by VJ Dunraven
Since when did it become so important for him to know how a woman felt about him? And what if she said no—what then, was he supposed to do?
Allayne never thought he'd see the day when rejection from a particular woman would overtake him—and yet—here he was, trying his damned best not to let the fear show in his face.
He waited for her some more, but still—she withheld from satisfying him with an answer.
His confidence wavered. Perhaps his theory was wrong after all. Her silence certainly made him feel a good deal less optimistic than before. She might possibly be just sparing his feelings by not acknowledging his question with a reply to keep from embarrassing him.
All at once, the unspoken message became clear. She had no desire to be his wife and most assuredly did not reciprocate his affection.
Yes. That must be it.
Damn it to hell—but that hurt.
Allayne drew a deep sigh and loosened his hold on her. "Never mind," he said in a tone that hardly concealed his wounded feelings. "Forget I asked." His chest seemed to have constricted during the last minute and was now strangling his heart.
Alexandra swiveled around and searched his face just as he slipped his arms away from her. High color stained his cheeks and a shattered look reflected in his beautiful eyes. He clenched his jaw so tightly; she could see the band of muscle twitching on the side of his face.
Dear God. He was serious.
True, she'd been infuriated by his arrogance and high-handedness; for a mere valet, he certainly has an aristocrat's share of insolence and presumptuousness—which annoyed her to the last droplet of her tolerance. But, the sight of his stricken countenance had afforded her a glimpse of his true feelings underneath. In spite of his arrogance and enormous pride, he had taken the risk and exposed his vulnerability—by telling her, he wanted her to be his wife.
Did it really matter how he had proposed to her? Would it be more significant if he had brought her a dozen red roses, a box of chocolates, and a diamond ring? Would it make any difference if he did it on one knee and embellished his words with poetry and flattery?
Yes! She was a woman after all, who, like any other, basked in the idea of being romanced by her man. But in the end, she also knew what truly mattered. Whether he declared himself with gifts and flowery words, or dictated his proposal like a decree from the King after having wild sex—she knew without a doubt—nothing would make her love him any less.
Not even the fact that he was a mere valet and she was an earl's daughter. Which reminded her—she ought to mention that particular detail—later.
She caught his wrists before he could turn away and kissed his palms, delighting at the astonished expression on his face.
"I love you," she whispered against his lips as she stood on her tiptoes and erased his confusion with tiny kisses.
"Anna—" Deep dimples appeared on his cheeks.
"Sshh. Just love me." She twined her arms around his neck and silenced him with a searing kiss.
He lifted her off the floor without breaking their kiss and laid her back on the bed.
Then, the next thing she knew, they were making love again, even more passionately this time around—until the hour came to leave.
Chapter 12
Alexandra’s Fairy Tale
Alexandra tossed and turned in her bed for most of the night since they had returned from the fair. She had agreed to elope with Andrew at first light. The night they spent together had been amazing, but it had also been an exhilarating experience where emotions ran high and critical decisions were made—under the influence of passion instead of careful consideration.
She finally gave up on sleep and sat up, propping her back against the pillows. At dawn, before the household began its day, they planned to run off to Gretna Green, a small village in Scotland along the English border famous for runaway weddings. However, the length of time it would take to travel there made it a more difficult alternative than simply procuring a special license in London. Thus, they decided to meet in the gazebo at half past four in the morning and head to the big city in the viscount's carriage. According to Andrew, Mr. Carlyle would be riding with Lord Bhramby at a later time and had given him the task of taking his conveyance to his residence in London.
Alexandra gnawed on her lip. She was getting married.
To Andrew.
Her wonderful, handsome, charmingly witty beau. The only man who'd captured her heart in all her twenty-five years of existence. The one special person on the face of the earth she could see herself spending the rest of her life with—who also happened to be the most preposterous, unthinkable, scandalously unacceptable, match for a woman of station such as herself.
How will Andrew react to the onslaught of discrimination on his social class once her true identity is revealed? He will be labeled all sorts of names: a Fortune Hunter, Social Climber, and an Ambitious Servant preying on his betters.
If she married him, the prestigious and impeccable reputation of the Earldom of Weston and Davenport family would be subjected to ridicule and shame. They would be shunned by society. Her father would be the laughingstock of his peers. He would be forced to disown her to save face. She would lose the alliance of her family and friends.
And most of all, Good God,—if they had children,—they would be condemning them to a life as society's outcasts. They would never be received in any drawing room nor have the opportunity for an excellent match—a privilege she had deliberately forgone when she agreed to marry a servant.
All of this and more—would be the result of the decisions impulsively made in one night of passionate abandon. One night of joy, love, and pleasure; of absolute freedom and carefree indulgence.
A single night of recklessness—in exchange for a lifetime of regrets.
Could she endure it? Was she prepared to undertake the consequences of her actions? Was she capable of surrendering the security of her wealth to her husband—and trust him to manage it soundly so they could live decently on a modest income? Did she possess the fortitude to bear the vilifying statements against her, her husband and children, which would follow them wherever they went?
Most importantly, how would Andrew tolerate the slander and degradation? He was a man of genteelness and pride—how long could he carry on before the contempt of society destroys him?
Alexandra pushed down the sheets and slid off the bed. She lighted the branch of candles on the vanity table and stood looking at herself in the mirror. The countenance of a woman who had been thoroughly loved looked back at her.
She could still feel the touch of his hands, the brush of his lips and the weight of his magnificent body pressing against hers. His scent must have adhered to her skin for she could smell him all around her. She could still picture his beautiful eyes, as green as the finest emeralds, shining with love and unbridled desire.
An ache speared through her heart.
God, how she wanted him! She could not even imagine going through the years, months, and weeks—not even a day without him. More than anything else, she wanted to marry him, bear his children, and live happily ever after. A perfect life in an ideal world. However, as dumb luck would have it, everything she wished for was nothing, but a fantasy. A sandcastle that stood along the shore built on a foundation of pipe dreams—that could easily collapse and wash away with the first wave of stark reality.
She glanced at the trunks and suitcases at the foot of the bed. She had been so excited that she did not even wait for Anna to return from the theater to help her pack. By midnight, she had everything ready and sometime after that; she managed to sleep a wink or two.
Her gaze landed on the clock atop the mantle. Two o'clock in the morning. Anna should be back by now, but she had not heard her come in. She picked up the branch of candles and walked towards the adjoining sitting room.
"Anna?" She raised the candles by the doorway to illuminate the room.
No answer came.
She proceeded further in t
he direction where Anna slept on the wide chaise.
And then she saw it. A small note inscribed with her name, propped against the candlestick on the side table next to the chaise.
She placed the candelabra on the table, broke the seal, and read it.
My Lady,
Please forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye.
By the time you find this letter, we are well on our way to Gretna Green.
I shall miss you so, but I must follow my heart and marry the man of my dreams.
May you someday follow yours, too.
Anna
Alexandra stared at the missive for a long while. Anna had eloped with the viscount's heir regardless of the same aftermath she feared for her and Andrew. "I must follow my heart and marry the man of my dreams," she re-read that line repeatedly, and each time, the burden in her chest grew heavier.
But no—she could not give in and let her selfishness overcome reason. What she wanted was impossible. Too many people would get hurt along the way. Their future, together with their children's, would be ruined. And her beautiful, beloved Andrew would be disillusioned by the ugliness of it all—and would live the rest of his life a broken man.
A lone tear glided down her cheek. No—she could not allow such cruel fate to befall him simply because she wanted him for herself. She loved him too much—she must do what was best for him—for both of them.
"I wish I was as brave as you are, my dear Anna," she whispered in the silence of the room as she folded the letter and slipped it in the side pocket of the dress she'd worn to the fair. Andrew had swiftly discarded the same dress before making love to her for the first time. She'd dozed in it while waiting for Anna to return.
She picked up the branch of candles and headed out the door, down the hallway to the servants' staircase, until she reached the back door at the bottom that opened towards the stables. Carefully, she unhinged the lock, slipped out, and closed the door quietly behind her. Then, she made her way to the stablehands' quarters to rouse her coachman and footman.
By the time the clock on the mantle struck three in the morning, they had successfully loaded all the luggage in the Weston coach and boarded, without waking anyone in the house. Alexandra had wanted to say farewell to the servants, but too many questions would arise and she felt guilty enough, not to make up more lies.
As the coachman turned the carriage to the main road heading northeast towards Weston Court in Oxfordshire, she lifted the window curtain to peer at the manor. From this angle, the white gazebo by the pond where she was to meet with Andrew in an hour and a half could be seen under the bright moonlight.
She blinked back the tears that gathered in her lids and hastily swiped the ones that spilled from the corners of her eyes with the heel of her hand. If she'd known how hard it would be to let go of someone who had conquered her heart, she would have never let herself fall deeply in love.
She let the curtain fall back in its place, obscuring the view of what had once been the haven where she met unlikely friends and fallen for a man who was the incarnation of all the heroes in her books. Beginning today, she must close that chapter in her life and commit it to memory. A treasured gossamer of images in her mind, filled with green eyes and dimpled smiles; awashed with laughter, conversation and kisses, and sealed with the heat of an evening spent together making love.
Fond memories like these should be sufficient—she must believe this—to sustain herself through the lonely years without him. And someday, when her youth had gone and all that was left were faded recollections in the frayed pages of the storybook in her mind, she could honestly claim that long ago, in a faraway land, heaven sent the man of her dreams. She had loved him dearly and he'd loved her in return.
Yes—God answered her prayers and it all came true—in a magical Kingdom where even the waters healed the sick and her rank did not signify; where she was free to choose and free to love.
Once upon a time.
Chapter 13
Allayne’s Nightmare
Allayne woke up drenched in sweat after a fitful night of sleep. He abruptly sat up on the bed and ran his fingers through his damp locks. The recurring dream that had haunted him began pleasantly enough, before it took a sudden downturn.
It started with him marrying Anna in a solemn ceremony at a small chapel with only the vicar's wife and adult son as witnesses. After the wedding, he took Anna home to Rose Hill Manor and introduced her to his family. However, upon learning that he had eloped—with a maidservant, no less—his mother suffered an apoplexy and his father became so belligerent, he disinherited him.
Shunned from Rose Hill, he called on his two best friends, Richard, the Duke of Grandstone and Jeremy, the Marquess of Waterford. They welcomed him into their homes, but refused to receive his new wife. Even his sister Cassie, who was married to Waterford, snubbed Anna, despite his pleas for hospitality. All of them were appalled at his stupidity in his choice for a bride.
"You were one of the most eligible bachelors in England," Cassie yelled at his face without a care that Anna could hear what was being said. "Shame on you for allowing yourself to be leg-shackled to a penniless maid!"
Anna fled into his carriage after that scathing remark with him following at her heels.
He decided to take her to a property he owned in Devon, but even the staff there would not give her the proper respect. Worse, rumors spread in the village about Anna's occupational roots. She was labeled many offensive terms—a Gold Digger, an Ambitious Upstart, an Enterprising Cyprian disguised as a maidservant preying on men of the upper class. No one would befriend her or even sit next to her in church.
It went on and on, until Anna lost her spirit and the sparkle in her eyes faded. Until he became weary of defending her and challenging anyone who criticized her to a duel. Until the pressures of society tormented them both to the point of regretting they'd ever met.
They began to resent each other and fought constantly. After one particularly terrible argument, Anna walked into their bedchamber with a blank expression on her face, holding a pistol from his collection in her hand.
"I'm sorry for being a burden to you," she said in a clear, level voice as she stood looking down at him by the foot of the bed.
Without another word and before he could make a move to stop her, she cocked the pistol with the muzzle pointed at her temple and pulled the trigger.
He woke up from the nightmare with the sound of the gunshot ringing in his ears and warm, crimson droplets spattering his skin.
Good Lord. He wiped the beads of sweat off his brow with his palm. Where in Hades did that horrific dream come from?
He got out of bed and lighted the candles, then paced about the room. It was just a dream, he told himself. It was not even real.
And yet... why was there a ring of truth to it? Had the anxieties he had strived not to dwell on, manifested in his subconscious in the form of a violent vision?
He would be deceiving himself if he did not admit that yes—his concerns rose to monstrous proportions after the fact. Alone in the silence of his bedchamber, his logical brain began to re-assert itself. The possibility that he had made a grievous error in asking Anna to be his wife rankled at him. He saw it all in his mind's eye—the kind of reaction their union would elicit from family and friends, including society at large.
None of it looked good.
His thoughts drifted back to his dream. Was it a prediction of their future together? Was it a warning for him to think twice before embarking on the path to peril?
The upright pendulum clock in the corner of the room bonged three times. In another hour and a half, he would be eloping with Anna. He had exactly that much time before everything in his orderly life changed for the worse, rather than the better. Yes—he loved Anna, but—would love be enough to see them through the rough road ahead?
He did not want her to be the target of sly remarks and malicious stares. She was too proud and too intelligent not to understand the i
mplications of the cruel jests that might be made at her expense. The last thing he wanted was for her to be subjected to constant insults because of her former status—, which would eventually become too much for her to bear and just like the bad dream—her spirit would suffer a slow, but certain death.
Allayne paused and tilted his head towards the ceiling, massaging away the tension that had suddenly stiffened the back of his neck. Too many obstacles stood in their way and the grim reality was becoming clearer with each passing second.
He grabbed the candleholder and strode to the adjoining sitting room.
"Andy?" He peered inside with the candles held high.
The chaise where Andy usually slept was empty save for a folded piece of vellum with a name written on top and a small shiny object next to it, catching the light from the candles.
He crossed the room and placed the candleholder on a nearby table. He picked up the shiny object—his signet ring that he had lent to Andy, and retrieved the letter addressed to him.
He cracked the seal and read it.
Dear Sir,
Please accept my apology for leaving without prior notice. I am honored to have served you for more than ten years and would have continued to do so, if not for the blessing of finding the love of my life who has accepted my proposal to become my wife. We are now on our way to Gretna Green via the post chaise we took yesterday evening directly from the city square, before the countess could usher us into the theater.
Thank you, Sir, for all that you have done for me. May you likewise find the love of your life—and when you do, may you never let her go. Good luck to you, Sir.
Andy
"You will need luck more than I do, my good man," Allayne said to himself as he crumpled the letter and threw it in the dying flames of the fireplace. What a surprise—it seemed Andy had more courage than he did to face the social repercussions of allying himself with an earl's daughter.
But no—he mustn't let Andy's bravado sway his resoluteness. Andy had no idea what awaited him. He was not familiar with the ways of the ton and the devastating censure it could inflict to an 'interloper'—the exact term they would call him.