Heaven Sent the Wrong One

by VJ Dunraven

  Two hours of tossing and turning later, with nothing but images of Anna filling his head and invading his much needed rest, Allayne tossed the covers off with a curse. Brandy—not sleep, was what he needed. He quickly dressed and made his way down to the library.

  As he poured his fourth drink of the potent amber liquid, his senses began to mellow. "Cheers." He raised his glass at the dark, empty room, before swallowing the liquor in a single gulp. Another measure followed after another, until he had consumed every last drop in the crystal decanter.

  He took out a fresh bottle from the liquor cabinet, uncorked it, and drank it straight from the bottle. His vision wavered. The portraits hanging on the wall danced and chortled.

  Well, hell—he blinked—he definitely felt a lot better. He took another long, hearty gulp. What do you know, he smiled to himself, watching the furniture waltz around the room,—it seems he'd found a new mistress.

  Brandy—he brought the bottle back to his lips—what a beautiful name.

  ~

  Two days of grueling travel later, Alexandra and her downtrodden coachman and footman arrived at the Golden Goose Inn in Cornwall. The hour was too late to make calls so Alexandra decided to order supper and take rooms for the night for herself and her servants, who must be famished and weary from the long drive. She sighed in relief as she settled in the steaming bath she had ordered after supper. They would depart at mid-morning for the nine-mile trip to Rose Hill, the viscount's estate, following the directions that the innkeeper had supplied.

  At exactly eleven thirty in the morning, the Weston carriage bowled down the long drive of Rose Hill Manor. Alexandra peered out the window to admire the sprawling green pastures dotted with sheep, and the lively, colorful gardens as the manor came into view.

  The house itself was grander than she had originally thought. Everything about the property showed signs of prosperity—from the well-maintained facade to the manicured lawns. A quaint cobblestone walkway bordered by a profusion of blooms led up to the entrance.

  She immediately liked the place. It might be stately in size and appearance, but it also exuded a homely feel that she found quite charming.

  As the manor loomed nearer, Alexandra had a sudden fit of panic. She could not simply knock on the door and ask to see Mr. Carlyle's valet. She was not Anna, the lady's maid, any longer. As the unmarried Lady Alexandra Davenport, it would be highly irregular to come without a chaperone and visit the home of a bachelor—even if Mr. Carlyle wasn't the person in her agenda—which made matters worse—because an earl's daughter didn't do things like seek out the master's valet.

  The carriage came to a halt in front of the main entry. Alexandra peeked out the window before Thomas could open the door, beckoning him to come closer.

  "Is something the matter, my lady?" He asked as he approached.

  "No—everything is fine, but I want you to knock on the door and ask the butler for Andrew," Alexandra said urgently. She must think fast before one of the Rose Hill staff decided to come out and inquire about their business. "Tell the butler that you're Andrew's cousin—yes, that's right—you delivered your employer to a house party nearby and thought of visiting your cousin whom you haven't seen for a long time. Yes—that should do it."

  Thomas the footman looked unconvinced. "B-but—which cousin am I supposed to be, my lady?"

  "Oh—just make up something!" Alexandra waved her hand impatiently. "And don't tell the butler that I'm with you. Make him believe that it's just you and the coachman, stopping for a few minutes on your way back. Ask Andrew to come out with you once you are alone with him."

  Thomas scratched his head, still looking a bit doubtful, but nodded his assent to her preposterous scheme nonetheless.

  Alexandra observed through a slit in the curtains as he walked up to the entrance and rapped the brass knocker on the door.

  An older gentleman in formal attire, which she presumed to be the butler opened the door. They spoke for not more than two minutes and then the butler inclined his head in dismissal before closing the door again.

  Alexandra watched in apprehension as Thomas made his way back to the carriage with an unreadable expression on his face.

  "What is it?" She asked as he leaned towards the small opening on the window.

  "My lady—the butler said, Andy—that's what he called him—no longer works for Mister Carlyle."

  "What?" Alexandra almost knocked her forehead on the glass windowpane in her astonishment. "B-but how could that be? There must be a mistake!"

  "I don't think so, my lady," Thomas replied grimly. "Mister Morton—the butler—said that Mister Carlyle sent a note that just arrived late yesterday, informing Mister Gordon to hire a new valet for him. Apparently, Andy—or Andrew, has gotten married and won't be coming back to Rose Hill."

  Alexandra stared at Thomas, unable to grasp what she'd just heard. It didn't make any sense! The stable boy at Penthorpe Manor said he'd left an hour or so before Thomas came looking for him. He couldn't have gotten married that fast—nor could Mr. Carlyle have known of his nuptial plans that soon, when he himself was on his way to Gretna Green.

  But then... Alexandra's heart constricted in her chest. What if Andrew really hadn't been waiting—to elope with her? What if he was waiting for her—to say goodbye instead?

  Perhaps he had a sweetheart back home—wherever that was, she realized how little she actually knew about him. He must have changed his mind and decided to return to his true love—the girl that he truly wanted to marry. Or perhaps... perhaps he wanted to aim higher. He was an extremely attractive man, after all. Too good for a simple maidservant like her. Perhaps he had a lady with better standing waiting for him. He'd tendered his resignation to his employer and informed him of his plans—perhaps right after they'd returned from the fair, before Mister Carlyle left with Anna. The very last night they'd shared—where he'd asked her to marry him out of the blue—and she'd agreed without thinking.

  Alexandra felt the burn of hot tears behind her eyes, but she could no longer allow herself to cry—so she laughed aloud instead, even as the tears trailed down the side of her face.

  "My lady—are you alright?" Thomas peered at her with concern as she wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hands.

  "Yes. Yes—I'm fine. Let's go home," she replied with a chuckle, wondering if she'd gone mad. The whole ordeal had been madness in itself—a bundle of confusion and illogical decisions so unlike her old, practical self. What had she been thinking, dashing about half the country after a man she hardly knew? It was a good thing she had not revealed her true identity to him. She must have temporarily lost her mind to believe that something could come out of an illicit affair—for that was what it truly had been. A fortnight of insanity capped by a passionate tumble in bed that caught her off guard and corrupted her sensibilities. Thirteen days of living in a fantasy—lost in love with the man of her dreams—whom she was well aware of—was the wrong one.

  The empty laughter died on her lips.

  She'd loved, lost, and learned two things from her "adventure"—a more fitting term for her brief sojourn in Bath. Her virginity—which she did not regret, and her heart—which would eventually heal with time.

  And, as for Andrew—his handsome face appeared in her mind, just like it always did every time she closed her eyes—she never really lost him.

  He had never been hers to start with.

  She peered out the window and stared at the lush, beautiful grounds of Rose Hill as the carriage sped away from the estate. For reasons she could not explain, she saw herself running across the wide lawn with a little boy and a little girl with honey-blond hair, into the arms of a tall, handsome man who had a remarkable resemblance to the children.

  Their children.

  She pressed a quivering hand to her mouth, mourning the dream that would never be.

  "Goodbye, Andrew," she whispered against the glass, watching through tear-filled eyes as the illusion slowly faded into thin air—until noth
ing else remained.

  Except the broken pieces of her heart.

  Chapter 16

  Sow the Wind

  Six weeks later

  White's

  St. James Street, London

  Jeremiah Devlin Huntington, the Marquess of Waterford, leaned on the doorframe in the gaming room with a glass of brandy in his hand. He shook his head in dismay as he watched his brother-in-law, Allayne, lose another hand at cards, and beckon the footman to pour him another drink.

  He had been sitting in the same chair since dusk and now the clock was signaling the fourth hour of the morning. His cravat hung shoddily about his neck and his coat was pleated in wrinkles. Within a single month, he had gone through the two, perfectly good valets Morton had hired to take Andy's place. The last one promptly tendered his resignation after he found himself staring at the barrel of his master's pistol when he tried to wake him from his drunken slumber on the library floor.

  Jeremy sighed as he placed his empty glass on the tray atop the sideboard next to where he stood. Allayne had been acting like a louse since his return from Bath. His dissipation and untidiness was uncharacteristic of him. He used to be obsessive about his manner of dressing and neatness. He also had impeccable taste and never indulged in anything that could be harmful to his health or finances.

  His unusual behavior caused a stir and tension amongst his family, friends, and servants. He was moody, insolent, and reclusive. His mother and Cassie had repeatedly made an effort to inquire about his moroseness, but to no avail. He would not even confide his troubles to him and Richard—his two best friends.

  Jeremy pushed himself away from the doorframe and strolled towards the table where Allayne sat, dealing another deck of cards. If his brother-in-law did not restrain himself from all this gambling, he would exhaust the fortune he'd made from his shares in their business ventures.

  "I think you've had enough for tonight, old chap." Jeremy took the goblet of Brandy out of Allayne's hand and gave it to a passing footman. "Come, I'll drop you off at Rose House."

  "No, thanks." Allayne arranged his set of cards in one hand.

  Jeremy caught the eyes of the two young lords seated with him at the table. Rigsby and Bronnell looked obviously uncomfortable and unwilling to further enrich themselves at his inebriated friend's expense. He signaled at the men to leave them.

  Both stood up without argument.

  "Where are you going?" Allayne growled. "Sit down!" He slammed his fist on the table.

  Rigsby and Bronnell froze and glanced at each other.

  "Let them go." Richard, the Duke of Grandstone, squeezed between the two young men and sat on one of the chairs they vacated opposite Allayne.

  Rigsby and Bronnell hastily removed themselves from the brewing altercation.

  Jeremy took the other chair next to Richard, relieved that he received his message and had arrived on time. They had decided to step in and intervene with Allayne's self-imposed downward spiral.

  "What the fuck do you want?" Allayne threw his cards on the table, causing some to glide across the sleek mahogany surface and spill onto the floor.

  Richard leveled his piercing blue gaze at him. "Why are you doing this to yourself? What's wrong with you?"

  "It's none of your business," Allayne glared at him. "Leave me the fuck alone!"

  "Look old chap," Jeremy interjected, "there's no need to make a scene. Talk to us—we just want to help—"

  "I don't need your fucking help!" Allayne abruptly stood up on unstable knees, knocking his chair backwards.

  "Be careful with your language, my friend." Richard slowly came to his feet and narrowed his eyes at him.

  "Or what, Your Grace?" Allayne yelled, eliciting a few glances their way. "You'll challenge me to a duel?"

  Jeremy exchanged a speaking look with Richard. Both of them knew that sober or not, Allayne could shoot with precision.

  "No one's challenging anyone to a duel," Jeremy said in a conciliatory tone as he rounded the table and set Allayne’s chair to rights. It would not serve to quarrel with Allayne. True, he might be the most agreeable, good-natured person of the three of them, but he also had a beast of a temper when angered.

  In all their years together, Jeremy had come to know his best friends by heart. They got along well because they complemented each other—especially when it came to business. Richard was the spokesperson, the suave diplomat—who opened doors to potentially profitable enterprises. As for himself, he was the negotiator, the shrewd entrepreneur—who figured the numbers and managed the cash flow. But Allayne had the most interesting role. If a venture turned awry—and some of them do—mostly from theft by employees or associates who were supposedly trustworthy—he made sure their assets were recovered.

  Normally, the man was reasonable, but if the people responsible dared lead him in circles by the nose, he simply used them for target practice until they returned every single quid—down to the last shilling. So far, he had blasted off two ears, three knees, and four fingers from unscrupulous individuals with neither a blink nor remorse.

  Allayne's reputation amongst the gentlemen of the ton was likewise well known. Most of them were cautious not to cross him. Talk of his ruthlessness had circulated, ever since he sent four ruffians to an early grave—and rendered the cunning peer of the realm who'd hired them, physically incapacitated for the rest of his life. The pompous, debt-ridden lord owed them an enormous sum, but instead of sitting down to negotiate repayment terms, he ordered their carriage overtaken and the three of them assassinated. None of the hit men even had the chance to take aim and pull the trigger. Each one received a bullet through the head from four different pistols fired two at a time, courtesy of Allayne—who always traveled equipped to the teeth with several firearms.

  Jeremy watched his friend and brother-in-law slump back onto his chair. No—Allayne Carlyle was a man not to be trifled with. He might have the face and demeanor of an angel, but hell—he was the most dangerous devil of them all. In his current state, drowning in his cups and sexually deprived for weeks—a peculiar condition for someone as randy as a goat since he'd hit puberty, one of these days, he could become so overwrought and eventually murder anyone who as much as mistakenly peeked in his direction.

  Richard flicked his eyes at Jeremy. Drastic measures were in order, to deal with Allayne. They could not allow their friend to destroy himself. There must be a reason for his disturbing conduct. Something had happened in Bath and they needed to get to the bottom of it. The sooner they could accomplish this, the faster they could get their old friend back—the one with the cheerful deportment, the apple of his mother's eyes, the doting brother his wife, Cassie, adored.

  Jeremy gestured at the footman to deliver the glass of watered-down brandy he'd ordered earlier. Surreptitiously, he slipped a small dose of laudanum while Richard distracted Allayne, before he placed the drink on the table.

  "Here, have another drink," Jeremy said, pushing the wine glass towards him.

  Allayne snatched the glass without a word and drained it to the last drop. "That tasted like horse-piss!" he exclaimed, putting the glass down with a thump.

  A few minutes later, two burly footmen helped Richard and Jeremy heave the six-foot-four physique of their unconscious friend into the waiting ducal carriage.

  ~

  In the grand residence of the Earl of Weston in Oxfordshire, Alexandra paced back and forth in front of the window in her bedchamber. It had been six weeks since she returned from Bath. If she added the week prior to her trip and the entire fortnight of her stay in the resort city, the total would equate to nine weeks.

  Nine weeks. Alexandra rubbed her hands on her arms and shivered. Her monthly courses had not occurred in more than two months.

  A sudden nausea rose in her throat and she ran to the chamber pot, retching every single morsel of her morning repast. Cook had raised an eyebrow when she ordered nothing but kippers for breakfast for the past few weeks, and then eyed her as if she'd
grown an extra head, when she wanted cherry bonbons for lunch and dinner—with more kippers as the main course.

  Alexandra rinsed her mouth in the basin and splashed the tepid water from the pitcher on her face. She wasn't so naïve to not realize what was happening to her. Of course,—she knew. She was carrying Andrew's child.

  Stunning green eyes and a dimpled smile flashed in her memory. She had dreamt of Andrew day and night. He was never far from her thoughts. And oh—how she tried to forget about him! She did everything and anything to keep herself from thinking of him. But, in those inescapable moments when she was lonesome, his image would drift back into her consciousness and occupy her heart once again.

  "Time could mend a broken heart,"—she'd read that statement in one of her favorite books, but it did not prove true in her case. Instead, each day without Andrew had crushed her heart repeatedly. The passage of time had only worsened her yearning for him. It had evolved into a constant physical and mental agony that would not relent. Time, she now learned—could work both ways for the wounded. It could be one's ally—but it could also be one's adversary. Moreover,—the precious commodity of time—given her condition—was quickly running out.

  The reality of the consequences of one night of passion came back with a vengeance. Yes—it had nagged at the back of her mind during the deed, but she had conveniently ignored it.

  Sultry images of hard muscles pressing against her soft skin, of clean musk invading her nostrils and a deep masculine voice whispering endearments in her ear, inundated her senses. Her chest constricted and she gasped, as a pool of heat slithered between her legs. She quickly trampled down the budding ache of her desire and longing for Andrew. Their lovemaking had resulted in something wonderful and yet—Dear God, what was she going to do now?

  She wiped the beads of water off her face and sat on the stool facing the looking-glass on her vanity table. Her skin glowed with health and her hair shone brilliantly in the late morning light. She had been uncannily lazy and at first, she'd attributed the subtle changes from her frequent naps during the day. However, once she had her rest, she brimmed with a burst of energy—which she spent having endless tea—taken with more bonbons and kippers.