Douglas: Lord of Heartache (32 page)

“The old weasel is gathering intelligence on the lot of us,” Fairly said. “If you want to worry about something, worry about that. We’ve each misbehaved at some point in the past, and he has the reach to discover all of it, given enough time.”

Gareth did not
want
to worry, and yet…

“Whatever he finds has to be ancient history,” Gareth said, fully cognizant that Society’s memory for scandal went back approximately to the Flood. “Anything of a criminal nature would be tried in the Lords. They don’t convict, as a rule.”

Felicity’s glance warned him his reasoning was In Error. “Whether you fellows are willing to endure whatever mischief the duke can rain down is not the point. The point is he can hold the threat of it over Gwen’s head, and she,
of
all
people
, will not be responsible for bringing more shame to the family.”

“Rose is not a shame.” Fairly spoke quietly but firmly.

“In Gwen’s mind,” Astrid said in the same repressive tones, “she herself is a social liability to this family.”

“Hang social liability,” Andrew expostulated. “This is not an encouraging line of reasoning.”

Marriage, or perhaps fatherhood, had imparted to Andrew the gift of understatement.

“The entire mess is discouraging as hell,” Gareth said, “begging the ladies’ pardon. For all we know, the duke may be rounding up six witnesses to charge Gwen with prostitution.” That silenced the room for long, uncomfortable moments.

“Somebody had better keep a very close eye on Gwen,” Andrew said. “If the duke can’t get to her, he can’t threaten her.”

“Douglas asked she not be left alone with His Grace,” Fairly reminded them.

“I’ll insist she spend time here with family once the marriage proposal is on the table,” Gareth added, though Gwen would probably rather hare away to Enfield, there to suffer in solitude.

“And, David”—Astrid skewered her brother with a look—“you’ll write to Douglas
immediately
.”

***

As Douglas watched his mother die, he found a slow, silent wasting had nothing to recommend it over the violent deaths of his brothers and father. His mother lay, day after day, unmoving and as if dead in her sickbed.

But she breathed, her chest rising and falling with lugubrious regularity, while her body grew smaller, older, and weaker. She was stubborn, the nurse said, or perhaps afraid to die.

Douglas rose from his mother’s bedside, where he sat for several intermittent hours each day. The duty had been distasteful at first, but as he’d grown accustomed to his mother’s appearance and made her final arrangements, the privacy had become welcome.

Welcome, except Douglas was afflicted with a burning sense he should not be away from Guinevere and Rose.

He was met in the hallway by a footman bearing a letter addressed from David Worthington, Viscount Fairly. An acid unease gnawed at Douglas’s stomach as he dismissed the footman and found his own room. Fairly had written earlier that Lord Valentine Windham was in Town, perhaps for the holidays, but more likely to say his final farewells to Victor. Douglas had a passing acquaintance with Lord Valentine, having overlapped a year with him at Oxford.

He liked Valentine Windham well enough, liked that the man had developed his musical talent contrary to His Grace’s preferences, but did not like
at
all
the implication that the duke was massing his troops.

The letter was every bit as alarming as Douglas had feared, and Douglas was stuck at Amery Hall, waiting for his mother to die, just as Guinevere was likely sitting in Town, praying unceasingly that Victor would not.

***

When Westhaven came to call, Gwen knew the purpose of his visit, for he’d buried his brother the previous day.

Westhaven bowed. “Miss Hollister. Or may I call you Gwen?”

Right
down
to
business.
The dratted man would likely approach consummation of his vows with the same brisk, unsentimental efficiency, which thought made Gwen
ill
.

“You have called me Gwen on previous occasions. I see no harm in it, but returning the familiarity may be beyond me.”

“My name is Gayle,” Westhaven said. “You have leave to use it, though even my family prefers addressing me by the title. Practice, I suppose, for when I am the duke. You understand the purpose of this visit?” He sounded prepared to provide her instruction on the matter should she answer in the negative.

“I suppose. Shall we be seated, and shall I ring for tea?”

For then she could at least scald a few of his more troublesome parts.

“Yes to both. Tell me again why you don’t want to marry me?” he asked, seating himself on the end of the settee at right angles to Gwen’s chair. He crossed his legs and straightened the crease of his breeches with a casual elegance that suggested he proposed to unwilling brides regularly.

“In the first place, I object to any marriage based on coercion, and neither of us would have chosen the other but for the duke’s manipulation.”

Westhaven perused her, though his assessment this time was dispassionate. “Allow me to doubt that. You are very pretty, Gwen Hollister, and as poised and lovely as any princess. Our paths might have crossed, and we might have noticed each other.”

The violence of Gwen’s frustration exceeded anything she’d ever felt parenting Rose, and that was saying something.

“
Don’t do this.
Don’t try to talk yourself into me, Westhaven. I am the granddaughter of a lowly squire turned earl, and our paths
did
cross in more than one ballroom, and you didn’t take an interest in me when it would have been appropriate. We were coerced into this situation, but we both get something we want from it.”

“So you will marry me?” He put the question as casually as he might have asked her to drive out with him later that day.

“I suppose.”

“A ringing endorsement.” His voice was laced with irony when the dratted man ought to have been fuming. “We will muddle along together well enough, but I am still at a loss to understand your reluctance. You gain the status of prospective duchess, I am not a bad specimen as a spouse, and you and Rose will be secure, socially and financially. What is it you think you are giving up in this awful bargain?”

“Gayle,” she used his name intentionally, though it felt toweringly awkward, “I believe you are a good man, honorable, kind, and tolerant within the ambit of the responsibilities you bear. If we marry, I will do my best to be a good wife to you, but what I am giving up… I was happy, you see.”

The realization sank in only as she formed the words. “I was finally happy. If I marry you, my family,
my
loved
ones
, will not understand. I will lose them, and I hold them more dear than I knew. And in exchange, I will have… the duke, a duchess whose life consists of managing the man she loves, a brother-in-law who would rather rusticate on a piano bench than face his father, another brother-in-law who hasn’t bothered to introduce himself, and you.”

“And me?”

“You are not happy. You are defeated.” And where was the dratted tea tray when a woman was busy ruining any chance she might have had for a cordial white marriage?

She had used the word Lord Valentine had chosen. Defeated—the woman she’d been when Douglas had met her, the woman she would soon be again. The duke had defeated his entire family, and he had defeated her, too.

She was glad Douglas was not on hand to see the entire farce play out, even as she missed him with a bitter ache.

“Reserve judgment until we’re married,” Westhaven said, “and then you’ll see just how undefeated I can be.”

***

Gwen’s wedding day arrived, and she felt nothing. Somewhere beneath her immediate awareness she was grieving—not for Victor, who doubtless had embraced death like a friend—but for her dreams, her hopes, her carefully nurtured fantasies.

For
her
Douglas.
She was marrying, all but behind his back, while he dutifully kept a death watch by his mother’s bed. David had likely informed Douglas of the goings-on, but what, really, could Douglas have done? Wished her well?

He likely would have, so genuine was his regard for her.

“Dearest cousin.” Gareth broke into her reverie. “You might try to look composed instead of grim.” His tone held a wealth of regret, though Gwen knew Gareth had tried mightily to drag out the settlement negotiations. His Grace, however, had cheerfully—and quickly—capitulated to every demand.

“Heathgate, Gwen is nervous,” Felicity chided. “Wedding into a ducal family, however quietly, is a nerve-wracking business.”

Gwen made no comment as Gareth handed her down from his emblazoned town coach. The duke had been willing to wait one week after his son’s funeral to hold this wedding, and so, with the yuletide holidays looming, Gwen had endured social calls from her five prospective sisters-in-law, and the hasty assembling of a small if exquisite trousseau. Her hand sported an elegant emerald and diamond ring, and her daughter had flown into transports at the prospect of attending the wedding.

Until Rose had realized her mother was marrying Uncle Gayle, who would then be her step-papa.

The conversation had gone round and round, until Gwen had bribed Rose with the prospect of riding Sir George to the church, complete with hothouse flowers braided into his mane.

In the end, Rose’s elegant little pink skirts did not arrange themselves to her satisfaction on Sir George’s back. Andrew had taken Rose up before him on Magic, while Sir George had been tied ignominiously to the back of Gareth’s coach.

Dealing with Rose’s temper, however, had made them quite late to the church and only added to Gwen’s sense of unreality. What ducal bride had to argue with her five-year-old regarding seating arrangements in the bridal coach?

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Gareth said when he handed her from the coach. “Whatever the duke is threatening or implying, we can weather it, Gwen, but only if you’ll let us help.”

She shook her head, tears gathering when she ought to have cried enough for a lifetime already. Felicity and Astrid led her toward the church, knowing better than to assault her with small talk and false cheer.

The moment before she crossed the threshold into the pretty building where she would make vows that would ensure she never again held the man she loved in her arms, Gwen cast a longing glance in the direction of Commerce Street.

Douglas wasn’t coming, the duke wasn’t backing down, and there was nothing Gwen could do except marry the groom the duke had chosen for her.

***

Andrew rode up on his big black gelding and stepped down to hand his reins to a groom, and Rose to a footman.

“Your beast is much quieter with town traffic than I thought he’d ever be.” Gareth shook his brother’s hand and looked the horse over. “You’ve done well with him.”

Andrew patted the horse’s glossy neck. “I spoil him rotten. How’s Gwennie?”

“Other than looking like she’s on her way to her own hanging, doing splendidly. Where’s Fairly?”

“Sent along a note about having the flu again,” Andrew said. “He seemed healthy enough to me, though I suppose we can proceed without him. Probably did not want to be a party to this farce. Has the doting duke shown up yet?”

Gareth permitted himself a patently unpleasant smile. “I’m sure he’ll want to make an entrance.”

The ducal coach and six—snow white and all of a height—trotted down from the square, as if on cue.

The duke’s footmen, postilions, outriders, and other assorted lackeys swarmed the coach before it disgorged its cargo. When the steps had been let down, the duke himself, in full regalia, assisted one pretty female after another from his carriage. Lord Valentine Windham, arrayed in courtly splendor, brought up the rear on a dark horse.

“Let the play begin,” Andrew muttered.

When the Windham ladies were organized on the arms of various footmen, the party began its stately parade toward the church. Gareth watched this bit of ducal stagecraft, not surprised when Moreland detached himself from the procession to approach. His Grace was beaming, no doubt pleased his machinations were about to bear fruit. His youngest son loitered a few paces away, expression bored.

“Your Grace.” Gareth bowed to the duke, Andrew following suit.

“Gentlemen, a fine day for a wedding,” Moreland commented jovially. “I take it the blushing bride has already arrived?”

“Gwen is here,” Gareth replied, though if Gwen were blushing, it was no thanks to any Windhams. “Westhaven awaits within, as do the appropriate documents, but I have to say, Your Grace, if this wedding goes forward, I believe we will all regret it.”

Moreland’s white eyebrows lifted, but his smile didn’t falter. “You are mistaken, Heathgate. There will be regret all around if this wedding does
not
go forward. Now, shall we join the others? Miss Hollister is no doubt anxious to conclude the ceremony.”

No,
she
was
not.
Gareth glanced up the street where Andrew’s tiger was trying to quiet a restive Magic. Two horsemen came galloping around the corner, causing a general commotion. One did not gallop in Town, and certainly not at ten of the clock, and most assuredly not right up to St. George’s very steps.

“Cavalry,” Andrew muttered to his brother, nodding at the pair who had swung down off their horses and were approaching the church at a purposeful jog.

“We’re not too late,” Fairly said to Douglas as they came panting up the steps.

“You.” Douglas shot forward toward the duke. “What have you done with Guinevere?”

“Amery?” The duke stepped back, his face a mask of disdain. “Miss Hollister awaits us in the church, where she will join with my heir in holy matrimony. Now if you will take your odoriferous, untidy self off, I’ve a wedding to attend.”

“There will be no wedding,” Douglas snarled, grabbing the duke by the forearm.

The duke looked down pointedly at Douglas’s worn, sweaty riding glove gripping his coat, and then up at his footmen, postilions, outriders, and grooms.