Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords)

by Burrowes, Grace

  “The duke and his surviving sons have an odd relationship. They love him. They also despair of him, and at times, despise him. I don’t know Moreland’s sons well, though if I had to guess, I’d say Victor’s life has been made a misery by the duke, and Westhaven’s and Lord Valentine’s not much better. Part of Westhaven would dearly love to see his papa brought to heel by financial difficulties.”

  “The duke sounds like a right pain in the arse. Nonetheless, I don’t see what we can do about him until Gwennie tells us what he’s up to.”

  “Guinevere is fast asleep. She’s sleeping a lot lately.”

  “Probably tossing and turning all night,” Greymoor reasoned with apparent unconcern. “Missing Enfield, away from her routine, worried about Rose. She has a lot on her plate.”

  He gave Douglas a pointed look, which Douglas returned with a bland stare.

  “How is my darling niece, anyway, and her dear mother?” Douglas asked, rising and heading down to the first landing.

  “Thought you would never ask. My Lucy is the most intelligent female ever born to man, or, I suppose, woman, technically speaking…”

  While Greymoor trailed Douglas down the stairs and prattled on about his prodigy step-daughter, Douglas paid attention with only half a brain. Something was stuck in his mind, something more unsettling than Guinevere’s pallor and fatigue and her reticence about the duke’s mischief.

  He sorted through his recollection of their most recent encounter, all the while nodding and agreeing at the appropriate moments in Greymoor’s panegyric about the Incomparable Infant Lucy, and then it hit Douglas.

  “This once,” Guinevere had said. “Just this once” she had wanted the experience of Douglas loving her while she lay beneath him on her back.

  This once? The sense of roiling panic that had taken up residence in Douglas’s middle condensed into something closer to full-out riot. Why this once? Had the duke stooped to threatening Guinevere’s life?

  “My lords.” A liveried footman stood at the bottom of the stair, holding a salver bearing a sealed letter. “For you, Lord Amery.”

  Douglas tore open the missive, scanned the brief contents, and passed the epistle to Greymoor. Curses welled, along with hopeless frustration and grief.

  More grief.

  “Come.” Greymoor took Douglas by the arm and led him into the cozy family parlor. “Your countenance is more serious than usual, Amery. Has Victor stuck his spoon in the wall?”

  Behind the insouciance of Greymoor’s question, there lurked… concern. It steadied Douglas, and comforted.

  “I will be returning to Amery Hall.” Greymoor did not start in reading the letter; he instead watched Douglas with an alertness that belied all the man’s usual drollery. “I’m off to bury my mother, it seems.”

  Now Greymoor scanned the letter. “She may yet rally.”

  Douglas wanted her to, wanted her to regain all her faculties and survive to whine and complain at him for years to come. “She won’t. I have forgiven her whatever missteps she holds herself accountable for, and Mother would not want to linger as a helpless invalid. I must make haste for Amery Hall in any case.”

  “Not tonight, you won’t.” Greymoor went to the sideboard and poured a stout two fingers into a glass. “It’s cold as hell out there, and you just traveled that distance on Friday. Get a good night’s sleep, set your house in order, and start out at first light. I’ll alert Fairly and Heathgate that we’ll all need to keep an eye on Gwennie, and you get back as soon as propriety allows.”

  Greymoor’s suggestions made sense, and yet Douglas felt he ought to argue with the man, protest the need to repair to the family seat even in the dark of night. “I am abruptly both cold and tired.”

  Also, apparently, bereft of dignified self-restraint.

  “You’re in shock.” Greymoor passed Douglas the drink and glowered—the man looked much like his older brother when he glowered—until Douglas took a hefty swallow.

  “Decent libation. My thanks.”

  The whiskey was far better than decent, probably from Heathgate’s private bribing stock. Douglas sank onto the parlor’s sofa and wasn’t surprised when Greymoor came down beside him.

  “I am not in shock. I am, to be honest, more than a little relieved.” Though why Douglas had to share this sentiment with Greymoor was a mystery.

  “Oh, of course,” Greymoor replied. “You are relieved to be staring at the loss of the last surviving member of your immediate family. You can be officially inducted into the Distinguished Order of Relieved Orphans.”

  “I am not an orphan.” The whiskey, though superb, was making his throat constrict most peculiarly.

  “You are a bloody orphan,” Greymoor said from immediately beside Douglas. “But then, you always were.”

  Fools rush in, Douglas thought, taking another bracing sip of excellent potation. When the spirits were gone and the fire had begun to burn down, Douglas realized Greymoor would wait with him all night, if need be.

  “I should be going.” Douglas rose, putting his glass on the sideboard.

  “What shall I tell our Gwennie?”

  Our Gwennie. “Tell her…” Tell her I love her? Not the sort of sentiment one should convey through third parties. Tell her not to be worried about Moreland? She bloody well should worry about the infernal damned duke.

  “Tell her I will return as soon as I can, and for God’s sake, Greymoor, keep an eye on Moreland. A close eye. Don’t let her be alone with him, and do remind Westhaven that the Moreland purse strings could easily be pulled shut.”

  “I can manage that. Will you be all right?”

  Douglas knew a fleeting temptation to reply in the negative, to ask that Greymoor tend to the details of the dowager viscountess’s burial. Douglas’s every instinct screamed at him to stay near to Guinevere and Rose, to ensure their well-being personally, without relying on the best efforts of family.

  Except it wasn’t Greymoor’s mother who had suffered another apoplexy, and Douglas’s duty was clear. “I will manage. I will be cold, tired, and saddle sore, but I will manage. Just hold the line in my absence.”

  “We can do that.”

  As Douglas reached the door, he felt Greymoor’s hand on his shoulder. When he turned an inquiring eye, Greymoor pulled him into a quick, tight embrace.

  “Safe journey. And you may be an orphan, but you have family nonetheless. Don’t forget it.”

  Warmth curled through Douglas at Greymoor’s words, at his gruff affection. He nodded a farewell and took his leave, but the reassurance in that hug and in Greymoor’s final admonition stayed with him as he went out into the cold, dark night.

  ***

  “Why in God’s name would you expect me to marry Victor’s castoff?” Westhaven’s tone was civil—barely.

  “She is the mother of my grandchild,” the duke shot back, and in a private parlor at the back of the Windham manor, there was no need for His Grace to moderate his volume.

  “If I marry her, Your Grace, she could well be our next duchess of Moreland. While I don’t judge her for her past, the rest of Society will raise an eyebrow for the liberties she allowed Victor, and they will make the lady’s life hell.”

  “For your information, my boy, Society takes its cue from your dear mother. If she says the girl is a widow and a distant cousin, then a widowed cousin she shall be.”

  The inane argument raged on—Gwen had been introduced to Society as Heathgate’s cousin, for God’s sake—Westhaven’s generally quieter tones punctuating the duke’s bluster. The open flues of the chimneys carried each word to Victor’s ears, though the exchange was hardly surprising.

  Victor had sent for his solicitor the day after meeting his daughter, his affairs were in order, and he’d said many, many good-byes. Still, he suffered a lingering sense of unease regarding not his daughter, per se, be
cause he’d provided well for her, but for the girl’s mother.

  As the angry shouting from below increased in volume, Victor realized he could do one more thing for Gwen Hollister, and for their daughter. Though it might be done with his dying breath—such as he was able to breathe these days—he was going to do it.

  While Victor made a few more arrangements in the privacy of his sick room, one floor below, Westhaven considered the man he called Father.

  Like a dog with a bone, the duke would not rest until he’d achieved his goal of legitimating Rose Hollister’s status as a Windham. Mere grandfatherly meddling would not do. Moreland was determined that Gwen marry Westhaven, and that Westhaven assume guardianship of the child. The earl would be more impressed with his father’s goal were it not necessary to make several other people miserable to satisfy it.

  “This is what I am prepared to do,” Westhaven said. “You can take or leave it, Your Grace. If you leave it, I will make certain Victor, Her Grace, Valentine, Devlin, and the Marquess of Heathgate are all apprised of your scheme.” Amery, as well, though Westhaven kept that to himself.

  “So what is your proposition?” the duke asked with a good show of indifference.

  “Pay attention, sir,” Westhaven snapped, “and do not attempt to negotiate this offer…”

  To Westhaven’s deep unease, the duke paid attention, did not attempt to negotiate, and—most unsettling of all—left the room with a satisfied smile on his face.

  ***

  “The Earl of Westhaven to see you, ma’am, and Lord Valentine Windham,” Lady Heathgate’s butler announced.

  Rose’s little brows drew down, and Gwen’s stomach sank as well. With the discipline that was second nature to any parent, she kept her expression bright as she got to her feet.

  “I do believe your uncle Gayle has brought another uncle for you to meet. Would you like that?”

  Rose wrinkled her nose. “I like my cousins better than I like Uncle Gayle.”

  “You also know your cousins better than you know Uncle Gayle.” Gwen held out a hand to her daughter. “Maybe when you know Uncle Gayle better, you might like him better.”

  “Or I might like him worse.”

  “You might.” Though Gwen had reason to fervently hope otherwise. She walked with Rose from the family parlor to the formal parlor, letting the child dawdle to her heart’s content. Gwen paused outside the parlor door to order tea from the waiting footman, and knew it wasn’t only the child dawdling.

  She had no more interest in the perishing damned tea than she did in the Duke of Moreland’s sons.

  “My lords.” She curtsied upon entering the parlor, noting Valentine Windham had the family height and good looks, but not in quite the same mold as his brother. Whereas Gayle had emerald green eyes, wavy dark chestnut hair, and a fairly muscular build, Valentine’s frame was leaner, his eyes a startling pale green, and his hair straight, sable, and longer than fashion preferred.

  “Miss Hollister.” The earl bowed. “May I make known to you my youngest brother, Lord Valentine Windham. Val, Miss Guinevere Hollister, and Miss Rose.”

  Lord Valentine bowed to Gwen with perfect formality; to Rose, he offered an exaggerated, old-fashioned court bow, which had Rose giggling and hiding behind her mother’s skirts.

  “Mama,” Rose stage-whispered, “he’s silly.”

  “He’s your uncle Valentine,” Westhaven corrected the child. “I am woefully out of practice with silliness, so I hope you will appreciate him.”

  “Shall we be seated?” Gwen gestured toward the conversational grouping near the hearth and took a large cushioned chair. Rose stood by her mother’s seat, still clinging to Gwen’s hand.

  And now, for reasons that Gwen could barely perceive for missing Douglas so badly, she would make small talk with these handsome men whom she wished she’d never met.

  “Lord Valentine, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I understand you are the pianistic talent in the family.”

  He smiled with more charm than any one man ought to possess, particularly a man with the name of Windham. “Thank you. My mother is quite proficient, but because I have no other accomplishments, I will admit to an affection for the instrument.”

  “I’d love to hear you play sometime. My grandfather was a devoted keyboard amateur, and he despaired of me.”

  Conversation went on in the same superficial vein, with Rose gradually wandering away from her mother’s chair. Lord Valentine exchanged a humorous look with his brother and declined a second cup of tea.

  “I see Miss Rose has grown bored with her uncles,” Lord Valentine remarked. “Westhaven and I brought reinforcements, but left them in the stable. Perhaps Rose would like to see who has come with us?”

  Rose looked up, her finely honed sense of adult conversation apparently alerting her to a change in topic.

  “Rose? Would you like to visit the stables with your uncle Valentine? He’s making hints you might like to see someone who’s waiting out there.”

  Rose brightened. “My uncles have horses?”

  “We do,” Westhaven answered, smiling at her enthusiasm. “You have your own mount now too.”

  “Did you bring Sir George to call?”

  Valentine waggled his eyebrows mischievously. “Perhaps we did. Would you like to come and see?”

  “May I?” Rose fairly danced, she was so animated at the prospect of seeing her pony.

  “You may,” Gwen said. “Fetch your cloak and see Cook about a carrot or two.”

  “Treats!” Rose yodeled. “Sir George is ever so fond of treats!” She grabbed her uncle’s hand and dragged him from the room, his bow toppling sideways as he left.

  “My father will be enthralled with Rose’s love of horses,” Westhaven said.

  Mention of the duke caused the single sip of tea in Gwen’s belly to curdle. “Did he send you to schedule another visit for Rose?”

  “He did not,” Westhaven replied. “I wanted you to meet Valentine, and for Valentine to meet Rose. I thought Rose’s familiar turf might make the introduction more comfortable for her. Victor requested it.”

  “How is Victor?” Gwen asked, though she dreaded the answer.

  “Failing rapidly. Supposedly Valentine is up from the country to join the rest of us for the Christmas holidays, but we all know he has come because Victor won’t last much longer. Val and Victor have been particularly close, and it would take something like Victor’s death to make Val spend time under the same roof as my father.”

  “That bad?” And how reassuring, that Gwen wasn’t the only one who found the duke so irksome.

  “They tolerate each other for my mother’s sake.” Westhaven accepted a second cup of tea, though Gwen heartily wished she might lace it with hemlock. “The duke, however, has been busy, and I wanted to warn you.”

  “You have my attention.” And please, God, might that be all he ever had from her.

  “His Grace and I have struck a bargain.” Westhaven rose and paced to the hearth, his tea untasted. “For some time now, my father’s choice of investments, his entire management of the ducal finances, has been less than… prudent. Parliamentary matters, he handles with utmost shrewdness, but the business of the duchy he finds tedious, to a point approaching neglect. Our financial situation will soon grow intolerably parlous—”

  Westhaven fell silent for a moment and clasped his hands behind his back. He probably did not realize he made a handsome picture of gentlemanly pulchritude standing by the hearth, though Gwen wanted nothing so much as to never see him again.

  The earl turned and appeared to consider Gwen the way a barrister might regard a hostile jury. “My father has agreed to give me an irrevocable financial power of attorney over the ducal and familial assets in exchange for something he wants. I’ve been angling for that power of attorney for three years, and for the sake o
f my family, I have seen it executed.”

  The sense of foreboding murmuring through Gwen’s veins escalated to a shriek. “What have you offered Moreland in exchange for financial control?”

  “I have agreed to make a fool of myself,” Westhaven said, his expression anything but foolish. “I merely have to ask you to marry me, though I have every confidence you will decline my suit.”

  Gwen felt the blood draining from her face as she rose to face Westhaven. “You will ask me to marry you?”

  “Miss Hollister—or shall I call you Gwen?” Westhaven took her by the arm and led her back to the settee. “As I said, we need not be alarmed. You can simply refuse me, and there will be no harm done. I will have kept my word, and you will have been duly flattered at the great honor and so forth.”

  “I was counting on you not asking me,” Gwen moaned in misery. “I promised him if you asked me, I would accept. I thought—I hoped—you’d refuse such a ridiculous proposition.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Westhaven muttered, lowering himself to sit beside her. He shot a speculative frown at Gwen. “We have to think.”

  “There’s no thinking,” Gwen fired back. “Your father will see this done, and I’ll bet he’s already presented you with the power of attorney, so you are bound by your word.”

  Westhaven rubbed his chin, looking like his father in a scheming moment. “I am. You are not.”

  “Of course I am,” Gwen retorted. “He had something you wanted, Westhaven, so you struck a bargain. I have something—someone—he wants, so he struck a bargain with me.”

  Those green eyes narrowed on Gwen, making Westhaven look even more like his father, which reassured Gwen not one whit. “What’s your bargain with His Grace?”

  “That is between His Grace and me.”

  “You are not of a mind to marry me?”

  “Merciful heavens.” Gwen shot back to her feet. “I hardly know you. Why on earth would I want to spend the rest of my life as your duchess?”

  Westhaven looked thoughtful, which made Gwen want to slap some sense into him.

  “I do believe that is the most backhanded compliment an heir to a dukedom has ever received.” He stood, manners requiring it of him since Gwen was now the one pacing. “I appreciate the honesty, though I find it hard to imagine a tiara couldn’t compensate you for the arduous burden of becoming my wife.”