Willoughby 01 - Something About Her

by Jeannie Ruesch

  He shook his head. “I’ve known for a while.”

  Her insides went still. “How long?”

  He met her gaze, resignation shuttering his expression. “Since before I came to Rosemead.”

  Pain burst in her chest and clawed at everything in its path. “You knew,” she whispered. Tears spilled from her eyes. “All this time.”

  “Blythe,” Michael said hoarsely. “I don’t know what to say to make this right. I was so wrong to keep it from you, but I thought I was doing the right thing. I was going to find him at Anne’s and get everything straightened.”

  “He was alive when you asked me to marry you. Just more lies. Everything you said is based on lies.” His words suddenly penetrated, and she struggled to gasp in a breath. “You knew he was at Anne’s. That’s why you followed me there. That’s why you were so insistent about going with me. You knew he was alive and you knew about his other wife.”

  “I knew—”

  “What else aren’t you telling me? What more is there?” Blythe sucked in air. “Is that girl in London pregnant with your baby?”

  “No!” he said. “You have to believe me.”

  “Believe you?” Her head grew dizzy. “All you’ve done is lie to me.”

  “Not about how I feel about you, damn it.”

  “Maybe. But you didn’t love me enough to trust me.” As she stared at him, his features grew hazy, unclear.

  He stared at her, frustration clear on his handsome face. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to make this right.”

  She looked down and saw their hands were joined. She slipped her hand out and felt the lack of warmth all the way to her toes. She looked past him to the window where the sky was a hazy blue. Her body seemed filled with heavy wool, lethargic, unconnected to the raw ache in her heart. “I want you to leave.”

  He stood slowly, and then stared down at her, his mouth in a thin line. “I’ll leave, but we’ll talk later.”

  “No.” She felt so very tired. “I want you to leave.” She met his startled gaze. “Go home to London.”

  “I am not leaving, not until we work this out. You’ll come to London with us.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Her voice sounded unnatural to her, as if someone else spoke the words, as if someone else felt the pain. “I can’t bear to look at you.”

  His eyes shuttered and in a matter of seconds, his face became a wall of indifference. Without a word, he turned and left the room. Her body released the tension; air flowed back into her lungs.

  And she wept tears she never felt fall.

  ****

  “Get out of that bed, my lady. You’ve whiled away enough of the day. It is another day of glorious sunshine, and you need to get your strength back.” Mary hustled into the room and headed directly for the draperies that Blythe had asked her to shut two days prior, after she’d learned the truth. She threw them open and let the bright streams of light fill the room.

  Blythe didn’t want to look outside. The pain had numbed, somehow—both from her shoulder and her heart. All she wanted to do was crawl under the covers where it was safe and never come out.

  “No more lying abed. Up with you!” Mary stood at the edge of the bed, hands on her ample hips. “I’ll not be bringing your breakfast to bed this morning. You’ll go downstairs and eat with the family and guests just like the rest.”

  Blythe lifted her gaze to Mary’s. “Guests?”

  “I suppose the Duke would be considered family as of yet, wouldn’t he? Although his handsome friend is a guest.” Mary twittered. “A devil, that one is. Flirting with an old woman like me.” She lifted her hands in the air. “Up with you!”

  Blythe closed her eyes. She should be furious that Michael hadn’t paid one whit of attention to her request, and yet she couldn’t seem to muster a single emotion. “I’m not feeling well.” She set her mouth obstinately. “I need more time to recuperate.”

  Mary tsked. “You need time to hide, you mean.” She pulled back the covers from the bed. “Well, he’ll only stay until you make an appearance so you aren’t hiding from anything.”

  Mary pushed at her. “Into the bath with you. This bed needs changing.”

  Protecting her shoulder, Blythe got out of bed.

  Mary wasted no time in yanking the sheets clean off the bed and tossing them in to a pile on the floor. With a firm nod, she hurried past Blythe into the adjoining room where her tub sat, filled with steaming water.

  It looked so appealing she disrobed with Mary’s help and sank into the inviting warmth, careful to keep her bandaged shoulder above the line of water.

  She sighed. It felt heavenly. Mary set to washing her hair, pressing gentle fingertips against her scalp.

  But even as the gentle ministrations soothed her, she couldn’t block out the events of the last few days.

  She was awful at love, that was for certain. She had two chances to make a go of it. The first man had only wanted to use her for money, and the second man—and this hurt so much more—wanted to use her to gain access to the first man.

  Would no one ever love her just for her?

  She could accept that Michael had come looking for Thomas, and not knowing her, assume she was involved somehow. But she could not, would not accept the lies he had continued long after he’d learned otherwise.

  And how had he intended on marrying her when Thomas had still been alive?

  Nausea swam in her belly. What if the woman left behind in London truly was pregnant with Michael’s child?

  What did it matter, she realized with a heavy sadness.

  She could never trust him again. The pain was so fresh, it wrapped tightly around her heart like a ribbon.

  Water sloshed over her head as Mary rinsed her hair. Blythe blinked the water from her eyes, only to realize the water was in her eyes. Tears. Again.

  She was sick of them. Sick and tired of crying over men who didn’t deserve the tears, much less her love. She’d allowed herself to hide from Thomas’ betrayal for too long. She was not about to do the same with Michael.

  A half hour later, as she turned the corner into the breakfast room, she perused the group sitting there, staring at her in surprise. Her mother, Adam, Cordelia, Lily, and of course, Michael and the Captain.

  And she knew she couldn’t go in. She wasn’t wearing anything resembling a riding habit and she imagined a ride would hurt like the devil, but she didn’t care. She needed to escape. She needed to be somewhere where Michael wasn’t. Where she didn’t see his face.

  “Blythe?” Or hear his voice.

  As she turned away, she heard the scraping of a chair. She ran down the hallway and out the door.

  “Blythe, wait!”

  His angry yell just made her run faster. She gathered her skirts in the most unladylike manner and ran full tilt toward the stable, even though every step jarred her shoulder with a dizzying pain. Once inside, she hurried to Satin’s stall.

  A hand grasped her arm just as she reached up to unlatch the door. She felt herself whirled around, and then found Michael staring down at her, his face red and his eyes snapping with irritation.

  “For God’s sake, why did you make me chase you?”

  “Perhaps you could realize I didn’t want to be caught!”

  “You could have hurt yourself!”

  She shrugged his hand off and slipped past him.

  He reached out and snared her again. “Will you stop? Just listen to me.”

  She whirled around. “No! I’ve done enough of that. I believed you. I believed in you. You let me love you. You let me fall in love with your daughter. All the while knowing it was a lie.”

  She held on for dear life to her anger. If she let it sway, the pain would reach up and grab her by the throat. And tears wouldn’t get him to leave. Only indifference would.

  She sucked in a deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing.

  He looked down with such empathy she fought the urge to smack it from his fac
e. “I made terrible mistakes, and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of our lives making them up to you.”

  She bit her lip, hard, until the wave of emotion passed. “I appreciate the offer, Your Grace, but I must decline.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Your offer is most generous, and I imagine it would seem a country girl like myself would leap at an offer from a duke. But I find that I’m a country girl at heart and have no desire to leave my home.”

  He frowned. “We’d visit of course. That’s a ridiculous reason not to marry.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Blythe, my life is in London and at Ravensdale. I cannot abandon my responsibilities.”

  She looked up at him, willing her face to stay impassive. “Your Grace—”

  “Bloody hell, call me Michael!”

  “I do not believe such informality is warranted any longer.”

  “This is ridiculous. Be angry at me, but don’t throw away our life together! Damn it, woman, I love you.”

  She forced herself to shrug. “I find it doesn’t mean nearly as much as I thought it might.” She reached up and twirled a piece of hair.

  He jolted back as if she’d hit him. “I will not continue to grovel. Hear me and hear me well, I love you and wish to marry you. But I will not humiliate myself to satisfy your need to hurt me.”

  “You mistake me, my lord. I have no desire to hurt you. I simply have less desire to marry you.”

  He stared at her as if staring through her. “The woman I know would never be so cruel, or so cold.”

  “The woman you knew was a fool. I am no fool.” Then because she feared she couldn’t hold back the tears or the pain any longer, she swiftly hurried past him into Satin’s stall, praying that he wouldn’t follow.

  “Please inform me if our union results in a child.”

  She stood still at his monotone words, tension holding her limbs close to her body as if with one move, she’d break into a million pieces. Then when she heard the crunch of his footsteps retreating from the walkway, she slowly felt each part of her slacken.

  She imagined she’d done it. One couldn’t thoroughly insult a Duke—especially her Duke—and imagine he’d ever forgive her.

  She frowned. She didn’t want his forgiveness. She only wanted him to leave.

  Chapter Twenty

  The letter weighed heavy in Michael’s hands, though the words were as polite and distant as could be and the paper was light as a feather.

  My Lord Duke,

  No future responsibilities are to be of concern.

  Sincerely, Lady Blythe Ashton

  Somehow, he hadn’t known until he’d opened this letter how very much he’d hoped that responsibilities would be aplenty. He wanted Blythe carrying his child. He could marry her and he knew, in the course of enough time, she would love him again.

  Obviously he was an imbecile.

  She not only would not be coming to him, she did not care enough to even address him with any less formality than the most distant acquaintance.

  She had sent a letter to Bethie, which he had unabashedly read first. It was cheerful and sweet. And for him? A meager eight words.

  “Did I get a letter from Mama?” Bethie asked as she walked into his office. She headed straight for him, and not waiting for his invitation, crawled into his lap and curled up inside his arms.

  Mama.

  Somewhere along the line, Bethie had begun to truly think of Blythe as her mother. As the woman who would be there for her, always.

  “Yes, sweet. It’s right here.” He handed her the letter so she could touch it.

  “Read it to me, Papa?”

  He nodded and struggled to put his own pain and anger aside. Bethie had seemed to take it well that Blythe wasn’t coming to London with them. And in the two weeks they had been home, she had not once held a tantrum. Although Michael realized, now that he pondered it, the lack thereof did not necessarily bode well.

  He focused on the gentle swirls of Blythe’s neat handwriting.

  “Dearest Elisabeth, The wildflowers bloom here! I look out at the fields and think how you would love them. I hope you have plenty of flowers at your home in London. Sable had her kittens. When Adam travels to London, I shall send the prettiest one to give to you as a gift. I think of you daily. All my love, Blythe.”

  He knew he should be grateful that Blythe had not turned her back on his daughter. Rather the opposite, in fact, she continued to offer her unconditional love in abundance.

  Unconditional as long as one didn’t lie, deceive or generally withhold secrets…all right, he would admit they had been rather life-altering secrets.

  “Papa!” Bethie was looking up at him, her mouth turned up in exasperation. “May I?”

  He blinked, having no idea what she was asking. “Certainly.”

  Bethie squealed. “A kitten of my very own!” She squirmed off his lap and hurried out the door, yelling for the housekeeper.

  A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, for which he was grateful. He could only stomach his self-pity for so long. “Yes?”

  Hobson, his butler, bowed as he opened the door. “Your guests have arrived, Your Grace.”

  Michael nodded. “Show them in to the parlor, Hobson.”

  “Of course.” Hobson left without ceremony.

  Michael opened the top drawer of his desk and put Blythe’s letters in it. He shoved it closed with a hard thrust. It was time to put his past firmly behind him.

  Hobson returned to the doorway. “Your Grace, Viscount Darlington and Miss Abigail Darlington are in the front parlor.”

  Michael nodded. “Thank you, Hobson.”

  “Shall I bring refreshments?”

  Michael started to say no, but perhaps formalities should still be observed. If only for the intense pleasure he’d feel on offering the Viscount tea and crumpets only to offer him the door moments later.

  He strode into the room with a fixed scowl in place.

  A self-satisfied smirk crossed Darlington’s face. “You requested to see us?” His good mood obviously meant he believed Michael was there to rescue his daughter from her stupidity.

  Michael rather relished the knowledge that he was going to do anything but that.

  “Coffee,” he told a servant tersely then waited as the refreshments were served. He sat back in his chair and watched Darlington and his daughter as they sipped their beverage. He turned his gaze to Abigail.

  She was a pretty sort, though a bit on the pale side for his taste. Her hair was a blonde color that blended with her pale, yellowish skin tone. Her eyes were also a light color.

  All in all, nothing stood out.

  But what if she wasn’t what she seemed?

  Michael blinked. The voice—the words—were as if Blythe herself sat in this room, admonishing him for assuming who this girl was, without even asking.

  Look at her, Blythe said in his head. Ask before you accuse.

  So he did. Past the nondescript appearance, he noticed her hands gripping her tea cup tightly, as if in fear or worry. A slight movement under the hem of her skirt told him that her foot bounced. And her expression—every inch of her face revealed despair.

  “You and I both know that I never touched you,” he said to her, softer than he’d intended. He felt a measure of sympathy for her, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

  Her eyes widened. “I—”

  “Your Grace, I must object!” Darlington blustered, bringing his measurable girth to a stand. “I will not allow you to speak to my daughter that way.”

  Michael ignored him, and continued to look at Miss Darlington. “Miss Darlington, I can—and will—help you, if you only tell the truth. We were never together.”

  “I—” she started.

  “This is an outrage to treat her thusly!” Darlington interrupted.

  Michael felt a tick in his cheek as he tried to suppress his temper. “I have n
ot even met you prior to today.”

  “I have met you previously, Your Grace,” Abigail said with a sigh directed at her father. “At Lord and Lady Chesterfield’s ball.”

  Michael could barely recall the night, other than the fact that he’d walked in and out in less than two hours, weary from the debutantes thrust in his face.

  She smiled slightly. “It was only for a brief moment. My father begged a mutual acquaintance for an introduction.”

  Michael slid his gaze to Darlington, who didn’t have the courtesy to look embarrassed. Instead, he stuck his chin out and thrust his arms over his ample chest.

  “A thirty-second introduction is far from a seduction, Miss Darlington.”

  She looked from him to her father and back again. “I never said—”

  “Abigail!” Darlington roared.

  “There is no babe,” Michael said flatly.

  She snapped her gaze to his. “Oh there is, my lord—err, Your Grace.” She shot a concerned gaze toward her father. “I am most assuredly with child.” The second sentence was a whisper.

  “I will not have you humiliate my daughter!”

  Michael leaned forward. “But it is not mine,” he said to Abigail.

  She looked down into her lap. A second later, she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  The tension in Michael’s shoulders abated slightly. If she was willing to admit that truth, they would deal with the rest. He looked at her father, still blustering about. “Darlington, leave us a moment.”

  Darlington puffed up. “Absolutely not.”

  Michael stood, towering over the much shorter man. “Simply go stand over there a moment. I’d like to discuss this with your daughter without you bullying her.”

  Darlington looked between them, and as if he had just decided this was the best chance he had of gaining a duke for a son-in-law, he shut his mouth and quickly moved to the far corner of the room.

  Michael sat down again on the chair across from Abigail. “Why did you say I had ruined you?”

  She set her tea cup on the table, and then met his gaze, misery in her eyes. “I didn’t.”

  Michael frowned. “You started this bloody scandal with my name.”

  She shook her head. “I said Ashton ruined me. My father cornered me and would not let up until I gave him a name. I said Ashton. He took that to mean you, even though I told him that was nonsense since you are never referred to by such.”