Heaven Sent the Wrong One (22 page)

Allayne and Alexandra

A
lexandra collapsed on the sofa in front of the fireplace in what must be the Waterford House library, judging from the collection of volumes on the shelves of the floor to ceiling bookcases. Away from the bustling crowd, she let her emotions run free, crying her eyes out in the silence of the room. Dear God, this was simply too much—too painful for her to bear. Seeing Andrew—or rather Allayne again—resurrected all the things she tried to escape from, resisted,—tried to forget.

And feared the most.

Weakness. Vulnerability. Disorientation. Things she suffered from in the last four years, rendering her paralyzed—helpless—powerless—a pawn at his mercy. For no matter how much she tried to enforce the dictates of reason and ignore the stirrings of her emotions, seeing him again validated her worst fears—that he still occupied a dangerously significant portion of her heart; unquestionably commanded her undivided attention, wholehearted affection, utmost loyalty—her fervent desires.

She still loved him.

Heaven help her, but nothing could rid her of that tender, soul-deep, ineffable truth. God knows how much she flagellated herself to forget about him—but she simply couldn't—she wasn't that strong. Every single effort she devised, sought, embarked on—to blot his image, to kill any shred of memory—only aggravated her longing, intensified her love, ignited her passion for him to a blistering flame that smoldered over the years.

Yes
—she learned to live with it. To cope with the constant yearning, the interminable agony of missing him, the persistent need for fulfillment that only he could bring. But it also left her exhausted and bereft, like a little fish washed ashore, gasping for breath, floundering just beyond the water's reach.

She wanted him. She needed him.

And God, how she loved him! So much—so desperately—that losing him changed who she was. Life as she knew it—ended that last day in Bath. She no longer was the bold, devil-may-care person who was full of laughter and good humor. Who was content with her independence. Who didn't need anyone to complicate her existence. The woman she had become was cynical, aloof,—reticent.

And afraid.

Frightened that another man would have the power to hurt her again; to chain her heart in a mighty chokehold and drain the very life from her veins. She died once before—buried herself in Sidmouth Manor—unable to expunge the grief of losing Allayne. She couldn't go through that again. Watch from afar as life sailed by. Hide from family and friends. Flee at the first sign of interest from eligible gentlemen.

No
—she couldn't go back there—couldn't relive the nightmare her life had become.

"You never answered my question."

She whipped around at the sound of that beloved baritone voice that echoed night after night in her dreams. "A-Allayne?" she abruptly jumped up from her seat, caught off-guard by his sudden appearance. He was standing by the doorframe, silhouetted against the light of the bright chandeliers along the hallway.

~

Allayne gazed at Alexandra's tear-stained countenance, stif
ling the bubble of joy at hearing his name for the first time on her lips. He clenched his jaw, restraining the instinct to go to her and comfort her. He had followed her from the ballroom to the library, her scarlet gown and statuesque height, easing the difficulty of locating her in the midst of the crowd. His anger and frustration had escalated to a perilous degree—unfit for civilized company. He could not accept the fact that while he wallowed in years of self-pity and destruction, the woman he pined and mourned for to the point of insanity, married and moved on with her life, replacing him in her heart with another, so
easily
.

Lord knows
—that hadn't been the case with him.

Year after year, he had struggled with himself, forced the dictates of responsib
ility to influence his decision to affiance himself with Marion, until he finally progressed far enough to regain his equilibrium, believing he'd done the right thing. But in a span of a second, the moment he laid eyes on Alexandra—everything deviated from the steady tenor of his life and reverted to the way it had been. His mind, his heart, his body, and soul, regressed to the feelings of yesteryear, rekindling the potent emotions that defeated him once before. It infuriated him—how she could just materialize from nowhere—and plunge him right back to where he'd started. So, he pursued her out of spite—out of sheer bitterness and indignation—only to dissolve into tender protectiveness at the sight of her weeping by the fireplace. She had been visibly disconcerted at seeing him again, shaken by his vicious interrogation—or perhaps—a notion stemmed in his gut—it had something to do with his engagement to Marion.

Allayne planted his feet firmly on the floor, resisting the urge to rush to her side and enfold her
in his embrace. Too much time had passed, too many things left unsaid between them—and he simply could not lay his heart at her feet and let her trample it at will.

No
—he could not allow himself to become vulnerable again.

What he needed
—was to hear what she had to say; to find out her side of the story; to look at her face—into her eyes—as she articulated the words. Most of all, he wanted to know why—why she looked at him that way in the ballroom—with the blush blooming on her cheeks and her heart shining in her eyes—the way she used to do, once upon a time in Bath. And whatever it was that troubled her considerably enough to prompt her to run away—bloody goddamn hell—she owed him some answers!

He steeled himself from the distress that manifested in the fur
row of her brow and the tightening of her mouth, as he closed the door behind him and turned the lock with an audible click. The privacy afforded by the large chamber isolated them from the noise of the soiree down the hall, accentuating the silence that yawned between them, occasionally punctuated by the sound of the crackling fire in the grate. He willed the last of his patience—stretched the limit of his temper to a thin line of forbearance he hardly possessed—and waited for her to satisfy him with an explanation.

~

Alexandra did not know what to say. The impact of his presence in the same room, far from the safety of the ballroom outside, numbed her
senses—deprived her of lucid thought. A sudden reminiscence besieged her of the last time they were alone like this; when they had kissed and made love—promised their devotion to each other forever—before reality struck and crumbled that fabled dream into dust.

She gazed at him from
across the room—the man who once asked—or rather—imperiously ordered her hand in marriage and professed his undying love. The library was dimly illuminated by a single branch of candles on the mantle, feebly aided by the flickering flames in the hearth. From where she stood at the far end of the library, she could see his figure—a tall, imposing male shadow, powerfully built with splendid physical proportions. Her knees weakened at the memory of how that beautiful physique felt, pressed against her; the roughness and hardness against her velvet softness; the strength and control he wielded as he took possession of her body, branding her as his.

He stepped further into the room, the illumination from the candles and fireplace bathing him in a golden glow, gr
adually revealing his handsome visage. "Answer me, Alexandra." He stopped a little more than a yard away from her, the sofa situated between them. "When did you marry your duke?"

Alexandra stared at the harsh lines of his face. She could feel his anger si
mmering—tautly coiled just beneath the mantle of calmness he wore like a mask. Though the years had been kind to him, she could see the changes time had wrought. His features had become harder—stronger—more distinctly masculine than before. The eyes that once beheld warmth and laughter, now radiated a certain coldness—a distant, almost cruel gleam. His chiseled mouth, always curved in a playful smile, was now set in a grim line—waiting for her reply.

"The first of September," she said in a small voice, lowe
ring her eyes as she remembered that autumn day when the leaves changed in color and began falling from the trees.

Everything had been perfect. Dear Henry spared no expense, brushing away her protests, persuading her to let him shower her with all the thin
gs he never had the chance to give her aunt Marjorie. She wore the most beautiful gown she had ever seen, walked down the aisle in the cathedral decorated to the hilt with roses and ribbons, nodded and smiled at the distinguished guests who'd traveled to attend the grandest wedding of the season. And yet, standing at the altar with her soon-to-be husband as they exchanged their vows, she recalled feeling her heart wither—breaking off from the rest of her and slipping to the ground—an empty, lifeless shell, dry and brittle as the falling leaves.

"Of what year?" Allayne's gruff voice pulled her back from her rumination of the past to the present.

Alexandra raised her eyes to see a band of muscle twitching on his cheek. Her chest constricted. What was she going to tell him? That she married a duke as rich as Croesus—barely three and a half months after their affair? "Twenty six," she whispered, bracing herself for his reaction upon learning that fact, anticipating the disdain—the judgment he would cast.

And,
she saw it clearly in his eyes.

"Was that the reason why you left hours before dawn? Because you were engaged to be married?" His lips twisted in contempt at her gasp of surprise. "Don't bother denying it. The stable lads told me when I came looking for yo
u after you failed to show up at our meeting place."

Alexandra swallowed the large lump that formed in her throat. He knew. All these years, he believed she had sneaked out at dawn and left him. He must have imagined all sorts of scenarios. And tonight, he
r title probably confirmed the worst of his suspicions—that she encouraged his suit, declared her love and agreed to marry him, when all the while she was betrothed to another. Alexandra shook her head. No—she couldn't allow him to keep believing something that was far from the truth. "I left, because I was scared," she said, cognizant of how flimsy her excuse sounded.

"Scared?" He regarded her with a sardonic chuckle. "That isn't like you at all. Perhaps practical,
—but never scared. It doesn't take a genius to choose between a valet and a duke."

"I wasn't engaged to anyone. There was no duke." Alexandra's frustration rose at his taunt, but she could not blame him. Her prompt marriage did imply a prior engagement between her and the duke. One did not enter i
nto proper matrimony with a very high ranking peer of the realm without observing innumerable social courtesy and ceremony that could take months—even a year, to accomplish.

His expression sobered. "Then why did you leave me, Alexandra?" he uttered in a to
ne so sad it made her heart ache.

"I did it not for me
—but for you," she replied earnestly. "I was scared of what you'd have to deal with if you and I married. I thought you were a valet. You know the ways of the ton. My family would never have approved of you. You would have never been happy with me. I didn't wish any of those things for you."

He pinned her with a sharp gaze. "I confess, I had my fears too. I thought you were a maid and I too, left. But, I came to my senses and immediately went back for yo
u. I was determined to tell you the truth and give you my name, my heart—everything. I loved you and I didn't care what other people would say. Then, I learned you'd left hours previously—even before I had." His chest heaved, anguish shrouding his features as he spoke softly, "You broke my heart, Alexandra."

His admission infused her with such elation she thought she would never feel again, even though it came four years late, precipitated by the unfavorable situation both of them found themselves entrenche
d in. Through the years, she believed he deserted her for another—but she was wrong. So wrong. He loved her. He truly did love her enough to marry her—in spite of what he knew then, as a severe discrepancy in their rank. "Oh, Allayne—" she covered her mouth with a small sob, her compunction swelling for the time lost between them. "But, I went back for you, too."

He stared at her with a startled look in his eyes.

"And when I couldn't find you at Penthorpe Manor, I asked my driver to take me to Cornwall."

He
sucked in a deep breath and exhaled it in a long sigh. "No one mentioned anything to me," he said in a low voice laced with ambiguity.

"Because the footman I sent to your door looked for the wrong man. I told him to ask for Andrew
—your valet, and your butler said he had gotten married and no longer worked there." She paused, brushing away the hurt and betrayal that had haunted her since that sunny, spring day she'd left Rose Hill Manor. "So you see," her vision blurred with unshed tears, "you broke my heart too."

His eyes widened and a trace of discomposure marred his face for a moment, before derision replaced it altogether. "Did I?" He raised a brow and narrowed his eyes. "You most certainly recovered expeditiously enough to marry your duke after a mere f
ew months."

Alexandra blanched at his scathing words, her mind filling with the memories of how she projected an outward aplomb to society, and then cried in the seclusion of her bedchamber for days, after she resigned her fate to marry Henry. She was so c
onfused, deprived of fortitude and in a state of panic, like a ship with a broken compass, trying to navigate its way home across a turbulent sea. Even if she wanted to steer her course away from the eye of the hurricane, she couldn't—she hadn't had a choice. Too much was at stake—her respectability, her family's honor—
Gabriel
.