His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  “David,” she said, her voice deliberately light, “I have no right, given the circumstances, to ask such a thing. But it is only two years until my dowry becomes my own. If you would advance me the funds, I think I would like to leave England.”

  Everything in James rebelled at the thought. His shoulders drew tight with strain, and he clenched his jaw against the urge to shout a protest. Such an action would hardly endear him to her.

  “You can’t,” he heard himself say. “If you leave, you will be ruined. To leave will be to lend credence to supposition. You know how the game is played.”

  And she shrugged—shrugged!—as if she could not be bothered by the possibility. “I fail to see how everyone supposing I am ruined is any worse than the reality of it.”

  Westwood had leapt up from his chair to pace anxiously. “I think,” he began, “it would be better all around if you married. Even if somehow there were rumors, you would be protected. No one would dare speak against you.”

  She said nothing, but the hand that held the glass trembled, just a bit. Just enough to send a spark of anguish straight to James’ soul, until she caught herself and recovered her composed demeanor.

  “I would rather not,” she said. Just that. I would rather not, in an indifferent little voice, as if they had been discussing going for a drive in inconvenient weather.

  “You must.” The words were dragged out of him in utter terror that she might remain stalwart even in the face of three men who all wished to see her safely married. “You must. You know you must, Jilly.” He grasped desperately for the only thing he thought might sway her, though he knew it would only hurt her further. “Our child deserves a name.”

  Westwood swore vividly, his hands curling into fists. James suspected the man would very much have liked to hit him again.

  Jilly ducked her head, and for a fleeting moment James thought he saw a flicker of shame cross her features. He had never felt so small, so low.

  “Lady Jillian,” Nick said, in that careful, soothing voice. “I beg you not to act in haste. You are an intelligent woman. You could remove yourself from England for a time and set yourself up as a widow. It’s been done often enough before.” Nick busied himself with tapping several small pastries onto a plate, which he gave into Jilly’s hands. “But everyone would know it for the fiction it is. You could never return to London with your reputation intact. If you take such a drastic action, there can be no coming back from it.”

  An awkward little laugh scraped out of Jilly’s throat, but she had, at least, taken a nibble of a tea cake. “I’ve been the object of such speculation before,” she said. “I can bear it again.”

  “But you shouldn’t have to. You’ve done nothing to deserve it.” Nick refreshed his tea cup, though he had not Jilly’s elegant manners, and ended up splashing a small stream of tea across the table. “As the Duchess of Rushton, you would be beyond reproach, your position in society secure. James owes you this.”

  He owed her so much more than his name, his title. But it would be no small effort even to convince her to accept that much from him.

  Jilly took a sharp breath. “I can’t—I cannot remain here while the banns are called,” she said, her voice fierce and unyielding. “I won’t.”

  “There’s no need,” Nick said. “It would be the work of an afternoon. I’ve brought a special license down with me.”

  At that, she glanced up for the first time, and James was shocked anew at the bleak emptiness that lingered in her eyes. As if a shade had lowered behind them to protect her from the rest of the world.

  “How—however did you acquire one so quickly?” she inquired.

  “Quickly!” Nick gave a soft snort of amusement. “It’s been a process of months,” he said. “They must be applied for in person, you know, and James wouldn’t hear of leaving you to come up to London for one. It took hours upon hours, dozens of letters, a great deal of money, and all the combined influence we could wield before the Archbishop was at last prevailed upon to issue it.”

  She must have understood the significance of Nick’s response, must have understood that James had regretted his deception and sought to rectify his actions. But even that knowledge had not swayed her. For the first time she looked at him, but there was no emotion in her eyes. She might as well have been looking at a piece of furniture.

  Westwood made a harsh sound, a vicious mutter beneath his breath. “If Jilly agrees to wed you,” he tossed out at James, “I won’t countenance her being mistreated in any way. I will require her dowry to be placed in her hands exclusively, to be used for whatever purpose she desires.” He paced the borders of the room, all tightly-leashed aggression. “You will not, by word or deed, suggest to anyone that this marriage was anything but your most fervent desire. You will place no demands upon her, nor prevent her from acting precisely as she wishes.”

  “Yes,” James said hoarsely. “Done. I will agree to whichever conditions you choose.” Anything, so long as Jilly would give her consent.

  Westwood ceased pacing and heaved a monstrously unflattering sigh. “I won’t force you to wed, Jilly—but you would be well served to do so. You can still come out of this unpleasantness unscathed, if we are quick about it. And you will have more freedom than you would enjoy as an unmarried woman.”

  Jilly stared down into her glass as though it contained the answers to her problems. At last she said, “I should like to have a contract with your provisions drawn up, David.” Her blank eyes settled on James with that vacant, distant stare. “You will forgive me, sir, if I make no claim to faith in your honor.”

  “There isn’t time to engage a solicitor, nor do I believe it would be wise to do at this juncture,” Nick said. “Would a written agreement, signed and witnessed, appease you well enough?”

  “Provided it remains in my keeping,” Jilly said. She followed it up with an uncomfortable, joyless laugh. “I hadn’t expected to undertake even a marriage of convenience. I suppose it’s somehow fitting to have ended up in one of inconvenience instead.” Her lashes shaded her eyes, and against the uncharacteristic pallor of her skin, her scattered freckles stood out in stark relief.

  James had no idea what he could say to her, what sort of apology would not have sounded stale or insincere. There were no words that could wash away the magnitude of pain he had given her. But he had to try nonetheless. “Jilly—”

  “Please excuse me.” She rose, setting aside her teacup. “I find I don’t have the stomach for company at the moment. You may summon me when it has been arranged.” And silently, she exited the room.

  ∞∞∞

  Her second wedding bore no resemblance whatsoever to her first. One had been a dream. This one was a nightmare. An aged reverend had been fetched from a neighboring village to perform the ceremony, and he seemed not to understand that this was no love match, but a farce undergone only out of necessity. Her groom reeked of too much brandy.

  The man prattled on about love and responsibility and keeping only unto one’s spouse until Jilly had simply let her mind drift away from the uncomfortable proceedings.

  James—no, the duke, he must always be the duke—held her cool fingers in his, his thumb rubbing absently over her knuckles until she wanted to yank her hand away from him. It took every bit of effort to keep herself still and silent, to exhibit no untoward reaction.

  To begin as she meant to go on.

  She had repeated her vows in an indifferent monotone, though the words scored her throat. She had made all the proper sounds, said all the proper things.

  “Have you a ring?” the reverend asked at last, his owlish gaze twitching between the two of them.

  The duke gave a little start beside her, his fingers tightening over hers, because of course he had not. Why would he have gone to the effort of procuring a ring for a false bride?

  “I don’t require one,” she said, and saw from her peripheral vision his head swivel toward hers.

  “But you should have one.” />
  She fought to breathe evenly between her gritted teeth. “I don’t want one, and I shan’t wear one.” She summoned a serene smile for the reverend, who was beginning to look as though he suspected something was not quite right. “Pray continue,” she said.

  The poor man cleared his throat and, wisely, skipped to the end. “What God hath joined, let no man put asunder. Duke, you may kiss your duchess.”

  The duke bent his head, and at the last moment she turned and gave him her cheek instead. His warm lips seared her skin, and the tender caress made a mockery of everything she had thought to be real these past two months, every cherished dream she had held in her heart.

  The moment he lifted his head she stepped away from him, toward the table where the special license lay, awaiting their signatures. She rendered hers carelessly, a hasty scrawl upon a piece of paper she only wanted to cast out of her sight and out of her mind.

  Lord Clifton had taken aside the reverend, doubtless plying him with a heavy purse for his services, and the duke had gone after her to put his signature to the license.

  As she drew on her traveling gloves, David stepped up beside her.

  “I should like to leave at once,” she said in a low voice. “My things have been made ready.” There hadn’t been so very many of them. She had been satisfied enough with the contents of the trunk she had packed when she had eloped with the duke. Or when she had thought she had eloped with the duke. The fact that there had been no new things purchased for her only made it all the simpler to scrape up her few belongings.

  “Are you certain?” David asked. Something approaching anxiety lingered about his eyes and twisted the corner of his mouth. “Jilly, I really do think—”

  “I don’t.” She buttoned her gloves with brisk efficiency. “I don’t at all.” In an effort to reassure him, she said, “Don’t worry, David. I shan’t foist myself upon you. I’ll take my own lodgings.”

  David swore beneath his breath and shoved his hands into his pockets. A lock of his cool blond hair, like the echo of her own rebellious curl, slid over his forehead. “I wish—I wish I had been a better brother to you,” he said finally.

  Surprised, she turned to gape at him.

  “If I had been,” he said, “I could have spared you this. I would have seen Rushton coming from a mile away.” His breath whistled out between his teeth. “I would never have let him get within ten yards of you. So it’s really my fault.”

  Oh, lord. The tears that had not come over the duke’s betrayal now threatened to emerge over an inconvenient bout of brotherly affection. She forced them back with a few slow, even breaths.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “Really, David. I should have suspected from the first. Who would ever have thought—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “But there’s no sense in looking back. It can change nothing.”

  Nick had shown out the good reverend while they had been otherwise engaged, and he and the duke approached at last, slowly, as if uncertain of their welcome.

  Before either of them could offer any insincerities or platitudes, Jilly announced, “I have decided to return to London.”

  “To London.” The duke had spoken the word as though it were completely foreign, his brows drawn. “But why should you wish to go to London?”

  “Because I have no wish to remain here,” she said. There was simply no conceivable way she could stay in this massive residence which contained so many tainted memories.

  His lips pressed together as if to bite back an unwise response. At length, he said, “I’ll have the carriage readied—”

  “I will go with David. There is not the least need for your presence, Your Grace.”

  There was the brief satisfaction of seeing him flinch at the use of his title, which she had not spoken in some months, but even that was a fleeting pleasure.

  “Of course I will go where you go. You’re my wife, Jilly.”

  “In name.” She turned, giving him her back. “And it is Lady Jillian, if you please. I don’t plan to use your title.” And then, absently, “I intend to lease a house for myself.”

  “There’s no need for that; I have a residence in Mayfair.”

  “I will have my own house, and my own staff, and my own life. I need nothing from you, Your Grace. I want nothing from you.” The words came out steadier than she had thought they would, absent any sort of hateful inflection. She was rather proud of that.

  “Don’t leave me.” The broken words surprised all of them. Against her better judgment, she turned, and very nearly skittered backward. There was real anguish on his face, and determination, and…half a dozen other things she had no name for, all roiling beneath the surface.

  He lifted his hand to reach for her, but drew it back with a muttered curse when she flinched. And he said again, “Don’t leave me. Please, Jilly. I love you.”

  She wished he had said something else, something less hurtful. He had said those words often enough over the past few months, and she had believed them wholeheartedly, thrilled to hear them. Now they sounded only like another lie.

  Just lies upon lies upon lies. She had had her head turned by such nonsense before, but it would not happen again.

  “How could I ever believe that?” she asked. “How could you expect me to believe that?”

  “I don’t,” he said tonelessly. “But it’s still the truth. I thought if I could wrap it all up nicely that you would never find out—and if you never found out, you would never be hurt. I didn’t want to hurt you. More than anything, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  For a cursed moment, a prick of sympathy stabbed her heart. Men of his status did not make such declarations before their peers, did not admit to having been wrong, and certainly did not do anything so unseemly and vulgar as to openly wear their emotions. She couldn’t imagine what it had cost him to do so now.

  Love didn’t die simply because it had been betrayed. But it did wither.

  When she made no response, he continued. “A dozen times, I tried to lie to you. Suggest that perhaps something had gone wrong with the license, that it would be better—safer—to hold a second wedding. You would have believed it. You would never have known any different.”

  She whispered, “It would have been a lie.”

  “But I would have had you,” he said. “I’ve struggled beneath the weight of this guilt for months, but I would have borne it the rest of my life if only I could have spared you from it.” He took a half-step toward her as if concerned she might flee, but she held her ground. “I wish I could take it back,” he said. “I wish I could go back and undo all of it and start again with you. But I can’t. I can only go forward. We can go forward, Jilly, with no lies between us.”

  She shook her head, just once, but it was enough. It was severe and it was uncompromising. Her throat worked with the effort to swallow down all the harsh words and recriminations she wanted to sling at him, all the hurt and pain he had heaped upon her shoulders.

  “I love you, Jilly,” he said again, his voice just a shred of sound, his hands curling at his sides impotently.

  “I don’t care.” She took a step back, caught the sight of her own bewildered expression in the reflection of the window and stared in shock. “I don’t care,” she said again, stronger this time, as she turned and crossed the foyer floor, her steps echoing through the otherwise silent room. “I don’t care,” she said as she crossed the threshold and stepped out into the courtyard, toward David’s carriage, which had been readied for their journey back to London.

  And she repeated the words in her head on the long ride back into town, and hoped that one day, perhaps not too very far in the future, they would become true.

  Chapter Thirty

  “I’ve lost her, Nick,” James rasped, his hand curled around a nearly empty bottle of brandy. He had never looked quite so unkempt, even in their younger rakehell days, when they had reveled in carousing into the early hours of the morning. For some hours now James had been seeki
ng solace in the bottom of a bottle, and it yet eluded him. He slouched in his chair before the fire, a wreck of a man.

  Nick could have said any number of things, very few of which would be comforting. He had warned James, time and time again, against pursuing vengeance, against visiting the sins of the brother, such as they were, upon the sister. But what purpose could such words serve at this juncture? James was already aware of what his idiocy had wrought.

  “I’ve lost her,” James said again, in a hoarse whisper. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed in shadows, and he stared into the fire as if it cast images of his lost happiness before him, taunting him with what he could not hope to regain.

  In one wretched afternoon, Nick had borne witness to the absolute destruction of his closest friend’s life. Just a few short months ago he would never have suspected that James could have fallen so far, that the man could find anything in a woman worth this level of despair. But he had—he had found, he had gambled, he had loved, and he had lost.

  Nick surged to his feet, more than a bit unsteady himself. One did not allow one’s friends to drink alone, after all. “Get up,” he said, nudging James’ splayed leg with the toe of his boot. “We’re going back to London.”

  James’ eyes closed slowly. “Can’t,” he said. “S’where Jilly is.”

  “That’s why we’re going.” Nick shoved his arms beneath James’, yanking until, unwillingly, James stumbled to his feet. “For God’s sake. You can’t sit here and pickle yourself in spirits. Your wife has gone to London. She’s carrying your child. If you hope to see either of them again, you need to be there.”

  “She won’t see me,” James slurred. “She’ll never want to lay eyes on me again.”

  “Perhaps not, but she’ll certainly be hard pressed to avoid you,” Nick said. He caught hold of James’ collar, as James had developed, with an overabundance of brandy in his belly, a propensity to sway unsteadily on his feet. “Bartleby!” he shouted.

  James gave a ragged laugh. “He won’t come,” he said. “Left just after Jilly, hadn’t you noticed? And the maid—Mary, I think. No love lost for me there from either of them.”