They simply could not believe she had no designs on Andrew; that she wasn’t trying to throw herself at him in a desperate attempt to avoid Viscount Harringer. She took little offense; two years before they had given her almost the same lecture. As she had then, Alysia surprised them by agreeing with everything they said on duty and propriety, and knowing one’s station, and so on.
Alysia agreed to their wishes without intending to fulfill them. She had known all along it would be impossible to serve the interests of everyone at Ashton, but now it seemed that in order to do what she believed was correct, she must offend them all.
She sat at her desk and wrote a desperate letter to the one person she hoped could help, a Mr. Conrad Cox, whom she had never met. Her mother had trusted Mr. Cox as her solicitor, and he had handled her affairs when she died.
With regret, Alysia secured the letter to a small bundle and took one last longing glance at its contents. She left early the next morning to post it herself without the knowledge of anyone at Ashton. It was her last hope.
****
Daisy, Lord Preston’s most devoted mastiff, sat expectantly on Alysia’s toes, holding a folded note in her mouth. Alysia took it and scratched behind Daisy’s ears. The paper was damp and the ink blurred. The familiar untidy scrawl read, Have you decided?
Andrew appeared studious, his head bent over a letter at the writing desk, avoiding her gaze. She would know his sad excuse for penmanship anywhere. She glanced at the others in the drawing room; Lord Courtenay and the duke as thick as thieves seated by the hearth, and the ladies at needlepoint under the lamps. Lord Christian sat by Alysia with his studies while she sketched.
The note reminded her uncomfortably that there was a rather private page in her sketchbook. She hadn’t offered to give it to Andrew, wanting it for herself. It would soon be one of few mementos she had of him.
Andrew didn’t know he was at that moment the subject of her final piece at Ashton; a life-sized portrait of his head. She had finished blending highlights from the lamplight on his face and now cross-hatched the waves of his hair, more unruly than usual because he scrubbed a hand through it each time he paused to concentrate. Christian sat in her line of view, so it appeared she watched him as he studied instead of evaluating Andrew for her drawing.
Alysia and been captivated by his expression as he worked at the desk, intensely focused on his papers and ledgers. No one dared tell Lord Preston it was gauche to attend to business while entertaining; his financial genius and its mysterious workings were a sacred cow at Ashton. Andrew did whatever he pleased, including sending clandestine notes via mastiff messenger.
Alysia had only her drawing pencil; she wrote underneath his line, Decided what? She refolded it and gave it back to Daisy, gingerly avoiding being drooled on. Andrew subtly snapped his fingers under the desk, and Daisy trotted over to deliver the note. Andrew read it and shot Alysia a look of impatient disapproval. He sent Daisy back.
He had written, Your situation, of course.
She replied, I have been sold to an Albanian pasha. Salam.
He wrote, Not funny. Answer me! I want to know what will happen after the wedding tomorrow.
Daisy was enjoying herself, but Alysia worried they would attract attention. She wrote on the margin of Christian’s page of notes, Please ask Andrew to come over and help with your arithmetic.
But I am studying Greek now, he wrote under her note.
Alysia sighed and cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Hallo, Andrew?” he called across the room. “Could you come over here? I am translating Socrates and I can’t make this out.” He pointed to a column of text he had already penned a translation under.
Alysia tucked the portrait away and put a sketch of Daisy on top while Andrew rose and approached them. The ladies watched him for a moment then turned back to their conversation as he knelt over Christian’s book.
Well? Andrew scrawled in the margin below Alysia’s message to Christian.
Yes, I have decided. Everything has been arranged, she answered.
Who is the lucky man? Me?
Christian scowled at them and placed a fresh sheet on top of the stack, preventing them from further defacing his notes.
Alysia wrote, You will not like it. I only hope you will forgive me. She swatted his hand away and added, At any rate, I am leaving tomorrow. I hope for a chance to say goodbye sometime during the wedding. If not, then goodbye, Andrew.
Andrew recited a few lines of Greek out loud and corrected Christian’s translation. The muscle in the corner of his jaw ticked — he was upset and tempered his response by delaying it. When he finally began to write, the tip of his pen ripped through the paper, leaving a splotch of ink. No. Meet me at the cave tonight at half past one. I need to speak to you. Alone.
No, Drew. But save me a waltz tomorrow if you can.
I will climb through your window if you won’t meet me.
I will bar it shut.
I could barge right through your bedroom door.
Then I will lock it.
This is my house. You think I can’t get a key?
Oh? Your house? What of the rather hale incumbent? You could perish first, you know, for all your arrogance, and everything would go to Chris.
He would make a fine marquess, I do not argue. Andrew gave her a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Please don’t be difficult, Lisa. I need to see you. It’s urgent.
We have already discussed this to conclusion. I warned you that I am going away, and that you will be displeased with my actions. You will return to London and carry on as you should. Please don’t make a fuss, Drew. There is no use resisting the inevitab—
Still on his knees, he snatched her pencil and grasped her hand, sliding his fingers in between hers. He bent his head and feverishly rained kisses on her hand, no doubt exaggerating the dramatic elements just to mortify her. Christian glanced up and regarded him curiously. Thankfully, they were partially blocked from view of the others by a floral arrangement on a nearby table, but they wouldn’t escape the notice of anyone who looked purposefully.
Alysia stifled a gasp and pulled her hand away. Andrew laid his head on her lap and gripped her arms. She tried to stand, but he restrained her. “Andrew!” She rasped, breathless. “Stop that this instant! The others will see you.”
“Let them,” he moaned.
“You are being unreasonable. Get up! Please!”
His voice came muffled from her lap, “Only if you will meet me tonight.”
“All right! Fine! Anything you say, only release me at once, you troll!” Alysia looked around the room and nearly fainted in relief that no one seemed to have noticed the episode. Christian blinked in surprise but said nothing.
Andrew used her pencil to write, I will come to your room at half-past one. Alysia nodded and crumpled the paper in her fist as she stood. She tossed it into one of the fire grates on her way out of the room.
****
At a quarter past one in the morning, Andrew fumbled in the dark with a key but then found the door to Alysia’s apartments unlocked. He had decided to come a little early on the chance she would try to evade him. He made his way through her sitting room and into her bedchamber. Half-serious, desperate ploys rattled around in his head, none of them upstanding; ranging from begging, to seduction, to kidnapping. Maybe he would resort to all of those. He only knew he wouldn’t let her be thrown to the wolves.
He parted the bed curtains and searched for her but touched cold sheets and pillows. His fingers found a sheet of paper. He went to the window to read it by moonlight. It was a rather lengthy letter. He could barely discern Alysia’s small elegant script in the weak light.
My Dearest Andrew,
Now I must beg your forgiveness for two betrayals. When you learn what I mean about the other tomorrow, you will undoubtedly lose all affection for me, and it will be deserved.
You are not aware that I have spoken with Lord Courtenay. He is of one mind with your mo
ther in that it is time for me to find my place in the world. I assured them of your proper conduct and expressed my desire for you to reach your full potential in the honorable manner you so fully deserve.
I must thank you for your intervention on my behalf regarding Lord Harringer. Your father had not been informed of his habits, and at your request he rescinded the arrangement with the viscount. You have spared me an indignity.
Andrew, you are my truest and most beloved friend. I don’t think I shall ever meet your match. I will celebrate your triumphs with utmost satisfaction wherever I may be. Your devotion does you credit, and I hope you will find a lady worthy of it. In this I pray you will be patient. Such a splendid lady as your equal in every way is rare.
Again I hope you will forgive me, but I do not ask it. If it is any comfort, know that I do return your love. It is in honor of it that I now do what is right.
Yours forever in my heart,
Alysia
P.S., If you wish, you may open the top left compartment of my writing desk. I left a parting gift for you, should you desire it.
Andrew raced to the desk and found a rolled canvas secured with a ribbon. He no longer cared about being found in Alysia’s room; he lit a lamp and unrolled the canvas. It was a landscape of the Ashton Park Lake in watercolor, just as it looked in the summer. The focus of the painting was the alcove and waterfall that hid the cave — their cave. Alysia had captured it so that it drew the eye without giving away the secret. She had painted the sky in hazy dusk, reflecting in the water. Even by lamplight, Andrew could see the details that made her work stunningly lifelike; the motion of the water, the sea fowl either taking flight or floating lazily, and the wind tousling the reeds and leaves.
An agonizing stab of longing seized him. He had always been far too tender-hearted to be a fearsome man, and he succumbed to it now. Andrew sank to his knees, clutching the edges of the painting and trying not to crumple it. Fighting tears of anger, he dropped onto Alysia’s bed and buried his head in her pillows. He couldn’t decide if the scent of her in the linen was comforting or torturous.
Alysia meant to avoid him, but she would have to return to her rooms eventually. He rolled the canvas and secured the ribbon. He tucked it inside his shirt and waited for Alysia with his face pressed to her pillow. The night sky deepened before it began to lighten, and Andrew had plenty of time to contemplate.
When he confessed he had loved her all his life, he had spoken the truth. She had stolen his twelve-year-old heart the first day they met, when she lay sprawled on the dirty floor of the stables next to him, laughing at their foolish attempt to pet a temperamental stallion. There was room in his heart for no other. At her request, when he left for Oxford he had tried to move on, but other women had seemed like substitutes, indulgences of vanity. He had only learned he could be distracted, not reformed.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Alysia denied him, and that his parents plotted against him. He didn’t know how, but he would resolve it.
The chambermaid rustling about woke Andrew. She drew back the curtains to reveal mid-morning light. After reviving the fire in the grate and putting the lamp away that Andrew had left out, she placed fresh linen on the washstand and turned to leave the room.
“Wait,” Andrew called. “Where is Miss Villier?”
The chambermaid betrayed no opinion of his presence in Alysia’s bed. “Beggin’ your pardon, me lord, but I don’t know.” She was obviously lying. She curtsied and pulled the door shut behind herself.
Andrew cursed under his breath. So the staff was conspiring against him as well. He made sure he still had the rolled painting and Alysia’s letter, took the pillow infused with her scent, and stomped from the room. The puzzled glances from the servants and guests he passed in the hallway he ignored. Marsden waited in his dressing room. Andrew gave no explanation. He didn’t care what gossip might circulate this morning.
Instead of discussing the latest activity in the funds with Marsden, Andrew sulked in stony silence as he soaked in the bath and while he was shaved and dressed. It only annoyed Andrew more that Marsden seemed to have a clue why his master was upset. Must everyone know his plight?
He searched in vain for Alysia all morning. Not until he took his seat at the wedding did he finally see her. She wore a somber gown in iridescent violet. Her eyes reflected the color, making them appear a bright shade of purple. She looked straight ahead, almost unblinking. Violet Villier’s famous amethyst jewels were conspicuously missing from her throat —why? Offensive that Alysia had been seated away from the family, but he was powerless to remedy the insult so near the start of the ceremony.
The duke’s solemnity angered Andrew, and Lizzie’s innocent enthusiasm made him ill. That only days before, the happy bridegroom had attempted to seduce another woman — the bride’s own friend — made the ceremony seem a farce. Alysia had refused him; no doubt he would substitute another, if he hadn’t done so already.
True, Belmont’s behavior was no worse than expected. The unspoken rule was for his wife to turn her head so long as he acted discreetly. But with Andrew’s sister as the victim, he could not look the other way.
Andrew watched Lizzie as she repeated her vows. Would her face glow if she knew Belmont didn’t expect to remain faithful even on their honeymoon? No doubt she entertained the hope that she could please him and prevent his wandering, but some men simply were not content with only one lover or were slaves to tastes unseemly to their wives. Andrew didn’t want to be there to witness his sister turn into a sad-eyed woman.
Today everyone seemed so infernally pleased, praising a match considered proper and brilliant. Others tossed about the words romance and love. The hypocrisy made him want to leap out of his chair and shout like a lunatic.
To marry for prestige and wealth? It birthed the type of disappointment his parents had suffered. He looked around at his friends and family and saw the same everywhere: Disenchantment, betrayal, indifference. Cheers.
A short while later Andrew found himself making the wedding toast. He could only speak of his esteem for his sister and wish the couple prosperity and happiness. He hoped no one noticed his omission of praise for his brother-in-law. He had never been a proficient liar, so he didn’t attempt it.
The evening dancing finally provided the opportunity to seek out Alysia. He thanked his family’s vanity for the battalion-sized guest list that made it easy to lose oneself in the crowd. Andrew danced with his sister, a few of the ladies from the duke’s family, and avoided Lady Remington.
There — at last he spotted Alysia, dancing with Christian. His younger brother stood barely taller than she but executed the steps competently. Andrew knew Alysia had taught him. Did Chris know she was leaving? He wouldn’t take kindly to losing two sisters in one day.
Before Andrew could cross the room and snatch Alysia for the next waltz, Belmont asked her first. Andrew spied from behind a potted palm, and he didn’t like what he saw. No one else seemed to notice it amidst the crush of lively couples in a dim corner of the ballroom: Belmont held her too near, his hands too bold and his expression too meaningful. Apparently he hadn’t given up on Alysia and oddly seemed to believe he was not unwelcome.
Moving closer for a better view, Andrew studied Alysia. She was icy and distant, but why was she also acting coy? Didn’t she know the combination was deadly? She could not be encouraging the duke? She pretended not to notice him peering down the front of her bodice. Andrew swore under his breath.
Smashing the bridegroom’s jaw was probably bad form, no matter how well-deserved. Belmont had not yet risen from his bow when Andrew took Alysia by the arm. “May I have this dance?”
She had no chance to answer, as Andrew whisked her back onto the dance floor. He pulled Alysia against his chest, forcing her to judge her steps by the contact of his thighs. He ignored her short gasp and gripped between her shoulder blades, both in a desperate embrace and preventing her retreat.
With his head bent to he
r ear he breathed, “Decided to net your catch after all, Lavender?” The harsh whisper came more cruelly than he intended.
Her shaky breath on his neck was her only answer. If he had guessed wrong, she would have denounced it.
“The next time you consider taking a new protector, Madame Lavender, do send me a note for advice first. While it’s true that Belmont is better than the viscount, you have not escaped dirty fetishes.” Her shudder satisfied him, stoking his outrage.
“Sweetheart, you don’t entertain yourself in London, so you miss out on all the best gossip. Haven’t you wondered why Belmont is so eager to have you now? Even on his honeymoon?” He paused to let her worry. “He likes to have two, Lisa. At the same time. Since you speak French, you might guess what that is called.”
Clamped in his arms, she was powerless to wipe her escaped tears; they spotted his lapel.
“I am constant, Lisa. No matter what you do. When you decide you need me, I will be waiting for you. I will take you as a sister, a mistress, a wife — whatever you will give me. Never forget that. I am yours, whether you wish it or not.”
He nuzzled her temple, trying to win even a glance from her. “I have been desperate to say that. Lisa, look at me.”
She wouldn’t.
He maneuvered them toward the terraces. Before he swept her past the crowd and outdoors, he turned to see his father’s disapproving glare from the balcony across the room. A packed staircase and a full floor of dancers stood between them, but Andrew knew he still had only minutes before the tyrant caught them.
Alysia trotted beside Andrew as he dragged her by the arm into the garden. Once he found a secluded corner out of view of the footpath, he dropped onto the bed of grass under a low bough of cottonwood, pulling Alysia down with him. He sat her on his lap as he knelt below a row of hedges.
Without a word he laced his fingers through her hair, palms holding her face. She watched him with pursed lips and tears streaming down her cheeks. He tried to forget the awful sting of betrayal. She seemed miserable. Then why was she doing it?
The King of Threadneedle Street Page 7
