Julia London (75 page)

Alone in his study, Alex stared at a mountain of paperwork. Work had proven impossible; the restlessness in him of late was seemingly eternal, making normal activity intolerable. The turmoil of his thoughts and the memory of Lauren’s anguish in the Darfield’s arbor yesterday burned him.

What in the hell was the matter with him? Why this woman captivated him so was baffling—he was not a man who brooded about women, but he had done nothing but that since discovering her at the Granbury reception.

Disgusted, Alex abruptly stood from his desk, walked to a walnut sideboard, and poured a sherry. Finishing it in one gulp, he was reaching for more when the door opened and Finch stepped across the threshold. “Her grace the duchess and Lady Marlaine,” he announced. Alex nodded curtly and lowered the glass, hardly prepared to make chitchat with Marlaine.

The worried look on his mother’s face as she rushed through the door surprised him. Marlaine, her face pale, followed a few feet behind. “Mother? What is it?”

“Oh darling, I was with Marlaine and Lady Whitcomb this morning going over the details of the wedding breakfast when they received some terrible news,” Hannah exclaimed.

A stab of panic hit him squarely in the gut, and Alex jerked toward Marlaine. She dropped her eyes to the carpet. Quickly, he went to her, taking her delicate hands in his. “What news, Marlaine?”

“It’s
Grandmama,
” she burst forth on a sob. “Oh Alex, she has taken a turn for the worse! Mama and Papa are preparing to leave for Tarriton right away!” A large tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

He swept it away with the pad of his thumb. “Then you must go to your Grandmama right away. Finch, have the barouche brought round.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Marlaine sniffed, fighting valiantly to hold back her tears. Alex draped an arm around her shoulder and cupped her head against his shoulder. “Ah, darling, I am so very sorry,” he murmured.

She suddenly gripped the lapels of his coat. “You will come with me, won’t you Alex? I cannot bear the thought of that journey alone, truly I cannot!”

He unconsciously stiffened as a fleeting thought of Lauren skipped across his mind. “Marlaine, you are very strong when you must be.”

She choked on another deep sob. “No, Alex, I am
not
strong, not at all! I cannot face it! I had so wanted Grandmama to see us married—I
promised
her she would see it! Oh please, you must come with me!”

He hesitated—excuses tumbled in his brain, and he marveled at how easily they had come to him. Over the top of her head, he glanced at his mother, but quickly averted his gaze. It hardly mattered—he could feel her eyes burning a hole through him, her disapproval emanating across the room and swallowing him whole. How could he blame her?
Marlaine would be his wife in a matter of weeks, and he was hesitating, actually thinking of ways to avoid the trip to her grandmother’s deathbed. God, what in the bloody hell was the matter with him?

“I … I understand you are needed here. I know how important your work is,” Marlaine mumbled, obviously trying to convince herself. “But … but Tarriton is only a two-hour drive from London.” She looked up at him with large, glimmering brown eyes that made him feel instantly and terribly contrite.

“Of course I will go with you,” he said soothingly, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, despising himself and his faithless thoughts.

   Tarriton, an enormously grand estate just north of London, had been awash in steady drizzle for the three days since their arrival. Alex could not recall a time he had visited Tarriton when it had
not
rained. It was a dreary place, made even more so by the fact that a woman lay upstairs, hovering between life and death. For three days there had been no change in the status of Lady Whitcomb’s mother. She did not improve, she did not worsen. At times, she was awake and lucid, but for the most part, she simply slept.

On the first day of the family’s deathwatch, Alex had occupied himself with the work he had brought along, completing it and dispatching it to London before the evening shadows had begun to lengthen. He had begun the second day by wandering aimlessly from room to room, which had only increased the insufferable restlessness he felt. So he had attempted to read, but found he could not concentrate long enough to comprehend it. In the afternoon, he had briefly debated the necessity of parliamentary reform with Lord Whitcomb, but it was obvious the earl had little interest in politics with illness oppressing his house. Alex had tried to cheer a sullen Marlaine, but she was inconsolable.

The family’s evening meal was a morose affair. They ate
mostly in silence, attempting half-hearted conversation about the wedding, until Marlaine had begged to be excused, saying she could not discuss the wedding while her grand-mama lay suffering in a room just above her. The entire meal was greatly disconcerting to Alex—for some reason, he felt as depressed about the wedding talk as he did the deathwatch.

On this, the fourth morning, Alex had gone out for an early morning ride to clear his head of the discontent threatening to drown him. The whole of Tarriton was beginning to feel like a banishment, entrapping him in a world where conversations drifted from the dying, to overdone weddings, and back again. Extremely agitated and short-tempered, he had ridden for over an hour, getting drenched to the bone, but quite unable to rid himself of the agitation at his core. Moreover, he was quite unable to rid his thoughts of Lauren.

Tremendously disturbing thoughts.

Having done everything he knew to cure himself of the restlessness, and having failed miserably, Alex sat alone in the earl’s study, staring blindly at the large expanse of windows. The only sound in the room was the steady
tap tap tap
of the quill he absently drummed against the desktop.

A familiar wave of guilt swept through him. This was how he repaid Marlaine’s loyalty—by dreaming of Lauren, by thinking of her constantly. He had tried to see Marlaine differently, to desire her, but thoughts of the angel with eyes of blue had rooted, unwelcome, in his mind and heart. He was a bloody fool—he had a duty to Marlaine. Yes, and that
duty
was eating away at him, a little every day.

Why he was so interested in a country lass with an obscure title confounded him. Bloody hell, his “interest” had turned his ordered world upside down. What in the hell was it about Lauren that made him so insane with longing? She was beautiful, true. But he had known many beautiful women and had never felt such a peculiar sense of urgency about seeing them, not even when his physical need of them
was at its greatest. It was not actually lust that bewitched him, although he certainly seemed to have plenty of
that
in store. Perhaps it was her wit, or her unusual gift for languages, or her amusing penchant for tossing in little quotations from English literature when the conversation warranted. She was a clever woman.

But he did not normally
dream
about clever women.

It could be her genuine kindness. She had a certain quality he admired and envied. He recalled her charming tale of the Potato Man, her insistence he dance with the mousy Charlotte Pritchit because it was a “nice thing to do,” her acceptance of Paddy’s leaden conversation. And God knew Abbey Ingram thought she was a saint incarnate because of her attention to those unfortunate children at Rosewood.

Yes, he thought as the quill’s tempo increased, he had all the symptoms of being hopelessly besotted. Frustrated, he tossed the quill onto the desk and stood, moving to the window. Jesus, the need to look deep into those dark blue eyes was slowly devouring him. He wanted to feel her body beneath his, hear her melodic laughter. He wanted to listen to her sing, recite some little poem, and experience the impact of that devastating smile on all of his senses.

Bloody hell, his desires were intolerable, insupportable, and infuriating! He was a
duke
, for Chrissakes! He had responsibilities to his title and to Marlaine, not the least of which were marrying and producing an heir. He should be paying attention to the details of managing his vast estates,
not
daydreaming about a woman constantly shadowed by a giant Bavarian! He should be helping Marlaine plan their wedding trip,
not
wondering when he might see Rosewood again.

But the truth was that while he was a duke, he was also a man. And this man wanted Lauren Hill, the rest of the world be damned. He had tried to find conviction of purpose in the deepest recesses of his soul, but to no avail. He just could not conjure the will to fight his increasing desire.

He heard the door open and steeled himself—as he did every time a door opened in this house—for the news that Grandmama had died. He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

Marlaine was smiling. “It’s wonderful news! The doctor says she is somewhat better.”

“Truly?” he asked, surprised.

She hurried toward him, her hands clasped tightly at her waist. “She is not out of the woods, but he believes there may be reason to hope!” she said brightly.

“That’s marvelous news, Marlaine.”

She beamed at him. “Yes, isn’t it?”

He extended his hand to her; she came willingly when he pulled her into his arms. “It is my fervent prayer that she survives to see you happily married,” he said softly, and kissed the top of her head.

“I am very optimistic,” she said, nodding hopefully, and with a timid glance at the door, pulled away from him, out of his arms. Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and resumed his position in front of the window. “Mama’s spirits are much brighter. She said we might have a game of loo after supper,” she added.

“I shall look forward to it,” Alex muttered, already dreading it.

   The next morning Marlaine was glad to see a few feeble rays of sun had broken through the clouds as she descended the stairs. They all needed a little sunshine to chase away the gloom. Although Grandmama had not improved through the night, she had not worsened, and the doctor had said that was the most important thing.

She made her way to the dining room, hungry for the first time in days. She was pleased to find Alex there, reading a paper, the remains of his half-eaten breakfast pushed aside. “Good morning,” she said, smiling.

He glanced up and gave her a weak smile. “Good morning.”

“Grandmama is the same,” she said, her smile fading a bit. “But the doctor said we should be much encouraged if she did not worsen in the night.”

“Ah, that’s excellent news.” He turned his attention to the paper.

The invisible wall was coming between them again, she thought, and walked to the sideboard and slowly helped herself to some eggs and toast. Alex had been distant with her for some time now, but then again, the strain had been hard on everyone. Preparations for such a large wedding were so very stressful anyway, and coupled with a family crisis—well, it was hard on everyone. “Shall I fetch you something?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” he mumbled from behind his paper. Shrugging, she took a seat to Alex’s right. He continued to read. “Have you seen Papa this morning?”

He did not look up. “He has gone to the stables, I think. Said a mare is about to foal,” he muttered absently.

She pushed her eggs to one side of the plate and picked up a slice of toast, disturbed that she felt so … inconsequential. Determined to prove herself wrong, she tried again. “What are you reading?”

He glanced briefly at her from the corner of his eye—impatiently, she thought. “The commerce news.”

“Oh,” she murmured, and took a bite of toast as she examined his profile. He looked strange—bored, perhaps. Rather uneasy. Honestly, it was the same restless look he had worn for days now, as if he was waiting for something. She shook her head, annoyed at her thoughts. Of course he was restless.
Everyone
was restless, waiting for Grandmama to improve or take a turn for the worse. It was little wonder Alex would be on edge—after all, he hardly knew Grandmama. He had come to Tarriton to be with
her
, she reminded herself, and she had hardly tended to him.

He needed a distraction. “Mama informs me that Lord and Lady Harris will be in Paris when we wed. Lord Harris has some business there that cannot be postponed,” she said nervously, scattering her eggs about her plate.

“Ah, well. I am quite certain they have attended enough weddings to last a lifetime,” he said indifferently, and turned a page.

“Lady Harris gave us a set of beautiful port glasses as a wedding gift. They are heavy crystal, and Mama says one can find that sort of crystal only in Belgium.” Her eggs were now scattered across the entire plate, toast notwithstanding.

“Hmm. That was very thoughtful.”

A vague sense of fear began to rise in Marlaine, and it was not the first time she had experienced it. Oh, she was keenly aware of how little they had in common. He liked horses, she did not. He was concerned with politics, but she liked balls and gardening. Sitting there, desperate for conversation, she could not think of a solitary thing that would particularly interest him. But it wasn’t because of their differences. Her eyes narrowed. He was
bored.

Unnoticed, she leaned back in her chair, staring at him. He was bored, all right, and he had been bored since Countess Bergen had attended the Harris ball! As many times as she had tried to convince herself there was nothing to fear, he had acted distracted, as if he would rather be
anywhere
than with her. He was
bored
, damn it!

She abruptly dropped her fork in her plate.

The loud clatter startled Alex; he jumped, turning quickly to her. “Is something wrong?”

“I should very much like for you to walk in the gardens with me, Alex. The sun has come out, and it looks to be a fine day,” she said, resolutely folding her arms across her middle.

Slowly, he lowered the paper, studying her warily. “If that is what you would like.”

She pushed away from the table and stood. “What I would
like
,” she snapped irritably, “is some companionship!” She did not wait for his response, but moved swiftly for the door, half-tempted to bolt for her rooms.