Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords)

by Burrowes, Grace

  Madam,

  I hope you are faring well, though you have my abject apologies for being unable to keep our appointment later in the week. Until next we meet, I remain,

  Your devoted servant,

  Amery

  A devoted servant was not a lover, and likely never would be again.

  Gwen added to her aches and miseries not only the desire to feel Douglas’s arms around her, but also the need to comfort him, though anything that prevented Gwen from further intimacies with Douglas Allen was a good thing.

  A miserably difficult, unfair, painful, hard thing, but a good thing.

  Thirteen

  Douglas had been sure he was capable of hating her.

  Looking down at his mother’s shrunken form, he admitted his error, for all he felt was pity and a vast regret. Pity for himself, that this was the mother he’d been given, but pity and regret for her.

  When had she become elderly? When had she grown so small and frail and gray?

  “She wakes occasionally,” the nurse informed him. “Say something to her, and she might stir a bit.”

  Douglas pulled a chair up to the bed and took his mother’s cool hand.

  “Mother.” The word came out much less resolute than he’d intended. He tried again. “Mother.”

  Her eyes opened, and a ghastly, lopsided caricature of a smile pulled at one side of her mouth. “Da…” she said softly, lifting her right hand toward his face.

  “She can get initial consonants,” the nurse observed, “and that’s encouraging.”

  “Please do not refer to Lady Amery as ‘she’ within her hearing.”

  “Da…”

  Douglas captured his mother’s hand and returned it to the bed. “I’ll stay a bit,” Douglas assured her. “Would you like something to drink?”

  When his mother looked confused, Douglas scanned the room for a pitcher.

  “She can’t…” The nurse, a stout older woman with tired eyes, caught herself. “Drinking from a cup can be difficult after an apoplexy.”

  “Then how do you ensure your patients are getting sufficient liquids?”

  “Sometimes a drinking straw will help, but it’s difficult, your lordship.”

  Difficult. A monumental understatement. “When did you last offer her water?”

  She smoothed a hand over a starched white apron—a spotless, starched white apron. “Before tea.”

  “That was almost six hours ago.” He tucked his mother’s hand against her side and crossed the room to the pitcher and basin on her dresser. Pouring a small amount into a glass, he brought it to the bed and set it on the nightstand. When he had Lady Amery propped against her pillows, he held the glass against her lips, scowling mightily when it became apparent she was desperate to drink.

  Some of the water dribbled over her chin, but enough of it made it down her throat that her eyes reflected gratitude. When Douglas returned to his chair by her bed, she reached for him again.

  “Gi…” she said, her gaze trained on him beseechingly. “Gi… me.”

  “Give you?” Douglas asked, feeling her frustration keenly.

  “Gi… me.”

  Douglas wracked his brain but could not discern her meaning. Give her. Give her what? She refused more water, so he gave her his hand and sat with her thus, holding her thin, cold fingers in his until she’d drifted back to sleep.

  Douglas spoke for a few minutes with the nurse, ensured his mother would not be left alone through the night, and took his leave of the sickroom.

  He’d stopped by his town house long enough to gather several days’ worth of clothing, and had paid a call on David Worthington, Viscount Fairly. The purpose of that visit had been to educate himself regarding apoplexy and some other relevant medical issues, Fairly being the only thing approaching a trustworthy physician among Douglas’s acquaintances.

  The information Fairly had shared regarding apoplexy was daunting. Victims of apoplexy often became incapable of clear speech or incapable of moving an entire side of their bodies. Their prognosis was grim, particularly if the ability to speak, chew, and swallow was affected. Those who survived a massive seizure often died of its consequences or in a subsequent attack.

  So Douglas had ridden hard the entire day, prepared to arrive in time to arrange his mother’s funeral. The relief he’d felt to have her still on this earth, albeit speaking gibberish and looking a hundred years old, had shocked him. But she was his only adult relative, and she was his mother. That apparently counted for something, despite Douglas’s unbecoming wish that it did not.

  He took himself downstairs, past the formal parlor, the music room, the estate offices, breakfast parlor, and dining room to the kitchen. The kettle was warming on the hob, so he rummaged until he found the fixings for a cup of tea, some cheese, and a red apple.

  Sitting at the scarred plank table in the middle of the room, he assembled his simple meal and added sugar—and cream—to his solitary tea. The sound of his spoon clinking against the teacup reminded him of Guinevere, stirring his tea before passing it to him, perfectly prepared on every occasion.

  He missed her with a relentless, bone-wracking ache. The hours he’d spent in the saddle allowed him to consider, at length and in detail, their situation. Two things had become obvious: First, if Guinevere were married to Windham, the situation was grave, indeed. Married was married, in his eyes, in Guinevere’s, and in the eyes of the law. Second, regardless of the legalities, he did not see how he could build a life without Guinevere in it.

  More tired than he could recall being in many a month, Douglas climbed the stairs, stopping to check on his mother. She lay as if asleep, a maid curled in a chair by her bed. Douglas withdrew without alerting the maid to his presence and found his bed.

  He drifted off to sleep, hoping he would dream of Guinevere. To see her, even in his dreams, would be a comfort—or, more accurately, a welcome torment.

  When he awoke early the following morning, he hadn’t dreamed of Guinevere, but he had puzzled out an understanding of what his mother had been trying to say.

  Not “give me,” but rather, “forgive me.”

  ***

  “Your escort is here.” Guinevere’s hostess for her stay in Town, her aunt, the estimable dowager Marchioness of Heathgate, said this a bit loudly, as if Guinevere might have lost some hearing since Douglas had last seen her.

  “My escort?” Guinevere perched on the middle of a green velvet sofa, looking tired and severely pretty as she went through the motions of a game of solitaire.

  Lady Heathgate shot a glance of maternal exasperation over her shoulder at Douglas and took two steps into the room. “You are in another world completely. I’ll fetch your cloak and bonnet while you greet his lordship.”

  Her ladyship brushed past Douglas, leaving him in full view of the little sitting room. “Guinevere?”

  Her head came up, and where her posture had been diffident and listless, at the sound of his voice, she came alive. “Douglas!” She flew across the room in two strides. “Oh, Douglas, I have missed you so.” She buried her face against his shoulder, burrowing into his embrace.

  And even as Douglas reveled in the feel of her in his arms and positively wallowed in her flowery scent, somehow, he missed her still. Missed her and resented bitterly that he’d had to leave her alone, because he and Guinevere both knew what it was to remain alone, even when surrounded by family.

  “I’ve missed you, too.” He made himself step back, made himself leave the parlor door open, though such propriety would soon render the room chilly. “You look fatigued.”

  “I am,” she said, keeping a grasp of both of his hands. “I can’t seem to keep my eyes open, and I am a veritable watering pot of late.”

  Her hands were cold, and to Douglas’s unending dismay, she teared up again as she spoke.

  “This wil
l not do.” He offered her his handkerchief, inadequate though the gesture was. “If you are not inclined to go forward with this meeting, Guinevere, I will convey your regrets to Westhaven.”

  She paused between dabbing at the left eye and dabbing at the right. “You are my escort? I asked David to attend me.”

  “He would, except he has come down with the flu and has asked that I serve in his stead. He explained to me that you wanted neither Heathgate’s glowering nor Greymoor’s splenetics on hand for your meeting with Lord Victor.”

  Though why in the bloody perishing hell hadn’t Fairly observed the courtesy of sending Guinevere a note? And what sort of flu was it that left a man capable of summoning a friend from the wilds of Kent and suffering no fever whatsoever?

  “I can’t ask this of you,” she said, fresh tears welling. “Douglas… This won’t be civilities over tea. You of all men should not have to listen to the conversation between Victor and me.”

  “I disagree.” He had to put some space between them though, or Lady Heathgate might be scandalized by what she found going on in her parlor. Douglas clasped his hands behind his back and paced over to the fireplace. “I will protect your interests with my last breath, Guinevere, and I would have no secrets between us. If you are to be Victor Windham’s wife, then all that remains is for me to serve as your friend and very distant relative.”

  For soon, distant relatives would be all that was left to him. Lady Amery had not rallied in the least during Douglas’s tenure in Kent, but her condition had stabilized sufficiently that Douglas could heed Fairly’s summons—thank God.

  Guinevere clutched his handkerchief as if her firstborn child were threatened—which, in effect, was the case. “Don’t refer to me as that man’s wife. Don’t say it, don’t think it.”

  Douglas spoke as gently as the miserable truth would allow. “You have been thinking it for at least the past week.”

  His handkerchief was summarily jammed in a skirt pocket, as if a sword had been sheathed. “Thinking it and accepting it are not the same thing.”

  Just as saying it and accepting it were worlds apart.

  Lady Heathgate appeared with a brown velvet cloak and a plain straw bonnet. Douglas escorted Guinevere to the coach, but only lasted until they’d pulled out of the mews before he shifted to the place beside her and took her hand in his.

  “We need a signal.”

  Guinevere ceased tracing his knuckles with her free hand, though she really should not have removed her gloves—and neither should he. “A signal?”

  “You need a way to tell me to get you out of there in a hurry, something that won’t be obvious to Westhaven and his brother. And you need a way to tell me you want privacy with Windham as well.”

  Her fingers went still. “Why would I want privacy with Victor?”

  “To state your terms if he reveals you are in fact married?” The words lay between them, making a verbal corpse of hope.

  Guinevere took her hand away and jerked on her gloves. “Married—I cannot contemplate such a thing. I’m hoping he doesn’t know about Rose, and I’m not inclined to tell him.”

  “You must trust yourself to do what is appropriate when the moment arises,” Douglas said with a calm he did not feel, and then conscience, honor, or some damned fool penchant for martyrdom prompted him to let his idiot mouth yammer on. “If she were my daughter, I would most assuredly want to know.”

  Guinevere glowered out the window as they passed a flower girl standing in the bitter chill, bedraggled yellow chrysanthemums in pots around her.

  “If she were your daughter, I would not have been lied to and mistreated, then left alone for the past six years to muddle along with her as best I could.”

  Douglas cracked the window enough to toss the child a coin. “If you want privacy, you mention that life at Enfield is prosaic. If you want to leave immediately, you mention the dreary weather. Privacy—prosaic; depart—dreary.”

  “Privacy—prosaic; depart—dreary.”

  “That will serve.” A few minutes later, Douglas reached past her to open the door. “Now, chin up, and on your dignity.”

  For he surely intended to be upon his. He preceded her out of the coach, exemplifying his own advice by showing her the greatest courtesy as he helped her alight and tucked her hand around his arm. A footman opened the door to the quietly impressive Mayfair town house, and Westhaven himself was on hand to greet them.

  “Westhaven.” Douglas returned the man’s formal bow while Guinevere’s cloak and bonnet were taken by a servant.

  Westhaven’s consternation was lovely to behold. “Amery? I wasn’t expecting you to serve as Miss Hollister’s escort.”

  Gratifying, to be a ducal heir’s inconvenient surprise. “Despite your expectations, I appear to have that honor. It’s been some time since our paths crossed in Kent. I trust your family is well?”

  He offered the small talk because civilities were Douglas’s specialty, and because Guinevere was peering around while trying not to look intimidated.

  “My parents and sisters thrive, while Lord Valentine rusticates. Miss Hollister, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea for us in the small parlor. Shall we get out of this drafty hall?”

  “By all means,” Douglas replied, winging his arm at Guinevere before Westhaven had the chance. Their host led them through the house, pausing outside a closed door and turning a grave expression to Guinevere.

  “Victor is not… as you knew him. I would ask, out of decency, you not dwell on his infirmity.”

  Guinevere shot Douglas a puzzled look, but Westhaven had already turned to open the door.

  “Victor?” Westhaven led the way into the room. “Our guests are here.”

  To Douglas’s eye, the brothers bore a resemblance to each other, though Victor’s bow to Guinevere was careful, not the casually graceful display his brother made. “Miss Hollister. Thank you for paying this call.”

  “Douglas Allen, Viscount Amery joins us today,” Westhaven said by way of introduction. “Amery, my brother, Lord Victor Windham.”

  “My lord.” Douglas bowed, trying to keep his conflicting emotions from his expression. Victor was slender to the point of gauntness. His eyes were tired beyond mere fatigue, his complexion was pale—even his lips were pale—and his mouth was bracketed by grooves suggesting chronic pain.

  Part of Douglas wanted to howl with frustration, because Guinevere would not turn her back on this weary, hopeless man. She would accede to his wishes, hear him out, offer him her sympathy, and even her complicity.

  Because it was plain to Douglas the poor bastard was dying.

  A dying husband was better than one in the pink of health. Only the merest scintilla of guilt accompanied the thought. Perhaps two scintillae, or three. And a wagonload of pity.

  “Shall we be seated?” Guinevere suggested after making the requisite curtsy.

  “Will you pour, Miss Hollister?” Westhaven asked.

  Guinevere made a pretty picture over the shining silver tea service—a far finer display than even the best available at Enfield, the tray itself being approximately half a cricket pitch in size.

  “You look well, Miss Hollister,” Victor observed.

  “I am. I confess, I do not recall how you like your tea.”

  First point to the lady.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of having you pour for me before. I like it plain, if you can believe that.”

  “Certainly. And perhaps while we’re enjoying our tea, you might share your reasons for requesting this gathering? Our time is limited.”

  Douglas silently applauded Guinevere’s directness. She realized Victor was gravely ill, but she wasn’t letting sentiment sway her.

  “I wanted to see you,” Victor said, “so I might resolve to my satisfaction matters that arose between us when last we encountere
d each other. My conscience is not at peace, and I am quite honestly running out of time to address the situation.”

  “Victor—”

  “Hush, Westhaven,” Victor said, rueful humor in his expression. “My brother is protective of me and would prefer I not acknowledge the extent of my illness. I am consumptive, you see, and quite near the end of my rope.”

  “You don’t know that,” Westhaven said, his tone losing a measure of its reserve.

  “I do know it,” Victor countered. “My family does not accept it, but I know it just the same. Consumption is tiresome beyond all telling.” As if to emphasize the point, he was seized with a fit of coughing.

  When Victor regained his breath, Guinevere handed him his tea and gestured with the pot toward Westhaven, who shook his head.

  “I am sorry you are ill.” Her tone was sincere, and Douglas could see in her eyes that she was measuring the present Victor Windham against the more robust, charming version she’d eloped with years earlier. “How long have you been unwell?”

  “I have been ill since before we last had dealings.”

  “I see.”

  Douglas also silently refused tea, lest he miss some innuendo or expression relevant to the conversation.

  “I don’t think you quite do see,” Victor said, all humor leaving his expression. “This is difficult to put into words, particularly with others on hand, but you deserve to know the truth.”

  “And I want to hear the truth,” Guinevere said, picking up her teacup. “My existence at Enfield is prosaic, to say the least, and your summons is quite the most extraordinary thing to happen in years.”

  Well. The damned signal had been his own brilliant idea, hadn’t it?

  “Westhaven,” Douglas said, getting to his feet. “I’ve heard your teams are exactly matched. Perhaps you’d offer me a tour of your stables?”

  “Delighted,” Westhaven said, looking vastly relieved as he bowed to Guinevere. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  “Of course.” Guinevere rose and bobbed a curtsy. Victor had risen as well, but the move had cost him and was executed mostly by pushing himself up with his arms, as if he were elderly.