by VJ Dunraven
She knew then, that he'd realized the damage she had done. The repercussion of a deed made long ago, that seemed right at that time. Alexandra could almost read the expressions that travelled across his face, could almost discern his thoughts as he pondered and debated with himself, weighing the situation, his options, the right decision to be made. She knew—he knew—it would become the biggest scandal in all of England—if he pressed his suit to claim his own son.
"I had to do it.” She related the dire circumstances surrounding the dukedom and her promise to the duke. “I-I'm so sorry," she said, at last, when she finished her account.
Allayne did not respond.
At his continued silence, Alexandra pushed herself upright and slid off the bed. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks as she took the few steps towards the adjoining door, but she did not care. She felt helpless and ashamed. Allayne could do what he wanted to do, now. She had given the choice to him. Whatever he decided on, she would have to accept—and face the consequences.
The rustle of sheets brought her attention back to the four-poster bed. Allayne had tucked Gabriel underneath the counterpane with a kiss and swung his legs off the bed.
His eyes met hers as he perched on the edge of the mattress. Alexandra wanted to flinch from the intensity of that green gaze, and at the same time, longed to run into his embrace. Dear God, how she loved him—and how she hurt him so. She could see it all in those expressive eyes of his—the disappointment, the anguish—the disgust. And, she could not bear it.
Allayne stood up and walked towards the door leading to the hallway. As his hand alighted on the doorknob, he paused and leaned his forehead on the door frame. "I need time to think," he said without looking back at her.
"I understand," she replied quietly, lowering her gaze to the floor, incapable to watch him leave in such a troubled state. Her heart broke for him, for Gabriel—for the dream that was so close, yet so impossible to reach in the end. A strange sense of surrender enveloped her. She was emotionally exhausted, numbed—drained. There was nothing more she could do, but wait.
She must have stood there for a while, her mind blank, her eyes transfixed on the intricate pattern of leaves and vines on the carpet. Because, when she finally looked up—Allayne Carlyle was gone.
Chapter 27
The Perfect Shot
Allayne propped his elbows on the mahogany desk and scrubbed his face with his hands. He had been doing extensive research in the library for the past few days and had found nothing that could solve his predicament. His frustration had built to such an appalling state, it made him irritable and unsociable. None of the servants would approach him and his latest valet, the one his mother had hired barely a week ago, had tendered his resignation just yesterday—after he'd snarled and put a bullet through the window when the poor man tried to fuss over his clothes.
Thankfully, his friends and family knew better—and had elected to leave him alone in his doldrums. Which had been a good choice—because after seven whole days of thumbing through thousands of pages—hell and damnation—his mood had become even worse. Day after day, hour after hour, every goddamn book of law provided nothing, but rigid declarations. Even the family barrister, who was a confidante and a well-known expert of the law, could not provide a solution for him. It had become quite clear that it would be extremely difficult to locate a legal loophole.
Allayne rubbed his bleary eyes and rested his forehead on the heels of his hands. How long had it been since he'd eaten? He really should stop and take his repast, and perhaps get some much-needed rest. His sleep had been erratic as of late—he'd missed Alexandra and Gabriel, but he fought his desire to go and see them, because he could not let his attachment to Gabriel grow to a proportion large enough to distract his objectivity in finding a resolution to the enormous problem his paternity presented.
"Allayne?" His mother called from the partially open doorway, carrying a tray of supper with both hands. "May I come in?"
"Of course, Mama," Allayne replied, with a resigned sigh. He should have known that his mother would not let him get away much longer from missing his meals.
The Viscountess placed the tray on the mahogany table and sat across from him. "I wish you'd tell me what's troubling you, dearie." She searched his face with a concerned look in her eyes, and then glanced at the books scattered around the table.
Allayne shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginning of a headache coming on.
"Our butler—Morton, had very reluctantly mentioned something he heard from the servants," the Viscountess ventured. "He said there have been rumors of a child—."
"What child?" Allayne interjected abruptly, straightening in his chair. Oh, no. This could not be happening right now—not when he was still unprepared to deal with the situation at hand!
"Morton said his cousin, Barton, had heard from the Waterford House staff, that they'd heard from their cousin, Gordon and the Grandstone house staff, who in turn heard from the Redfellow house staff, that the Duchess has a son who looks remarkably like—" the Viscountess cleared her throat before adding, "a Carlyle."
Allayne stared at his mother.
"The last time I checked, I only have one son—you—unless I conceived by Immaculate Conception, gave birth without my knowledge and handed the babe to the Duchess for adoption three years ago." The Viscountess crossed her arms on her chest and regarded him with shrewd eyes. "Either that—or your father had dipped his cucumber into the wrong gravy boat and produced a spawn under my nose."
Allayne propped his elbows back on the mahogany table and caught his head in his hands.
"Unless of course," his mother prattled on, "someone else in this family had bedded and impregnated Her Grace long ago—and refuses to discuss the fruit of his labor with his loved ones, who only wanted what's best for his welfare!”
"Mother—" Allayne massaged his temples in a circular motion with his fingers. "May we please discuss this in the morning?"
"No, we may not." The Viscountess placed her hands on her hips. "Everyone in this household may be afraid of you, Allayne Carlyle, but I am your mother and I can box your ears whenever I like. And, if you dare point a pistol at me, I swear—I'll shoot your forefinger off before you can even pull that trigger!" She patted the bulge of her pistol in her skirt pocket. "Don't forget which parent you inherited that perfect shot from."
"I'm glad I did not inherit the perfect swoon too," Allayne muttered, under his breath.
"I heard that," his mother snapped.
"Mama—" Allayne exhaled heavily, and met his mother's questioning eyes. "What am I to do?"
"Just as I suspected." The Viscountess stood up and paced the floor. "The boy is yours."
"Yes." Allayne waited for another lecture—and readied himself to catch his mother in case she might swoon, but she simply kept on walking back and forth in front of his desk in deep thought.
After a long while, she paused to look at him. "My God—I have another grandson." She gushed with a small laugh.
"That's just it." Allayne sat back in his chair. "Claiming him as a Carlyle might not be that easy."
"Why ever not?" the Viscountess tilted her head, a flummoxed expression crossing her still-beautiful face.
"According to these records," Allayne gestured at the leather-bound books on his desk, "The Duke of Redfellow claimed him and presented him to the King as his own blood and heir. Alexandra gave the Duke her blessing. She and I—had an affair in Bath and parted ways. Gabriel was the son I never knew she had. She thought I was a valet and did not discover who I truly was, until we met again at the soiree."
"A valet?" His mother's eyebrows shot upwards.
"It's a long story." Allayne plowed his fingers through his hair and craned his neck left and right, to ease the tension building at his nape.
"Dinner can wait." The Viscountess sat down on her chair and settled her hands on her lap, with a pointed glare.
Too tired to argue
and knowing his mother would never let him get away without an explanation, Allayne began to tell her the details. After several minutes of incredulous exclamations and mutterings of the Lord's name from the Viscountess, a long silence ensued at the end of his tale.
"Allow me to wrap my brain around what you've just told me—" she finally said, with a deep furrow on her brow. "After all that whining and grumbling about my sending you to Bath to meet—in your own words—"another one of my mother's friends' silly, insipid chits"—you pretended to be a valet and decided to tup the silly, insipid, chit—whom you thought was a maid, but turned out to be the Earl of Weston's daughter, who was the very same "silly, insipid chit" I matched you with in the first place, who later became the Duchess of Redfellow, and birthed your illegitimate son without your knowledge, who is now the Eighth Duke of Redfellow, whom you discovered existed a week ago, and now wanted to claim as your own." The Viscountess wiped her brow and made an exaggerated show of catching her breath after her long narration.
"Yes, that about sums it up." Allayne watched his mother's expression as it went from discombobulated to exasperated, to plain hysterical.
"Oh, Lord, Allayne! How could you even fathom tupping the Earl's daughter? You're too randy for your own good! I should have had you gelded when you turned twelve! This is all your father's fault! If he had not conjured this grand idea of matching you with Weston's daughter in the first place, none of this would have happened! Where is he, anyway?" The Viscountess swiveled towards the open doorway. "George? George? George!" She yelled loud enough to cause the servants to come running and investigate.
"Calm down, Mama." Allayne waved the servants away and reached for his mother's hand across the table. "Papa left for White's an hour ago—although at the rate you're screaming, he'll probably hear you even if he is in Cornwall."
"Don't turn insolent on me, Allayne Cassius Carlyle!" She glowered at him. "My poor grandson—what are we going to do now?"
"Claiming him as my son is not the real problem, Mama. It's the repercussions after the fact that are not favorable."
"Whatever do you mean?" The Viscountess visibly stiffened.
"If I force my paternity, Gabriel will lose the dukedom and Alexandra will face the gallows for deceiving the crown."
"Oh, Lord—you are probably right. She did implicate herself as an accomplice by supporting the Duke’s ruse. And, not just that—even if you succeeded in giving Gabriel your name, you cannot have him as your heir. He was born while the Duchess was married to the duke. He could only inherit the Viscountcy if he was born within a marriage between you and the Duchess. If you claim him, he will lose not just the Dukedom, but also the legacy of the Viscountcy. In short—Gabriel will lose everything."
"Shit!" Allayne slammed his hand on the table. "Everything is so goddamn complicated."
Another awkward silence ensued, both of them lapsing into their own private cogitation, before the Viscountess said, "No—it's all quite simple, really."
"Pardon me?" Allayne turned his gaze from the flickering flames in the fireplace to his mother.
"Allayne—sooner than later, Gabriel's true paternity will become apparent to everyone. You don't need to lay claim on him to prove he's your son. That's all you want, isn't it?—to be recognized as your son's father? Well—if the servants could notice the resemblance as early as now, when Gabriel is but a wee boy, then the stamp of your countenance on him will only become stronger as he grows. There will be talk, no doubt—and some people will question his right to the Dukedom. But, who in his rational mind would dare insult him or challenge you—the most feared marksman in the Kingdom?"
"No one, I'm sure—" Allayne shook his head with a shrug. "But, that doesn't solve my predicament."
"Let me ask you this—" the Viscountess looked him in the eyes. "Do you love the duchess and your son?"
"Of course, I do, Mama. I wouldn't be so adamant in resolving this issue if I did not care for them so."
"Then do what's best for both of them," his mother said in a gentle voice and a kind smile. "Leave your own interest behind. Think of them first and put yourself last. Accept what you cannot change. Marry the Duchess and let Gabriel become one of the most powerful peers in the land. The Viscountcy can wait for another heir—it's not impossible for you and Alexandra to have more sons. And in the event you are blessed with daughters instead, the title can pass on to your cousin, Albert, who is a commendable young man." The Viscountess rounded the table, went to his side, and brushed his tousled hair away from his face. "A real, strong man—like your father—will do everything for the sake of his loved ones," her voice rang with a twinge of pride. "You are your father's son. You may have inherited your aim from me, but I see the rest of your father's qualities in you. Choose the selfless alternative—both you and Alexandra have learned your lessons. What was done, was done. It's time to forgive, forget, and move on with your lives—together."
Allayne closed his eyes and leaned his head on his mother's shoulder.
"Keep your eye on the most important target." The Viscountess gave him a hug and kissed the top of his head—much like the way Allayne did with Gabriel. "Don't let the mundane things distract your sight from the perfect shot."
Allayne returned his mother's embrace. "Thank you, Mama," he said, kissing her cheek.
"Now eat your supper and get some rest," his mother said, as she walked towards the doorway. "I want to meet my grandson as soon as you can make arrangements—and also my new daughter."
And with that said, the Viscountess left in an elegant flourish of silk skirts, loudly humming Mendelssohn's Wedding March from Shakespeare’s, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' as she disappeared into the long hallway."
**This author has chosen to use Felix Mendelssohn's Wedding March in C Major, 12 years ahead of its composition. It was actually written in 1842 and became one of the most popular incidental music pieces from Shakespeare’s 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' c. 1590-1596.
Chapter 28
The Most Important People
Four long weeks. One miserable month. And not a peep from Allayne Carlyle. She could not take it anymore. The longer time stretched, the more uneasy she had become. What could he be doing? Had he been talking to solicitors, sneaking behind her back, maneuvering some devious plot to take Gabriel away from her? Oh, he'd better not! Alexandra muttered a very un-ladylike curse and yanked her kid gloves on with furious tugs.
Her maid looked up from lacing her stays, peering over her shoulder in the mirror. "Your Grace, are you alright?"
"Yes, yes. I'm fine." Alexandra swept her gaze at her own reflection. A rich flush cast a glow on her cheeks and her eyes seemed larger, brighter. She looked like a woman who had just been kissed.
“Fool!” she mumbled to herself. The entire day, she had been jittery and absent-minded. Tonight, her condition had gotten worse—because she knew, Allayne would be at Jeremy's dinner party. She had been reluctant to go, but Jeremy's wife, Cassie, had organized the party for her, as her 'Welcome Back' into society. Jeremy had assured her that they'd invited only family and close friends—and there lied the problem. Allayne qualified for both.
The maid helped her into her new gown, an exquisite burgundy creation embellished with dusky gold beaded trim that sparkled in the candlelight. It had been delivered that morning—a surprise gift from her Papa.
"Oh, it's so beautiful on you, Your Grace!" her maid exclaimed, as she adjusted the gown here and there, plumping the pouf sleeves that rested just below her shoulders and straightening the layers of skirting made of shimmering silk. "You will turn the head of every gentleman in the room."
"I'm sure there are many young ladies present to impress the gentlemen, Polly," Alexandra said, as she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her maid was not exaggerating. The gown did flatter her coloring, bringing out the chestnut highlights in her hair. A low neckline revealed more than enough to excite a man's imagination. She could not wait to witness Allayne's reaction when he saw
her. The thought of his eyes alighting on her bare skin—skimming her throat, her shoulders, the tops of her breasts—
Stop it! Alexandra inwardly scolded herself. She did not want to see him. And no—she had not been miserable with longing for him at all. Well—perhaps just once—when she thought for sure that Allayne had kissed her in her sleep, or that other time when she woke up in the middle of the night—trembling and out of breath, ablaze with desire for him. The rest of the days did not count, of course. There was absolutely nothing wrong with woolgathering about someone. It was a perfectly good exercise to pass the time. Besides—she had not been dreaming all roses and rainbows about him. In fact—she was more than a little apprehensive in seeing him again. What if he was waiting on the sidelines, ready to pounce and take her to the magistrate for the deception she devised with Henry the moment he laid eyes on her? What if he made a scene and announced that Gabriel was his son?
Gabriel! Oh, God, she should not have consented to let him sleep over at Jeremy's house! Edward and Diana had been so insistent, that before she knew it, the scheming pair had outmaneuvered and manipulated her into letting Gabriel come with them. She had totally forgotten what Jeremy would think when he saw Gabriel. And Cassie—Dear God—she would notice Gabriel's resemblance to her brother, Allayne, for certain!
Alexandra pressed her palms to her hot cheeks with a groan. She had completely lost her mind! How she would manage to walk into Waterford House and look everyone in the eyes was totally beyond her. She might as well throw a bag over her head, because she could not imagine how she would face the implicit criticism and disapproval from those around her, family or not.
Polly opened the door to the footman who had come to inform them that the carriage was ready. Alexandra nodded and drew a labored breath, bracing herself for the upcoming encounter as they made their way downstairs and boarded the coach. Lord, but she had done nothing, but walk into disaster after disaster the moment she'd set foot in London! Tomorrow, as soon as the sun rose, the first thing she intended to do was have Polly pack their luggage and leave for Sidmouth Abbey. She shouldn't have done this—rushed into the city without a concrete plan in case things didn't go as expected.
