Waking Up With the Duke

by Lorraine Heath

  “You seem rather quiet and melancholy tonight,” she said softly. “Shall I cancel the house party?”

  “No, no, absolutely not. It will serve us well to have visitors.”

  He began to absently stroke her arm. She closed her eyes and relished the gentle caress, fighting back the guilt because sometimes it was difficult to be content with only this.

  “Jayne?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I was talking with Ainsley earlier—”

  “Well, I should hope so, since you wanted him to arrive before any of our other guests.”

  “I appreciate your indulgence.” He kissed the top of her head. Her stomach tightened. How she wanted to turn her face up toward him and have him kiss her. Truly kiss her. The way he once had. As though his life had depended on it. But knowing he couldn’t finish what they might begin stopped her cold. It was too painful for both of them to be reminded of what they’d never again have, so she pretended she no longer yearned for it.

  “Be that as it may,” he said after a time, “I was thinking . . . he could get you with child.”

  She froze, her lungs not even working to draw in air. She was surprised her heart continued to pound. She knew it did because she could hear the blood rushing, roaring between her ears. “Are you . . . you can’t be . . . are you suggesting I take him as my lover?”

  “For a short time, yes.”

  She shoved herself to a sitting position and glared at him, for all the good it did with the shadows hiding the details of their features. “Have you gone daft?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Well, I must wholeheartedly disagree.” She quickly scrambled out of the bed, nearly tripping in her haste to escape—as though distance could lessen the abhorrence of the words he’d uttered. “If I wanted a lover, I’d choose him myself, and he certainly wouldn’t be Ainsley.”

  “Be honest here, Jayne. Your unquestionable loyalty will prevent you from ever taking a lover.”

  “Then why would you even suggest—”

  “Because there would be no guilt.”

  “And how, pray tell, did you deduce that utter nonsense?”

  “Because you don’t fancy him at all, so it wouldn’t be as though you were truly betraying me.”

  “You have gone daft.” She headed for the door—

  “Jayne? Please, don’t go. Please, hear me out.”

  Stopping, she glanced over her shoulder to see his arm extended, his hand reaching for her in the shadows of the night. She could win any argument with him by simply leaving the room. It wasn’t fair to him, and so they never argued. But this? This was preposterous.

  “Please, Jayne.”

  His voice was rough with his need for her to remain. Unfair. Unfair of him to compel her to stay, knowing guilt would eat at her if she walked away when he couldn’t.

  She was trembling with anger and disgust at his suggestion regarding Ainsley, yet still she cautiously made her way back to Walfort. She clambered onto the bed, took his hand and held it in her lap, her legs tucked beneath her. She refused to look at him, and instead studied the silhouette of their joined hands.

  “The fact that you think so little of him is what makes my plan so brilliant,” he said quietly. “It is not as though you will be truly betraying me. Your heart will remain mine.”

  “And my body his.” She couldn’t prevent the cutting words from slicing between them. What passed between a man and a woman beneath the sheets was such an intimate act—how could he bear the thought of Ainsley knowing about her what only Walfort had ever known?

  “Ainsley has a reputation for being a marvelous lover—” he began.

  “I am well aware of that. He is all the ladies talk of.”

  “So he can make it pleasant for you.” He squeezed her hand. “You deserve that at least.”

  “All of London will know it’s not your child. That you’ve been cuckolded.”

  “No, they won’t. I’ve never taken out an advert in the Times stating my limitations. Oh, there will be speculation, of course, but we can quell that easily enough once people see how thrilled I am that you are with child.”

  “And if it’s a boy?”

  “Then I shall have my heir.”

  “But he will not carry your blood.”

  “He will carry Seymour blood. As I told Ainsley, it will be close enough.”

  Her mouth tingled. She thought she was going to be ill. “You’ve already discussed this madness with him?”

  “I had to know he was agreeable.”

  “Of course he’d be agreeable. It is a skirt to lift.”

  His low chuckle took her by surprise. “He was not quite so in favor of it as I’d expected. He did not think you would welcome him.”

  “I will not.”

  “Jayne, you’ve been a devoted wife. Why should you not have this?”

  She was grateful for the dark, that he couldn’t see the blush warming her cheeks or the tears filling her eyes.

  “He can give you what I cannot,” he said softly. “You are a young woman who has had to lock all her dreams in a musty old trunk, because of your husband’s poor judgment.”

  “In a friend. A friend to whom you would now give me. It’s revolting.”

  “He did not force the drink down my throat. I went willingly into the curricle, encouraged the horses to go faster—”

  She brought his hand to her lips, pressed a kiss to the backs of his fingers, knowing he would feel the dampness coating her cheeks, the tears gathering at the corners of her mouth.

  “Ah, Jayne.”

  He wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck and drew her down until her face was buried in the nook of his shoulder.

  “Do not ask this of me,” she rasped.

  “I will not force you. Neither will he, but know that I will understand if you change your mind. You deserve a child. You deserve a man who will not only put your pleasure above his, but will ensure that your enjoyment far exceeds his.”

  Not Ainsley. Never Ainsley. Sinners would have a need for overcoats in hell before she’d willingly give herself to the man she despised more than any other.

  Chapter 2

  Jayne slipped out of her husband’s bed near dawn, leaving him in the company of his snores. She’d not slept well. Guilt had reared its ugly head, guilt that she’d lost his heir. Not that she knew for certain that the babe had been a boy. But in her heart she couldn’t help but think that he had been. Losing the child had been like losing a piece of her soul. And when the full extent of Walfort’s injuries had been made clear, all their dreams went astray.

  But for him to believe that she would welcome into her bed the man responsible—it was beyond the pale. Reviling. Made her sick at heart. She was grateful that she had far too many other things to occupy her mind today as she prepared for the arrival of her guests. The sooner she got started working on what needed to be done, the sooner she could shove these unsettling thoughts from her mind.

  She rang for her maid, Lily. Within the hour, Jayne was dressed in a simple lilac dress so she could move about quickly. At noon she would change into something more appropriate for receiving her guests. Once a yearly event, they’d not hosted a hunt since the accident. She’d feared it would serve as both a distraction from what might have been and a reminder of what had been. But Walfort insisted it was long past time that they begin to socialize once more. Finally embracing the notion, she had high expectations for uncharacteristic normalcy for a few days.

  An expectation that splattered before her when she strode into the breakfast dining room and saw Ainsley already seated at the table. She’d assumed he would sleep in, not be up with the sun.

  Ainsley immediately set aside his teacup and rose to his feet. “Lady Walfort.”

  “Your Grace.”

  “I hope you’re well.”

  “Your hopes do not concern me, Your Grace.”

  She thought she noticed a tautening in his jaw. She was not usua
lly a termagant, but for him she was more than willing to make an exception.

  “Allow me to express my appreciation for the lovely accommodations,” he said laconically.

  It seemed they would spar with words this morning. Already she was weary of it.

  Walfort would be upset with her if he knew she’d given his exalted guest the smallest bedchamber in the farthest corner of the manor. As a duke, he should have been given a suite of rooms. She suddenly, against her will, felt petty. “We have so many guests arriving—”

  “No need to explain. I rather enjoy overlooking the stables.”

  She wanted the subject changed before she offered him a more accommodating room. “I’d not expected you to be about so early.”

  “I thought I might be of service.”

  Had she been eating she would have choked. “Here? Now? You arrogant cad! To think that I would accept anything at all from you, but especially—”

  “My help with the hounds?” he interrupted. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. I’m sure your huntsman is quite up to the task of seeing that all is ready tomorrow for the hunt.”

  She went light-headed and chilled, aware of all the blood draining from her face. He’d been offering to help her prepare for her guests. That was the service to which he alluded. Not bedding her, not getting her with child. Walfort had put these silly notions into her head and she seemed unable to rid herself of them.

  “Yes, he is. Quite.” She hated that her voice sounded unsteady, that she was unnerved by what she’d interpreted him to be saying. She swept over to the sideboard, striving to stop the trembling in her hands as she selected ham, eggs, and a muffin for her plate.

  Drat it! He was waiting to assist her with her chair when she turned around. At least he had the grace to put her at the end of the table farthest from where he was seated. He’d not taken the head of the table, but rather, a chair along the side.

  “I desire nothing from you,” she whispered as she took the chair he offered.

  He leaned in, filling her nostrils with his rich, tangy scent of bergamot and clove. “Then nothing you shall have,” he said, his voice low, sensually belying the words he’d spoken, indicating instead that she would have it all. Everything.

  The man was indeed a master at seduction, but she would not be seduced. She and Ainsley sat without speaking for several interminable minutes, the only sound the scraping of silver over china.

  Finally she dared to peer up at him, only to find his gaze homed in on her as he slowly chewed. He was as handsome as the devil, too beautiful, really. He had one imperfection, and it was presently not visible to her. A scar on his jaw. The wound had still been bleeding when he came to tell her there had been an accident and Walfort was horribly injured. Ainsley had reeked of excesses and indulgences . . . and the coppery scent of blood. Her husband’s blood had stained his torn and rumpled clothing.

  Ainsley had looked scared that night. And young. It was easy to forget that he was only a little older than she. He had always seemed so mature, in control. Many thought he was the oldest of the three brothers, but in fact he was the youngest. The night she first met him, she was struck by his stylishness and confidence. She knew of his reputation, of course. Women swooned at his feet. Of late there seemed to be an inordinate abundance of spinsters, as women refrained from accepting offers of marriage on the off chance that Ainsley would honor one of them by asking for her hand. With his thick black hair and startling green eyes, he was a god among mere mortals.

  Jayne despised him with every breath of her being.

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin, elegance in his motions, tempered with masculinity. His large hands held power. His sensual mouth as well. She could imagine him skillfully using both to elicit pleasure. He seemed to hesitate before saying, “Walfort appears . . . more frail since last I saw him.”

  “He is limited to two activities. Sitting and lying. Neither of which is very active. His muscles atrophy. I fear soon nothing will be left of him.” She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d not meant to reveal the last, to give him even a hint of her vulnerability. It terrified her to think of a life without Walfort. Even as he was, she decided, was better than not having him at all. She shored up her resolve, determined to hurt this man who had destroyed so much. “Tell me, Your Grace, does the guilt ever hammer at you enough that you would wish to trade places with him?”

  “I would give my soul that he were not crippled. But I must confess to being far too selfish to wish to trade places with him.”

  Setting down her napkin, she pushed back her chair and rose. “We are very different, you and I. We do not suit at all. I would trade places with him in an instant to spare him all he suffers now—even though I did not cause the suffering that is visited upon him.”

  Ainsley flinched, the lash of her words hitting home. As she turned and swept from the room, she wondered why she found no satisfaction in the triumph.

  Four hours later, Jayne cursed herself for her stubbornness, for not accepting Ainsley’s offer to help. She’d forgotten how much was involved in preparing for the hunt and the arrival of guests. Sixty invitations had been sent out. Fifty-eight had been accepted. Including spouses, unmarried sons and daughters, more than a hundred people would soon descend upon her quiet country home. It had been so long, so very long since they’d entertained to this magnitude. An occasional guest for dinner, a relation or two, but not a flock of the curious. In equal measure, she dreaded and welcomed the coming days.

  She made her way up the stairs to her husband’s bedchamber, hoping he’d been roused already. It took so long for Randall to prepare him for the day. Walfort had lost far too much control over his bodily functions. Four times a year Randall took him to the spa at Harrogate for the healing waters. Although Jayne had always wanted to accompany him, Walfort asked her not to—fearful she would be embarrassed by his limitations. It hurt her that he would think so poorly of her. But she brushed her tender feelings aside, because his challenges were so much more difficult to face. It was only recently—when his physician introduced him to a contraption known as a catheter—that Walfort had begun to regain his confidence and felt any comfort in being around others. He was now spared public embarrassment over what he could no longer control. Such a proud man he was.

  Hence the reason Walfort had declared that it was past time for a hunt—even though he’d not be able to participate in what was once his fondest sport. “I shall enjoy listening to the baying of the hounds once again,” he’d said.

  She admired his optimistic outlook; he never seemed to pity himself. She hoped the entertainments and country party she’d arranged would please him and bring him great joy—and that none of their guests would stare at him with questioning eyes.

  How bad is it really, Walfort?

  Her heart would break for him if all did not go well.

  To her surprise, he was not in his bedchamber. The library, then. Ready and eager to greet those who would soon be arriving. To her consternation, however, the library was empty of his presence as well. Although Randall was sitting in a chair reading.

  “Where is his lordship?” Jayne demanded.

  Randall shot to his feet and bowed. “My lady. Forgive me. His lordship gave me leave to read one of his books. I thought this one might suffice, and sat for only a moment—”

  “I don’t give a fig where you sit and read. Where is his lordship?”

  He looked decidedly uncomfortable, as though he knew she wouldn’t be pleased with his answer. She wasn’t.

  “His Grace took the marquess fishing.”

  “Good God, I can’t remember the last time I felt such . . . freedom,” Walfort announced.

  Standing along the bank of the stream, Ainsley glanced over at Walfort. With his back against the tree where he sat, and a pole held loosely between his hands, he appeared to be at peace. Since the accident, whenever Ainsley visited his friend, they’d remained in Walfort’s library, drinking, conversing, lamenting their po
or choices. Like Ainsley, Walfort was an outdoorsman at heart. Ainsley had been determined that their visit would go differently this time.

  It helped immensely that Jayne had been occupied preparing for the arrival of guests and attending to last minute details. Ainsley knew she’d have not approved of his plans. From what he’d witnessed, she was too protective of Walfort, coddled him.

  Suddenly, Ainsley wondered if part of Walfort’s desire to give his wife a child rested with his need to divert much of her attentions away from him, to give her something else to worry over.

  A child would certainly accomplish that. Although most children of the nobility were tended to by nannies and governesses, Ainsley couldn’t quite see Jayne relinquishing the reins for any great length of time. She would be involved with the child. It was her nature to protect, to nurture, to ease the way. She would no doubt keep the little pup far away from him—whether or not he was the father. He wondered who was second on Walfort’s diabolical list.

  He remembered her bright red cheeks during breakfast. He was accustomed to her giving him a cold shoulder, always just shy of a cut direct. But this morning she’d been skittish, more uncomfortable with him than usual. For a moment, when she saw him sitting at the table, it looked as though she intended to march from the room. His accommodations were deplorable. That much he’d anticipated. But her gaze flicking over him and not settling with a glare was unexpected.

  He tested his fishing line before testing other waters. “You mentioned your ridiculous notion to Jayne.”

  He saw no need to further clarify. Only one ridiculous notion had been spouted since his arrival. In truth, it was the only ridiculous notion he could recall that Walfort had ever possessed. When only silence greeted his words, Ainsley gazed back at him once again.

  Walfort gave a hapless shrug that unbalanced him. He started to list to one side, released his hold on his pole to straighten himself—