Waking Up With the Duke (18 page)

Chapter 17

S
he and Ainsley traveled together in his coach. Her carriage followed, her maid journeying inside. Had anyone asked her four weeks ago how she saw herself escaping from Ainsley’s cottage, she’d have said she saw herself racing away, never looking back, leaving him behind with all due haste, staring after her. Sprinting away because she couldn’t leave fast enough, wanted to be done with him.

Instead she’d found one excuse after another to delay her parting. Even knowing that Ainsley would be traveling with her, she hadn’t wanted to begin the journey home. Their time together had turned into something bittersweet. She’d always believed that Walfort loved her; she still believed that to be true. But she’d never before
felt
loved.

With Ainsley she did.

He held her now, nestled against his side. She rested her hand on his chest and felt the steady, rhythmic pounding of his heart. Beyond the window, she could see the countryside changing, becoming more familiar, more recognizable. She was nearing home. She both welcomed it and dreaded it with all her heart.

The past four weeks had not gone at all as she’d expected. The physical aspects had been far more shattering. The emotional journey was one she regretted ending. She would miss Ainsley so terribly, terribly much.

It would hurt him to know the truth of her feelings toward him, so she intended to keep them to herself, to hold them near, to suffer in silence. Hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago she had wished all manner of torment on him. Now she would do whatever she could to spare him.

She flattened her hand against her stomach. She halfway wished she wasn’t with babe. Knowing the man he was, she understood what she hadn’t before: it would be a hardship for him to not acknowledge this child. And yet she desperately wanted to be carrying his child—not because it was a child, but because it would be his.

“When will you know?” he asked quietly, and she wondered if his mind traveled along the same path as hers.

“Soon, I should think. I have not always been precise with my . . . menses. A day or two late, a day or two early, it fluctuates. Shall I send word?”

“No.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought back the tears. “If I had known then what I know about you now, I would have never agreed to this.”

He slid his finger beneath her chin, tilted her head back until he could gaze into her eyes. “Knowing you as I do now, I would have agreed without hesitation. Never doubt that I want you to have this.” He threaded his fingers through hers where they rested against her womb. “I hope it happened.”

She was not going to weep. She was not. And yet the threat of tears did not abate. “Know that no child in all of England will be loved more.”

He gave her a forlorn smile. “I have no doubt.”

Past his shoulder she saw the large stone that marked the start of Walfort’s property go by in a blur.

“Please have the coach stop. I don’t want you . . . we need to part ways here.”

He gave the order and the coach rocked to a stop, nearly making her nauseous with the motion. Almost immediately the footman opened the door.

“Give us a few moments,” Ainsley barked, and the door was quickly closed.

Easing back so she could see him more clearly, she traced her fingers over the lines on his face, lines too deep for a man his age. “I shall never look upon a star in quite the same way.”

He flashed a familiar grin. “Neither shall I, I assure you.”

She licked her lips. “In all our time together, you never kissed me on the mouth.”

“One of your rules, sweetheart. I was determined not to break a single one. But if you broke—”

With a desperation, a hunger that astounded her, she covered his mouth with hers. He tasted richer than she remembered, and while she may have initiated the kiss, he was not shy about taking it further.

She was barely aware of him moving her onto his lap, securing her against his chest while his mouth plundered hers. She should have insisted upon this sooner, should have sent all her blasted rules to perdition. Their tongues mated and danced, searched and explored, but there wasn’t time now, not enough to learn everything. The first instance when they’d kissed, she was terrified by the feelings he’d brought to the fore. Now she relished in them. She felt so alive. Every nerve sang. Every inch of her skin tingled.

His skilled hands roamed over her, pressed against her. Everywhere he touched, pleasure and desire mingled. She became aware of his fingers massaging her calf, sliding up—

“No, no,” she breathed against his mouth, pressed her forehead to his, fought to stave off the tears as long as possible. “Good-bye, Ainsley.”

She slid off his lap, reached for the door—

“Jayne?”

She didn’t want to look back at him. But he’d given her so much, she owed him at least a final glance. She twisted around. Her heart ached at the raw emotion she saw in his eyes.

“You once asked me if I’d willingly trade places with Walfort.”

“And you said no.”

“I have since learned that I was mistaken. I would rather be a cripple and have your love for all of a single moment than to live as I am without ever having it.”

She couldn’t say the words she knew he longed to hear. It would devastate her; in all likelihood devastate him as well. Better to pretend that for them they didn’t exist.

Shaking her head, she opened the door, grateful to find the footman at the ready to hand her down. When he closed it, she rushed to her own carriage without looking back.

W
alfort sat in his wheelchair by the window, waiting. He knew she would be returning this afternoon. Strange how he was anticipating and dreading her arrival in equal measure.

He had not loved her when he married her. Had not loved her when he was a complete man. He’d only come to love and appreciate Jayne after so much had been taken from them. Her devotion had astounded him. Her loyalty had humbled him. The sacrifice forced on her—to never have children—had tormented him.

If she knew the truth of that night, of so many nights before it, she’d despise him. He couldn’t add her hatred of him as another failure in his life, couldn’t burden her with that emotion. Selfishly, neither could he live without her brightening his days.

He saw the carriage rounding the bend in the road leading toward his manor and his heart sped up, pounding with a rhythm that his legs had once used to race over the fields when he was a lad. Damn, but he did miss the mobility he’d taken for granted.

Just as he knew he’d miss the wife he’d taken for granted if she were no longer at his side.

The carriage rolled to a stop. He remained where he was, watching, waiting. Even when he’d had the use of his legs, he never greeted her. Never swept her up into his arms.

He’d give his soul to be able to do either now. Instead he’d given her Ainsley.

The footman opened the door, handed her down. Then she lifted her skirts and rushed toward the house, running up the steps. He heard the door open.

“Walfort!”

“Here, love.”

Breathless, she appeared in the doorway, her hair askew. Dear God, but she was beautiful. His heart ached with how much he’d felt her absence.

“Walfort,” she rasped, before racing across the room, dropping onto his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him so tightly as to nearly suffocate him.

Her sobs shook her body, her tears dampened his neck. He drew her nearer, held her securely as his own eyes burned. Deep within him, sadness battled with joy as the truth battered him.

He had no doubt that his greatest fear and his dearest desire had been realized: she’d fallen in love with Ainsley.

Dear God, what had he done?

A
s the coach neared the cottage, Ainsley felt as though he’d lived through the longest journey of his life. The coach door had closed with a resounding click that Ainsley thought would haunt him for the remainder of his days and nights. He’d dropped back against the plush seating of the coach and waited. Hearing the distant pounding of horses’ hooves, he’d glanced out the window as Walfort’s carriage rolled by. He’d hoped to catch a last glimpse of Jayne but all he saw was shadows.

Reaching up, he’d pounded on the ceiling. “Return to Blackmoor.”

Night had fallen hours ago. He should have stopped somewhere, taken a respite from the traveling and begun again in the morning. Instead, he allowed them to stop only to change horses. Other than that, they pressed on.

When the coach finally came to a halt, he disembarked and headed for the stables. It was long past midnight. Still, he saddled his favorite gelding, mounted up, and sent the horse into a jarring gallop. He was going to grant himself leave to think of her until dawn, and then he would never think of her again. He would move on with his life as though she’d never been part of it. All their days and nights together would be relegated to a distant memory, never to be visited. He’d already made the decision to sell the cottage.

He brought the horse to a halt near the ancient oak tree. Skillfully, purposefully, he clambered up it until he reached
their
branch. He sat astride it with his back pressed to the hard bark of the trunk. Tonight a full moon glimmered in the night sky. His throat was thick with tears but he refused to give them freedom. He’d never wept in his life; he certainly wasn’t going to start now.

Even when his father died he’d not cried. But then he’d been only four. He hadn’t truly understood what happened. Death was an incomprehensible concept. He thought his father had gone to sleep, no more than that. But he’d never seen him again.

He wondered what his father would have thought of his recent actions, then decided it made no difference. All that mattered was what the principal players thought: Jayne, Walfort, and himself.

As she was leaving the coach, he’d almost told her that he’d fallen in love with her. Deeply. Irrevocably. In love.

Madness. To tell her. To acknowledge it himself. If anything, it would simply make life harder for them all.

In the morning he would return to the cottage and his inconsequential, boring existence. He would fill his days with work, managing his estates and his finances, and he would fill his evenings with women. Not a single night would go by without a woman in his bed, in his arms, whispering his name.

He would forget her. Jayne Seymour, Marchioness of Walfort. He would never think of her again.

As the moon carried itself toward the horizon, he followed its path and wondered if it was as lonely as he.

Chapter 18

Lyons Place

Christmas Eve, 1860

S
itting in the great room of his brother’s ancestral residence, Ainsley welcomed the distraction of Christmas. He enjoyed his older brother’s fine liquor—probably a bit too much, if the swaying of the decorated tree standing on the table in the corner was any indication. The family collie, Fennimore, was curled beside the bassinet where the newest addition to the family—Rafe—slept soundly. It was a familiar sight. He had served as sentry for both of the children who’d come before this latest little one.

His mother and Leo were in attendance, but far too somber. They intended to travel once again to Lynnford’s estate tomorrow. Lady Lynnford was in rapid decline and the duchess wanted to be there for the woman who had helped her raise three sons. Lady Lynnford never realized that one of them was her husband’s. If the duchess had her way, the countess would go to her grave ignorant of that tidbit of information.

Stephen and his family were absent. Mercy had presented Stephen with another son only three days before, so it would be several weeks before she would be out and about.

Thinking of Mercy’s situation brought Ainsley’s musings careening back to Jayne. He’d had no success in banishing her from his thoughts or memories. Perhaps because he’d only left Blackmoor the day before to journey here. He’d wandered that damned cottage because it still carried her scent, her presence. He’d decided against selling it. When he first spied it, he immediately fell in love with the residence and the land surrounding it. It meant more to him now. Silly to even consider giving it up.

But from Westcliffe’s, he would return to his own ancestral estate, Grantwood Manor. He’d neglected it and his other responsibilities far too long. He needed to move forward with his life. He’d decided to take a mistress. One woman. Why exert effort wooing a different woman every night? He would find one who pleased him and set up a house for her. She would see to his needs. He would ensure she was comfortably set. It would be a beneficial arrangement for them both. He should have done it sooner. This flittering about from woman to woman was wearisome. He’d not been with one since Jayne had left, and it was making him antsy. That was the reason for his unease, he told himself; not the damned missive he’d received last week.

Thank you.

The messenger who delivered it had done so with only three words: “For the duke.”

He’d promptly departed, as though no reply was warranted or wanted.

Thank you.

Ainsley didn’t know if the words had been written by Walfort or Jayne. Walfort in all likelihood. Jayne knew that he wanted no confirmation, had no desire to know if they’d met with success. But how could he not learn of it? It would be all the talk in London during the upcoming Season. Perhaps he’d avoid going into the city. No, it was important that he at least show his face, visit his old haunts, and flirt with the ladies. Restore his reputation. He’d neglected it of late.

Besides, his mistress would be there so he’d be adequately entertained. He was looking forward to it. He should go to town early, find the proper residence for the woman who would occupy his nights, begin arranging—

“Uncle.”

He shifted his gaze over and wondered when his brother had acquired a blurred son. He did hope the lad hadn’t come to tell him he was needed elsewhere. He wasn’t certain his legs would be steady enough to support him. Where were the deuced things anyway? He forced his eyes to focus and arched a single eyebrow. “Nephew.”

It was evident by his twitching shoulders that Viscount Waverly, the future Earl of Westcliffe, struggled not to laugh. Somberly greeting each other was a long-honored jest between them. Ainsley couldn’t even remember how the tradition had begun.

Waverly wiggled his eyebrows, up, down, up, down. He frowned, scrunched up his five-year-old mouth. Then he touched Ainsley’s raised eyebrow as though he expected it to bite.

“How do you do that?”

“Practice, lad.” Reaching out, he ruffled the boy’s dark hair, trying not to wonder about the shade of hair that Jayne’s child would display.
Jayne’s child
. He would not, could not, think of it as his. The pain would be too great. He’d gone into the arrangement knowing the cost. He couldn’t regret it now. “You’ll learn when you’re older. What do you think of your brother?”

“He cries too much.”

“So did you at that age.”

“No. I never cry. Boys don’t.”

“He’s a boy.”

Waverly looked at him as though he thought his uncle should take up residence in Bedlam. Ainsley didn’t want to contemplate that if he didn’t marry, didn’t have an heir, it might be this lad who saw after him in his dotage.

“No, he’s not. He’s a babe,” Waverly insisted.

“Hmm. And what do you think would make him a boy?”

Waverly wrinkled his nose, then glanced down at the crotch of his short pants. “He has one of those. I’ve seen it.”

“Well, there you are, then.”

“I think Hope had one, too,” he said, referring to his sister, “but hers fell off.”

Fortunate for Ainsley, he hadn’t taken a swallow of brandy. He’d have unceremoniously spewed it. He fought back his smile. “Did it now?”

He wasn’t about to go into an explanation on the unlikelihood of that scenario.

Westcliffe ambled over and laid his hand on his son’s head, a possessive but loving gesture. “You’re not bothering your uncle, are you?”

“Not at all,” Ainsley was quick to answer. “We were engaged in a philosophical discussion regarding what makes little boys
boys
.”

“Snips, snails, and puppy dog tails—something like that, isn’t it?” Westcliffe asked.

“Uncle Stephen is going to give me a pony for Christmas,” Waverly said, obviously either no longer caring about the discussion or in all likelihood simply having grown bored with it.

When Stephen had married, Ainsley asked him to watch over his property in Hertfordshire. Stephen took an instant dislike to the smell of sheep. Eventually he purchased the land from Ainsley—since it wasn’t entailed—and populated it with horses.

“He’s a good uncle,” Ainsley offered.

Waverly looked at him with big brown button eyes, expectation mirrored in them.

Ainsley grinned. “You’ll have to wait to find out what I’m giving you for Christmas.” A fishing pole. He thought perhaps in summer he’d take the boy to Blackmoor. That, too, was part of the gift. Still, it wasn’t as exciting as a pony.

Westcliffe patted the lad’s shoulder. “Run along now. Your mother needs you.”

With all the decorum of a future lord, Waverly walked away.

“Come spring, I believe I shall take him tree climbing.”

“Not unless you’re sober,” Westcliffe said as he drew a chair nearer and dropped into it. “You’re usually a bit more social.”

“A death looms. Being somber seemed to suit.”

“Is that all that’s troubling you?”

“Little late to be playing the role of older brother.”

“I would have played it before but you insisted on usurping it from me. Claire’s worried about you. She says you’ve lost weight.”

Ainsley chuckled darkly. “Well, now, if she says it then it must be true. Assure her all is well.”

He shook his head. Claire had watched over him when he was younger, which allowed him to play with the others. Hide and seek had been his favorite game. As long as he hid somewhere near Westcliffe, she’d never find him because she was too terrified of her future husband to search any of the hiding areas around him. “My apologies,” Ainsley said. “That was curt and rude of me. I appreciate her concern, but all is as it should be.”

“I’m not certain that particular wording brings me any comfort. For all I know, you might consider ‘as it should be’ to be hell.”

Ainsley grinned. His brother was far more perceptive than he realized. Anxious to change topics, he said, “We seem to have a preponderance of boys in this family.”

“Stephen’s wife and mine know their duty.” Westcliffe’s voice held a teasing lilt. Ainsley suspected Claire’s duty was whatever she decided it was. He knew Westcliffe adored her, had years of hurting her for which to atone.

“And if they produced only girls?” Ainsley asked.

“I daresay we’d not love them any less. Have you given any thought to your heir? Claire informs me that several young ladies from the finest families will have their coming out this year.”

“So young they’ll no doubt appear childish to a man of my experience.”

“Are you thinking of someone older?”

“I’m not thinking of anyone at all.” Lie. He thought of Jayne. Constantly. It was becoming somewhat irritating.

“Well, then—” Westcliffe slapped Ainsley’s knee. “—I shall leave you to it. I’ve neglected my wife for far too long.”

Watching his brother walk away, Ainsley reached for his tumbler.

Thank you.

He lifted the glass slightly and whispered his toast, “Merry Christmas, Jayne.”