Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords)

by Burrowes, Grace

  “How fortunate, for I am thriving.” She willed Westhaven to hear the implication: No thanks to your lecherous brother.

  “I am pleased to hear it.” Then his handsome features creased into a frown. “No, actually, I am relieved to hear it. Quite thoroughly relieved.”

  His sentiment was genuine, and made Gwen recall something she’d forgotten. She had liked Gayle Windham, six years ago. He’d grown on her gradually, as Victor had promised he would. He was the personification of the dutiful son, and despite those lovely eyes and patrician features, he was without artifice. Though he had dignity in abundance, he wasn’t an arrogant man.

  And whereas Victor had been flamboyantly handsome, with green eyes, dark hair worn rakishly long, and the Windham height and grace, Gayle was quieter, his tastes sober, and his demeanor reserved.

  Sitting in her parlor, all quiet self-containment, Westhaven reminded her fleetingly of Douglas.

  Whom she would never stop missing. “You were concerned about my welfare?”

  “I was,” he replied, “but you did not invite continued interest from any member of my family, and because I understood and respected your reasons, I trusted to my brother to deal with you, should the need arise.”

  The tea tray arrived—the best service in the household, polished to a spotless shine—accompanied by pears, cheese, bread, sliced ham, and an assortment of cakes. The interruption was timely, for Gwen felt her temper flare higher at Westhaven’s words.

  “I see no need,” she said as evenly as she could, “for any member of your family to deal with me. I am at a loss to explain your visit now, six years after our last, unfortunate encounter.”

  “I appreciate your curiosity,” Westhaven said, not a hint of confrontation in his tone, “so I will be as plainspoken as you. I am here at the request of my brother, who feared were he to approach you directly, you would not receive him.”

  Gwen could not imagine handsome, dashing Lord Victor Windham fearing anything. “Why in the world would I avoid Victor? He was a mistake, but one that has faded into obscurity with time.”

  “So you have forgiven him?” Westhaven asked, his regard intent for all his manner was nonchalant.

  “To be quite honest,” Gwen said, reaching for the silver teapot, “I haven’t spared him sufficient thought to consider whether he’s deserving of it.”

  My, how wonderfully mendacious she could be when provoked, though how wonderfully true the sentiment was of late.

  “Was my brother so forgettable?” Westhaven asked, accepting his cup of tea.

  “You speak of Victor in the past tense,” Gwen pointed out. “He is a memorable man, but his actions regarding me are better forgotten. I trust he is getting on well?” She had wondered, mostly because Victor’s behavior on their elopement had been so very out of character, then she’d castigated herself for caring.

  Westhaven’s brows twitched down. “Victor is not at ease with the way matters were left between you two, and he seeks to meet with you that he might address the issue.”

  There it was, the gently worded command, the ducal gauntlet so politely dropped on the table, the beginning of the end of her freedom. “And if I refuse to meet with him?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Westhaven said, looking less dignified and more… more bothered. “He will insist I continue to pester you, Miss Hollister, and I will comply with his wishes, until you capitulate simply to be rid of me.”

  The last was said with a small thread of self-deprecating humor. Gwen wasn’t to be threatened overtly. At least not yet. She would instead—God help her and Westhaven both—be charmed.

  “I don’t want to meet with him.” Douglas would have been proud of her for that understatement. “Nothing he has to say, nothing he can offer me, nothing he has, holds any interest for me. You may convey to him my complete forgiveness, if indeed there is anything to forgive. Victor and I were both foolish, selfish, and lacking in judgment, but I find no lasting harm, at least not to me.”

  Westhaven looked pained at that speech, but he’d at least heard her out.

  He set down his teacup precisely in the middle of its saucer. “How can you say you’ve suffered no lasting harm, when you had more than an understanding with a duke’s son six years ago, but because of his stupid schemes, you’ve spent the rest of your youth buried here in the country, not even taken into the household of your relations? Being deprived of a husband and children of your own constitutes harm in itself.”

  Gwen parried out of instinct, though Westhaven’s condemnation of his brother was interesting, and his words confirmed that he knew nothing of Rose. “Where is it written, my lord, that a person, a woman, can be happy only with a spouse and children?”

  “Probably in the Bible, for starters, and certainly in my father’s personal lexicon under the heading ‘contented females,’” Westhaven replied, the humor again evident in his eyes. “I hope I do not offend when I observe you are more strikingly lovely than you were six years ago, Miss Hollister, and you deserve to have a fellow about who can appreciate that. To the extent my brother stole such a future from you, you are an injured party.”

  Such was the charm a man in expectation of a dukedom could dispense, so subtle, so casual, that the flattery felt deserved.

  Gwen had neglected to pour herself a cup of tea, and remedied the oversight while she gathered her wits. “I appreciate your assessment, Lord Westhaven,” she replied, her voice gratifyingly steady, considering she wished he’d choke on his aristocratic charm. “Any harm I suffered at your brother’s hands was fleeting and easily rectified. I simply did not enjoy what I learned of Polite Society. My presence there was more a function of my aunt’s ambitions than any choice on my part.”

  “So you won’t see him?” Westhaven asked, rising and ambling to the mantel, over which a portrait of Grandfather’s favorite bitch with a litter of puppies held pride of place.

  “What can Victor Windham offer me, or want from me, that would improve our situation now? If he needs my forgiveness, he has it, though I’ve explained it isn’t necessary.”

  Westhaven perused the portrait, and Gwen had the sense he was in truth inspecting the artistry with an educated eye. “I believe Victor intends to offer you marriage of a sort, but he hasn’t confided in me specifically.”

  “Marriage of a sort?” Wasn’t “marriage of a sort” already the state of things between them?

  Westhaven left off appraising the painting and turned to face her. “Victor is not the impulsive, reckless young man you knew. If he’s offering you marriage—and I don’t know for certain that he is—then he has reasons for it, well-thought-out reasons. He would provide for you generously, of that I am sure.”

  “I have no need of his generosity,” Gwen shot back. “You can see I am quite comfortable in my home.”

  “This is not your home,” Westhaven said gently. “This property is entailed with the barony that passed to your cousin Greymoor. Victor can offer you your own home, Miss Hollister, and security for the rest of your life.”

  Gwen struggled not to let the strength of that blow show on her face, but it was difficult. A life estate here was one thing, but Westhaven had stated the truth. She might live at Enfield, but it wasn’t hers.

  Just as Douglas was not, in the ways that Society valued, hers.

  “I am sorry,” Westhaven said in the same quiet voice. “I do not seek to distress you, but rather to prevail on you to grant the favor I ask.”

  “You want me to meet with Victor. Is that all?”

  “That’s all he is asking, as far as I know.” Westhaven was dodging. He was doing it politely and subtly, but he was dodging.

  “Does your father know anything of our dealings six years ago?”

  This question had the earl glancing at the hound above the mantel again, and at the litter of eight fat pups cavorting around her. “I said n
othing, and I doubt Victor did either. One word to His Grace, and you would find Victor here in my stead, on bended knee, ring in hand, and a horse pistol at his back.”

  Bad, if predictable, news. “Your father is that old-fashioned?”

  Westhaven’s smile was rueful. “To put it mildly, though Her Grace would be the one to make sure the gun was loaded. Victor behaved dishonorably toward you, and I colluded with him after the fact.”

  Such self-castigation—now, when it did no good whatsoever. Gwen shoved to her feet. “Is it you who seeks forgiveness, my lord? If so, then hear me well. Had you forced me to solemnize that farce of a wedding with your brother, you would have earned my undying enmity, not to mention that of my cousins. One thing you need to be very, very clear about. Your brother’s intimate attentions were rendered with an abominable lack of consideration for me, and the prospect of suffering similarly at his hands for the rest of my life would indeed be enough to put me to flight.”

  Westhaven’s expression had gone from stunned to stern to impassive.

  “I suspected as much,” he said when it was clear Gwen had finished. “And for that reason, I respected your wish to return quietly to your aunt. Victor behaved abominably, but this merely makes his request to see you that much more emphatic.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Gwen asked, resuming her seat. Sparring with Westhaven, a man who shared Douglas’s ability to keep his own counsel, was draining. The oppressive, unhappy fatigue she’d struggled with since coming home from Linden and parting from Douglas abruptly robbed her of the energy to argue with his lordship further.

  “Victor must tell you some things himself,” Westhaven said. He took his seat next to her and examined his teacup. Gwen would not have been surprised had he upended the thing to inspect it for a maker’s mark. “Let’s try it this way. Under what circumstances would you consider meeting with Victor?”

  “I don’t understand.” He was attempting to lawyer her now, though if asked, he’d no doubt say he was being reasonable. Gwen dropped her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Had she permitted Gareth, Andrew, or David to attend this interview, they would simply have tossed the man out for her, earl or not. “I do not want to see Victor. How much more blunt can I be?”

  “But he does want to see you, and I would not be carrying his request to you did I not think it was made in good faith.”

  Gwen opened her eyes, and of course, Westhaven was still seated beside her. The earl was not going to go away, but perhaps—it was a silly hope—perhaps if Gwen met with Victor, he might be willing to leave her in peace thereafter. Victor was, after all, the only person who knew if they were truly married.

  “Fine. I will meet with your brother, accompanied by you and the escort of my choice. I will not set foot in any of the ducal residences, and this meeting will be within the next week or not at all. Victor is not to accost me here at Enfield in the meanwhile, and he will have no more than one hour of my time. Now, will you please go away?”

  She had rattled off her conditions with admirable ease, but they represented hours of thought and second-guessing.

  “If I promise to leave soon, will you at least let me have a bit of cheese and a bite of apple before I go? It’s a two-hour ride out here and another two hours back to Town.”

  Gwen resigned herself to more civility. Six years ago, she’d thought him the dull older brother, good-looking enough, but without joie de vivre, humor, or even much conversation. Now, she saw him as undeniably handsome, unpretentious, and safe—an impressive set of characteristics on the unmarried heir to a dukedom.

  “Why aren’t you married?” Gwen asked as she set about fixing him a plate.

  “I haven’t met the right lady,” he replied, watching Gwen’s hands as she piled his plate with sustenance. “I am considered eligible, but I suspect I’m too much of a chore for the sweet young things to bear. I dance well enough but cannot abide inane gossip. I am also lamentably indifferent to fashion, and I only come up to Town when His Grace insists upon it. These are egregious shortcomings, even in the son of a duke.”

  “I danced with you,” Gwen recalled, pouring him another cup of tea. “You dance as well as Victor ever did.”

  Westhaven looked preoccupied as he demolished his apple. “I led you out for your first waltz. I remember thinking it a pleasure to dance with a tall woman for a change.”

  “How flattering, to be memorably tall.”

  “And graceful,” the earl said, moving on to a slice of cheese, “and blessedly willing to simply enjoy the dance rather than chatter your way through it from start to finish.”

  Something in the way he looked at her—wistfully?—made Gwen think he did recall dancing with her, and it was a pleasant memory for him. How odd that now, after six years, she should become aware of it.

  Though the memory was no longer pleasant for her. The best that could be said was that the dance hadn’t been unpleasant. “When shall I meet with Victor, and where?”

  “You can use my new town house, though I’m not yet residing there,” Westhaven suggested, wrapping his second slice of cheese in ham. “I’m assuming you will bring one of your cousins, so we should have no problem with the proprieties.”

  Gwen found that comment ridiculous, but if it comforted Westhaven to think she was still within the ambit of the proprieties, she’d allow him that fiction.

  “When?”

  “What about Saturday?” More food disappeared, making Gwen wonder if anybody ensured Westhaven had proper meals. “My parents will have taken my sisters off to a hunting party by week’s end, and Victor will be able to maneuver with more privacy.”

  “Is he ashamed of me?” Oh, drat. She hadn’t meant to ask that. Hadn’t meant to think it—ever again.

  Westhaven paused on the verge of inhaling another wedge of cheddar. “I think it rather the case he is ashamed of himself, as well he should be.”

  Gwen frowned at her tea, trying to come to peace with the bargain she’d made.

  “Am I making a mistake?” she asked, even more appalled at herself, but sensing Westhaven’s counsel would be honest.

  “The mistake was made six years ago, I should think. All you are doing now is meeting with the man and hearing what he has to say. I cannot see how that can compound the earlier error in judgment.”

  “It still feels like a mistake.” And an imposition and an intrusion, though the opportunity to confront Victor also held an odd, powerful appeal, and it was a chance to learn the truth of their marital situation.

  “Bring both your cousins, then,” Westhaven suggested, passing her back his empty plate. “Heathgate could intimidate the devil himself, and Greymoor is doubly lethal because he charms as he moves in for the kill.”

  “You know my cousins?” For his description of them was deadly accurate.

  “Mostly by reputation,” Westhaven answered. “They are impressive men, even in my father’s eyes.”

  Probably because neither would care a fig for Moreland’s estimation of them. “They weren’t so impressive six years ago.”

  “They were impressively naughty,” Westhaven suggested, draining his teacup with the dispatch any yeoman might show his ale. “But they have accepted the civilizing influence of matrimony admirably, in His Grace’s opinion. Neither one has been seen misbehaving since speaking his vows.”

  This exchange bore the pull of Town gossip, where everybody knew and commented on everybody else’s business. For herself, Gwen did not care that she might soon be the subject of such speculation, but for Rose, and for Douglas…

  “Both of my cousins are thoroughly besotted with their spouses,” Gwen said. “Absolutely, thoroughly devoted, and their wives are lovely, lovable women.”

  “Sounds as nauseating as His Grace and Her Grace,” Westhaven replied, smiling openly. The change in expression was remarkable, making him
younger, lighter, and altogether breathlessly attractive.

  Gwen scowled at him as a consequence. “You should smile more often, Westhaven. The sweet young things would be more inclined to overlook your many shortcomings.”

  Westhaven’s smiled dimmed, becoming… wistful? Pained? “That leaves us with the question of how I am to overlook theirs, and why I would want to. Hmm?”

  “A dilemma,” Gwen conceded. But not her dilemma. “Have some more tea, or if you need fortification for your journey, I have brandy about here somewhere.”

  Westhaven let her fill his traveling flask and walk him to the front hallway.

  “You have been more than gracious,” he said. “And I don’t think you’ll regret this decision.”

  She already did. “I certainly hope not. Safe journey, my lord.”

  “Until Saturday, then.” He bowed the same formal, correct bow he’d offered her in greeting and then was blessedly gone.

  Gwen’s relief was accompanied by profound, inexplicable fatigue, and a longing for Douglas’s embrace so intense it made her ache. She was tempted to ride over to Willowdale simply to see him, but knew such behavior would merit her nothing but another sorrowful leave-taking.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a footman bearing a note. “This arrived from Willowdale, madam.”

  Gwen opened a missive sealed with the marquess’s crest, but addressed in Felicity’s hand. Douglas would not write to her unless it was a dire emergency, and yet, Gwen was disappointed. The proprieties were back in place between her and her lover—her former lover—and they rankled more than ever.

  “Thank you.” She sent the footman to make sure the messenger was offered hot food and drink in the kitchen, then took herself into the library.

  Felicity hoped Gwen’s meeting with Westhaven had gone well, and warned her to expect both of her cousins after breakfast tomorrow. She added that Lord Amery had been called to Amery Hall, his mother having suffered an apoplexy, and her prognosis being dubious.

  At the bottom of Felicity’s note were two lines in a beautiful, flowing script: