Ruined by Rumor

by Alyssa Everett

  But at that moment, the tune the fiddlers were playing ended in a flourish, and the music that had been lilting along behind them gave way to a burst of boisterous applause. Roxana looked over her shoulder to make sure none of the dancers was running out of the circle of bonfires to witness them kissing in the moonlight.

  When she turned back, the dreamy-eyed Ayersley was gone, and he was her stiff, reticent husband once again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

  —William Shakespeare

  The morning after the Harvest Home celebration, Alex rode into the village. The workers had finished the church’s new slate roof, and Mr. Spotterswood wanted him to see it. They’d done a fine job, and Alex was happy to say so.

  Mr. Spotterswood followed him back to where he’d tethered Pyrrhus, thanking him again for having sponsored the project. “And please thank Lady Ayersley, too, for taking Miss Hammond’s place on the flower rota—not the dowager countess, I mean, but your lovely wife.”

  Alex hadn’t known anything about it. “I will.”

  The church sexton called Mr. Spotterswood away, and with a last farewell he hurried off. Alex was just about to swing up into the saddle when a shrill voice hailed him. “Lord Ayersley!”

  He turned to find Miss Hill hurrying toward him. He bowed to her as she came bustling up, breathless with haste.

  “Why, I nearly missed you. You’re rarely in the village these days, Lord Ayersley, not since your secretary arrived. Or perhaps it’s your marriage that’s been keeping you away? How does Lady Ayersley do?”

  “Quite well, thank you. And you, Miss Hill?”

  “Oh, I’m well enough—though Mrs. Truitt will insist on my walking all this way just to fetch her favorite peppermint lozenges.” She lowered her voice. “They help with her bilious attacks.”

  “Please give her my compliments.”

  “And you must give mine to your new bride. Matrimony is agreeing with you, I can see. I confess I was surprised to spot Lady Ayersley in the village last week without you. But there she was, by herself—or at least, she was by herself until Major Wyatt joined her.”

  At the unexpectedness of the remark, the ground seemed to drop out from under Alex. Wyatt? Roxana hadn’t mentioned seeing him.

  Pasting a hollow smile on his face, he asked, “What day was this, Miss Hill?”

  “Last Monday. I remember because she was wearing the most becoming red gown, and I said to Mrs. Truitt, ‘Doesn’t Lady Ayersley look fine as a star today,’ and Mrs. Truitt said, ‘Who?’ and I said, ‘Miss Langley that was,’ and that was the same day we received a letter from my sister in York.”

  “Oh, yes,” Alex said, though it took all the aplomb he could muster to appear unfazed. “I believe she did go shopping that day.”

  “And Major Wyatt was so attentive! It quite surprised me, I can tell you, because when she broke it off with him to marry you I felt sure the major would take it amiss. But, no, he was all smiles, walking with her and sharing her sweets.”

  It was all damning enough—Roxana’s pointed questions that morning about his schedule, the smart new gown she’d worn, the secret meeting, Wyatt’s smiles—yet it was the absurd innocuousness of sharing her sweets that rang in his ears like a death knell.

  “What news did your sister have from York?” Alex asked mechanically—not because he had any great interest in Miss Hill’s letter, but because he knew the question would unleash a steady stream of chatter that would give him time to master the sick sensation that had him wanting to sit down in the middle of the street and bury his head in his hands.

  They talked for another five minutes, and then Alex wished her a good day and started back to Broadslieve. Holding Pyrrhus to a walk, he could think of nothing but Roxana and George Wyatt. Might their meeting have been harmless? If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it to him?

  He must be five kinds of fool, even supposing such a rendezvous had been innocent. If he had any pride at all, he would seek out Roxana the instant he arrived home and demand she tell him exactly what was going on between them.

  But Alex already knew he wasn’t going to do that. The poet Grey was right. Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.

  * * *

  For hours after the Harvest Home celebration, Roxana wondered about the walk back to the house, and if Ayersley really had been going to kiss her. For one brief instant, there’d been something different between them, a pull that went beyond the practical bounds of their marriage.

  But to her disappointment, Ayersley promptly went back to business. He spent more time than ever in his study. With the harvest over, he turned all his attention to politics.

  A week slipped past, and then another. Roxana had missed her courses in September, but spared it little thought. Her body had never run like clockwork, and it wasn’t unusual for her to be late now and then. By the time the third week of October arrived and she realized she hadn’t bled since the middle of August, however, she began to suspect she was increasing.

  Little by little, new symptoms appeared, each one raising her hopes a notch higher. Her breasts grew tender, and she nodded off over her needlework in the evening. Her favorite foods smelled unfamiliar. Finally, she awoke one late October morning with a queasy feeling and lurched out of bed to vomit into the nearby washbasin. For the first time in her life, she was genuinely thrilled to cast up her accounts, certain it had to mean she was in an interesting condition.

  After she rinsed her mouth and bathed her face, she sat alone in her room and permitted herself a euphoric giggle, imagining Ayersley’s face when she gave him the news.

  She rang for Mary, dressed and raced downstairs, but he had already breakfasted and gone. She choked down a little dry toast and hurried off to find him.

  Outside his study door, she paused for a moment to assure herself he was alone. To her disappointment, however, the first sound she heard was Mr. Dean’s voice. “…and her mother thinks she could be with child.”

  Roxana was already turning to go, intending to return later, but his words brought her up short. How could anyone else have guessed, when she’d only just worked it out herself?

  But Mr. Dean continued, and she realized he wasn’t speaking of her at all, but of some other girl. “Even if Mrs. Whitehead had not asked for your help, I thought you would want to know. With her father gone, there’s really no one else to look out for the girl.”

  Ayersley sighed. “No, you were right to bring it to me. I won’t have my tenants preyed upon. If there really is a baby on the way, I’ll see he supports the child whether he likes it or not.”

  Roxana frowned. They were clearly talking about Polly Whitehead, a buxom girl of about eighteen whose family rented one of Ayersley’s tenant farms, but Roxana had no idea which of the local boys she had been seeing. Some farmer’s son, or a tradesman in the village, possibly. And now she might be in trouble. Poor Polly!

  “I’ve been making inquiries,” Mr. Dean said. “In case he should deny everything, there should be evidence enough to back up the girl’s story.”

  Ayersley laughed humorlessly. “I expect he will deny it. But when he does, at least I’ll feel justified in going to his father.”

  Roxana turned to go—but before she could slip away the door swung open, and there was Mr. Dean, staring her in the face. “Oh, excuse me.” She hoped it wasn’t obvious she’d been eavesdropping. “I was just wondering if I might have a moment of Ayersley’s time.”

  Behind his desk, Ayersley had risen to his feet. “Come in.”

  “I was just leaving, Lady Ayersley.” Mr. Dean stepped aside to allow her entrance. “If you’ll excuse me?” Withdrawing with a bow, he closed the door behind him.

  Roxana smiled uncertainly at Ayersley. He always looked so at home in his study—a snug, substantial chamber with an enormous mahogany desk that faced the fire, and mellow leather upholstery on the chairs. A sporting print hung over the mantel, and
Ayersley’s favorite dog, the setter named Leander who had sired Harry’s puppy, lay in what was clearly a favored spot, halfway between the hearth and his master’s desk.

  Though she’d intended to tell Ayersley at once about the baby, something about the way he stood regarding her from behind his desk, his posture straight as an arrow, made her nerve falter. How could she simply blurt it out when he had such a correct and businesslike air about him? “Perhaps we should talk at another time.” She twisted her hands together. “You look busy.”

  Ayersley glanced down at the papers on his desk. How unfair that such dark, thick eyelashes should belong to a man. “I am busy, but I can spare you a minute.”

  A minute? But this was important news—momentous news. It deserved better than a passing mention amid the daily press of business.

  No. Giving in to her nerves, she decided she would tell him in bed that night, when she had his full attention. She reached for the doorknob. “It can wait.”

  “Roxana—” When she looked back, he gave her an apologetic half shrug. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss dinner with you tonight.”

  “Miss dinner? Do you mean completely?”

  “I’m afraid so. Lord Grey has asked me to put together some facts and figures, and he needs them as soon as possible. Answering his letter is likely to take me all evening.”

  So now even their short time together at the close of day had dwindled to nothing. She tried not to look as disappointed as she felt. “That’s quite all right.” She turned the doorknob.

  But then—whether it was the disappointment of deciding it was the wrong time to share the news about the baby, or simply that she couldn’t take one more minute of being ignored—something snapped inside her. She turned back to face him. “Actually, that’s not true. It isn’t all right at all.”

  Ayersley’s eyes had wandered to the papers on his desk, but at this they flew up to meet hers.

  “Can’t you at least talk to me for five minutes before you turn all your attention to work?”

  “Talk to you?” He sounded bewildered. “About what?”

  “About anything!” George would never have asked such an exasperating question. If anything, he’d be likely to prattle her ear off. “About whatever married people talk about. You could tell me more about that letter you’re working on, for instance.”

  Ayersley closed a book that had been lying open on his desk, and for the first time Roxana noticed how tired he looked. “Well…of course, if you wish. I’m drafting a report on joblessness here in the Midlands, as we’re making a case against the next corn bill the Tories are expected to introduce.”

  Though it seemed a dry subject, Roxana was determined to have an actual conversation with him. She motioned for him to sit. Settling herself in the chair before his desk, she folded her hands in her lap. “And what does joblessness have to do with the price of corn?”

  His forehead creased in a puzzled expression at her bothering to ask, but he answered patiently enough. “Now that the war is over, the flow of government contracts has dried up, and industry is suffering. Meanwhile our soldiers and sailors are returning home. Add the Enclosure Acts we’ve passed in recent years, and more men than ever before are looking for work. And if you take the shortage of jobs and couple it with more costly bread…” He shook his head. “Let’s just say that ‘let them eat cake’ did not go over well the first time.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Ayersley pushed himself back from his desk and sighed. “The Tory argument is that landowners’ profits must be protected. Well, I’m a landowner. I certainly don’t need help putting bread on my table. It’s the poor and the displaced who most need the protection of the law. For me to sit by and allow higher corn prices when women and children are likely to go hungry would be the height of callous self-interest.”

  As neglected as she might feel, Roxana had to admit the work deserved his attention. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve already outlined most of the points I intend to make. I need to meet with a tenant I’ve been putting off since the beginning of the week, but once that appointment is out of the way, I hope to make quick work of all this.”

  “You needn’t do everything yourself, you know. You have Mr. Dean, a steward and an entire house full of servants—not to mention a wife now. Surely one of us can take some of the burden off your shoulders.”

  “Oliver helps. But it’s really my responsibility.”

  Gesturing for him to remain seated, she rose to go. “The vast majority of people have responsibilities, yet they don’t drive themselves from sunup to sundown. Occasionally some even sleep late, or steal an evening to visit neighbors. I myself have been known to read a book now and then, when I might have been better employed writing to a maiden aunt or sewing pillowcases for the poor.”

  Ayersley smiled wryly. “I suppose that’s a diplomatic way of telling me all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

  “I’m more worried it makes Jack exhausted and unhappy.” And also leaves Jack’s wife rather lonely.

  “Please don’t worry on my account.”

  She studied his appearance, from his neat clothes to his careworn expression. “I spent much of yesterday reading a novel. One of the characters was described as being ‘as happy as he was deserving.’ Well, that’s what I want for you, Ayersley—to be as happy as you are deserving. I realize your work is important, but you won’t be doing the world any favors if you drive yourself to the point of collapse. You’ve earned a reward now and then.”

  He gave her a rueful half smile. “But you see, I already have all the rewards I can handle.”

  Roxana raised an eyebrow.

  He gestured at the house around them. “I grew up with advantages most people can only dream about—wealth, privilege, position. Not once in my life have I ever been truly hungry or destitute. I knew I could look forward to a good education and a life of comfort and security. All that, just for being born to the right parents.” His dark blue eyes met hers. “And to compound matters, even those blessings were not the limit of my good fortune. I was a mere younger son. But my brother Kit died, and a few weeks later my father followed, and all this came to me—the title, the lands, a seat in the Lords, everything. I was already quite content with my lot in life and thankful that I had so much, but Fate found a way to heap more blessings on my head.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a weary but good-humored smile. “You say you want me to be as happy as I am deserving, Roxana, and that’s very good of you. For my part, I just want to be as deserving as I am happy.”

  “But you already are deserving. I don’t know anyone else who takes his responsibilities as seriously as you do. It’s rather daunting, actually, to be married to someone so perfect.”

  His smile faded. “I’m hardly perfect.”

  “Of course you are. You’re always patient and polite, never losing your temper, always putting duty first. And you don’t have a single vice.”

  He shook his head. “I’m far from perfect. In fact, sometimes I feel so disappointed in myself, I can hardly bear it.”

  “You?” Roxana gaped at him. “But why? When have you ever done anything selfish or dishonest?”

  He was silent for a time, picking at the corner of his desk blotter with a fingernail. Then he looked up at her. “You remember my brother, don’t you? Do you recall how he died?”

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. “A fever, wasn’t it?”

  “Enteric fever. Eight years ago. My family was here at Broadslieve when Kit fell ill. For weeks, he was talking out of his head, growing weaker and weaker. We kept hoping he’d rally, but when it changed to the bloody flux, we knew he was done for.”

  “I remember how shocked everyone in the parish was.” She’d been only fifteen at the time, but it stood out in her memory. “We were all praying for him.”

  “So were we. A pall hung over this house the whole time he was ill. My mother was beside herself. We obs
essed over every detail of his condition—every encouraging sign, every turn for the worse.”

  “It was like that when Papa was dying too.”

  Ayersley nodded. “You loved your father. And I loved Kit. He was the best brother anyone could wish for, a born athlete and a natural at everything he tried. I was always the quiet one, the bookworm. Kit was the lively one, always making everyone laugh. Certainly he was the one who drew all the attention. I might as well have been invisible, when Kit was in the room.” He fidgeted with the inkwell, nudging it a few inches across his desk. “And, of course, he was the firstborn. I was only plain Mr. Winslow, while he was Lord Kittredge, next in line to inherit.”

  “Yes, but the title came to you in the end.”

  “So it did.” He spoke quietly, without looking up. “I remember when it first occurred to me, in a more than merely academic way, that it might. Kit had been ill for almost two weeks, and it was becoming clear to everyone he had more than just a simple case of influenza.” He sighed. “All my life, the servants had treated me in a particular way. My father commanded hushed respect, my mother was the mistress of Broadslieve, and after them came Kit. I was only a very distant fourth. The servants behaved with perfect correctness, of course, but I could tell they breathed easier around me, the same way they might with my tutor or a weekend guest. Kit was going to be the next earl, while I was merely passing through.”

  “Their future did not depend on you in quite the same way.”

  “Yes.” He pushed the inkwell back into place, then looked up at her. “Then, one day during Kit’s illness, I sensed it—a distinct shift. It was nothing I could put my finger on, exactly, just a smarter way the footmen had of springing to attention, a subtly more deferential tone the butler used when speaking to me. Everyone was a shade more eager to please.”

  “They’d realized the title would come to you instead.”

  “Yes. Kit was done for, and they knew it.” Ayersley nodded sadly. “But here’s the rub. I liked it. As worried as I was about my brother, I liked that feeling. I liked being the special one.”