The Seduction of Lady X (36 page)

Harrison had not thought of the slights his father had given him in many years. But he was reminded of how painful it was to know that the earl had seen him, his son, so many times and looked right through him. It was as if Harrison had not even existed to that man. All those years he’d spent praying for a father, watching the men parading through his mother’s life, wondering if any of them could be the one. When Harrison was very young, he imagined that one of them was his father and didn’t know of him, and if only he could determine which one, he could tell them,
I am your son.
And in his innocence, he’d imagined the gentleman would fall to his knees in gratitude, would sweep him up and hold him tight, vowing to never let him go.

Harrison looked at Alexa. She was sitting very still, her gaze on a portrait above the hearth. She was surely thinking what he was thinking—that her child would be just like him. Harrison couldn’t live with himself if he left her child to suffer that. He was doing the right thing. As privately painful as it was, he was doing the right thing for an unborn child.

“I did not mean to dredge up unpleasant memories,” Lady Eberlin said. “I have been eager to solve the mystery of what happened to the jewels.”

“And now you have your answer, my love,” Eberlin said, and put aside his teacup. “Shall we leave them to the business of their estate? I am certain Mr. Fish has quite a lot of news to impart.”

“I do indeed,” Mr. Fish said, patting the ledger on his lap.

“Thank you for coming,” Harrison said, and saw the Eberlins out. They paused in the foyer to look at the staircase.

“It’s an astounding piece of work,” Harrison said as he admired the meandering vine carved into the railing. “Your father is a master woodcarver, I take it?”

“He was. He is deceased,” Eberlin said. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “He was hanged for the crime of stealing the ruby jewelry.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harrison asked, startled.

Eberlin swallowed and looked at Harrison. “He was Lady Ashwood’s lover. The old earl allowed him to be accused and to hang for the crime, so that he might give the jewels to your mother.”

Harrison was shocked. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

Eberlin smiled. “There is nothing to say, Mr. Tolly. I have long since come to terms with it. I hope you will, too. By the bye, we’ve a box of things that we collected from Mrs. Braintree you might find of interest. I’ll have it sent round on the morrow. Good day.”

“Good day, sir,” Lady Eberlin added, and allowed her husband to lead her out of the house.

“One cannot say Ashwood has not seen her share of tragedies,” Mr. Fish said. “But I should like to think happier days have come. Shall we have a look at the books?”

They repaired to the study, where Mr. Fish gave Harrison a detailed discourse in the business of Ashwood. Mr. Fish was a thorough man and acquitted himself as well as Harrison would ever hope to do himself. It was clear the estate was suffering from poor fiscal management, but Harrison was seasoned at righting listing ships—Lord Westhorpe had given him ample opportunity over the years.

“I think we might reverse Ashwood’s fortunes with a few strategic moves,” he said as Mr. Fish prepared to take his leave.

“I agree, my lord,” Mr. Fish said.

“I am not a lord, sir,” Harrison corrected him.

Mr. Fish smiled. “Not at the moment, perhaps, but I think it inevitable. Lady Eberlin is determined that you shall have all that is rightfully yours.”

“Yes,” Harrison said. “About that. I would like to marry Miss Hastings as soon as is possible. It would be preferable if the posting of banns might somehow be avoided or expedited.” He gave Fish a sidelong look. “Is that something you might arrange?”

Mr. Fish blinked, then nodded. “I think I might.”

“You have probably guessed that time is of the essence. How soon might we stand before a clergyman?”

Mr. Fish’s cheeks took on a slightly rosy hue. “I should think Friday. Shall I speak to the vicar on your behalf?”

“With all due discretion, please.”

“Of course,” Mr. Fish said.

Harrison could feel the heat in his neck, and clasped his hands at his back. “Thank you, Mr. Fish. Is there anything more?”

“No. I shall return on the morrow with the details you need.”

Mr. Fish left—all but sprinting, really—and Harrison felt the heat in his neck climb to his cheeks. The die had been cast now. There was no turning back.

A
lexa dressed in one of the few gowns that didn’t strain across her belly and would contain her swelling breasts. She would have to speak to Harry about suitable clothing for her spreading waistline.

She wondered when precisely she should do that as she donned her earrings. Since they’d arrived at Ashwood, she hadn’t seen much of him. Should she mention it before their typically silent supper? Or after, during the silent respite in the salon before they retired?

Alexa studied her belly in the mirror, turning one way, then the other.

Ashwood wasn’t what she had envisioned at all, really. It wasn’t the house—the house and the grounds were worn, but she supposed that might be expected, given that no one had tended it for so long. The estate could all be made spectacular again with some funding and ideas.

What was wrong about Ashwood was Harry. Her would-be earl.

Alexa had believed they would marry, and she would be a countess, and she would spend her days readying her nursery and inviting ladies to luncheon. She hadn’t really thought much beyond that. She’d avoided thinking beyond that. For when she thought of herself with a baby, she inevitably thought of Carlos, and the ache in her heart would flare and . . . well, she would rather not think of it.

But Alexa did like to think of how she might dress the nursery, and how she and Harry might walk about the grounds and have a look at things, and they would talk, and they would become the sort of friends she supposed men and women must be if they were married.

Yet they’d been here a little more than a week, and instead of growing closer as she had hoped, Harrison seemed to grow more distant. Moreover, he was cross. He was no longer the smiling, self-possessed man she’d first encountered at Everdon Court. When Alexa had made the mistake of remarking on it one night, he had curtly informed her that Ashwood required his attention at present, and he apologized if that did not meet with her expectations.

Alexa had retired that evening feeling childish and patronized.

Moreover, she did not believe him. It wasn’t the business of Ashwood that had occupied his thoughts; it was Olivia. Alexa had glimpsed the truth on the day she and Harry had departed Everdon Court, and Harry and Olivia could not seem to tear their eyes from one another. But Alexa had reasoned that all away. She and Harry had embarked on a new path now, and as they were a day’s ride from Everdon Court, the affection between Harry and Olivia would fade.

She could no longer pretend that was so. The truth could not have been more glaring to Alexa this afternoon, when Lord and Lady Eberlin had called. Harry had introduced her only as Miss Hastings. He’d left their association to the imagination of the Eberlins, and Alexa had felt humiliated.

Harry couldn’t even say it, and because he couldn’t, the Eberlins undoubtedly thought she was his sister, or his housekeeper, or his mistress—any one of which would make a sudden marriage rather difficult to explain.

Alexa guessed she had at most a month before her situation was noticeable to everyone. Not to mention that the approaching date of the child’s birth would become harder and harder to explain away in any believable way. She had agreed to tie her future to Harry, and now she was dangling at the end of very uncertain rope.

It was Olivia that kept Harry from noticing Alexa. In hindsight, she could see it all so clearly: the way they smiled at each other, as if they shared a secret. Or the times Alexa had come across the two of them, and their heads were together, whispering. She had foolishly believed they were whispering about
her.

She recalled the day Olivia’s decorum had slipped a little and she had referred to Harry by his given name, a sure indication that there was a certain intimacy there—Olivia would never step out of the bounds of propriety and call the steward by his given name. And of course, the day Alexa, Rue, and Harry had taken leave of Everdon Court. Standing in the foyer of the dowager house, Alexa had felt as if she were swimming through all the tension between Harry and her sister.

How could she have been so bloody blind?

It was so out of character for Olivia! She’d always been the quiet, studious one, the daughter their mother had once lamented was so good in character and disposition that she feared Olivia was missing any spice in her life. Yet it was Olivia, simple Olivia, who held Harry’s heart in her hand. Alexa couldn’t even gain his attention, much less wedge herself inside his heart.

She had to
do
something. She could not remain here at Ashwood, growing bigger and bigger and languishing on the edge of scandal, unloved, forgotten, and alone. She put her hand on the soft swell of her belly as she gazed into the mirror. It was time to be even bolder than she normally was. She would speak to Harry now.

The doors of the salon were open when Alexa arrived. Harry was already there, standing with one hand on the mantel, his head down as if he were deep in thought. One would think he wasn’t even aware that a footman stood to one side, waiting to be of use.

When the footman saw Alexa, he said, “Good evening, miss. Shall I pour wine?”

Harry jerked around as if she’d snuck up on him.

Alexa smiled at the footman. “No, thank you, Louis.”

“Alexa,” Harry said. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you. And you?”

He nodded. He picked up his wineglass and drank, draining the remainder in one long swallow. He moved to meet her in the middle of the room, planted a peck on her cheek, and then gestured to the settee.

Alexa sat. He flipped out his tails and sat beside her and smiled. Not the easy smile she’d come to know. This smile did not crinkle the corners of his eyes. This smile seemed forced.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Tedious,” she admitted. “And yours?”

“Busy,” he said. He fixed his gaze on the carpet. “There is much to be done.”

Alexa had had enough. “Harry, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” He was still looking at the carpet, hardly present at all.

“When shall we wed?” she asked bluntly.

Harry came off the settee so quickly it was as if he’d been burned. “Thank you, Louis, I think we might be alone now,” he said.

The footman nodded and went out of the salon, closing the door behind him.

Harry turned around to face Alexa. “You might be a bit more circumspect in your remarks.”

“Why should I? All of Ashwood shall know I am carrying a child soon enough. They will wonder why I am here with you, as much as I do.”

“Not again,” Harry groaned. “I thought I had explained it quite clearly. There are things I must attend to before we wed.”

“What things?” she asked skeptically.

“As I have explained, there are many issues surrounding the inheritance and the legalities of marriage that must be settled.”

“Why must they be settled before we stand before a clergyman?” she asked.

He sighed as if she were taxing him. “So that I might settle on you all the rights and privileges you deserve as my wife. Honestly, Alexa, if I am to be your husband, you must learn to trust me.”

“Therein lies the problem, Harry,” she said crossly, and folded her arms across her belly. “I do
not
trust you. I think it time we stop pretending.”

“Pretending
what,
pray tell?”

“Pretending that you are not desperately in love with my sister, that’s what.”

“Good God,” he muttered. He stalked to the sideboard and helped himself to more wine.

“Do you deny it?”

“Will you slander your sister with such careless talk?” he shot back, avoiding the question. “When I think of all that she has done for you—”