to do with his engagement to Marion.

  Allayne planted his feet firmly on the floor, resisting the urge to rush to her side and enfold her in his embrace. Too much time had
passed, too many things left unsaid between them—and he simply could not lay his heart at her feet and let her trample it at will.

  No—he could not allow himself to become vulnerable again.

  What he needed—was to hear what she had to say; to find out her side of the story; to look at her face—into her eyes—as she articulated the words. Most of all, he wanted to know why—why she looked at him that way in the ballroom—with the blush blooming on her cheeks and her heart shining in her eyes—the way she used to do, once upon a time in Bath. And whatever it was that troubled her considerably enough to prompt her to run away—bloody goddamn hell—she owed him some answers!

  He steeled himself from the distress that manifested in the furrow of her brow and the tightening of her mouth, as he closed the door behind him and turned the lock with an audible click. The privacy afforded by the large chamber isolated them from the noise of the soiree down the hall, accentuating the silence that yawned between them, occasionally punctuated by the sound of the crackling fire in the grate. He willed the last of his patience—stretched the limit of his temper to a thin line of forbearance he hardly possessed—and waited for her to satisfy him with an explanation.

  ~

  Alexandra did not know what to say. The impact of his presence in the same room, far from the safety of the ballroom outside, numbed her senses—deprived her of lucid thought. A sudden reminiscence besieged her of the last time they were alone like this; when they had kissed and made love—promised their devotion to each other forever—before reality struck and crumbled that fabled dream into dust.

  She gazed at him from across the room—the man who once asked—or rather—imperiously ordered her hand in marriage and professed his undying love. The library was dimly illuminated by a single branch of candles on the mantle, feebly aided by the flickering flames in the hearth. From where she stood at the far end of the library, she could see his figure—a tall, imposing male shadow, powerfully built with splendid physical proportions. Her knees weakened at the memory of how that beautiful physique felt, pressed against her; the roughness and hardness against her velvet softness; the strength and control he wielded as he took possession of her body, branding her as his.