“Please convey to His Grace this is a matter of grave import concerning his sister, Lady Rayne,” he told the domestic, not about to be dismissed.
Time was too important. Each moment that passed was another without Catriona, and each moment took her farther and farther from him.
The butler inclined his head. “Do come in, my lord.”
Gratefully, Rayne stepped into the entry hall of Hamilton House, watched over by the stern visages of a half dozen marble busts. All of whom seemed to cast judgment upon him, and he could not blame them. He had been a fool, and he knew it.
“Thank you, sir,” he told the domestic. “I cannot stress the import of an audience with His Grace enough.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler intoned before bowing and taking his leave.
Alessandro paced, reminded of the last time he had felt so helpless. When he had been losing Maria. But unlike then, he had a fighting chance to keep from losing the woman he loved.
Sí. Loved.
He ran a hand over his jaw as he paced. On the day he had learned Catriona was carrying his child, he had been so overwhelmed by the discovery, he had walked. Walked and walked until he reached the village. The time and distance had led him to some realizations he’d been previously unable to face.
Somewhere between the day he had first happened upon her in the Hamilton House library and the moment he had kissed her lips in the Temple of Artemis, Catriona had stolen his heart. How he had failed to see it until he had walked two miles—the last half mile or so in a driving rain—he could not say.
Stupidity?
Pride?
Fear?
Likely, a combination of all three.
Whatever the cause, he could see everything now, and with a clarity he had never before possessed. Everything had changed because of her. Ironically, it had been the words of the oft-drunken Duke of Montrose which had returned to him in his lowest point, as he had been soaked to the skin, attempting to dry himself at the inn.
Montrose had accused him of spending his life running.
And he had not been wrong.
Alessandro had run from England. From the losses of Maria and Francisco. And finally, he had been running from Catriona. The answer had hit him with the force of a cudgel to the head as he sat at the battered table. There was only one place he wanted to run, and that was to the woman he loved. His heart had not died with Maria and their son. Rather, he had closed it off.
But Catriona had opened it up once more, and he knew that now.
Just as he knew he wanted a family.
He wanted to be a father.
He wanted to be a husband.
He wanted Catriona at his side as they restored Marchmont, along with the picaro and even her damned rodent. He wanted it all. But first, he needed to find his wife.
The letter she had left him told him she was returning to London on her own, but she had not specified where she was going. She was ready, she had said, to seize her freedom, and she wished him happy in his return to Spain. By the time the rains had stopped, returning to Marchmont on a darkened, muddied road had been too treacherous. He had spent the evening in the village, returning home by borrowed carriage the next morning.
But he had been too late. Catriona had already been gone, nothing but her elegant words on a page left behind.
The Duke of Montrose appeared before him suddenly, leaning on a crutch, looking more gaunt and pale than he had when last their paths had crossed. “What the hell is the meaning of this, Rayne?” he demanded. “Where is my sister?”
“I am hoping you can aid me with that,” he told the duke, swallowing his pride.
Montrose’s eyes narrowed. For once, he did not appear inebriated, though there was something else about his mannerisms which seemed decidedly off. “Satan’s earbobs, do you mean to tell me you have lost my sister?”
“She left me,” he admitted. Nothing mattered but Catriona. He had to know where she had gone.
“Left you,” Montrose repeated, sounding suspicious. “What the devil have you done to her to make her leave you?”
“I…” he paused, struggling to find the words. Where to begin? The truth, he supposed. “I left her first.”
“You devious scoundrel,” the duke bit out, charging forward, though the effort of hobbling with his crutch rendered the effect less than fearsome.
Alessandro remained where he was. If Montrose wished to hit him, he would not defend himself. Indeed, if there was anyone deserving of a sound drubbing, surely it was he.
“Go ahead. Hit me,” he said. “But after you do, tell me where she may have gone. She is not at Riverford House, and she is not here.”
Montrose grimaced in pain as he reached Alessandro. “Cursed ankle.”
“Perhaps you ought not to have been searching for whisky after the bone had just been set,” he offered.
“And perhaps you ought not to have left your wife and then lost her,” the duke spat. “If anything ill has befallen her because of your stupidity, Rayne, I will challenge you to a duel. And this time, I will be prepared.”
“If anything happens to her, I will deserve to be shot,” he returned bitterly. “Cristo, she is everything to me. I know I do not deserve her, but I love her.”
They stared each other down.
Montrose nodded. “Damned right you do not deserve her, Rayne. She is too good for you.”
“Sí,” he agreed.
“Always has been,” Montrose added.
He could not argue. “Sí.”
“Always will be.”
He gritted his teeth. “Sí. Are you going to help me, Montrose, or not?”
“My best guess is she is at Torrington House,” Montrose said. “She and Miss Lethbridge are bosom bows. Closer than sisters, those two.”
Ah, yes. The friend who had looked upon Montrose as if he were a worm at dinner. Why had he not thought of her?
“Gracias, Montrose,” he said. “Do you have the direction?”
Having been abroad for so long, he could scarcely find his way around Town.
“Never mind that,” the duke said. “I shall accompany you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Finish your tea,” Hattie ordered Catriona. “And eat another biscuit. You are still looking so horridly wan.”
“Yes, Mother,” Catriona grumbled, taking another hesitant sip of tea. Fortunately, her angry stomach was beginning to settle, and the brew did not make her instantly want to retch.
“You cannot go about swooning all over London,” her friend added.
“This is the second time she’s swooned now,” Olivia added around a mouthful of biscuit.
Catriona frowned at her charge. “Ladies do not speak whilst they are chewing, Olivia.”
“Sorry,” she said, crumbs flying from her mouth.
“Second time swooning?” Hattie’s eyes narrowed upon Catriona. “What is the matter with you, dearest? You have one of the heartiest constitutions of anyone I have ever met.”
Ordinarily, she did. But it would seem she was making up for her good fortune now.
She sighed. “I am perfectly well. It is merely that I am—”
“She’s having a babe,” interrupted Olivia.
“Olivia,” she chastised. “Ladies do not interject during the dialogue of another lady.”
“I ain’t no lady,” Olivia said with a gamine grin. “Can Ashes have a biscuit? She’s hungry.”
“I am not a lady,” she corrected. More lessons in deportment were in order, clearly. “And I suppose Ashes may have a portion of a biscuit, as long as Miss Lethbridge does not mind.”
“But you are a lady,” Olivia argued, true to form.
On yet another sigh, Catriona turned her attention to Hattie. Her friend gawked at her.
“Do you mind?” she asked hesitantly. After all, it was rather uncommon to take tea with a mouse.
Hattie flew from her seat and gathered her in a tight embrace. “Catriona, how dare
you not tell me I am going to be an auntie? You should have said so from the moment I saw you!”
“Forgive me for not relaying the news sooner,” she said, hugging her friend back with all the strength she could muster. “It has been a long few days of upheaval and travel, and I am afraid not even someone with the halest of constitutions can withstand the rigors of being in a delicate condition.”
“It is more difficult for some women,” Sadler chimed in with an air of authority. “My own mother was terribly ill each time, in the early months.”
“Splendid,” she said weakly, wondering how she would survive months of biliousness and dizziness.
And carrying on without the man she loved.
Hattie pulled away, glancing down at her with a quizzical air. “Does Rayne know?”
“Yes,” she said softly, feeling a fresh rush of tears coming on. “It is why he is leaving me.”
“God’s fichu, what a spineless weasel,” Hattie said distastefully.
God’s fichu.
Catriona found herself frowning at her friend. “That is one of Monty’s nonsensical curses.”
Hattie’s cheeks flushed. “Of course it isn’t. I heard it from someone else, I am certain.”
Before Catriona could pursue the matter, the butler arrived on the threshold of the chamber. “The Earl of Rayne and the Duke of Montrose, Miss Lethbridge,” he announced.
Alessandro was here.
With Monty.
Her traitorous heart pounded faster, and hope rose within her against her will.
“Tell them we are not at home to mendacious curs,” Hattie announced.
“Tell us yourself, Miss Lethbridge,” came the cool, almost detached voice of her brother.
And just behind him stood the beautiful, beloved form of her husband. His dark stare met hers and held. “Querida, all I require is a few moments of your time.”
She gazed back at him, terrified he had only sought her out to tell her goodbye. Foolish enough to know that she loved him so much, even a few more minutes in his presence would be worth the pain.
“You do not have to go with him,” Hattie told her quietly.
She gave her friend a sad smile. “Yes, I do.”
“I understand, dearest.” Hattie gave her a stern look. “Holler if he upsets you in any fashion, and I shall come charging to your rescue.”
Catriona gave her friend a quick embrace. “Thank you.”
She hoped she would not need rescuing, but that, like her heart, was ultimately in Alessandro’s hands.
*
Alessandro faced his wife in a small morning room across the hall from the salon where he had initially found her. Love for her, so profound and strong, overwhelmed him.
All he could think, was that he had found her.
Thank Dios.
And then, he realized how pale she was.
“How are you, querida?” he asked softly.
“Why have you come?” she returned instead of answering.
“You left me.” He took a step closer to her. “Where else would I go but where you are?”
“Spain, perhaps?” Her lips tightened.
He did not miss the bitterness lacing her dulcet tones.
He deserved that bitterness and her distrust both. He had wronged her. Again and again.
“I am not going to Spain.” As the words left him, he felt indescribably light, as if the weight of a cartload of bricks had been lifted from his shoulders, from his heart. “Not now.”
She frowned at him. “When, then? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month?”
“I do not know,” he answered honestly. “Spain has been a home to me for all my life, and I want to return one day. But not without you. I am not leaving you, querida. I cannot leave you or the bebé.”
“I do not understand, Alessandro.” Her gaze searched his. “What does all this mean? Mere days ago, you could not wait to see me settled in London so you could go. Here I am, settled. You are free. I am free. It is all done. I will not try to keep you here, where you do not wish to be.”
He reached her then, and he could not resist drawing her against him. She was trembling, but then, so too, was he. Alessandro buried his face in her soft, sweetly scented curls, inhaling deeply. “There is nowhere else I would rather be than here, with the woman I love.”
She stiffened. “Do not toy with me, Alessandro. I cannot bear it.”
“I would never toy with you.” He drew back enough to gaze down into her upturned face. “I love you, Catriona. I was a blind fool for not realizing it sooner. You brought my heart back to life. You have filled my darkness with your light. I love the way you tease me, the way you laugh, the way you kiss. The way you care for Olivia, the way you are as stubborn as an ox, the way you rose to the task of restoring Marchmont alongside me. Cristo, I even love the way you snore. So, you see? I cannot bear to be without you. Not for another hour, not for another minute, not for another second.”
Tears shimmered in the blue-violet depths of her eyes. “Oh, Alessandro.”
He caressed her cheek. “The night we married, querida, you said I was to be your darling, and yet you have never called me by that name.” He paused. “I do not deserve it, I know. But in time, I will prove myself to you. Grant me the chance to be that to you. To be your man. Your darling.”
“I was horridly sotted on brandy that night,” she said softly.
“Sí,” he agreed, grinning down at her as he recalled precisely how sotted she had become. “I love your hiccups, too, mi amor.”
She bit her lower lip. “Did you truly liken me to an ox?”
“Only the stubborn streak in you,” he said, “and I am grateful for it. You have been good for me. Good to me. A lesser woman than you would have given up on me long before now. I only pray I did not come to my senses too late, that you can forgive me.”
She covered her hand with his, smiling up at him even as tears rolled down her cheeks. “I do not need time to know my heart, for it is already yours. It has been for some time now. I love you, Alessandro Forsythe.”
“Dios,” he said, relief washing over him, along with love. So much of it. “How I love you, mi amor. Thank you for the gift of your love, which I do not—”
“Hush.” She pressed a finger to his lips, stilling further words. “You do deserve me, just as you deserve love and happiness. Now kiss me, my darling.”
Smiling, he did just that.
Epilogue
Vicente Francisco Alessandro Forsythe, Viscount Stewart, future tenth Earl of Rayne, had only been in the world for a few days, and already, his mother and father were hopelessly in love with him.
Catriona rested her head upon her husband’s shoulder as they sat together in her bed, no less than a dozen pillows plumped up at their backs. She had just finished feeding her son, and Alessandro had been impatiently awaiting his turn to hold Vicente, who seemed to sleep best in his father’s arms.
Love swelled in her as she watched father and son. Vicente’s eyes were closed, his perfect little lips parted as he slumbered peacefully. Gently, she caressed the tuft of dark, silky hair atop his head, so like his father’s.
“It hardly seems fair that he prefers you to me,” she complained. “After I carried him in my body all these months and grew to the size of a cow.”
“You never resembled a cow in the slightest, querida. You were beautiful carrying my babe, just as beautiful as you are now. And he does not prefer me.”
She watched as he caressed Vicente’s cheek. “You are a charmer. But it is all very well. I know he prefers his papa, and I have accepted it.”
“He does not.” Alessandro glanced up at her with a rakish grin. “He loves us both equally. It is merely he knows his papa has a soothing voice for lullabies. He prefers them in Spanish, you know.”
She smiled back at him. “Of course he does. He is your image, Alessandro.”
“He is perfecto.” Her husband dropped a tender kiss on her cheek. “Just like his mama.”
“I am far from perfect.” She leaned into him, following up with a peck on his sinful mouth. It was too soon for them to be intimate again following their son’s birth, but that did not mean she did not want her husband just as much as ever. More so, in fact. “But I thank you for loving me anyway.”
“No, thank you,” he said, his gaze burning into hers, “for loving me. I do not know why such a black-hearted sinner has been blessed with so much, but I am a greedy man, and I will take it all. You, Olivia, and Vicente are my world.”
“As you are ours,” she told him.
Much had happened over the last few months. Bramwell had finally been brought to justice. Many of the stolen paintings had been recovered—most importantly, the portrait of Alessandro’s mother, which now hung proudly in the gallery once more. Alessandro’s architect had rebuilt the east wing. The estate was once more robust and profitable. Olivia was officially under Alessandro’s legal guardianship.
And even Spain was free of Napoleon’s tyrannical rule. Word had reached England not long ago of the Treaty of Valençay, releasing King Ferdinand from captivity. It was, in all, a dawn of new beginnings, the commencement of a bright future.
A knock sounded at the chamber door.
“Mama?”
Catriona recognized the sound of Olivia’s voice. Though it had taken a great deal of time for her to completely gain the girl’s trust, she had finally won her over.
“Come in,” she called.
The words had scarcely left her mouth when the door popped open, and Oliva burst over the threshold in a profusion of energy and muslin skirts. Her hair was finally growing, and her diction had improved greatly, but some things would never change.
“I have escaped Miss Grimsby for the day,” she announced.
“You have not locked her in the Temple of Artemis again have you, imp?” Alessandro asked, taking the words from Catriona’s mouth.
Though Miss Grimsby was an accomplished governess, she was rather strict. Olivia and rules did not always go well together. It would not be the first time she had resorted to such tactics to free herself from the governess’s charge.
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