Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords)

by Burrowes, Grace

  Eighteen

  Not too late. Not too late. We’re not too late. Fairly’s words beat against Douglas’s sanity even as rage threatened to crowd out reason.

  Moreland’s liveried army was closing in, preparing to prevent Douglas bodily from entering the church and stopping a wedding Guinevere should never have consented to.

  Douglas gripped Moreland’s wrist with some notion of hiking the man’s arm behind his back when a muttered oath came from his left.

  Lord Valentine Windham had donned court finery for the wedding, and thus sported a gleaming sword at his left side. Douglas lunged and appropriated the weapon, which larceny provoked the youngest Windham son to grin, sketch a bow, and hustle off toward the church. The blade was more decorative than functional, but sharp enough to do damage. Douglas saluted his thanks to Windham’s retreating back and waved the weapon at the circle of ducal retainers forming around him.

  “Your Grace,” Greymoor said pleasantly from the duke’s immediate left. “That man”—he nodded at Douglas—“is dear to my wife and therefore dear to me. He is family to us, and you harm him at your peril.” The sound of a dagger sliding from its sheath filled the ensuing silence.

  “And he is dear to me.” Fairly picked up the thread of Greymoor’s warning, unsheathing his own dagger on the duke’s immediate right.

  “And to me and my marchioness,” Heathgate informed him, an ugly, very businesslike short pistol appearing in his hand.

  The duke’s hauteur faltered at a quiet voice from behind him.

  “Percival?” The duchess stood at the door to the church, leaning heavily on Lord Valentine’s arm, her pretty face wreathed in bewilderment. “Why aren’t you joining us inside?”

  “There will be no wedding, Your Grace,” Douglas answered her.

  “There most assuredly will be,” the duke shot back. “Seize him!” He turned to go but hadn’t counted on the reflexes of a desperate man. The tip of Douglas’s sword caught him under the chin, and the duke went still.

  “You will listen to me, Moreland,” Douglas instructed with lethal quiet. “And there will be no wedding.”

  “Percival,” the duchess said, “hear him out. He seems determined, though that sword is entirely unnecessary, Lord Amery.”

  Douglas inclined his head toward the duchess and dropped his sword a few inches to the right. “Thank you, Your Grace.

  “There will be no wedding,” Douglas went on, “for at least three reasons. First, a man may not marry his brother’s widow. The issue of such an invalid union are not legitimate, leaving you without an heir, even were Westhaven to get children on Miss Hollister. The second reason there will be no wedding is that you will not know, Moreland, whether the child Miss Hollister bears in, say, eight or nine months is Windham progeny—or mine. While a man of different ambitions might long for his child to become duke in your stead, I could hardly wish it on any son of mine. The third reason there will be no wedding is that Her Grace will not permit it, knowing you somehow coerced Miss Hollister, bullied her, or threatened her into accepting Westhaven’s suit.”

  Douglas’s sword dropped farther, as the fatigue of having buried his mother the day before, then riding all night with Fairly at his side, found him.

  “Her Grace,” Douglas went on, “knows you are not a truly reprehensible man, for she loves you and is secure in your love as well. You deny Miss Hollister and your own son the same marital blessing when you force them to wed each other. I will not allow it.”

  He watched the duke with eyes that promised unstoppable retribution. “There will be no wedding.”

  A few beats of silence went by, Douglas’s arm burning with the weight of the ceremonial sword, his heart heavy with regrets. Guinevere’s very presence in the church, her consent to a ceremony that would ensure she and Douglas had no future at all, rendered Douglas’s hopes and dreams ashes.

  “Percival St. Stephens Tiberius Joachim Windham,” the duchess said quietly, “your duchess has developed a blinding headache, and requires your immediate escort home.”

  The duke heaved a sigh, looking much like a little boy whose nanny has caught him making mud pies in his Sunday best.

  “But, Esther… Of course, Esther.” His Grace waved a white-gloved hand in Douglas’s direction. “Because there is to be no wedding.”

  As the duke departed, swords and daggers were lowered, and Heathgate’s pistol disappeared.

  “Well done, Amery,” Heathgate muttered. “We were getting worried.”

  “I’ve about killed my horse,” Douglas replied, “and Fairly as well. He made the journey to Amery Hall and back in less than thirty-six hours. You all”—Douglas looked around at people to whom he bore no blood relation whatsoever—“have my thanks.”

  Guinevere appeared at the church door, looking lovely, tired, and bewildered—on Westhaven’s arm. “Douglas?”

  “Miss Hollister.” Douglas bowed slightly, lest fatigue and emotion both topple him. “My apologies for having disturbed your morning. The nuptials have been called off.”

  He turned and trotted down the steps, swinging up onto Regis without a backward glance. He left the woman he loved—the woman who had not even thought to inform him of her decision to marry another—standing before the church, pale as the white roses in her bouquet. At her side, Westhaven smiled faintly and saluted as Regis cantered off in the direction of the square.

  ***

  In the days following his return to Town, Douglas mostly slept. He managed this by imposing on Fairly’s hospitality, Heathgate’s man having found a buyer for Douglas’s sole remaining London property.

  Fatigue was only part of what plagued Douglas.

  In his life, Douglas had suffered betrayal. His siblings had betrayed him at various turns, as had his parents. The society in which he lived, one that purported to value integrity, honesty, protection of the weak, and myriad other Christian virtues, had betrayed him in a general sort of way.

  His body had betrayed him as well, as when he’d first seen Guinevere in her wedding finery and felt a flash of desire for her even as she prepared to marry another.

  His heart had betrayed him, when in that same moment, he’d felt such an aching relief simply to see her again, he’d been nearly speechless.

  Guinevere had betrayed him, profoundly, and that hurt in ways Douglas couldn’t begin to label, much less describe.

  But where he’d not once felt betrayal was from his reasoning mind. There, his survival instincts took up residence, turning the gears of his reason, provoking him into long staring spells and such fits of brooding that Fairly gave up lecturing him. Douglas was attempting to think his way through this latest grief, driving his host nigh to distraction with worry couched as all manner of medical lectures about humors and melancholia.

  Greymoor called on Douglas, despite the butler’s warning that his lordship wasn’t receiving.

  “Look, Greymoor,” Douglas said, jamming his hands in his pockets when Greymoor had politely lectured him at length, “understand me, please. I do not bear Guinevere any ill will, but she was prepared to wed another and has not seen fit to explain her reasons to me, though I comprehend the advantages of the match for her and for Rose. You and the rest of the family should leave it at that.”

  Family whom Douglas shared with Guinevere, whether she liked it or not, whether there was a blood tie or not.

  Greymoor prepared to take his leave, but before granting that signal mercy, graced Douglas with a sober, measuring look.

  “Gwen says you owe her nothing and you probably regret the day you met her. I could live with such a sorry outcome, if true, because you are family too, and I can see you are miserable. What I cannot accept is seeing the light gradually fading from Gwen’s spirit as she approaches the day when she regrets having met you. You gave her back something vital, Douglas, but now you are ripping it just as delibe
rately from her grasp.”

  “And Rose?” Douglas couldn’t help but ask.

  Greymoor shot such a look of pity over his shoulder, Douglas wondered how he’d ever mistaken the man for frivolous. “Rose is one very unhappy, confused little girl. She is at risk for growing up every bit as worried, careful, and self-reliant as her dear mother is, and may I point out, as you can be. For that looming tragedy, I blame you and Gwen both, for it is in your mutual power to prevent it.”

  He closed the door behind him, the sound reminiscent of the lid of a casket being lowered for the final time.

  Douglas’s first inclination was to return to his bed, but his mind would not let go of the things Greymoor had said, and so he poured himself another cup of tea and set to work brooding his way back over their conversation.

  Guinevere had no doubt felt she had to marry Westhaven to protect Rose. He accepted that, and would, he trusted, eventually get around to admiring her for it. What he could not accept was that Guinevere would not tell him how the duke had intimidated her into that particular corner. She hadn’t even let him try to defend her.

  “Merciful saints.” Douglas groaned as insight struck, and set his teacup down as he mentally stumbled over a different possibility, one that had his sluggish mind reviewing all the available data. He wanted to exonerate Guinevere’s betrayal of him, wanted to think he hadn’t misplaced his sanity when he’d lain down with her, or on the several occasions when he’d asked for her hand.

  But he was tired, confused, and wary, and he promised himself he’d wait out the week before putting action to his thoughts. The next morning found him sitting at the breakfast table with Fairly, hiding behind some section of the newspaper or other, when a footman brought in the post.

  And, from a completely unsuspected quarter, Douglas’s intention to consider matters deliberately and to proceed rationally were shot to hell right out from under him.

  “This one’s addressed to you.” Fairly tossed an epistle to him, a small smile accompanying the gesture as Mine Nosy Host turned to the footman. “Have his lordship’s bay saddled, to be ready in about thirty minutes, if you please.”

  Douglas wondered who could be writing to him, for he surely did not give a whit about keeping up with correspondence of late, nor did he recognize the very immature hand.

  Five minutes later, he knew what it meant to be unable to form a coherent thought.

  Dear Cuzn Duglis,

  No one helpt me rite this. Dentn will post it for me. I miss you. My papa died, and he is with Dazy in the Clowd Pastur. I do not miss my papa, and he said I did not have to, but I miss you. Mama crys when she thinks I don’t see her. I talk to Sur Jorj a lot, but he is just a horse. He looks like Rejis. Can you bring Rejis to visit Sur Jorj? I love you.

  Miss Rose Hollister

  Something about Douglas’s stillness must have caught Fairly’s eye, because Fairly came around the table and went to his haunches to read the letter Douglas held in one hand. Douglas permitted it, unable to move.

  Rose was, as she’d been the first time he met her: little, helpless, and in harm’s way.

  She was going to think Douglas did not love her, did not miss her, did not want to play a role in her life, all because her mother had hurt Douglas’s feelings.

  What mattered reason and deliberation, what mattered hurt feelings or dignity, compared to love? The poor child might even think Douglas did not love Guinevere, when the very opposite was true.

  And Guinevere was going to think Douglas did not love her, when all that mattered, all that would ever matter, was that he did and that the lady should know it.

  That revelation allowed Douglas to breathe with more ease than he had in days.

  Fairly cuffed Douglas on the shoulder. “Godspeed, and mind you don’t bungle this, or I swear I’ll console the woman right into my own bed. The horse will be ready soon. I’ll send hot water up so you can shave first.”

  The viscount smiled wickedly as he left the breakfast parlor, yelling for his own horse to be saddled next. Precisely twenty-five minutes later, Douglas was on Regis, his steed cantering off smartly in the direction of Enfield.

  ***

  “Cousin Douglas!” Rose met Douglas in the barn aisle, outside the stall where Sir George was crunching a carrot to bits. She started to run to Douglas, but her momentum died mid-pelt, uncertainty clouding her features.

  “You remembered the no-running-in-the-barn rule,” Douglas said, his voice far steadier than his nerves. “I don’t believe there’s a no-hugging rule.” He closed the distance between them and swept her up in his arms. “I have missed you, Rose,” he said, breathing in her wiggly, warm, sweet-little-girl presence. He held her tight, a lump rising in his throat before he set her down.

  “I’ve brought Regis to visit with you as well,” Douglas went on, wanting to pick the child up all over again. “Have you a carrot for him, perhaps?”

  “No carrots left,” Rose said, swinging Douglas’s hand. “Sir George ate them all. We could get one from the pantry.”

  “Let’s do that, and you can tell me how you’re getting on.”

  “I will be six soon,” Rose reported, and as they walked into the back entrance to the house, she launched into a detailed and enthusiastic recounting of her every activity since Douglas had last seen her.

  “…And we planted the Holland bulbs for Daisy,” she concluded, “just yesterday, because Mama said it was the January thaw and our last chance. Hullo, Mama.”

  Guinevere stood in a brown velvet dress, looking bewildered and lovely by the enormous kitchen hearth.

  “Miss Hollister.” Douglas forced himself to bow, though it meant momentarily parting with the sight of the woman he loved. “My apologies for my unorthodox arrival. Miss Rose and I met in the stables and thought to bring Regis a treat before I made a proper entry.”

  “Douglas.”

  A familiar blend of arousal and gladness suffused Douglas as he simply beheld her.

  “Sit.” Douglas gained her side in two strides and took her arm to lead her to a bench. “You are quite pale of a sudden, and I do apologize again for appearing this way. Rose, could you fetch your mama a glass of water?”

  Rose scampered away on her mission, and Douglas busied himself removing his greatcoat, gloves, and scarf. When Rose reappeared with a half-full glass, Douglas handed it to Guinevere, who had yet to say anything besides his name.

  “Shall we feed Regis his carrot?” Rose asked worriedly.

  “May I ask you, Rose, to take him the carrot for me?” Guinevere’s color still hadn’t returned, and she looked to be in shock. “You will have to wait until Ezra has him in a stall, though I know the beast would appreciate it.”

  “I’ll pet his nose and everything!” Rose trotted off, carrot clutched in her fist like a sword.

  “You came to see Rose,” Guinevere said, watching her daughter depart. “I should have known you would.”

  “May I fetch you a cup of tea?” Douglas leaned back against the wooden counter, arms crossed over his chest lest he use them to enfold the quiet creature before him. And tea would be no damned help at all in any case. “Or would you like something stronger? You still look wan to me.” And more beautiful than ever.

  “No spirits.” Her smile was wan too. “I couldn’t keep them down, I’m sure.”

  “I suppose a woman in anticipation of a blessed event can expect some digestive upset,” Douglas observed, turning to rummage for tea, cream, and sugar, or perhaps to search for his wits.

  “But, Douglas, I’m not in expectation of any—”

  He turned back to her quickly enough to see her expression flit from diffident to bewildered, to utterly, fiercely joyous. Her hand flew to her mouth then drifted slowly, reverently, to her abdomen.

  In those few seconds, profound relief coursed through Douglas from two distinct sources. Re
lief came first from the joy on Guinevere’s face: she was overjoyed to be carrying their child. He’d harbored such a miserable load of fear—for her, and for them—fear that for Guinevere, pregnancy, any pregnancy, might carry so many negative associations the renewed prospect of motherhood could bring her only worry and resentment.

  He’d been wonderfully, blessedly wrong. Her pleasure radiated from her like an angel chorus in full song.

  The second source of Douglas’s relief came from the momentary disbelief on Guinevere’s face. When she’d gone to marry Westhaven, she hadn’t known she carried Douglas’s child.

  More than anything, he’d wondered how she could have done that—allowed their child to be raised by another man. That decision had seemed so unlike Guinevere, so deceptive and just plain wrong.

  The damned lump was back in Douglas’s throat, so he turned to the counter and busied himself pouring hot water from the kettle into the teapot, then preparing Guinevere’s tea. When he was once again in possession of himself, he brought the tea to her.

  “Sit with me?” she asked, turning a hesitant smile on him.

  Douglas lowered himself to the bench beside her, feeling abruptly unsure. It had never occurred to him Guinevere, having been through one pregnancy, wouldn’t have put together the symptoms—nausea, fatigue, tender breasts, missed courses—though apparently she hadn’t.

  He wanted to take her hand in his, but didn’t dare.

  “I thought,” Guinevere said, wonder in her voice, “I thought I was upset and overwhelmed. I was upset and overwhelmed. Very upset, and exhausted. I thought I was simply…”

  “Yes?”

  “Simply missing you,” she said, some of the wonder dying.

  “I’ve certainly missed you,” Douglas muttered testily.

  She bowed her head and addressed herself to her teacup, the self-same little green cup with white unicorns Douglas had seen her with the day they’d met. “I was to wed Westhaven. How could you miss me when I’d accepted another’s proposal and rejected all of yours?”