Whirlwind Affair

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  "You could start by explaining your involvement."

  He stared at her for several heartbeats, then said, "It is not something I like to talk about."

  Hurt and anger waged a war in her. He wasn't going to tell her. Well, damn it, she was not going to accept that. "I only want to know one thing, and I want the truth. Did you cause this fire?"

  He said nothing for a space of time that seemed to stretch into an eternity. It was obvious from his troubled expression that he was deeply conflicted. Finally, he said, "Yes, I did."

  "Was it an accident?"

  "No." The single, harsh word seemed ripped from his chest. "I was responsible for starting a fire in a nearby village. A building was lost. A man lost his life."

  She actually felt the blood drain from her face. "You were not imprisoned?"

  "No. My family wields a great deal of influence." He seemed about to say something more, but instead he pressed his lips together. Unreadable emotions flickered in his eyes, and his hands fisted at his sides. "That is all I am able to tell you."

  Her heart felt crushed. It was obvious there was more to this incident-aspects he was unwilling to share with her. Dear God, how was it possible to feel so numb yet hurt so much at the same time? And why did she feel this ridiculous tug of pity for him? Was it the tortured look in his eyes? The way he seemed to be silently beseeching her for something she did not understand?

  Well, she would not feel sorry for him. By his own admission he'd committed a crime. One he'd clearly had no intention of telling her about. It was as if she were reliving her worst nightmare. He was, indeed, just like David. Just like David… just like David.

  Pulling her gaze away from the sorrow in his eyes, she looked pointedly toward the door. "I think it would be best if you left my bedchamber now. And did not return."

  He grasped her shoulders, bringing her gaze back to his. There was no mistaking the pain her words brought him. "You want to end our affair?"

  "I cannot share such… intimacies with you any longer."

  "Because of one mistake in my past."

  "Because of the nature of the mistake. And because you didn't tell me. You asked me to spend the rest of my life with you, yet you deliberately withheld information you had to know I would find pertinent-especially given my own past."

  He moved one step closer to her and cupped her face between his hands, his own face taut with emotion. "Allie. Please. Let us both put the past behind us, where it belongs. I love you. So much, it hurts." His anxious eyes searched her face. "Do you love me?" The question seemed to erupt from him. "If you do, if you feel the same way I do, if you trust me, then we can conquer anything together. If you don't…" His words trailed off and he swallowed, his throat working. "Do you love me?"

  Did she? God help her, she didn't know. So many conflicting feelings were pushing at her, pulling at her, until it felt as if her head were about to explode. She'd been so determined not to love him, not to feel anything for him, but he'd somehow sneaked around her defenses. She needed to think, and she could not do so with him here, confusing her further. The only two things she was certain of was that she did not want to love him, and she would not allow herself to be hurt again.

  His hands slid slowly from her face. "I guess I have my answer."

  "Robert." She pressed her hands to her stomach, feeling the need to say something, but completely ignorant of what to say, not even certain why, in spite of everything, she felt this inexplicable need to comfort him. To make him understand. "You just don't know what it's like. To have your heart completely, utterly broken."

  He appeared to look right through her. In a flat tone, he said, "You are completely, utterly wrong." He leaned forward, until his lips almost touched her ear. "You see, I just found out," he whispered, his warm breath a stark contrast to his chilling words. Then he turned and walked swiftly across the carpet. Without a backward glance, he quit the room. The door closed behind him with a soft click that seemed to reverberate with a funereal finality.

  He was gone, and she knew he'd just departed more than her bedchamber, closed the door on more than a sensual interlude. He was literally gone. From her life. There would be no more passion-filled nights, no more laughter-filled days.

  An ache such as she'd never known crushed her, stealing her breath. Nothing, ever, had hurt this way. Not even David's betrayal. Her entire body started to shake, and she staggered toward the bed. She climbed beneath the covers like a wounded animal, shivering, feeling more lost and alone than she ever had.

  Yet she'd done the right thing. For both of them. She'd vowed never to marry again, to never give her heart to someone who could trample it into the ground. A man who would keep things from her. Who was capable of committing a crime.

  And even if she was insane enough to push aside all the reasons he was the wrong man for her and consider his proposal, she could not ignore the fact that she was the wrong woman for him. An image of him, cavorting with his niece and nephew, flashed through her mind, leaving a poignant ache in its wake. Whatever Robert's faults, there was no denying he was wonderful with children. No skirting the obvious fact that he was a man who would someday want, and need, children of his own.

  And no ignoring the fact that she could never be the woman who gave them to him.

  The area around her heart went hollow, then filled with throbbing grief. The memory of him bouncing children on his knees, children who gazed at him with love-filled, excited eyes, should not hurt her so. She'd known her relationship with Robert would never lead to marriage, knew children were not in her future. But clearly they would be in his. And that filled her with a misery and longing too painful to contemplate.

  Yes, she might possibly satisfy him for a short period of time, but he would eventually want children. And she could not give them to him.

  He'd clearly put his past behind him, moved on with his life. She recalled his words about the fire. It is not something I talk about. It was as if he'd placed the entire incident in a box marked "In The Past-Do Not Discuss," then shoved the entire affair into a corner of the wardrobe, never to be seen again.

  It did not matter. Their whirlwind affair was over. It had simply ended a bit sooner than anticipated.

  Yes, she'd done the right thing. For both of them. Her mind absolutely knew it.

  Now, if she could only convince her heart.

  *********

  Robert entered his bedchamber and made a beeline for the decanters. Tossing back a hefty swallow of brandy, he immediately poured another. As he lifted the snifter to his lips, he caught sight of himself in the cheval glass. From the neck down, he looked like a man who had just emerged from his lover's bed- rumpled and disheveled. From the neck up, he looked like a man who'd just lost everything he held dear-empty, hollow-eyed, and drawn.

  Inclining his head at his reflection, he raised his brandy in mock salute. "Well, that did not go particularly well, did it?"

  He tossed back the potent drink, relishing the internal burn, which at least served to prove that he wasn't completely numb. Perhaps after a few more drinks he might start to feel better. A few dozen drinks might conceivably be necessary.

  "Bloody hell, there's not enough brandy in the entire empire to make me feel better," he muttered. Of course, enough brandy might render him unable to feel anything which at this point would be a blessing indeed. Sloshing two more fingerfuls into the crystal snifter, he made his way to the wing chair flanking the fireplace and sank down. Leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his splayed knees, he stared into the low-burning flames, as if they held the answers to all his questions. And God knew he had plenty of questions. Problem was, he didn't like the damn answers. In truth, he'd only received a positive answer to one question: She did indeed taste like honeysuckle everywhere.

  An image of them together, naked, his lips caressing her, flashed through his mind, bringing with it a wave of agony that stole his breath. He could still taste her on his tongue. Feel the imprint of her satiny
skin… skin he would never touch again.

  No! The word reverberated through his mind with pounding intensity. Things couldn't be over between them. They'd barely begun…

  But what choice did he have? Through his own stupidity he'd lost her. She'd made her feelings unmistakably clear. She did not want him. She did not love him.

  He rubbed his palm over the center of his chest. Damn it, the fact that she had turned down his proposal hurt. But the fact that she didn't love him… God, that sliced like a rusty blade. She might as well have cut out his heart and tossed it on the floor. Stomped on it while she was at it.

  Yet he had no one but himself to blame. He should have told her. He'd obviously been a fool to believe she wouldn't find out, but it had happened so long ago. Had Elizabeth told her? Possibly, but he doubted it. He supposed he could ask her, but the answer made little difference now. More than likely she'd overheard some servant gossip. Or perhaps Lady Gaddlestone had mentioned it during their ocean crossing.

  In truth, it didn't matter how she'd found out. In her eyes, he was guilty. Not only of a crime but for not telling her. He recalled the look in her eyes. She'd looked at him as if he were a… criminal. Accusation had shone clearly in her gaze, all but screaming at him, You're just like David.

  God, that hurt. But he could not blame her-not when he'd said nothing to disabuse her of the notion. He'd wanted to tell her the whole truth, so badly his skin had ached, but he was bound by promises he could not break. He'd never told anyone. And he'd given his word not to. Unfortunately, there was more involved here than just his wants and desires.

  Damn it, he was not a criminal. But he had committed a crime…

  Yes, he'd done what he'd had to do, but damn it, he'd never considered that those actions would cost him the woman he loved four years later.

  If he'd known, would he have made the same choices that night? He took a long swallow of brandy, then squeezed his eyes shut. I don't know. God help me, I don't know.

  Of course, in the entire scheme of things, his past didn't really matter a jot anyway. It was simply the final nail in the coffin. He could have been a vaulted saint, and she still would have refused him. She did not love him. Did not want him. Did not want to marry ever again. By spouting out his feelings like a faulty fountain, he'd accomplished nothing but making an ass out of himself. He'd known she'd be reluctant to accept a proposal. His fatal mistake had been underestimating the depth of her reluctance.

  *************

  He polished off his brandy, then set the empty snifter on the hearth. A long groan escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands. Damn it, it was over. He had to accept it. He'd offered her everything he had-his love, his heart, his name- and she'd turned him down. Why the devil could he not have simply fallen in love with an amenable English girl with no bloody former husband or problems or madmen after them or aversions to marriage? Someone willing to allow past mistakes to remain in the past? Someone who, when he asked her to marry him, would know that the correct answer was: Oh, yes, Robert. I’d love to be your wife. I love you, Robert. Not I've no desire to ever marry again. I want a lover, nothing more. I am not looking for forever.

  An expletive he rarely used whispered past his lips. He briefly considered leaving Bradford Hall, escaping back to London-or anywhere-for the duration of her stay here, but he discarded the idea. With Elizabeth's warning of danger bouncing through his head, he refused to leave Allie alone, whether she wanted him to or not. And he needed to remain here to await Michael's arrival from Ireland. No, he would simply have to put his feelings aside and carry on as if nothing had occurred. As if his dreams of a wife and family hadn't been shattered. As if his heart hadn't broken.

  Just how the hell he was going to do that, however, he did not know.

  **********

  Lester Redfern slogged through the darkness, cursing the mud that sucked at his boots, making his feet feel as if they each weighed twenty stone. Bloody hell, a man of his caliber should not have to suffer being this cold, wet, miserable, and filthy.

  Gusts of wind shook the surrounding trees, and his gaze darted from left to right, nerves jittering, heart pounding. Devil take it, he hated the woods. 'Specially at night, wot with all the spooky sounds and shadows, when a body didn't know where he was. Give him London any day of any week.

  But as much as he hated the woods, it didn't come close to the way he hated horses-one horse in particular. That sway-backed nag wot had dumped him in the mud, after she'd bit his hand. He flexed his bruised fingers, and muttered a string of curses. And all that when he'd unhitched the beast after the mud had sucked up his gig's wheels.

  By the devil, this was madness. He'd catch his death out here in the rain and cold. Wetness oozed through the soles of his boots, and he ground his teeth. With the rain all but washin' out the roads, he'd be lucky to get to Bradford Hall- assuming he'd ever find the bloody place-by next month. It had taken him the entire day to get the distance he could have traveled in an hour's time if this rain hadn't started.

  Well, he weren't about to walk to Bradford Hall, that were for damn certain. The earl would just have to wait until travelin' conditions improved, to get his precious note.

  "And he's goin' to have to pay up some extra blunt for all my efforts," Redfern grumbled. "He's goin' to replace my boots, and get me a fine greatcoat as well."

  A loud squeak caught his attention. Squinting through the darkness, he spied what looked like the glow of a lantern ahead. With a flicker of hope ignited in his cold, wet, miserable, muddy self, he surged ahead. Rounding a corner, he almost fell to his knees with relief. Blowing in the gusty wind, its hinges squeaking loudly, was a sign-The Boar's Lair. An inn, or at the very least a pub, where he could get himself a meal, warm himself in front of a fire, and pray for this bloody rain to stop. And when it did cease, which it surely had to soon, he would continue to Bradford Hall. And to Mrs. Brown.

  Chapter 20

  Robert sat in the darkened billiards room watching the last of the glowing embers in the grate die out, counting the mantel clock chimes strike midnight. The windows rattled with gusts of wind, but at least the relentless rain had finally stopped. He'd wryly wondered if perhaps he and Austin and Miles should organize an effort to build an ark. For the past four days, sheets of water had fallen from the gray sky-a sky that perfectly matched his mood.

  Four days. Four days since that last encounter with Allie in her bedchamber. Four days of trying his damnedest to avoid her in a tremendous house that suddenly seemed no bigger than a crofter's cottage. Four endless, sleepless nights, lying in his bed, trying without success to think of something, anything, other than her.

  The rest of the household had retired more than an hour ago, as had he, but he'd finally left his bedchamber, unable to face another sleepless night in his empty bed. Alone. He gazed at the brandy snifter cupped in his hand. Besides, he'd emptied the decanter in his bedchamber.

  He and Allie had managed to avoid each other during the days, although he wasn't certain if that was more a case of him avoiding her or her avoiding him. He'd spent most of his time in Austin's private study, helping his brother with the estate accounts, throwing himself into the task with an enthusiasm that clearly baffled Austin. But he wanted, needed, to keep his mind and hands occupied so he wouldn't think of her. Wouldn't search her out and find some excuse to touch her.

  When he wasn't helping Austin with the accounts, he kept to himself, reading in the library, playing billiards with Austin and Miles, spending time with James and Emily in the nursery, although it was pure torture to even look at the sofa in that room. He knew from Caroline that Allie had spent most of the last four days with Caroline and his mother, talking, doing needlework, playing card games. And according to Austin, she also visited with Elizabeth each afternoon.

  He'd longed to escape from the house, where he kept catching elusive whiffs of her fragrance in the corridors, and take a long, bruising ride. The rain, however, prevented such outdoor act
ivities.

  Yet it was not as if he'd bumped into her around every corner. Indeed, the only times he'd seen her at all the past four days had been during dinner when the entire family had gathered in the formal dining room. And those four occasions had been nothing short of hell.

  She'd sat across from him, wearing her damn black gowns, looking increasingly pale and drawn each night, partaking in conversation, but her efforts were clearly forced. And while his eyes were drawn to her again and again, she never looked at him-except for that one instant when their gazes had met, clearly accidentally on her part, this evening.

  The effect of connecting with her golden-brown gaze had been like a blow to the heart. Everything faded away except her. For a breathless moment, he'd waited, hoping, praying, to see a spark in her eyes, some indication that she missed him. Wanted him. Loved him.

  Instead, she'd lowered her lashes, hiding her eyes, and had applied her attention to her dinner, her utter rejection simply another blow to his already battered heart.

  With each passing day it grew increasingly more impossible for him to pretend that everything was all right. Not when everything was so very wrong. He'd spent a good deal of the last four years managing to put on a happy, smiling front when inside he was torn up with guilt, but now, laughter felt simply beyond him. For his family's sake, he tried, but he knew everyone was aware something was amiss, knew his family was concerned. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in Mother's and Caroline's voices when they'd hesitantly asked him if he was all right. He'd tried his best to reassure them, but he suspected he'd failed. Just as he'd failed at everything that mattered lately.

  A noise near the doorway caught his attention, and he turned his head.

  "May I join you?" came Austin's voice from the darkness.

  Robert swallowed a sigh. He did not want company. Did not want to make conversation. Unfortunately, thanks to his freedom with the brandy, he also felt most disinclined to rise from his chair.