“Apologies,” he said to the gentlemen. “I could not let an insult to Walfort go unchallenged. Drink up.”
Westcliffe took Ainsley’s arm and led him to a distant corner of the room, Stephen following in their wake.
“What the devil was that all about?” Westcliffe asked once they were away from prying ears.
“He questioned the legitimacy of Jayne’s child.”
“You must know everyone’s questioning it.”
“It doesn’t matter. She was with child when Walfort died. The courts will recognize it as his.”
His words were spoken with too much vehemence. Both of his brothers were studying him as though only seeing him for the first time.
“It’s none of my concern—” Westcliffe began.
“No, it’s not,” Ainsley assured him.
“Good Christ, is it yours?” Westcliffe asked, his lips barely moving.
“It’s Jayne’s.”
He left his brothers staring after him. In the length of a single heartbeat everything had changed.
“You are so fortunate to be with child,” Lady Inwood said. “You should pray for a son. Then you will not be dependent upon Ralph Seymour’s mercies.”
Sitting in a corner of the parlor, surrounded by ladies, Jayne felt as though there was absolutely no air to breathe.
“Ainsley has certainly been a godsend, hasn’t he?” Lady Sheffield asked. “He’s handled so many of the arrangements.”
Was it her imagination that she heard insinuations in their voices? Why could they not leave her in peace?
“Will you return to Herndon Hall now?” someone asked, a voice she didn’t recognize.
“No, no, you must remain in London,” Lady Inwood insisted. “To be a widow and with child? You need us to see you through it.”
Jayne was somewhat relieved to see the Duchess of Ainsley step forward. Although she had relinquished the title when she married Leo, she was still addressed as such and shown the deference that came with holding the title for so long. “I believe,” the duchess said, “that what Lady Walfort needs is to do what is best for her. She also requires rest. Surely it is past time for all you dear ladies to take your leave.”
She began ushering them from the room, but each circled back to give Jayne one last message of condolence and reassurance that they could be called upon if needed. In the entry hallway they were soon joined by their husbands. Then finally, at last, silence.
Jayne saw the shoes first, black and polished to a shine. Slowly, her gaze traveled over the black trousers, the black waistcoat and jacket, until it settled on green eyes.
“A bloody awful day,” Ainsley said.
She drew comfort from the words, words she’d wanted to say. “Yes.”
“My mother, Leo, and I will stay here through the night in case there is anything you need.”
“That’s not necessary. I shall be alone in all the days to come. I might as well begin getting used to it.”
“Not tonight. You need to eat, Jayne.”
“I have no appetite.”
“The babe does.”
She placed her hand against her side. “I think people are gossiping. They don’t believe it’s his. And now he’s not here to convince them. Rather bad timing, that.”
“It doesn’t matter what others think or believe. It only matters what you want.”
Only she didn’t know.
He had food brought to her on a tray. While she ate, he told her about the grandeur of the funeral procession, all the people lining the streets. Walfort had gone out in style. She thought he would have been pleased. In spite of all the revelations at the end of his life, she had cared for him too long not to do right by him in the end.
After she’d eaten as much as she could stomach, she allowed the duchess to escort her to her bedchamber, where a bath was prepared. She wanted to be alone, but the duchess remained, talking constantly of nonsensical things as though she felt a need to fill the hovering silence.
Once she was in her nightdress, Jayne strolled to the nursery that she’d begun furnishing for the first time she was with child. Sitting in the rocker, she was finally, at long last, alone with her sorrow.
In the library, Ainsley looked up as his mother walked into the room and went to the table holding several decanters. She poured herself a brandy and sat in a chair across from him, one beside Leo, who was keeping Ainsley company—even if it entailed little more than drinking with him.
“How is she?” he asked.
“I’m most worried about her. She’s presently sitting in the nursery and rocking. But all afternoon and evening, she does not weep nor wail. It’s not natural. It cannot be healthy for the child.”
His stomach clenched. He couldn’t bear the thought of Jayne going through another loss such as that. Would she even survive it? He stood. “I’ll speak with her.”
He took two steps before his mother spoke up again. “Ainsley?”
Stopping, he glanced back at her. He knew the sorrow on her face had nothing to do with the mourning of Walfort.
“Have you considered, my son, that you should marry the girl?”
Far too many times to count.
“It’s customary for a wife to mourn for two years,” he reminded her.
“A year would suffice, but in this instance . . . she carries your child, Ainsley. Marry her and claim it.”
“The terms of our arrangement were that this child would be Jayne’s and Walfort’s.”
“Forgive my indelicacy but he is dead.”
“It does not change the fact that he boasted to all of London that he sired this child. His passing complicated matters. I cannot deny that. But it does not relieve me of my promise not to claim this child.”
“Must you be so blasted noble? It grows wearisome.”
“I took everything from him, Mother. I will not take what was to be his child. Besides I doubt Jayne would have me.”
“She never struck me as a fool.”
He almost smiled at the clipped edge that accompanied her words. In her eyes, her sons could do no wrong. He wondered if Jayne would feel the same about hers. He suspected she would. With only a nod, he left his mother then, knowing she would not follow.
It was strange to walk through the somber residence, to compare it with the joviality that abounded at Herndon Hall the last time he was there for the fox hunt. Death brought a pall over everything. It didn’t help matters that none of the clocks released a single tick or tock—having been stopped at the hour of Walfort’s passing—and all the mirrors were draped in black crepe. He made his way up the stairs to the nursery.
At the door, he hesitated. It was closed. He should knock, but if he announced himself, she might not invite him in. With a deep sigh, he opened the door. The room was dark, save for a single lamp that burned low. He heard the heartrending weeping, and it took him a moment to locate her. She was sitting on the floor, pressed in a distant corner, her face buried in her hands, her rounded shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. His courageous Jayne, alone with her sorrow. She would not succumb in front of his mother. But at least she was able to grieve in private.
He considered leaving, but he could no more abandon her now than he could cease to breathe. Quietly, he moved over to her and crouched, his knees popping to announce his arrival.
As though only just noticing his presence, she began to roughly swipe at her cheeks. “Please go away, Ainsley.”
He grabbed her wrists to still her actions, and she jerked free. “Please leave me in peace.”
“Are you in peace, Jayne? It hardly sounds like it. I know you mourn him—”
“I mourn so much more than his passing. It was all a lie. He made a mockery of our life here. He loved someone else.”
“He loved you.”
“He did not! And you knew!” She slammed her balled fist into his shoulder. “You knew! I thought . . . I thought you had a care for me.”
“I do have a care for you.�
� I love you, but now was not the time to tell her the truth of those words.
“No, you don’t. You would not have kept his secrets from me. The guilt over what we did gnawed at me. As much as I wanted this child, I betrayed everything I held dear. It was so easy for the two of you because you place no value on loyalty, on vows. I thought I knew you, but the man I knew would not have condoned what Walfort did. You are cut of the same cloth. Please leave me.”
“I am not like him. I would never betray you.”
“You already have.” She hit him again. And again.
His heart died a bit with each blow. He had never meant to bring her this pain—even as he’d known when the proposition was first made that she would have to betray herself to embrace it.
He wrapped his arms around her to stop her flailing and rocked her. “Easy, Jayne, easy, sweetheart. You don’t want to hurt the child.”
Her sobs broke free, racking her body. “I wish I’d said no, Jayne. I swear to you, I wish I had.”
“I hurt so bad, Ainsley.”
“I know.”
“Why did he have to leave me now?”
And he knew in spite of the betrayals, she still loved Walfort.
“It’s all right, Jayne. It’ll be all right.”
He didn’t know how the bloody hell it would be, but he would find a way.
Chapter 26
Two weeks had passed and Jayne’s lethargy seemed to worsen. She couldn’t seem to decipher her feelings regarding Walfort or Ainsley. The only feelings she truly trusted were those she felt for the babe. She knew she should return to Herndon Hall, but she seemed unable to work up the energy required to order the servants about.
With her elbow resting on the sill, and her chin propped in her hand, she sat at the window in her bedchamber gazing out on what she could see of London at night. Which wasn’t much. Trees blocked her view of the street. She saw the lighted drive but knew it would remain empty. The Duchess of Greystone was hosting a ball this evening. It was always well attended, so Jayne knew no one would call this evening.
From time to time since the funeral a few of the ladies made a morning call, but it was always awkward, and they were all so incredibly boring. Except for Lady Inwood, who had no qualms whatsoever about spreading gossip. She’d even offered to let Jayne join in the wagering surrounding Ainsley. It seemed he’d made it known early on that he intended to select a wife this Season, and while he had yet to attend a ball, speculation was high that he had already made his selection. Jayne did not want to acknowledge how it unsettled her to know that he was searching for a wife.
She certainly had no desire to marry him, doubted she would ever marry again. She heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and the whir of wheels on the cobblestone. A coach approached. As it drew near, she recognized the crest on the door. Ainsley.
Her heart leaped, and she fought to calm it. But it increased its tempo as he stepped out, obviously on an outing, dressed in a swallow-tailed jacket. In one hand he held his top hat and walking stick.
He disappeared from sight, and she refrained from opening the window to lean out and strive to catch another glimpse of him. He’d not visited since the night of the funeral, the night he held her while she wept. The night, to her immense embarrassment now, she lashed out at him. A thousand times she considered sending a note of apology for her outburst, because she missed him. As much as she didn’t want to acknowledge it, she did. Often since leaving Blackmoor she thought of him—always with guilt. All of her thoughts should have been on Walfort, although she now knew most of his were not on her.
The knock on her bedchamber door had her coming to her feet. “Yes.”
Lily stepped inside. “His Grace, the Duke of Ainsley would like a word.”
She felt so drab and dour, already in her nightdress. But for her this Season there would be no balls. “Tell him I’m not at home. No.” She shook her head. That wouldn’t stop him. “Tell him I’m already abed . . . no.” Drat him! “Send him up.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Jayne moved over to the sitting area, positioning herself so a sofa was between her and the door, would be between her and Ainsley. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was extremely glad of his presence. It was inappropriate. A woman in mourning was supposed to be sedate, not anxious for her caller to arrive.
When he strode in, she thought she’d never seen a more handsome man. Based on his expression of horror, however, he’d never seen a more disheveled woman.
“Your Grace, how good of you to call.”
“For God’s sake, Jayne, after all we’ve been through don’t be so damned formal.”
“It’s late and this is my bedchamber. Formality is required. You appear to be on your way to a ball.”
“I was, but I changed my mind when I saw all the carriages lined up. I wasn’t in the mood for a tedious night.” He set his hat and stick on a chair near the door before prowling toward her.
“You’re near enough,” she said when it became obvious the sofa would not serve as an obstacle for him.
Thankfully, he did stop, but his gaze wandered over her and she felt it almost like a touch.
“You’re not eating,” he said.
“I am . . . just not very much. I suppose your mother told you that.” She dropped by each afternoon for a few moments.
“I don’t need her to tell me what is quite obvious. I daresay, you’re not sleeping either.”
“Some . . . I—” She sank down into the chair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re grieving.”
“I don’t know if that’s it, Ainsley. I feel nothing.”
He studied her for a moment before saying, “I’ve come to invite you to have dinner with me tomorrow evening at my residence.”
“I’m in mourning. It would be entirely inappropriate.”
“Jayne, you need a few hours away from all this. Wear your widow’s weeds. I’ll bring my carriage ’round at half past seven. I’ll carry you out if I must.”
“Ainsley—”
“Jayne.”
She wanted to shriek. She didn’t know if she’d ever known a more obstinate man. Yet neither could she deny how lovely it would be to be with someone who didn’t treat her as though she might break at any moment.
“Very well,” she said petulantly. He must be given the impression she wasn’t giving in too easily.
“Good.” He removed his jacket and laid it over the arm of the sofa.
She sat up straighter. “What are you doing?”
“Going to ensure that you sleep well tonight.”
“Ainsley—”
“Jayne.” Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he removed a small vile.
“What is it?”
“Oils. I’m going to rub your feet. It’ll help you relax.”
“No.” She tucked her feet beneath the chair. “You’ll start with my feet and then you’ll journey upward and . . . it would be entirely inappropriate.”
“I promise I will not venture higher than your ankles.”
She shook her head. “My ankles are swollen. You don’t need to see them.”
“Move to the sofa. Or better yet, the bed.”
“Do you not listen to a thing I say?”
“What are you afraid of, Jayne?”
That I’m swollen and miserable and that you’ll be repulsed by me.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted.
He furrowed his brow. “For what, pray tell?”
“For lashing out at you . . . the last time you were here.”
“I didn’t take your words to heart. I know how difficult all of this has been for you.”
“Unbearable sometimes.”
“So tonight I’ll give you something pleasant to take into your dreams.”
He held out his hand, enticing her with those long, strong fingers. “Come along, Jayne. Move to the sofa.”
Against her better judgment she did as he bade. When she
was settled in the corner, pillows at her back, he sat at the opposite end and lifted her bare feet to his lap. Mesmerized, she watched as he poured several drops of oil onto his palm before setting the bottle aside. Then his palm kneaded her sole.
“Oh, dear God.”
“Nice?” he asked.
“Wickedly wonderful. You’ve done this before.”
“I once knew a lady who knew a great deal about the sensuous arts.”
“And you did not keep her?”
“She was not mine to keep. Close your eyes.”
She did, as his fingers worked their magic over the balls of her feet. “Tell me a story, something from your youth.”
“My youth. Well, I was a very clever lad.”
His melodious voice droned on as he told her about playing a game of hiding with Claire. The deep timbre and his constant massaging of her feet lured her away to a place of no troubles, no grief, no sorrow.
She awoke from a deep sleep with only a bit of sunlight dancing into the room. She didn’t remember climbing into bed, nor could she remember the last time she felt so rested. She was beneath the covers but aware of a weight on her hip. Ainsley’s hand cupped over her. He lay on top of the covers, his waistcoat gone but his shirt and trousers still in place. He must have carried her to bed. How tired she must have been not to stir when he moved her.
His long dark eyelashes rested on his cheeks. She did hope her child would inherit those. In truth, there was nothing about him that she didn’t want to see in the child. She had missed him so. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the truth mocked her now because it was so lovely to wake up with him in her bed.
Slowly he opened his eyes. “Good morning.”
His voice was rough from sleep, stirring her in ways she should not be stirred, reminding her of other mornings.
“Lady Inwood told me that you had intended to find a wife this Season.”
“Hmm. Yes, I’d considered it. I still might.” He gave her a devilish smile.
“The ladies are wagering, you know . . . on whom it will be.”
“So are the gents, from what I hear. Even my brothers, blast them.”
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