Heaven Sent the Wrong One
Page 22
Good God—what was he going to say to her?
Ever since his feet had touched English soil, the truth was, he had been overtaken by melancholy and nostalgia. All he could think of was Anna, or rather Alexandra—her expressive dark eyes lit with amusement, her small straight nose sprinkled with faint freckles twitching to stifle a giggle, a teasing smile quivering on her lovely, luscious lips. Her image followed him wherever he went—floating in and out of his consciousness from his waking hour in the morning to the time he retired late at night, haunting him even in his dreams.
How could he tell Marion that he'd never forgotten her—the woman he'd damned to the devil and the perpetual pits of hell—who'd inflicted him with such naked pain, it had destroyed his soul, shattered his heart and drove away any remnant of logic from his brain? How could he explain why he'd carried her in the recesses of his heart all along—why he'd loved her and loved her still—when there were no words, no justification—that even he, in his most rational frame of mind, could summon?
Allayne swallowed the bile swelling up his throat. If he avoided the inevitable confrontation today, the issue would still be there tomorrow, and all the succeeding days. He must face the consequences of his actions right now—not when Sam Ellery, Marion's father, originally scheduled to board the ship with them for London, but was delayed due to business matters that needed urgent attention, arrived. Allayne placed his knuckles against the mahogany door and willed himself to knock.
"Come in." Marion called from inside the room.
Allayne turned the knob and walked in, his gaze immediately settling on the trunks that littered the floor. Marion stood, fully dressed for travel by the bed, where her maid was packing hats, shawls, and other personal items into a valise spread wide open across the mattress. "What's all this?" he asked, though there could be no mistaking her intent.
Marion gazed at him with eyes, red from crying. "I'm going back to America."
"Marion, I—"
"Please, Allayne—" she interjected, with a marked tremor in her voice, "you don't have to explain anything."
He took a step toward her. "Yes, I do—"
"No—please don't come any closer," she backed away, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Marion—" Allayne threw a pointed glance at the maid who was stoically arranging the brushes and combs in a travelling box, signaling her to leave.
"The Duchess," Marion said, as soon as the maid closed the door behind her. "She's the one—isn't she?"
"Marion—"
"I'm not blind, Allayne!" she uttered vehemently. "I saw the way you looked at her."
Allayne contained his emotions. He felt trapped—cornered and stripped to the core—found out. The last thing he wanted to talk about was Alexandra—at least not with Marion. "I didn't expect to see her again," he forced himself to say.
"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 leaned 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 her 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 clear. "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 earnest. "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 small 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—"
"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 pressed 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."
"Marion, 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 footsteps 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 retrieve 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."
Chapter 25
Father and Son
Allayne 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 ensure 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 cautiously 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 man'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 time. 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 painting. 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.