The urge to touch her was overwhelming, but Douglas held back, needing truth more than comfort. “Did you turn to another, Guinevere, or were you simply trying to manage matters on your own, without the aid of those who love you?”
She dithered by consuming her tea, but her expression had become solemn. “I could not jeopardize Rose. Surely you did not expect me to let Moreland simply whisk her away?”
“Of course not, though surely you didn’t expect me to let you and Rose walk out of my life?”
“I thought it for the best.”
“Why?”
***
Douglas was here in Gwen’s kitchen, he was being civil and considerate, and she was going to bear his child. Gwen’s mind could not grasp those three happy facts entirely, but she could hear his tone of voice.
“Why?” Douglas asked. He wasn’t accusing. He was curious, as if he couldn’t puzzle the situation out without Gwen’s assistance. Gwen stood, took her empty teacup to the sink, then turned to face Douglas as he remained sitting on the bench a few feet away.
“Do we have to have this discussion?”
“We do,” Douglas said, glancing at her waist meaningfully.
“Promise me something first,” Gwen said, because Douglas’s word was utterly reliable. “Promise me you won’t seek retaliation against Moreland.”
Douglas’s expression cooled to that of the polite, distant viscount Gwen had met weeks ago. “You have my word.”
“Moreland made a few casual comments when we were alone in the stables,” Gwen said, shuddering at the memory. “He implied he would have David brought up on charges of maintaining a common nuisance for his ownership of the Pleasure House. He was also prepared to restart all the rumors about Gareth sabotaging the boat that sank with his family aboard years ago. For Andrew, recently back from years traveling abroad, the unhappy widow Pettigrew could be prevailed upon to stir up all manner of mischief. He’s a very inventive fellow, the duke, very determined. He confided in me—the old wretch. Told me his heart is troubling him, and he’s loathe to burden his family with that news, though he’s desperate for grandchildren. Can you believe he cares not so much for the succession as he does for leaving his duchess with more children to love?”
Douglas closed his eyes for the space of several heartbeats, then stood and crossed to her, coming so close she could smell the cedary fragrance of his shaving soap.
“And for me, Guinevere? It took me days to fathom the real threat hanging over you. Your family was willing to weather scandal on your behalf, and that you might have allowed. But what did the duke have planned for me?”
She had hoped he would not puzzle this out, but Douglas was a man who noticed details, particularly when those details affected her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, tears not for herself, not even for Rose, but for Douglas.
“Guinevere, you have to tell me.”
His scent wafted to Gwen as she stood a few inches and an ocean of regret away from him. Douglas hadn’t said he loved her, hadn’t said how he felt about the baby, hadn’t said he’d forgiven her. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and rejoice with him that they were to be parents, but he had come for answers, and to see Rose, not for Gwen.
All she had left to give him was the truth.
“Moreland said”—Gwen controlled her voice with limited success—“he said he’d known your father, knew how hard he was on the horses and the help, how profligate with the family finances. Peer or not, His Grace would have seen you ruined. He implied that he knew the extent of your late brother’s debts, knew how close to disaster your family had come. Not a passing scandal for you, Douglas, but complete ruin.”
“Merciful God.” Douglas’s hands fisted at his sides, and when Gwen peeked up at him, his eyes were closed, his jaw clenched. The silence in the kitchen filled with frustration and suppressed violence.
“So you think Moreland would have carried out his threats?” Her worst fear was that the duke’s intentions had been so outlandish, she’d been foolish to be swayed by them.
Douglas heaved a sigh and looked down at her, bringing his attention to her as if with great effort.
“He need not have carried out half of them. All he would have had to do,” Douglas replied, “was grumble a few innuendos in his club, or mutter about his suspicions in the Lords, and there is no telling where the momentum of gossip and maliciousness would have taken things, particularly given the tenuous nature of my finances at present. Your fears, Guinevere, were more than justified. And were Heathgate, Greymoor, Fairly, and myself aware of the nature of his threats, somebody would have been settling matters on a field of honor. Probably several somebodies, not any of whom were guaranteed to survive.”
“Thank you,” Gwen said, letting out a long exhale. Douglas might not forgive her, but he at least understood why she’d done what she’d done.
“We need to talk, Guinevere. It isn’t so cold outside. Will you walk with me?”
Gwen’s heart sank. Of course they would talk, about the baby, about what to tell the rest of the family, about what to tell Rose, but Douglas still hadn’t touched her, and that spoke volumes. She took down a worn cloak of brown velvet while Douglas shrugged back into his coat and left his scarf—a soft gray wool—dangling around his neck.
“Come,” he said, holding the door for her. When they gained the out-of-doors, he surprised Gwen by not offering his arm, but rather, by taking her bare hand in his. He walked her through the dreary winter gardens, the sunshine doing what it could to soften the crisp air.
Gwen waited for him to do this talking he seemed to think was so important, but he merely led her to a bench and sat beside her, still holding her hand. He sat with her thus for long, silent minutes, and Gwen had the sense he was trying not to put his thoughts together but to find the courage to speak them aloud.
“Douglas,” she said softly, “whatever it is, it can’t be so terrible as marrying a man I do not love without giving you my reasons. If you cannot see your way clear to continue our dealings, I will find a way to accept that.”
He glanced down at her, consternation in his eyes.
“Guinevere…” He brought her knuckles to his lips, then kept her hand in his and rested it on his thigh. He didn’t look at her again but began speaking in the soft, reasonable tones she’d come to expect from him.
“My parents,” Douglas said, looking out over the dreary landscape, “should not have had children. Moreland’s innuendos were very likely based on truth. My mother no longer went about in Society because she was too mortified by our circumstances. My brothers’ lives were monuments to self-indulgence and venality, which ultimately resulted in their untimely deaths.” The strength of Douglas’s grip on her hand was desperate. “My father and grandfather were no better. Before we traveled to Sussex, my thoughts dwelled on little else.”
He paused and hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees, shielding his face from her view. From his defensive posture, Gwen suspected he was battling mightily to maintain his dignity.
Still.
Gwen could not bear for Douglas to struggle so. “I vow, Douglas, Moreland should be pilloried for using such an unfortunate family history to get his hands on an innocent child. Perhaps his conscience plagues him, because he’s since sent Heathgate a sum to be held in trust for his granddaughter’s needs, and a florid little note about family misunderstandings and best intentions. You are free to give Moreland the rough edge of your tongue when next we see him.”
He shot a look over his shoulder, as if she spoke nonsense, which she did. She’d say anything, promise anything, to keep Douglas from parting from her in anger.
“We, Guinevere? Is there still a we for us, when I have hurt you? When I have doubted you and convinced myself you had played me false, cast me aside for a duke’s heir, when all along it was me you were protecting from the duke’s ma
chinations? Not Rose, me. You had given me back parts of my soul I was resigned to living without, and still I doubted you.”
He was angry with himself, and that Gwen could not tolerate. “If you were truly convinced I’d thrown you over, you would not have stopped the wedding, and you would not be here today. And, Douglas”—she had to pause to swipe her knuckles over her cheek—“had I not doubted you, I would never have been at that church.”
She felt him absorb this, for it was the truth, and Douglas Allen dealt most easily with truths.
“I could not let you wed another Windham under false pretenses,” Douglas said. “You were legally married to Victor, and even when you eventually figured that out, you would not have repudiated Westhaven.”
“How did you know I was legally married?”
“Small clues,” Douglas replied. “I haven’t seen proof. Victor was surprised when you introduced his daughter to him as Rose Hollister. In hindsight, I gathered he expected her to be Rose Windham. And Victor knew his father, knew if there were evidence of marriage the duke would search it out and either destroy it or use it for ducal ends. Victor no doubt found a safe place for the documents, but we might perhaps never know where he secreted them.”
“He passed them to his mother,” Gwen said, “sealed in a letter to Rose, which was to be given to her upon his death. The duchess was too distraught at the loss of a second son and the marriage of the heir to attend to that detail until several days after the intended wedding. She didn’t know the letter to Rose contained the lines and the registry page.”
“Have you told Westhaven?”
“I haven’t wanted to see the man.” Did not ever want to see him, unless Douglas was with her to endure such a trial.
“Did Westhaven misbehave, Guinevere?” Douglas asked with ominous quiet.
“Not in any substantial way. He treated me with every courtesy and promised me a white marriage if that’s what I wanted.” And what did one brief, presumptuous kiss matter when Douglas was holding her hand?
“How could you refuse such a reasonable gentleman?” Douglas mused. “It’s as well he did the pretty with you, Guinevere, or he might have to consider some extended travel.”
They fell silent until Gwen leaned back, Douglas’s hand cradled in hers, though she’d no recollection of when their fingers had laced.
“Douglas?”
“Yes?”
She turned a question he’d once asked back on him. “Where does this leave us?”
“Where would you like it to leave us? You know I have wanted to marry you, Guinevere, and now you are carrying our child. If we marry, though, I can’t promise you any understanding like you had with Westhaven. I want to be a husband to you, and I want you for my wife. I know you value your independence, but I simply can’t allow…”
A tremor had crept into his voice, despite this flight of reason and articulation. Douglas swallowed and breathed out slowly before attempting to soldier on.
“For God’s sake, Guinevere.” He brought her knuckles to his lips again. “Please marry me. I don’t want a future if I can’t have one with you. I love you. I will always love you. Please.”
He sat beside her, back straight, eyes forward, while more tears trickled down Gwen’s cheeks. She rose from her seat beside him and knelt between his legs, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek on his thigh.
“Of course, Douglas,” she said. “Of course I will be your wife.”
“Thank you,” Douglas murmured, wrapping his arms around her and folding his body down over hers. “From the bottom of my heart, from the depths of my soul, thank you.”
***
“Don’t go out there,” Fairly warned Andrew.
“What are you two doing here?” Andrew turned from the kitchen window to regard Fairly, who sat sipping tea on the counter beside Heathgate like a pair of giant, happy raptors.
“I came to hear the good news,” Fairly said, “when they are ready to come in and tell us. I collected Heathgate on my way out from Town, he being the head of the family and entitled to be present. What are you doing here?”
“It was my turn to check on Gwennie,” Andrew said. “And I owe Rose a riding lesson. I take it, from the way Ezra says they’ve been plastered against each other for the past twenty minutes, Douglas and Gwen are in charity with each other?”
“In charity.” Fairly saluted with his teacup. “In love, in lust. Douglas suspects Gwen is breeding. We will have to find a truly impressive wedding present—perhaps the Miller property?”
Andrew paused in the act of pouring himself a cup of tea.
“What a fine idea.” He went back to brewing his tea. “Astrid also suspected Gwen was breeding. When’s the happy event?”
“One would hope a discreet interval after the wedding.”
“One would,” Andrew agreed, “if he wanted to avoid the sharp end of Heathgate’s tongue.”
Heathgate smiled. “I shall be the soul of avuncular tolerance, just as soon as Douglas gets the special license.”
“Shame on you, Heathgate.” Fairly’s smile broadened as he hopped off the counter and appropriated Andrew’s tea. “You aren’t in a position to call kettles black, and neither are you, Greymoor, so leave Douglas in peace. He’s earned it.”
“Suppose he has at that,” Andrew said, gazing out the window at Douglas and Gwen still entwined in each other’s arms. “Though we may have a spot of trouble. Rose is heading out of the stables and charging straight for the scene.”
***
“Are you saying good-bye, Cousin Douglas?” Rose yelled as she churned across the gardens. “That’s not fair. You just got here, and Regis and Sir George haven’t visited yet. You can’t leave already. Tell him, Mama.”
The young lady was trying hard to maintain her dignity, but Douglas could see she also wanted to stomp her small, booted foot.
“I am not leaving, Rose.” Not ever. No words, short of those declaring his love for Guinevere, had given him more satisfaction.
Rose did not appear in the least reassured. “Then why is Mama crying? She cried when you didn’t come visit us. She cried when we went to visit the trout pond. She cried when we sang about the wide water.”
Rose was so upset to relate these tragedies, Douglas knew with a certainty Guinevere had not been the only lady in need of a handkerchief. The idea that he might have imperiled the happiness of either was… would not do.
“Rose,” Guinevere said, holding out a hand, “come here. We have things to tell you.”
Rose, with the instincts of the young and determined, inserted herself between the adults on the bench. “I want to show Cousin Douglas where we planted the flowers. Then I want to show him my drawings, and all the snowflakes I made for him. He could ride out on Regis with me and Sir George, and you can come with us, Mama. Then we’ll bake biscuits, because Cousin Douglas loves biscuits with his tea, and then Mr. Bear and Cousin Douglas—”
Douglas exchanged a smile with Guinevere as he placed a finger against Rose’s busy little mouth. “Hush, child. You needn’t find reasons to keep me here. Your mother has said I’m to stay.”
Rose glanced up at her mother. “Stay? Forever? Like Sir George?”
Like Sir Gawain, if Douglas had anything to say to it. Slaying his ladies’ dragons, eating biscuits, and admiring flowers and snowflakes until he was so old he creaked about the garden, his Guinevere on his arm, fragrant memories blooming around them on all sides.
“Cousin Douglas and I will be getting married very soon,” Guinevere said, and her smile put to rest any lingering doubts Douglas might have harbored regarding her views on their nuptials. “He will become your step-papa, and live with us.”
Rose sprang off the bench and spun around, her smile radiant. “I must tell Sir George! This is the best news ever! My very own step-papa!”
&n
bsp; She bolted off, slipping onto the cold, hard ground as she rounded a bed of dormant roses, getting right up, and pelting for the stables, the entire time bellowing good news to her pony, the grooms, and the world at large.
“Ours might be a small family,” Guinevere remarked. “And as parents, we might develop hearing difficulties at an early age.”
Douglas scooted closer to her and tucked his arm around her waist. Guinevere’s head rested on his shoulder, the feel of her beside him warming him as the sun alone could not.
“Guinevere, at the risk of arguing with a lady whom I esteem above all others, and always will, no matter the vicissitudes of married life, ours is unlikely to be a small or quiet family.”
This was a matter about which, as the years and decades slipped by, Douglas’s prediction proved to be the more accurate, if incomplete. Theirs became a large family, though not always noisy. They were, however, abundantly happy, even into those years when Douglas and Gwen strolled about their gardens, surrounded on all sides by loving memories and noisy, happy grandchildren.
Read on for an excerpt from David, the next book in the Lonely Lords series by Grace Burrowes
Owning a brothel, particularly an elegant, expensive, exclusive brothel, ought to loom as a single, healthy young man’s most dearly treasured fantasy.
Perhaps as fantasies went, the notion had merit. The reality, inherited from a distant cousin, was enough to put David Worthington, fourth Viscount Fairly, into a permanent fit of the dismals.
“Jennings, good morning.” David set his antique Sevres teacup down rather than hurl it against the breakfast parlor’s hearthstones, so annoyed was he to see his man of business at such an hour—again. “I trust you slept well, and I also trust you are about to ruin my breakfast with some bit of bad news.”
Or some barge load of bad news, for Thomas Jennings came around this early if, and only if, he had miserable tidings to share and wanted to gloat in person over their impact.
Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 33
