His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  He pressed his fingertips to his forehead, rubbing away the lines of worry that he knew had creased his brow. A headache had settled in behind his eyes, and he knew that the only thing that would alleviate it was Nick’s arrival with the special license, coupled with a plan to wed her honestly.

  Or as honestly wed as they could ever be, given the mountains of lies he’d heaped between them.

  “James?”

  He started, surprised by Jilly’s appearance in the doorway, half-convinced the guilty bent of his thoughts had summoned her to him. But no, she carried a tray in her hands, laden with plates topped with silver covers. He slanted a look at the clock—it had gone past eight; he’d missed dinner.

  Another swift stab of guilt. While she didn’t look hurt, she did appear concerned. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said, rising to his feet to relieve her of the tray. “I must have lost track of the time.” He bent to brush a kiss over her cheek.

  A tentative smile graced her face. She settled on the edge of his desk, near where he’d placed the tray. “It’s all right,” she said. “I wasn’t terribly hungry, myself.” She lifted a silver cover off a plate, and frowned down at the lamb dish revealed there. “My goodness,” she said. “It’s quite burned. How odd.”

  Not so very odd. The servants all knew of his deception, and none of them approved. He’d not had a single palatable meal in nearly two months. Probably she had not had occasion to notice before now, as the dinner table was quite long, but she could hardly fail to notice the desiccated hunk of lamb on the plate right before her eyes.

  “I suppose I shall have to have a word with Cook,” she sighed.

  “That’s not necessary,” he said. “I’m sure it’s fine.” He collected his utensils and began the arduous process of sawing through the meat, the sound grating in the otherwise silent room. It seemed an eternity before he’d managed to carve out a chunk and pop it in his mouth. He chewed. And chewed. And chewed.

  Jilly stared, her brows drawn in consternation. Her mouth opened as if to launch a protest, but ultimately she closed it again without a word. She shook her head, baffled, and asked, at last, “May I ask what kept you?”

  He was saved from having to answer immediately by the bit of lamb that simply would not shred in his teeth. At last he managed to swallow it down and said, “Correspondence. Being a duke is often a thankless task.” A brief hesitation. “Nick intends to come for a visit in a few days.” As an afterthought, he added, “He wishes to congratulate us in person.”

  “How lovely,” she said, and he could tell by the warmth in her voice that she meant it. “I’ll make certain Mrs. Simpson readies a room for him. Have you a preference?”

  He shook his head. Now would be the perfect time to tell her, to allude to some unfortunate circumstance regarding their marriage license—to begin weaving that tangled web of lies to avert suspicion. He could simply tell her that the license had never arrived to the Archbishop as it ought to have, that he only intended to make certain that their marriage was recognized before the arrival of their child. She would believe it. She might fret over it until Nick arrived with the special license, but she would believe it.

  And yet the words would not come. God help him, he didn’t want to lie to her.

  “James?” She canted her head to the side, peering up at him with a troubled expression. “Something is bothering you. Won’t you tell me?”

  “It’s nothing.” The words sounded as if they had been dragged out of him, heavy and pained. “Nothing you need worry over.” He tried to tell himself it was not entirely a lie. Once the situation was rectified, she truly would not need to worry over it. He pushed the tray away, rising to his feet once more. “I suppose I haven’t much of an appetite, either.”

  “Well, how could you have?” she asked dryly, lifting his fork to jab at the hunk of lamb. “I’m not entirely certain your dinner is even edible.”

  He managed a chuckle, sliding his arm about her waist. “I think I’ve spent far too long sequestered away in here,” he said. “And not nearly enough time with my wife.”

  And finally the worry was chased from her face as pleasure suffused her. He had caused that worry—not with his lies, for she wasn’t aware of them, but with his inattention. Jilly had suffered for his distance. It was his guilt that had kept him away, but she couldn’t possibly understand that. She knew only that her husband had withdrawn from her when she needed his support, his affection.

  With his free hand he tucked back that errant curl that simply would never stay where it was meant to, even knowing that it would simply spring free from where he’d secured it behind her ear. As she turned her cheek into his hand, he was struck by how simple it was to please her, how easily he could have made her happy.

  She was nothing like the women that had plagued him since he’d come into his title. She’d never cared for the contents of his bank account; she probably had no idea how many estates he possessed. Any other woman of his acquaintance would have demanded that they return to London well before now so as not to miss the high point of the Season, or to set about ordering a new wardrobe befitting a duchess.

  Jilly had only a handful of gowns, the simple ones she’d brought with her the night they’d skipped out on the house party. She’d said she was more comfortable in the country, and she’d meant it in all honesty. She did everything in all honesty.

  And all he had given her in return was a handful of lies. A quiet life in the country might very well be all she would ever have, should the truth ever come out. No one would expect he had married her out of anything other than obligation. He had taken her sweet dream of love and made a mockery of it, turned it into a waking nightmare.

  Her delicately arched brows drew together. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  “Only thinking,” he said evasively. “Suppose we don’t return to London for a while. The country is safer. The air is better, cleaner.”

  A hint of a grin touched her lips. “I don’t think I took you for such a worrier,” she said, and while the words were chiding, her expression was delighted.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His own mother had died in childbed with Gloriana. The thought that such a thing could happen to Jilly, that her glorious, laughing eyes might close forever struck him with a cold ripple of fear. He didn’t want to think of it. Instead he settled his free hand over her stomach, a tentative touch that blossomed the smile on her face to giddy proportions.

  Her hand touched his, flattening over it to hold it in place. With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes and rested her cheek on his chest, looking for all the world as if she had just slipped into a sweet dream. Guilt, his constant companion, sliced deep, shredding his heart to ribbons.

  “I like the country,” she said. “It’s beautiful here. May I invite Nora and Robert to visit?”

  He slipped his arm around her slender shoulders, cradling her closer. “Eventually,” he said. “In a month or so.” When they were safely wed, and he could ensure no hint of scandal—aside from what they’d drawn from eloping—would ever touch her. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, striving to memorize the feel of her tucked against him. Just in case his plans should fall apart. Just in case it was the last he would ever have, he wanted to tuck this moment away in his heart forever. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still on our bridal trip.”

  She gave a soft trill of laughter. “But Nick is welcome to intrude upon it?”

  “Nick’s not staying overlong,” he countered. “I’ll have Bartleby throw him out if he overstays his welcome.” He nudged her face up to brush a kiss across her lips. “I assume you’ll want Nora here for your confinement?”

  “I would like that,” she said. “But I expect Robert would accompany her, and he’ll certainly try to fleece you out of your horses.”

  “Darling, if their company comforts you, then I will bribe them to come in return for the damned horses, if need be.” For just a moment, with his hand flattened
over her belly and her head tucked back against his shoulder, he allowed himself to imagine a future where no unpleasantness could touch them, where the past stayed buried, and only happiness awaited.

  And for that moment, it was almost real.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  James sat in his office, catching up on some estate business while Jilly had gone out for a brisk walk. Just lately her morning sickness seemed to have extended itself into the afternoon, but she claimed the fresh air and exercise settled her stomach. She’d expressed a preference for mint lemonade lately, but the staff was rather set in their ways and kept plying her with the weak tea and toast they thought she should have instead.

  He had been tempted to join her, but he expected Nick to arrive soon, and there would be no better time to speak privately than with Jilly out of doors, enjoying the fresh air. Nick would doubtless have several words for him in person that he had been loath to pen on paper, but so long as he also came bearing the special license, James would be content to let Nick heap whatever recriminations he chose upon him.

  Shortly after noon, Bartleby rapped upon the door. “Your Grace,” he said stiffly, “It looks as though Lord Clifton will be arriving presently. One of the footmen spotted a carriage coming up the drive.”

  Excellent. He capped the inkwell and tapped his papers into some semblance of order as he rose. “And Jilly?”

  “Lady Jillian has not yet returned, sir.”

  “Her Grace, Bartleby,” he corrected automatically as he rounded the desk. “Please have Mrs. Simpson prepare some lemonade for Jilly when she returns.”

  With a rigid bow, Bartleby retreated, leaving James to descend the stairs on his own to await Nick’s arrival. Rather than ring for a servant, he fetched a bottle of brandy and a set of glasses himself, setting them up in the formal drawing room just off the foyer.

  There was a curious ruckus outside, and shortly thereafter the front door crashed open. Nick stomped in, his face set in scornful anger, a handful of tawny curls clutched in his fist. He dragged a struggling girl behind him even as she screeched in outrage.

  “What the devil is going on?” James shouted over the din.

  His face like a thundercloud, Nick released the handful of hair, freeing the girl, who threw herself at James with a sob.

  “Oh, James,” she wailed. “He abducted me straight off the street! I don’t know how I shall ever show my face in public again!”

  Gloriana. His arms closed around her with a sense of shock. This was a complication he had not expected at this juncture—how to explain Jilly to Gloriana, and Gloriana to Jilly.

  “Christ, Nick,” he said, his voice thick with reproach. “She’s in a delicate condition; you know that.”

  “No,” Nick bit off tersely. “She is not.” He kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot.

  “She’s not?” James glanced down at Gloriana. “You’re not? But that’s wonderful!” If she had been mistaken, they could survive this little mishap with her reputation intact.

  An awful silence stretched out, thick and heavy, and when Gloriana at last burst into noisy wails, he understood what it was that he was meant to have understood immediately.

  She was not pregnant, had never been pregnant. She had not been compromised at all.

  He had sought revenge on Westwood by seducing the man’s sister. He had assumed Westwood had refused to wed Gloriana out of selfishness, of arrogance, but that had never been the case. He hadn’t compromised Gloriana at all—and James had ruined Jilly over nothing.

  “I thought you would make him marry me!” Gloriana sobbed. “But you didn’t—you didn’t—and then you sent me to Hampshire to stay with Aunt Alphonsine! She’s so dreadfully dull, James, you know she is. And I was missing the Season!” She gave a simpering sniffle, designed to evoke pity. “So I wrote to my friend, Lady Alice, and she invited me to stay with her family.”

  He met Nick’s hard stare over the top of Gloriana’s head, and something of his self-loathing must have shown in his eyes, for Nick winced and turned away.

  “You lied to me?” The words came out rough and hard. “You lied because you wanted me to force Westwood into marriage?”

  Gloriana gave a offended sniff, drawing away from him with a little frown. “You needn’t act so put out. It happens all the time. Half of Ton marriages come about because a couple was caught doing something they ought not.”

  “Westwood was not caught,” James gritted out between clenched teeth. “I took you at your word that he had compromised you. Did he?”

  “Not…as such,” Gloriana admitted, smoothing at her skirts, which had been rumpled from travel. “He never looked twice at me, but I wanted to marry him. He’s such a lovely dancer. I would have been the envy of every lady this Season.”

  Nausea roiled in James’ gut. He heard Nick make a raw sound of suppressed rage, and envied him the emotion. He could feel nothing but the shame that twisted in his stomach like a knife.

  “You impugned the honor of a man who had done nothing wrong.” The words were like shards of glass, cutting his throat as they emerged. “For God’s sake—I could have called him out. I could have killed an honorable man, and for what? Because you wanted a fine dancer for a husband?” His hands shook with a fine tremor, and he curled his hands into fists to quell it. “You have no idea what you have done,” he said in a tortured whisper. “What I have done because of you.”

  He had never spoken to her, to his beloved younger sister, in such a way before. He had known she was a bit spoiled, had thought it insignificant, something that would correct itself in time with age and maturity. Clearly, he had been wrong.

  “Go to your room,” he managed at last, through a haze of fear and anguish. “I’ll decide what’s to be done with you later. You will stay in your room until you are summoned.”

  Gloriana backed up a step, confusion wreathing her face. “You can’t mean that,” she said on a nervous titter. “For heaven’s sake, James, I’m not a child. You can’t send me to bed without supper.”

  “I am your guardian until you marry or reach your majority, and I can do anything I damn well please,” he snarled. “Go.”

  Her mouth dropped open, her blue eyes widening to comical proportions in mingled surprise and affront. “James—”

  “Now,” he roared, and the sound echoed around them, caught high in the vaulted ceilings, reverberating off walls.

  Startled into fright by the coalescing rumble, she shot him a hateful glance and at last took off running, her footsteps retreating up the staircase as she disappeared into the depths of the house.

  Silence descended once again. James pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, willing away the headache that had settled in behind his eyes.

  “There’s more,” Nick said in a deadened voice. “We crossed paths with Westwood at a coaching inn halfway between London and Sussex. I saw his carriage; he was changing out his horses, and he won’t be too terribly far behind us.” He glanced away, as if unable to bear the stark pain scrawled on James’ face. “I’d give it a half hour on the outside.”

  James made a feral sound in his throat, midway between a snarl and a growl. “How did he find out? There’s been no announcement.” Because there had been no marriage.

  Nick gave a rough laugh. “Jillian is a lady, James. Ladies write. Doubtless she would have a few people she would wish to inform of her marriage. I suspect her brother, who controls her dowry, would be one of them.” He patted his pockets until one crinkled, then drew out an envelope, which he offered to James. “The license,” he said. “I suspect you’ll want to tie it up all neat and proper as fast as you can.”

  James accepted the envelope with a sort of strange, detached feeling, as though someone else inhabited his body. “Not here,” he rasped. “Not here—Jilly could return at any moment.” He made a gesture to the drawing room.

  Nick hesitated, raking his hands through his dark hair. “You should prepare yourself,” he said at las
t. “She might not forgive you.”

  “She won’t.” James’ eyes closed on a wave of pain and shame. “I know it already. She won’t.”

  How could she? What he had done was unforgivable.

  ∞∞∞

  David Kittridge, Earl of Westwood, arrived at Windclere Castle half an hour past noon, in a black temper. The gravel crunched beneath his feet with every furious step, and he held the letter he’d found buried beneath a stack of correspondence, dated weeks ago, clutched in his fist.

  It had been signed, rather cheekily, Jillian Bradford, Duchess of Rushton.

  Given his last exchange with the duke, David had his doubts. He’d cut his leisurely tour of Scotland short and returned to England, only to find that both Jilly and her husband had vacated London, and that no announcement of marriage had appeared in any paper.

  He stalked up the steps, but the door opened before he could pound upon it. A butler of some fifty years stepped back to admit him.

  “My lord,” he said. “You are expected. His Grace awaits you in the drawing room.”

  A bit of his fury fled in the face of bemusement. Expected? He had fully expected to be refused admittance. Unless, of course, the duke was enough of a bastard to gloat of his conquest. The thought snapped the steel straight back into his spine, sent him stalking across the marble floor of the foyer, to throw open the door that the butler had indicated.

  Two men were within: the duke, who had never looked less polished, and…was that Clifton standing there by the window? What the devil was he doing here?

  Rushton had been seated on a sofa, holding his head in his hands, but he stood when David stormed into the room. His hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he had been tugging at it, and for the first time in memory, his face carried not the typical ducal arrogance that David had come to associate with the man, but something raw and exposed. As if he’d been stripped of any veneer of civility, any pretense of nobility, reduced to simply a man, suddenly uncertain of his position in life and left reeling by the knowledge that his life was no longer within his control.