Heaven Sent the Wrong One

by VJ Dunraven

  He stepped further into the room, the illumination from the candles and fireplace bathing him in a golden glow, gradually revealing his handsome visage. "Answer me, Alexandra." He stopped a little more than a yard away from her, the sofa situated between them. "When did you marry your duke?"

  Alexandra stared at the harsh lines of his face. She could feel his anger simmering—tautly coiled just beneath the mantle of calmness he wore like a mask. Though the years had been kind to him, she could see the changes time had wrought. His features had become harder—stronger—more distinctly masculine than before. The eyes that once beheld warmth and laughter, now radiated a certain coldness—a distant, almost cruel gleam. His chiseled mouth, always curved in a playful smile, was now set in a grim line—waiting for her reply.

  "The first of September," she said in a small voice, lowering her eyes as she remembered that autumn day when the leaves changed in color and began falling from the trees.

  Everything had been perfect. Dear Henry spared no expense, brushing away her protests, persuading her to let him shower her with all the things he never had the chance to give her aunt Marjorie. She wore the most beautiful gown she had ever seen, walked down the aisle in the cathedral decorated to the hilt with roses and ribbons, nodded and smiled at the distinguished guests who'd traveled to attend the grandest wedding of the season. And yet, standing at the altar with her soon-to-be husband as they exchanged their vows, she recalled feeling her heart wither—breaking off from the rest of her and slipping to the ground—an empty, lifeless shell, dry and brittle as the falling leaves.

  "Of what year?" Allayne's gruff voice pulled her back from her rumination of the past to the present.

  Alexandra raised her eyes to see a band of muscle twitching on his cheek. Her chest constricted. What was she going to tell him? That she married a duke as rich as Croesus—barely three and a half months after their affair? "Twenty six," she whispered, bracing herself for his reaction upon learning that fact, anticipating the disdain—the judgment he would cast.

  And, she saw it clearly in his eyes.

  "Was that the reason why you left hours before dawn? Because you were engaged to be married?" His lips twisted in contempt at her gasp of surprise. "Don't bother denying it. The stable lads told me when I came looking for you after you failed to show up at our meeting place."

  Alexandra swallowed the large lump that formed in her throat. He knew. All these years, he believed she had sneaked out at dawn and left him. He must have imagined all sorts of scenarios. And tonight, her title probably confirmed the worst of his suspicions—that she encouraged his suit, declared her love and agreed to marry him, when all the while she was betrothed to another. Alexandra shook her head. No—she couldn't allow him to keep believing something that was far from the truth. "I left, because I was scared," she said, cognizant of how flimsy her excuse sounded.

  "Scared?" He regarded her with a sardonic chuckle. "That isn't like you at all. Perhaps practical,—but never scared. It doesn't take a genius to choose between a valet and a duke."

  "I wasn't engaged to anyone. There was no duke." Alexandra's frustration rose at his taunt, but she could not blame him. Her prompt marriage did imply a prior engagement between her and the duke. One did not enter into proper matrimony with a very high ranking peer of the realm without observing innumerable social courtesy and ceremony that could take months—even a year, to accomplish.

  His expression sobered. "Then why did you leave me, Alexandra?" he uttered in a tone so sad it made her heart ache.

  "I did it not for me—but for you," she replied earnestly. "I was scared of what you'd have to deal with if you and I married. I thought you were a valet. You know the ways of the ton. My family would never have approved of you. You would have never been happy with me. I didn't wish any of those things for you."

  He pinned her with a sharp gaze. "I confess, I had my fears too. I thought you were a maid and I too, left. But, I came to my senses and immediately went back for you. I was determined to tell you the truth and give you my name, my heart—everything. I loved you and I didn't care what other people would say. Then, I learned you'd left hours previously—even before I had." His chest heaved, anguish shrouding his features as he spoke softly, "You broke my heart, Alexandra."

  His admission infused her with such elation she thought she would never feel again, even though it came four years late, precipitated by the unfavorable situation both of them found themselves entrenched in. Through the years, she believed he deserted her for another—but she was wrong. So wrong. He loved her. He truly did love her enough to marry her—in spite of what he knew then, as a severe discrepancy in their rank. "Oh, Allayne—" she covered her mouth with a small sob, her compunction swelling for the time lost between them. "But, I went back for you, too."

  He stared at her with a startled look in his eyes.

  "And when I couldn't find you at Penthorpe Manor, I asked my driver to take me to Cornwall."

  He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled it in a long sigh. "No one mentioned anything to me," he said in a low voice laced with ambiguity.

  "Because the footman I sent to your door looked for the wrong man. I told him to ask for Andrew—your valet, and your butler said he had gotten married and no longer worked there." She paused, brushing away the hurt and betrayal that had haunted her since that sunny, spring day she'd left Rose Hill Manor. "So you see," her vision blurred with unshed tears, "you broke my heart too."

  His eyes widened and a trace of discomposure marred his face for a moment, before derision replaced it altogether. "Did I?" He raised a brow and narrowed his eyes. "You most certainly recovered expeditiously enough to marry your duke after a mere few months."

  Alexandra blanched at his scathing words, her mind filling with the memories of how she projected an outward aplomb to society, and then cried in the seclusion of her bedchamber for days, after she resigned her fate to marry Henry. She was so confused, deprived of fortitude and in a state of panic, like a ship with a broken compass, trying to navigate its way home across a turbulent sea. Even if she wanted to steer her course away from the eye of the hurricane, she couldn't—she hadn't had a choice. Too much was at stake—her respectability, her family's honor—Gabriel.

  Good God—he did not know about Gabriel.

  She debated with herself on what she should do, but his lips curled into a sneer at her silence before she could arrive at a decision. "I commend you," he drawled in a voice imbued with acrimonious rebuke. "You made the right choice. A duke is a vast improvement from a lowly valet."

  Alexandra's temper flared. "How dare you judge me! I didn't marry him because of his rank!"

  "Liar," he scoffed, folding his arms across his chest, perusing her from head to toe. "You fooled me once before, but you won't fool me again.”

  Alexandra felt her blood boil and shoot up to her cheeks. The way he scrutinized her, wordlessly criticizing her actions without the benefit of full disclosure and comprehension of past circumstances, thoroughly provoked her into a state of umbrage. Though she expected this reaction from him—and he most definitely did have the right to question and shape his own conclusions based on the information she'd supplied him—hearing him say the words to her face still wounded her exceedingly. "I never lied to you!" she exclaimed, the sting of tears burning at the back of her eyes. "My marrying the duke had nothing to do with how I felt for you. I thought you were gone. I thought you'd married someone else—that you'd never really loved me—that all you wanted was a quick tumble in your bed!"

  "I wanted you to be my wife!" he retorted in equivalent high dudgeon. "How can you assume—"

  "Listen to me." She raised her hands between them, dragging in a deep breath and trying to pacify the ringing in her ears. He made her so furious, she wanted to hit him, but she knew she would hate herself for it in the end. So she met his pugnacious gaze with all the boldness she could muster and staunchly declared, "I loved you, Allayne."

  "Alex—"
<
br />   "Hush—let me finish," her voice quavered with all the anguish she'd suppressed over the years, threatening to spill over and turn her into a raving madwoman, divested of any trace of dignity. "I travelled three straight days to Cornwall to find you. Yes—it took me a while to come to my senses, but when I did, it no longer mattered to me who you were or where you came from. I was ready to forsake my status—my family—my friends—for you." She choked on a sob and swiped a tear that slithered down her cheek, willing herself to press on and say what she needed to say, before she lost her nerve. "I loved you that much—you presumptuous bastard," she hastily swiped another errant tear with a shaking hand, "Heaven help me—but I still do!"

  Her forthright declaration took his breath away. For a fleeting moment, Allayne saw a glimpse of Anna, the lady's maid full of mettle, who stormed into his life one glorious spring day in Bath, turned his world inside-out, and conquered his elusive, impervious heart.

  She loved him. By God—she still loves him. Hell and damnation, Lord knew—he loved her and loves her still, deep in the core of his heart and soul—so much more so at this very moment—than all the recent years combined. He gazed at her tear-filled eyes. She was pale and trembling, visibly inundated with trepidation, aware of her disadvantage—yet she exposed her heart to his appraisal with such courage and conviction, it humbled him.

  "Oh, Alex—" he whispered, formulating a suitable reply in his head, but the words never came to fruition. Instead, he found himself rounding the sofa with his heart hammering in his chest and crossing the distance between them. When he pulled her into his arms, she reciprocated his embrace without hesitation, and when he showered her with kisses, murmuring, "I'm so sorry," between tiny kisses to her lids, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, till he covered her mouth with his—she parted her lips and welcomed him.

  And, just like that—the tightly reined passion between them sparked and combusted, engulfing them in a blaze so hot, it melted away the years, the sorrow, the doubts—the fears.

  He had longed for this—dreamt of this moment countless times in the past. To hold her, touch her—kiss her, until both of them burned with need. To intoxicate his senses with her scent, nestle his body in her softness, sink his rod deep within her molten heat. God—he couldn't believe it! She was here,—with him—both of them still as in love with each other with all the fervency they'd had, a thousand or so days and nights ago, in a paradise called Bath.

  He swept her off her feet and carried her to the sofa, sitting with her on his lap without breaking their kiss. She felt wonderful—familiar—pliant in his arms. He plundered her mouth with the thirst of a man emerging from the desert, and she quenched him with a fresh spring, flowing with sweetness and promises.

  Desire raged through him. It had been so long, and he was half-mad with lust. His hands wandered, re-acquainting himself with the feel of the slim curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the roundness of her bottom, before gliding upwards to her breasts. He pushed at the neckline of her dress to gain access, cupping the fullness with his hands. She arched her back, her nipples tightening as he rolled them with his thumbs. God—he missed this—he missed the passion, the fierce sexual attraction and tension between them.

  He wrenched himself from her kiss and captured a nipple in his mouth, suckling it with insistent twirls of his tongue. She moaned, plunged her fingers in his hair, and pressed her breast more firmly against his lips. He lowered her onto the wide sofa and eased himself beside her, moving his caresses to her other breast as he reached for the hem of her dress. Christ—he was so hard he had to have her—soon—or his member would burst out of his trousers! He lifted her skirts to her waist and slid his hand along the length of her long, exquisite legs, feeling his way to the patch of feminine curls at their apex.

  "Allayne—" she gasped, as he gently stroked the groove between the folds of her sex.

  "Let me in, my love," he whispered, nudging her to part her legs wider, and inserting a finger inside her.

  She bit her lip and moaned, her lids drooping as he circled his thumb over her clitoris. Devil take it—but she was so wet, so slick—he pushed her legs farther apart and gazed into the glistening, swollen pinkness of her sex, delectable enough to—

  "Allayne!" she cried, almost bolting upwards from the sofa, but he restrained her with his strong arms as he devoured the feminine downiness of her woman's flesh, delighting in the sultry, sensual flavor of her on his tongue. She writhed and groaned, panting as he repeatedly thrust two long fingers in her slit while he drew the nub that crowned her sex into his mouth. And then, when her silken walls gripped his fingers with wave after wave of contractions, coating his hand with warm, syrupy moisture, he knew—she was ready for him.

  He withdrew his fingers and kneeled with his knees astride her on the seat, fumbling with the fall of his trousers with his other hand while damning his tailor under his breath for the number of hooks and buttons sewn to make it a perfect fit.

  "Here," Alexandra sat up and reached out to help him. He struggled with his form-fitting coat as she worked on his trousers. When he finally managed to fling the blasted coat to the floor with another muttered curse to his tailor, he found her staring at his massive erection, his drawers and trousers pushed to his knees.

  She glanced up at him with an impish smile, then, wrapped her hand around him, shocking him to the soles of his boots when she proceeded to take him into her wet, balmy, mouth.

  "God—Alex—yes—" he hissed with an indrawn breath, throwing his head back and baring his teeth at the erotic brush of her lips and tongue, as she greedily swallowed him to the hilt. She remembered everything he had taught her, using those skills to torment him. Damnation—but he had craved this for so long—her libido—her spontaneity—her uninhibited avidity to match his appetite for explicit sex. She was his counterpart—the female wrought from his rib—the one woman made to fill his needs and only his.

  She took him again and again, running her tongue along the length of him, suckling the tip of his cock, squeezing, teasing, and titillating him until he could not stand the punishment any longer. "I want you," he rasped, extracting his cock from her ministrations lest he spilled his seed in her mouth. He hoisted her long, elegant legs to his shoulders, making her tumble backwards on the pillows behind her.

  "Yes," she replied, with a bright flush to her cheeks, pulling him down by his cravat for a torrid kiss.

  A sharp knock on the door broke the amatory mood in the room. "Alex? Are you in there?" Jeremy's urgent voice called from the other side of the door.

  Allayne tore his lips away from hers with a curse. "Fuck off, Jeremy!" he yelled over his shoulder.

  Alexandra gasped at the coarseness of his language.

  "Sorry, love—but I could just shoot your cousin right now." He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

  "Twenty minutes, Allayne," Richard's voice replaced Jeremy's. "Don't forget—Jeremy has the key."

  "Go to hell, Richard!" Allayne bellowed. What bloody timing! Trust his meddling friends to murder his erection in one knock! He glanced down at his flaccid member, mentally counting the number of bullets he had loaded in his gun. A graze each to the kneecap should teach them never to interfere in his affairs.

  "Twenty minutes, old chap!" Jeremy reiterated with an audible jingle of keys.

  Alexandra sat up with a firm push to his chest. "I-I better get dressed." She slid her legs from their perch on his shoulders and began to tug at the neckline of her dress, blushing profusely as she secured the pins in her hair and fixed her dress back to respectability.

  Allayne watched her closely as he pulled up his trousers and shrugged on his coat. Something had happened between the time they had kissed and his friends' intrusion within minutes. Her posture had stiffened and she looked abjectly embarrassed and troubled. She rose from the sofa and quickly checked her reflection in the mirror by the sideboard. "I-I should go," she said, moving past him, avoiding his gaze.

  "Alex—" He caught
her arm and turned her to face him.

  Her lips quivered and tears shone in her eyes.

  He wiped the first droplet that slipped to her cheekbone with the back of his fingers. "Sshh, love—it's alright." He lifted her chin between his thumb and forefinger, reclaiming her lips in a gentle kiss.

  "Oh, Allayne—no it's not," she cried, when at last he pulled away to catch his breath, allowing some volume of sanity to flow back into his head. "How could it be alright? You're betrothed and—"

  "You're married," he interjected gravely. Now that he could think straight, that particular thought nagged at him. It contradicted everything she had said—an inconsistency too significant for him to dismiss. "Alexandra." He cupped her cheek in his palm and peered into her eyes. "If you loved me—tell me—why did you marry the duke so soon?"

  Alexandra could literally feel the blood drain from her face and pool at her toes. How could she explain everything to him—make him understand that she did what she had to do? How was she going to tell him about their son—and the circumstances surrounding him?

  She searched the countenance of the man before her with her eyes. He had such a striking resemblance to Gabriel, exact duplicates of an older and younger version—unmistakably familial—indubitably father and son. With a sigh of sadness and regret, she realized he missed their child's growing years—his first smile, his first step, his first intelligible word,—Papa.

  He never got to read to him at bedtime or kiss him goodnight, or wake up in the mornings with tickles and laughter, or ride in the meadows after breakfast. He missed three birthdays and an equal number of Christmases, countless memories, and precious moments—all irreversible—forever, lost in time.

  A fresh flood of tears gathered behind her lids—from the sense of loss, the tragedy of what could have been their perfect little family—the debilitating guilt. Yes—most profoundly the guilt. She felt like a thief who had stolen something valuable, then in a fit of conscience had changed her mind—only to discover that she could not return nor repair the damage caused by what she had taken.