by VJ Dunraven
"Alex." Allayne's voice registered in her mind and she saw that he had a marked frown, reverting to the short-tempered man she had witnessed earlier. "You are hiding something from me," he stated in a definitive manner that reminded him of the Duke of Grandstone.
A rush of panic crammed in her chest. Oh, God—what should she do? What should she say? She grappled with herself, though in her heart, she already knew the answer—the correct, rational answer in the event a circumstance such as this presented itself, that she and Henry prepared. They speculated on everything—examined every angle, postulated on the possibility of Andrew reappearing in her life later on, including the monetary solution if his presence proved to be a problem. But, never in her lifetime did she expect that matters would become far more complicated with the advent of status and wealth attached to the true identity of her son's father—a viscount's heir.
She inhaled sharply and willed her brain to cooperate. She must tread carefully and think logically. "Gauge every possibility with a cool head," Henry always said, "—and always buy your time."
And, she did exactly just that—withdrawing from the circle of Allayne's arms and pacing the floor, allowing herself some time to think.
The foremost of her concerns took priority. Notwithstanding his betrothal, even if she managed to persuade Allayne into accepting the situation and they resumed their affair and married, he would never be happy knowing his own son—his first born and heir—had a different father in the eyes of the law and society. Gabriel would never carry the Carlyle name nor become one of the many generations of Viscount Roses who would take the family seat. Instead, he would study and prepare to become the Eighth Duke of Redfellow and lead a completely different life than what was rightfully his.
Alexandra's heart sank at the impact of that reality. If Allayne Carlyle learned of their son, somewhere deep in her heart she knew,—he would never sit back and allow Gabriel to be parted from him. In fact, there was a very large possibility that he would claim him. She knew this because she was a mother—and nothing on this earth could tear away that privilege. If their roles were reversed, she would do the same thing—fight for her son to her dying breath.
She had heard of the Carlyles from Jeremy. They possessed great wealth, connections. and influence. They were the kind of people who would not cower to challenge a duchess in court. Should this predicament come to due process, without Henry's protection, the law would not sympathize with her—a widow living by herself through independent means—most especially if it became known that she connived with her deceased husband in deceiving the Crown by presenting a false heir. Duchess or not, she could go to the gaol or be banished from England forever. She could lose Gabriel and Gabriel could lose everything—his future and good name before his life even started; his inheritance—the dukedom—Henry's only legacy. The one thing her husband fervently made her promise on his deathbed to ensure was bequeathed to the beloved child he raised as his own.
Her gaze caught Allayne's formidable countenance, observing her as she deliberated with herself.
Dear God. She never thought she'd be afraid of the only man she'd ever loved and yet—she feared him now. Andrew, the man she knew in Bath, was a loving, wonderful individual who was full of joy and laughter. But this man—Allayne Carlyle—had a ruthlessness about him. Beneath the sophisticated facade and in spite of the passion they had very recently shared, a kind of desperation—bitterness—seemed to seethe under his skin into something more potent, threatening to erupt—boil into a spurt of rage and frustration dangerously close to the surface. She had almost seen it happen in the ballroom and it made her uneasy. Despite the brief glimpses of tenderness and love he had shown, Allayne Carlyle struck her as a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
The rattle of keys followed by the lock making an audible click, had her turning the same time as Allayne towards the door.
"Alex—I know you're in there," Jeremy called as he opened the door, revealing him and the Duke of Grandstone, who was standing right behind him.
Alexandra wished she could disappear into a hole in the floor in shame, as Grandstone flicked his eyes from her wrinkled gown to Allayne's tousled hair and cravat still hanging askew, to the disheveled sofa, before fixing his sharp blue gaze back to her. "Jeremy—why don't you escort the Duchess back to the ballroom?" He said, as he walked into the room with Jeremy. "Use the other way, if you may."
"Blast it, Richard—I'm not done with her," Allayne growled.
"I'm sure you're not," Jeremy replied curtly with a pointed glare, draping Alexandra's hand over his arm and leading her towards the door. "I will have a word with you when I get back."
"Wait—" Allayne made a move to block their path, but Grandstone intervened with a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Don't be absurd," Grandstone gritted through his teeth, restraining him with a sturdy push. "A number of guests saw you and everyone is talking. Luckily, Barton was able to secure the hallway before anyone could sneak in and follow. Good God, man—if you can't control your conduct, then at least have some charity for the duchess' reputation!"
Allayne drew a long, deep breath before he nodded his acquiescence. Richard was right. This was not the time and place to pursue matters that must be discussed in private. He watched her cross the room on Jeremy's arm, a sudden feeling of loss and impuissance engulfing him. Once again, she was walking away from him—leaving him—ripping his heart apart and taking the other half.
~
Alexandra stole one last look at Allayne as she approached the doorway with Jeremy. She had escaped unscathed this time, but she also left a gaping chasm between them—filled with questions and suspicions—lies and more lies. Her heart ached at the transparent hurt in his eyes; the same beautiful green eyes that had held love and tenderness just minutes before. God—she hated this—hated herself for doing this—leaving him when so many things remained unsettled between them—for the second time in a single evening—the third time in a span of four years.
Alexandra blinked back tears, firmly pressing her lips together to subdue the sobs surging in her throat. When would things ever be right between them? All she wanted to do was to run back to him, wrap her arms around him and hold him—kiss away the pain, the misery—vanquish every speck of regret. She loved him so much, she could barely breathe.
But, he was betrothed to another—he was no longer free. And, because of her promise to Henry and her responsibilities to Gabriel—neither was she. She had deliberately made him believe she was still married, convincing herself it would be better that way. Knowing she was the wife to another would force him to keep his distance and abandon his pursuit of her. She could not bear to lose Gabriel, nor risk his future by abdicating the dukedom to the hands of a wastrel.
As much as she loved Allayne, she also loved their son.
And Gabriel needed her more.
"Here we are," Jeremy said, as he led her down the opposite hallway to the other side of the house where an archway opened to the supper room furnished with tables laden with a smorgasbord of scrumptious food. A few older guests looked up from their repast and nodded at them. "The last dance is ending, everyone should be here soon. Why don't you help yourself to a plate? We'll join Viscount Rose's and Lord Bhramby's table over there." He gestured at the gentlemen sitting near the windows. "The guests in the ballroom will be surprised to find you here—that should stop their tongues from wagging. They will assume they had speculated incorrectly on what had happened beforehand."
Alexandra felt the heat rush to her cheeks. Dear God—what had she been thinking? She had just engaged in carnal relations with a man whose betrothed she had met not three quarters of an hour earlier! And of course, her cousin and the Duke of Grandstone—Holy Mother of God—knew exactly what she had been doing with Allayne in the library. "Jeremy I—"
"Later, Alex," he said with a telling glare at the archway connecting the supper room to the ballroom as the music came to an end, before glan
cing sideways at her with a lift of a dark brow, "—or should I call you Anna?"
Chapter 24
The American Heiress and The English Aristocrat
After Jeremy and Alexandra had left, Allayne paced back and forth in the library, curbing his impulse to follow in their wake. He flicked his gaze at Richard, who was watching him with unadulterated interest. "Maybe I should go with Alex—"
"Allayne—" Richard pushed himself away from where he was half-sitting on the arm of the sofa and approached him, his opinion made clear with a shake of his head. "Don't worry about the Duchess." He gave him two reassuring pats on the shoulder. "Jeremy will take her to the supper room through the back way. It will give the impression that she has been there all along."
Allayne raked his fingers through his hair and massaged the back of his neck, before strolling towards the window, to gaze blankly at the starry night. Alexandra's scent still clung to his skin and the heat of her mouth still lingered on his cock, making his body ache with unfulfilled desire. Jesus—he must have gone out of his mind! What was he thinking—fucking a bloody duke's wife in the library of his friend's home—with a goddamn soiree in full swing—and his betrothed down the hall?
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Richard said from behind him. "But I assume that Her Grace and Anna are one and the same—yes?"
"Yes," Allayne replied quietly, his unblinking stare directed at the darkness outside. "I didn't know until tonight. I—"
"You don't need to mollify me," Richard interrupted. "I'm not here to lecture you."
Allayne squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damnation, Richard—what the fuck am I going to do?"
A short silence ensued, before Richard replied. "This whole business between you and the Duchess had completely gone awry, my friend. You specialize in asset recovery—I think you know exactly what to do."
Allayne drew in a labored breath. Asset recovery,—his forte—what a cruel coincidence. If he followed his instincts, it would simply be a matter of eliminating one to gain the other—mission accomplished. But Good God—he was not dealing with criminals here! This involved three lives—disrupted and entangled in the span of a single night. Which way should he go from here?
Richard seemed to have read his predicament. "Make everything right first, Allayne, before you plow ahead. At this point, the first person you should worry about is Marion. You owe her an explanation—and it better be a good one. Your actions have placed her in a difficult position. She was humiliated."
Allayne muttered an expletive under his breath. Christ—he'd abandoned Marion! He fished out his gold pocket watch and swore at the lateness of the hour. The dancing must be over by now and supper should be in progress. After everyone had eaten, the guests would be summoned back to the ballroom for an important announcement. The soiree was planned not only to welcome him home, but also to formally announce his betrothal to Marion—which, based on the chaotic state of his affairs at the moment, would never materialize. "Where is she?" he swiveled to face Richard.
"Cassie and Desiree took her upstairs to her bedchamber." Richard scrutinized him with sapphire eyes. "You should look in on her."
Allayne scrubbed his hand on his brow. Though the empathy was apparent in his friend's tone, just the thought of what had happened after he'd left Marion standing in a ballroom surrounded by the entire ton while he'd chased Alexandra, made him feel like the worst blackguard in London. His mother must be having an apoplexy at this very minute somewhere in the house. "Yes, I suppose I should."
"Use the servants' stair at the end of the hall. You don't want anyone to see you emerging from the way you came in."
Allayne nodded and started for the door.
"Oh, and Allayne—" Richard called before he could turn the doorknob.
Allayne paused and met his friend's gaze across the room.
"Think hard on what you really want."
~
In the supper room downstairs, Jeremy led Alexandra towards the table where the two older gentlemen sat.
"Ah, there you are, Jeremy, my boy," Viscount Rose said, rising from his seat as did his companion.
Jeremy turned to Alexandra. "Do you remember Viscount Rose, my father-in-law?"
"Y-yes, of course." Alexandra stared at the older man. He was very tall with a full head of gray hair and striking green eyes. She met him a long time ago when he came to Weston Court with Jeremy to purchase a gelding from her Papa. Unknown to her at that time, Viscount Rose was also Allayne's father.
"Your Grace." The viscount grinned at her and bowed over her hand, before turning to the gentleman sitting next to him on the table. "Bhramby—this is Weston's daughter," he said in a louder-than-usual voice near the older gentleman's ear. "The Duchess of Redfellow."
"Is she, now?" Lord Bhramby raised his quizzing glass to examine Alexandra closely.
Alexandra held her breath. She remembered where she had last seen Lord Bhramby. He was one of Countess Penthorpe's guests—years ago at her house party. The same gentleman who helped Allayne and her get away, by a hair, from the fiasco they'd inadvertently created—on their very first day—or rather—very first hour in Bath.
"Hm." Lord Bhramby snapped his bushy eyebrows together as he peered at her face. "Good thing you didn't get your father's looks. I've always wondered what Margaret was thinking—God bless her poor, misguided soul."
"Don't mind Lord Bhramby," Viscount Rose said, with a chuckle. "He and your father were ardent suitors of your mother. He's still sour about getting rejected."
"You look just like Margaret," Lord Bhramby said, with another peek through his quizzing glass. "It's a face I would never forget."
Alexandra bit back a grimace—Dear God—could it be possible that Lord Bhramby had recognized her? She opened her mouth to change the subject, but Lord Bhramby suddenly beamed at her, then turned to the viscount.
"Redfellow's Duchess, you said?" Lord Bhramby directed his question at the viscount without taking his eyes off Alexandra. "The famous explorer who brought all those mummies and artifacts from the East?"
"That's right," Viscount Rose replied. "Turned his toes up a year and a half ago, while you were on a grand tour in Europe."
"Ah, no wonder I didn't hear about his passing. My belated condolences," Lord Bhramby said with a small frown. "I went to Oxford with your husband. Fun ol' chap I must say. Sneaked that wretched monkey into Almack's and would've gotten away with it, until the little devil jumped onto Lady Jersey's atrocious-looking hat decorated with bananas, grapes, and what-nots. Downright caused a stampede. I never laughed so hard in my life."
In spite of Alexandra's apprehension, the little tale Lord Bhramby shared made her smile. "That sounds just like Henry."
Jeremy cleared his throat. "The other guests are on their way here." He exchanged a meaningful look with the two older gentlemen. "Let's all sit down and eat supper."
Lord Bhramby hoisted his quizzing glass in the direction of the archway connected to the ballroom as the first few guests began to pour in. "Ah—here comes the mob." He slipped his quizzing glass inside his coat pocket and glanced sideways at the viscount. "As far as we're concerned, we've been dining here with Her Grace for the last hour—right George?"
"Whatever you say, Nicholas," Viscount Rose took his seat and laughed. "An hour it is, indeed."
~
Upstairs on the second floor where the family's private rooms were located, the hallway was deserted, what with all the servants preoccupied with serving supper downstairs. Allayne headed to the bedchamber assigned to Marion in the left wing, where she had been staying since their arrival in London more than a week ago. His mother, ever the advocate and supreme authority on propriety, deemed it appropriate that his betrothed should stay at Waterford House in Berkeley Square with his sister, while he took up residence at the Carlyle Townhouse in Grosvernor Square.
The arrangement suited him extremely well. He needed some space. He had been feeling out of sorts—restl
ess and irritable. Hardly the picture of a perfect groom-to-be. His resolve to relieve his mother and father of the constant concern over his age and marital status had evaporated into nonexistence, as soon as the great ship Marion's father owned, docked onto English shores. A certain panic had consumed him, worsening to a state of nausea upon sighting the gleaming crested carriages parked near the harbor, which he recognized as belonging to his family and friends.
He wondered at first, if what he was feeling was nothing out of the ordinary—merely engagement jitters—if there even was such a silly thing. So, he ignored the sudden clamminess in his toes and fingers, and quelled the sick feeling in his gut, as he greeted his loved ones who had come to welcome him and his American fiancée.
Nine days later, however, his anxiety still lingered, if not having turned for the worse. Over dinner on the night before the soiree, when his sister Cassie had excitedly offered the opportunity to make his engagement known to their eminent guests, he had concurred with everyone else—then quickly made his excuses and ran outside, retching the entire contents of his stomach in the bushes at the back of the house. He felt so ill that he couldn't even make himself join the gentlemen for port, so he sat on the bench beneath the sycamore tree in the garden, inhaling the cool evening air, until Jeremy came looking for him.
Allayne paused in front of Marion's room. The woman on the other side of the door had done nothing, but adore and love him. She had shown him that finding a little piece of happiness in his desolate life had still been possible. That he didn't have to be alone; that in time, the past would eventually fade away and the pain would peak, then, subside into a subtle whisper, akin to a tide that had reached its crest, before ebbing and flowing out to sea. Marion's sincere, unwavering devotion, rescued him from the dark depths he had been drowning in. Her radiance and laughter banished the gloom, until the bleakness fled and light poured in.