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?
As 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
Sitting 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.”
Chapter 19
Estate of the Earl of Lynnford
Early January, 1861
It was beyond any doubt the worst portrait he’d ever done. Not that anyone who ever gazed upon it would have thought so. It held barely a hint of the reality, but was mostly fantasy. The matriarch appeared hale, hearty, happy, and healthy. Her husband standing behind her, his hands folded over her shoulders, appeared not to have a care in the world beyond those that came with the mantle of his title. Their five children—two sons and three daughters—surrounded them. Leo knew that he’d done them justice. They all looked down on their mother, their love for her evident in their expressions.
“It’s beautiful, Leo,” she said now, withered and frail on her deathbed, as he held it up for her to view.
“I told you he was marvelous,” Tessa cooed, sitting in a chair, squeezing her friend’s hand.
“Yes, but I thought you were speaking of other things.” Her smile held a shadow of naughtiness, a hint of the vibrant woman she’d once been.
Tessa nodded at Leo. “Thank you.”
“If you need me, you know where to find me.”
She nodded again. The three weeks since Christmas had been horrendous and draining. But Tessa couldn’t leave, refused to go despite the hardship. Lynnford needed her. How often in the last few days had he told her that she was his rock, how often had they held each other and wept?
She watched Leo with his leisurely stride quit the room. How often of late had he provided her with the strength to carry on?
“Will you marry him?” Lady Lynnford asked.
Tessa laughed lightly and adjusted the pillow beneath her friend’s head. “Searching for gossip to spread around during the coming Season?”
“I won’t be here for the coming Season. You and I both know that.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” She tugged at the covers until no wrinkle remained.
“I’m ready to go, Tess.”
Tessa returned to her chair, took Angela’s hand and rubbed it gently, trying to generate some warmth. How could it be so cold? “Then you should feel free to go, my sweet. Heaven awaits.”
“You’ll see after Lynnie, won’t you?”
She pressed a kiss to the frail fingers. “Of course. And I shall be as good a mother as I can to your children. Even though they are all grown. Sometimes I think they need us more when they are grown.”
“If you don’t marry your artist, then marry Lynnie. He loves you, you know.”
Tessa shook her head.
“No need to deny it, m’dear. I know you love him as well. I also kn
ow neither of you acted upon those feelings while I was his wife. But I often saw the longing, especially when we were younger.” She closed her eyes, then opened them with renewed energy. “Men are such silly creatures, blind sometimes. I don’t think he ever realized Stephen was his until we all thought Stephen had been killed in the Crimea.”
Horror swept through Tessa. She’d wanted to spare Angela that pain.
“I love Lynnie,” Angela forged on, as though she read all of Tessa’s thoughts. “Do you think I would look at Stephen and not see the father in the son?”
“I never told him when we were younger, because I thought the knowledge would be a burden.”
“Then it seems you are as silly as he.”
It was long past midnight when Tessa came into Leo’s bedchamber. He was working on a self-portrait that he thought he might give to her, but when he saw her face, he knew it would go unfinished. He set down his brush, crossed the room in long, unhurried strides and enfolded her in his embrace.
Her tears came hot and heavy, dampening his shirt. No words were spoken. None were needed. It had always been that way between them.
Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the sofa and sat with Tessa curled on his lap. Her sobs finally gave way to gentle weeping and sniffles.
“Handkerchief?” she croaked.
“I haven’t one on me. Simply use my shirt.”
“Leo—”
“Use my shirt. I’ll put on another.”
She did so, then straightened and leaned back. She began toying with his blond locks. “You have the most unruly hair.”
“And you have the most glorious.” He longed to set it loose, but knew she would welcome no advances from him now. It was too soon, she was too wounded.
“She went quietly. Lynnford and I were both there. He’s telling the children now. I must see to making her ready.”
He skimmed his thumb over her cheek, a cheek he’d kissed a thousand times. “I know.”
“I’m not sure how long we shall stay here.”
Waking Up With the Duke (London's Greatest Lovers) Page 19