Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords)

by Burrowes, Grace

  All too soon, the heavy coach lumbered up the drive to Willowdale, where Gwen planned to spend a night before traveling on to Enfield the next day. Abruptly, the prospect of facing her cousins, most especially the marquess, was not the insignificant detail she’d tried to label it.

  Neither was facing her cousin, the earl, or their in-law, the viscount—much less the ladies.

  So Gwen climbed down from the coach and took Douglas’s arm with her chin held high. Rose fell silent beside her, clutching her mother’s hand as a cold wind whipped up the drive.

  “The prodigal returns,” Heathgate growled, stepping down off the front terrace and striding up to the coach. Gwen dropped Douglas’s arm and raised her chin another fraction of an inch.

  “I am back,” Gwen countered. Gareth wouldn’t upbraid her before Rose; he was enough of a parent himself to behave better than that. Her cousin studied her for long moments, his expression stern and unreadable.

  “About time,” Gareth said, putting his hands on her shoulders and pulling her against him. “About damned time you came back to us, Guinevere Hollister.”

  Gwen returned his embrace with a sudden, fierce joy. “I am back,” she said again, hugging him tightly, both laughter and tears threatening.

  “Cousin Douglas,” Rose whispered, “Cousin Gareth is squashing my mama.”

  “That I am.” Heathgate stepped back from Gwen and scooped Rose up. “And now I’m going to squash you.” He hugged Rose against his chest and made loud papa-bear noises as he pretended to squash her in his arms.

  “Gareth,” Felicity’s soft voice chided from behind him. “Put the poor child down before you make her ill.”

  “Shall I squash you too, my dear?” Heathgate asked, as he did, indeed, carefully return Rose to terra firma.

  “What?” Douglas inquired. “No threat of violence for me, Heathgate?”

  The marquess pulled Douglas into a quick hug and thumped him between the shoulder blades, perhaps the first time Gwen had seen Douglas surprised.

  “You’d leave too big a mess were I to squash you properly.”

  Felicity followed up her husband’s greetings with more ladylike hugs and kisses to cold, rosy cheeks, then ordered everyone inside, where hot drinks awaited. To Gwen’s delight, Andrew, his wife Astrid, and David waited for her in the entry hall, and more hugs and greetings were exchanged before Felicity had Rose on her way to the nursery and the adults ensconced in the library.

  Gareth took up his seat on the desk, Andrew and Astrid perched on the hearth, and David lounged against the French doors, while Gwen and Douglas sat beside each other on the long couch facing the hearth.

  Without touching, because that was how it must be.

  “You will wait until I at least have some hot tea in these people before you begin your inquisition,” Felicity warned her husband.

  “Yes, my love. Douglas takes all the sugar you have in the house in his, but it won’t sweeten his disposition one bit.”

  “I will buy the property in Sussex,” Douglas said, “if only to ensure my neighbors are not also my relations.”

  Gareth looked around the room when Felicity had everyone’s teacup filled. “Any more obligatory insults? All right then, Gwen, prepare yourself, for we’re no end of confused regarding this little contretemps you’re in.”

  This contretemps was huge, but Gwen loved her cousin for referring to it otherwise. “Ask me anything. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Well, for starts, are you married or not?” Andrew tossed out the question then followed it up with an apologetic smile.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Gwen said—and how oddly simple it was to admit something she’d kept bottled up inside for years. “Victor claimed the ceremony was a sham, but only after he complained at length to me about what a dismal spouse I was going to make. The revelation that we were not truly married was withheld until his brother came upon us the next morning.”

  “Did Victor have a license?” Gareth asked.

  “I saw something that certainly looked like a license, but I haven’t seen any other to compare it to.”

  “The registry of that little chapel north of Richmond has had the last few pages carefully excised,” David said. “My guess is the facility fell into disuse shortly after your visit there, or that it already had. Somebody got there before I did and removed any evidence that could support—or undermine—the legitimacy of your nuptials.”

  And he had made this journey without Gwen having to ask it of him.

  “Are you suggesting the marriage is legal, but Victor wants to suppress evidence of that?” Gareth looked none too pleased with the notion.

  “It’s one theory,” David said. “Perhaps he’s met another lady. Perhaps he’s sired another child, and he’s hoping for a boy this time. Perhaps in a surfeit of well-deserved guilt, he sought to support the outcome Gwen said she wanted.”

  Did David have to have such a facility for hypothesizing? “This grows complicated,” Gwen said, and yet the urge to reach for Douglas’s hand was so simple.

  “It does,” Gareth replied. “Did you know, Gwen, that Gayle Windham is now heir to the Moreland dukedom?”

  He put the question so casually, and yet, it was not a positive development. “I believe that makes Victor the spare and the only one of the remaining brothers to marry, if he married me.” And the spare’s first duty was to see to the succession. Also his second, and his third.

  “I don’t suppose Westhaven is considering matrimony any time in the near future?” Douglas posed the question to the room at large.

  “He is not,” Gareth said. “My mother has checked her trap lines and found no gossip to that effect in any quarter. He’s considered eligible, if dull, and unenthusiastic about his marital responsibilities.”

  “So what does Gayle Windham want with me?” Gwen asked. “And does he know he’s an uncle?” The library was warm, and the support of Gwen’s family also a comfort. Douglas’s quiet presence beside her was the dearest comfort of all.

  “I doubt Windham knows about Rose,” Andrew said. “We’ve had no casual inquiries of the household staff regarding a small child. Nobody has seen strangers about the property, not even in passing. Hell, Gwen, if we didn’t know about Rose until last year, you can bet any member of the Windham family, ensconced in Town and socially in demand, would have no clue as to her existence.”

  From there, the discussion moved on to speculation regarding the purpose for Westhaven’s call, and Gwen’s next move. After much consideration, Gwen penned the earl a note stating that she would anticipate a call from him at his convenience. She agreed with her cousins nothing would be gained by dodging the confrontation Westhaven sought, and much could be learned. Gwen handed the epistle off to Gareth for delivery, and Felicity declared the war council at an end.

  For now.

  ***

  “You and Rose are home. How does it feel?”

  As conversational gambits went, Douglas didn’t consider his question particularly inspired, but it served to gain Guinevere’s attention as he escorted her through the dead gardens to the Enfield manor house.

  “Coming home isn’t the relief I thought it would be,” she said as they reached the entrance hall. “I thought Enfield was my sanctuary, but with Westhaven’s visit looming, this place no longer feels as safe. It’s still home, though.”

  “So you and Rose have both had your peace cut up with this homecoming,” Douglas observed, slapping his gloves on his thigh.

  “You aren’t going to stay for a bit?”

  He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay for the rest of his life, building walls and barricades to keep the Windhams of the world away, and to keep one mother and her child safe from all of life’s difficulties. “I will come in, if you think it advisable.”

  “I do,” Guinevere said, her chin coming up. “I�
��ll ring for tea. Now off with that coat, and stop looking so dour. You’ve already told Rose her pony died, surely nothing could be more onerous than that.”

  They’d handled that chore on the ride over, with Rose sitting up before Douglas on Sir Regis—and a miserable, damned, two-handkerchief business it had been, putting positively grim overtones to a situation already ominous.

  “I can think of at least one thing worse than Rose’s pony dying,” Douglas said. “Saying good-bye to you.” At the stricken look in Guinevere’s eyes, he regretted his words. They were true, of course they were, but one needn’t utter every inane, painful truth that came to mind. “I am sorry. My remark was thoughtless.”

  “Perhaps you don’t want to stay for tea?” she retorted, her voice carefully controlled.

  Oh, lovely. Now she was aiming her ire at him. “It is more the case that I dare not stay for tea, but I will not allow us to part in anger or confusion, Guinevere. I’d rather make my good-byes to you in private, however.”

  Her bravado wavered, and she led him to the small informal parlor where she’d first agreed to journey with him to Linden.

  “It hits me now, it has been hitting me for the past few days, really, that we truly are going to part.” She spoke with her back to him, looking out the window facing the stables. “My mind won’t accept the reality of it, but my heart is breaking all the same.”

  She’d closed the door, which saved him the trouble. Douglas locked it then slipped his arms around her waist without turning her to face him.

  “I would never have engaged your affections had I known how painful this was going to be for you. I am more sorry than I can say, Guinevere.”

  “If I hurt, Douglas Allen, it is only because I understand the magnitude of the loss I will suffer when you walk out that door.”

  Did she have to be so damnably brave? “I will walk out the door, Guinevere. I am not yet ready to walk out of your life.” As a gentleman, he ought not to have said that last part, not to a woman who could well be married to the son of a duke. As a man who had made love with her and who loved her, he had to give her the words—the assurances.

  She turned in his arms to face him. A shaft of sunlight fell across Guinevere’s brow, revealing fatigue as well as beauty. “So what will you do now, Douglas?”

  Weep, possibly. Get blind drunk, very likely.

  “I am to be a guest of the marquess for the next week or so,” Douglas replied. “All of my properties in Town are for sale, and because my solicitor has had no luck finding a purchaser, Heathgate has put his man of business to the task. I didn’t want to return to Town only to find prospective buyers interrupting my morning tea.” And he’d been damned sure he wasn’t going to repair to his own family seat, there to be harangued by his aging mama about the need to secure the damned succession.

  “I see.”

  Two innocuous words imbued with a full complement of female censure, making clear she did not want to hear about his real estate. Well, neither did he.

  Douglas stepped back, leaving Guinevere alone in the sunlight. “I would rather a thousand times tell Rose her pony died than let you face Westhaven alone, but were I to openly defend your causes, it could only redound to your discredit.”

  “I would hardly go that far. You are as much family as David, and he certainly feels comfortable tilting at windmills on my behalf—or he would if I’d allow it.”

  Which left Douglas feeling both respect and consternation toward Fairly. “But you are not allowing it—yet. I almost feel sorry for Westhaven, Moreland, and Victor Windham.”

  “That’s the spirit. I shall be quite formidable.” She smiled at him, the saddest smile he’d yet to see from her. “Before you go, tell me your thinking regarding Linden.”

  This, Douglas concluded, was a bid for mutual composure. He seized it not quite gratefully, but with a sense of inevitable duty, and—hang noble intentions—took Guinevere’s hand, too. “I don’t know what to think of Linden. The house itself is captivating, but the estate is troubled, as you know, and I can hardly like the idea of relying on Loris Tanner to implement the restoration of the place when she’s been taken advantage of by her errant father already.”

  “So you are thinking of declining it?”

  Douglas kissed her knuckles, though he stood with her before a window, and he ought to have been halfway down the drive by now. Also half-drunk.

  “I can think of nothing, Guinevere, save resolving matters between us. Until I know for a certainty you are wedded to another, I will make no commitments elsewhere. If you were to accept my suit, the decision whether to buy Linden, or some other property, would be one made by both of us.”

  This bit of honesty caused his lady—the lady—to withdraw her hand. “If you didn’t buy Linden, where would you look?”

  Her tenacity was one of the things Douglas admired most about her—usually. “Heathgate mentioned that property was available locally, between Enfield and Oak Hall. The neighbors might be a slight drawback though.” He tossed out that sally despite the mood, the circumstances, and the untruth his comment conveyed. “I see a smile on your face, Guinevere, so it’s time I take my leave of you.”

  She went into his arms, a dear and familiar comfort against the ache threatening to break Douglas’s heart.

  “Leave me with something, Douglas. I need a token, something to reassure me you are real, that we really did lo—that we really did spend time together.”

  That her composure slipped to this degree was a relief, and her request a blessing—for they truly had spent time together. Douglas stepped back and withdrew his penknife, a plain, serviceable little blade he kept razor sharp.

  He freed his hair from its old-fashioned queue, then sliced off a curling lock about three inches long and laid it across her palm.

  “Not very original,” he commented, taking out a monogrammed handkerchief—how he wished he had something prettier to give her. He folded the linen around the lock of hair and then closed her fingers around it. “Your token.”

  “You are such a sweet, romantic, dear man, everything I dreamed of as a girl and thought I would never find.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “I will miss you.”

  “You will likely see me by Wednesday,” Douglas replied, his lips against her temple. Wednesday was ages and ages away to a man staring at a dying dream. “I’ll want to know what Westhaven has up his sleeve, and I will not allow you to keep it from me.”

  “I wouldn’t. I won’t.”

  “Good. Until Wednesday then.”

  She framed his face with her hands and turned his head so she could kiss him—not a tender, wistful parting kiss, either. Guinevere’s kiss was ravenous, hot, demanding, and arousing—also both heartbreaking and reassuring. Douglas at first simply let her have her head, accepting what she bestowed without either inciting or denying her passion. When she slipped her hand around the back of his neck and molded her body to his, however, arousal stirred in earnest.

  For a moment, he allowed himself to reciprocate, to plunge his tongue into her mouth and press himself tightly to her curves. To acknowledge the heat that flared between them still, to revel in it however briefly, was as much relief as agony.

  Douglas eased the kiss back to something sweet and tender, to the parting kiss it should have been, and Guinevere accepted his decision—for once without argument.

  “Until Wednesday,” she said, leaning against his chest. Douglas moved his hands on her back, soothing and caressing, but also memorizing the bones and muscles, the contour of her spine. And then he held her, but forced his hands to still, and eased his grip.

  “It is so difficult, Guinevere, not to crush you to me, to wrap my arms around you as if I’d never let you go. I don’t want to leave you.”

  As he’d intended, his admission was fortification enough that Guinevere could take the fi
rst step away.

  “And I don’t want to let you go,” she replied, the sad smile curving her lips. “I’ll tell Rose you’ll come visit midweek.” She took his arm and walked him to the front entrance, where she handed him his greatcoat and gloves.

  “Until Wednesday.” Douglas brushed one last kiss to her cheek and took his leave.

  ***

  “A caller for you, madam.” The butler offered Gwen the calling card, which—no surprise—bore the Earl of Westhaven’s particulars engraved in black script on white stock.

  “Show him in to the small parlor,” Gwen directed, as the butterflies in her stomach threatened to upend her lunch. She tidied her hair—again—pinched her cheeks—again—and closed her fingers around the handkerchief she’d kept in her pocket since Douglas had left her side days earlier.

  She made her way to the family parlor—the room she associated most strongly with Douglas—and opened the door to find herself perused by a pair of serious, even beautiful, emerald-green eyes.

  “Miss Hollister.” Gayle Windham, or rather, the Earl of Westhaven, looking altogether handsomer and more imposing than Gwen remembered him, made her a formal bow.

  Gwen curtsied to an appropriate depth, no more. “My lord.” She gestured to the sofa. “Please have a seat.”

  Westhaven resumed his inspection of her, but when Gwen took one of the rocking chairs, he sat himself in the other rocking chair, in closer proximity than the sofa would have afforded. Gayle Windham was more heavily muscled than he’d been six years ago, his dark chestnut hair a trifle longer, and his air that of a man preparing to assume a weighty title, however reluctantly.

  “May I offer you tea, my lord, and perhaps something to eat?”

  “Tea,” the earl responded, still studying her.

  “Have I a smudge on my nose, then?” Gwen asked when he seemed disinclined to take up the conversational reins.

  “You do not. You look, in fact, to be thriving.” He was not offering a compliment.