His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  “Jilly is like a sister to me,” he said absently. “And she is my wife’s dearest friend. Nora encouraged your suit, you know. It’s wrecked her to see it come to this already.”

  James closed his eyes against the judgment he saw inscribed on Ravenhurst’s face. “It’s wrecked me as well, if it’s any consolation.” Though he knew it was not.

  “And Jilly?” Ravenhurst asked.

  James bowed his head. “She won’t see me,” he said, his voice a bare whisper. “I can’t even bring myself to write to her. She won’t want to hear from me.”

  “So it’s your doing, then,” Ravenhurst said on a heavy sigh as he dropped into a chair. Eleanora had reappeared once more, claiming for herself the seat nearest her husband’s, smoothing her skirts as she took it.

  “Of course it’s my doing,” James said. The uncomfortable silence following his admission weighing heavily upon his shoulders. And then, as if something had broken inside him, the whole terrible story came bursting out. He spoke until his voice had gone hoarse, forcing himself to continue in the wake of Eleanora’s steadily-whitening face and Ravenhurst’s tightening grip on the arms of his chair. He spoke until he had run out of words, until his own self-recriminations began to sound flat and stale, until he had reached the bitter end and marveled that he had made it through the telling alive.

  He had always heard that confession lightened the heart, that sharing burdens eased them.

  It did not.

  If looks could have killed, James would not merely have been dead, he would have been obliterated, so severe and caustic was Lady Ravenhurst’s scorn. Her husband did not appear to harbor much good will toward him, either. It was the least of which he deserved.

  “You utter bastard.” Eleanora snarled the words with such firm conviction that James flinched from her indignation.

  Ravenhurst heaved a great sigh, unwinding himself from his chair. “If you did not appear so much to be making yourself miserable enough on your own,” he said, “I think I’d relish putting you through a wall.”

  James flicked his hand toward the wall behind him. “There’s one convenient. I’d let you.” He managed a pale facsimile of a laugh, massaging the bruise on his jaw which had begun a shift from its vivid purple to a sickly shade of yellow about the edges. “Westwood only struck me the once. I’d say I’m due for another.”

  “How could you do that to Jilly?” Eleanora shrilled, her voice soaring in outrage.

  “Because I’m an utter bastard,” James said, tiredly. It had been months since he had slept well, and drinking himself into a stupor each night since returning to London had hardly been beneficial. “I regretted it immediately. I tried to fix it all—I thought if I could only wrap up the loose ends, then there would be no need for her to find out what a bastard I’d been. I could have made her happy.”

  “By feeding her a steady stream of more lies?” Her face red with rage, Eleanora sneered at him.

  “Yes, if that is what it would have taken to keep her,” he admitted. “I would have done anything to spare her that knowledge, anything to keep her.” He scraped his fingers through his disheveled hair, but they caught in the unkempt snarls that hadn’t been brushed free in days.

  Ravenhurst caught his wife by her shoulder and said in a placating tone, “Nora. For God’s sake, look at the man. He loves Jilly.”

  “But what she must think,” Eleanora said, a horrible little catch in her voice. “After all Lord Kirkland has put her through, after so many years on her own—what she must think now…”

  Ravenhurst sucked in a breath as James flinched at the words. “A sliced jugular might have been kinder,” he said in mild rebuke. “It resolves nothing to continue rehashing it. So what are we to do about it?”

  “Do?” Eleanora echoed. “Do? Do you imagine that I feel any sort of sympathy for him?” She tossed an unflattering gesture in James’ direction, a vulgar one that no lady ought to know. “I care only for Jilly. She must be devastated.”

  “Yes,” Ravenhurst agreed. “But she wouldn’t be if she did not love the man. And he loves her. They could have been happy, Nora. They might still be, if Jilly can find it in her heart to forgive him.”

  “He doesn’t deserve forgiveness,” Eleanora spat.

  James knew that. He knew it, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  “I haven’t suggested he does. But that’s the thing about it; it’s a gift. And you know Jilly. It took years for her to recover from Kirkland. If the duke cannot mend this, I fear she will never recover. To give him a chance is to give her a chance.” Ravenhurst touched his wife’s cheek, cupped her chin in his hands. “Wouldn’t you see her happy with a man who loves her?”

  “Of course I would,” Nora shot back, “But—”

  “Rushton is that man,” Ravenhurst said. “Just look for a moment, Nora. Truly look at him.”

  And James lifted his head and let her see him, let her see not the duke, but the man, and for the first time he thought he might have seen a flicker of sympathy cross her face.

  She steeled herself against it. “I would see Jilly first,” she said. “She must be my first concern. If she will have none of you, neither will I.” And with a stamp of her dainty foot and a glare at her husband, she swept out of the room in a swirl of lemon-yellow skirts.

  Ravenhurst released a low whistle. “Sometimes—just occasionally, mind you—a wife can be a hell of a hassle.”

  James speared him with a speaking glance. “At least you’ve got yours,” he snarled.

  “Yes, I have,” Ravenhurst replied. “I haven’t been fool enough to lose her.” He examined his knuckles as if considering the damage he might do should he elect to plant James a facer just for the fun of it. But at last he decided against it, and his arm dropped once again to his side. “I know Jilly is worth the effort,” he said, his scrutinizing gaze raking James from head to toe. “I can only hope that you are, as well. But for God’s sake, man—take a damned bath. No woman wants a man who smells like he belongs in the stables.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Jilly had decided upon the Everleigh ball. It had been the event arriving most swiftly—tonight, that was to say—which would leave little time between now and then for anyone who had already sent their regrets to amend them when they learned she would be attending. Added to that, Lady Everleigh wasn’t known to be much of a gossip, nor did she host inordinately large gatherings. Jilly had her hopes that she might even make it out the other side of the ball without too much of a scene.

  The hardest would be the congratulations she would no doubt receive. Since the news of her marriage had been posted in the papers, those in attendance would be either clamoring to ingratiate themselves—everyone wished to attach themselves to a dukedom—or to weasel some sort of scandalous tidbit out of her, the better to regale their friends with.

  There were still some hours left before she would have to start preparing for the ball. The day had been so lovely that Jilly had been tempted to take a walk through the park. The dry toast that Mary brought to her, unbidden, every morning had failed to settle her stomach, and she missed the clean, fresh air of the countryside. She had contented herself with her own small garden instead. It was hardly larger than her bedroom, just a small patch of grass surrounded by trellised tea roses that grew amidst the ivy climbing the walls, but it was still a lovely escape from the walls of her house which had quickly begun to feel rather like a prison cell.

  Bartleby appeared in the doorway, rapping lightly upon the door jamb to announce his presence. “A caller, my lady,” he said, and something about his eyes suggested she might not be pleased by the arrival.

  Her heart leapt into her throat as she stood, nausea roiling in her stomach. Not James—the duke?

  He extended the card in his hand to her, and she reached for it with a climbing sense of disorientation. She accepted it with shaking fingers, blowing out a breath of relief only after she read the words scrawled across the white card. N
icholas Winter, Viscount Clifton.

  Just as quickly the relief fled and bitterness swelled in her chest. What the devil did he mean, calling upon her?

  She pursed her lips together, casting her chin up to a haughty angle. “I am not at home,” she said, handing the card back. “Nor will I be.”

  Bartleby coughed into his fist. “I beg your pardon, my lady. He has already stormed inside and set himself up in the drawing room. He said he would await your leisure.”

  Her head snapped round. “Then you must simply—” What? Throw him out? Bartleby couldn’t hope to manage a man some thirty years younger, in the prime of health, on his own. And a man who had ignored all polite precepts by invading her house uninvited was hardly a man who would leave without a fight.

  She supposed she could summon a constable, but that would be a scandal all on its own—and she doubted, even if she did prevail upon them by use of the title she had sworn not to use, that they would be compelled to lay hands upon a peer of the realm for anything short of murder.

  With an annoyed sigh, she said at last, “Let him alone, Bartleby. He’ll grow bored soon enough.”

  But he had not. She had left him to his own devices for nearly three hours. Having retreated back upstairs using the servant’s staircase near the kitchen, she had managed to avoid him, but he still showed no signs of leaving.

  “His lordship certainly can eat,” Mary had sighed, as she combed through Jilly’s things for some fitting accessories to her gown for tonight’s ball. “I vow Cook is in a fret over keeping him fed. He’s polished off three plates of tea cakes already.”

  Jilly gritted her teeth. So that explained, at least, why none had been sent up to her. Clifton had availed himself of the lot.

  “You may tell Cook that she need not trouble herself on his lordship’s behalf,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know that she sees it as trouble,” Mary replied. “His lordship’s an outrageous flirt. You’d think Cook was twenty years younger just lookin’ at her—blushing like a young girl, she is.” Mary heaved a sigh. “Doesn’t cast orders about, that one. Rare, you know, amongst the gentry, to spare a bit of kindness for servants.” She flashed a smile at Jilly as if to soften the words, though Jilly took no offense to them. She had never approved of the careless flinging about of orders herself, and Mary was certainly aware that she preferred plain speech to deference.

  “Do you think he’ll leave on his own?” Jilly asked.

  Mary hesitated. “I doubt it, ma’am,” she said. “Brought a book with him, he did.”

  Hardly the action of a man impatient to be about his business. So he had guessed, then, that she would not readily make herself available to him and had settled in to wait. She had not had much more than a passing acquaintance with the man—he had been the duke’s friend, after all, not hers—but she well remembered that intense stare he had speared her with during their single dance and had the singular sensation that, if he so chose, he would wait forever if need be.

  Blast. “I will see him,” she said, “I suppose it is better simply to get it over with.”

  ∞∞∞

  The viscount rose when she entered the room, as would any gentleman. He snapped his book shut and laid it on the sofa beside him. “Your—” He caught himself. “Lady Jillian,” he corrected with a bow.

  “My lord.” The words came out icy, and she imagined the whole temperature of the room had lowered as soon as they emerged from her lips. “Kindly state your business and remove yourself from my home.”

  “I thought to extend my regards,” he said easily, and she was struck with the sensation that she couldn’t have wounded him had she jabbed him with a knife. “Friends call upon one another, after all.”

  “We are not friends.”

  “Of course we are,” he said. “You are the wife of my closest friend. What loyalty I owe to him, I owe to you as well.”

  A raw fury swept over her. “A pity, then, that your loyalty shows itself only now, and not some months ago.”

  He had the good grace to flush, and looked away in obvious embarrassment. “I didn’t truly think he would go through with it,” he said. “Any idiot—aside from himself, I assume—could see that he was falling in love with you. It was just bad luck for me that you two chose to elope from that house party, or I would have stopped it.”

  The wellspring of anger that had erupted in her chest…ran dry. She took a steadying breath and realized that against all odds, she believed him. She did not want to; it would certainly have been easier, more satisfying, to paint him with the same brush as her husband. But she did believe him. He could have ruined her reputation in a dozen different ways already, and he had not.

  She sank into her chair, as her legs had taken up a wretched trembling that suggested they would not long support her. Before he reclaimed his own seat, he patted his pockets and fished out a handkerchief, which he offered to her over the low table separating them.

  “Am I to assume you’ve come on his behalf?” she managed at last, discreetly dabbing at her eyes, which had, unfortunately, grown moist.

  “Yes and no,” he said, with a hesitant half-smile. “James doesn’t know I’ve come,” he clarified. “But I have brought something from him. A carriage. He knows you haven’t got your own yet, and they do take rather a lot of time to commission.” He took a sip of his tea. “He was in a bit of a bother over how to deliver it to you,” he said. “So I took the liberty myself. I imagine he’ll be piqued when he discovers it missing.”

  Her stomach roiled anew. “I don’t want it,” she said reflexively. “I don’t want—”

  “Anything from him,” he finished for her. “Yes, I know. But it’s unmarked, so no one need know from whence it came.” He spread his hands out in mute appeal. “He wants you to be safe,” he said. “He knows you will not see him—and why—and there is little he can do for you without breaking his word to you.”

  Jilly said nothing, surprised by the errant pulse of longing that clutched her heart.

  Lord Clifton sighed, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. “He fears he will never see you again,” he said. “That you will keep his child from him.”

  She speared him with a sharp, offended glance. “I think, my lord, it is rather I who should fear that he will keep my child from me!” She had not meant to admit that much, felt shame and fear churning inside her, and ducked her head to hide the sudden whiteness of her face from him.

  For a moment there was only silence, as if his lordship had not understood the statement. Of course, such things rarely occurred to men. They were accustomed to privilege, to impressing their will upon others, and with the weight of the law on their sides, they rarely had to consider opposing views. At last the barb hit home, and she heard his unsteady indrawn breath.

  “Jilly,” he said softly. “James would never do that to you. Never.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” The words came out fragile and aching, and she clenched her hands in her lap. She hadn’t even been bothered by the use of her name; she could only think how badly she wished to lay her hands upon her belly, to cradle the child within herself that she had not allowed herself to think of, to wish for, to anticipate the arrival of. Not when it could so easily be torn from her arms.

  “You can.” He bent forward and clasped his hands, bracing his elbows upon his thighs. “You can. Jilly, the greatest regret of James’ life has been hurting you. I’ve never seen him so happy as when he was with you. And he has stayed away from you not because it is his wish, but because he knew it was yours. How can you believe he would do something so cruel?”

  “How can I not?” she whispered bitterly. “How could you ask me to believe otherwise?”

  His lordship sighed. “James loves you rather desperately,” he said at last. “I’m sure I can’t imagine how you must feel, but I can imagine how he does, because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He hardly passes for human these days, Jilly. I’d be surprised if he could look at hi
mself in a mirror.”

  “How His Grace carries on is neither my business nor my responsibility,” she said, though the words emerged somewhat less firmly than she would have hoped.

  “Of course not,” he said. “I don’t mean to imply that it is. I don’t blame you for it. God knows I warned him away from his path more than once, and he has only reaped what he had sown. But if you love him—if you ever loved him—he would be yours for the asking and count himself twice blessed for whatever scraps of affection you could muster for him.” He forced himself back in his seat, adopted a more casual air. “Of course, you must please yourself. But know that if you are not happy now, you could be—if you could find it in yourself to forgive the unforgivable. I doubt there is a man alive who could love you better.”

  Feeling oddly chastened, Jilly twisted her fingers in her lap and struggled to swallow down the inconvenient lump in her throat.

  “Hell,” his lordship grated. “You can’t cry—I’ve just the one handkerchief, and I truly can’t abide tears.” He looked rather panicked as he rose from his seat, and he fished around in his interior coat pockets. “I’ll take my leave,” he said. “But I have some letters here—the ones James sent me from your time at Windclere. I hope you will read them.”

  She accepted the packet of letters thrust toward her with fingers that trembled, as if she suspected they might burn her.

  “I will call again,” he said with a crisp bow. “Shall I bring a book next time as well?” A subtle inquiry over whether or not would keep him waiting for several hours the next time he came.

  A helpless laugh gurgled up in her throat, surprising her. “No,” she said. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  Chapter Thirty Three