Christmas with His Wallflower Wife

by Janice Preston

  ‘I am pleased he acted so responsibly.’

  His voice remained level. Unconcerned. He wouldn’t have the staff thinking he’d been unaware his wife was at this very minute en route to Devonshire, despite knowing he didn’t wish to go. She would be staying in inns. Alone. That Lilley would take care to stop at only respectable establishments was immaterial. A lady should not travel without a male escort and Jane knew it. What the hell did she think she was playing at?

  ‘I trust Her Ladyship got away on time?’

  Pat was busy unsaddling Frost. ‘Indeed, milord. They left about noon.’

  ‘They?’

  For one dreadful instant jealousy stabbed at Alex, even though he knew damned well Jane would not go away with another man.

  ‘Her maid, sir, and that new footman.’

  Peg and Alfred. At least she had sense enough to make sure she had some sort of escort. But it wasn’t him. Her husband.

  How could she leave me like this?

  But you told her to go! With your blessing!

  Alex shook his own words from his head. He didn’t want reasoned argument. His emotions tumbled and churned as he abruptly bid Pat goodnight and strode up to the house.

  * * *

  He stayed up half the night drinking, then slept in the chair, where Drabble found him in the morning. Yesterday’s events soon burst upon him but rather than feel sorry for himself, as he had last night, he was angry. How dare she defy him? He thrust aside that same voice which reminded him he had told her to go. She must have known he’d said that in the heat of the moment. She must have known he hadn’t meant for her to go.

  Follow her.

  No! He would not go running after Jane the minute she jerked on his leash. She’d no doubt done this believing he would meekly follow but she would learn he was not so easily manipulated.

  His spirits dived further as he recalled the memory that had triggered their argument. He’d not given a thought to his father—he had been consumed with Jane leaving. But the new facts of his life were unchanged, and he could no more face any of his family today than he could yesterday.

  * * *

  He distracted himself all day with work. She wouldn’t be gone long. She would be back before Christmas, which was only three weeks away. Although...he’d checked, and she’d taken all those Christmas gifts she’d made. But, no...she was making a point, that was all. And she wouldn’t stay away for good—Pearl was still here, as was Mist. She would never leave them behind. Besides, Dominic wouldn’t help her. They were brothers. Dominic had always had Alex’s back, and he would do so this time.

  His brave face lasted all that day, and the next. It lasted until he sat down to his solitary dinner on the second evening. He couldn’t sustain his anger...all he could feel was pity. For himself. And that was pathetic. But there was guilt, too, that he had hurt Jane. She didn’t deserve the way he had treated her...but she didn’t understand what an impossible position he was in.

  He stared down at his plate, and pushed the food around with his fork. What did he want?

  Jane.

  The answer came loud and clear as he realised, with a jolt, that he loved her. Really loved her. The man who thought he could never love anyone, loved his wife. To distraction. And the idea of following her, persuading her to come home, no longer seemed weak. It was a strong man who could admit when he was in the wrong. How many times had he heard his father say those words? He shuddered. And how long would it be before the thought of his father ceased to make him feel physically ill?

  His appetite deserted him, and he rose from the table. He would go to bed early, and set off for Devonshire as soon as it was first light. As he left the dining room, Kent was on his way in, carrying a letter. Alex almost snatched it from him, hope blooming. But one glimpse at the writing on the outside revealed Anthony Lascelles’ heavy black script.

  ‘Mr Lascelles’s man awaits a reply, milord.’

  Alex broke the seal.

  My dear Alexander,

  I am concerned. I have not seen you for two days now, and I seek confirmation that you have not sunk in the doldrums after the shock of such a discovery. You will note that I have not committed any facts to this missive, in case the wrong eyes should see it!

  I cannot bring myself to call in person after my unfortunate misunderstanding with Jane but do, I beg of you, write to assure me you are in good health in both mind and body, or I shall have to overcome my reluctance to further upset your good lady and call at Foxbourne to set my mind at rest.

  Your loyal cousin and friend,

  Anthony Lascelles

  Alex sighed. He should have foreseen this, but he had been so busy being busy, to prevent himself fretting over Jane, that he had not given Anthony a thought.

  ‘Tell his man to wait for a reply.’

  He sat at his desk. How much to reveal? Anthony knew about Dominic’s invitation and that Alex’s refusal had caused an argument with Jane. Anthony, he recalled, had tried to persuade Alex to go to Devonshire, to confront his father. At least Anthony would be pleased he was going, even if he had no intention of going anywhere near the Abbey and his father.

  He dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write.

  * * *

  ‘My lord?’

  It was the following morning. Alex looked up from his plate of congealed eggs. The coming few days would be fraught. If only he could whisk Jane away from Clystfield without seeing or speaking to anyone else. If only... It was an impossible wish. He had the three days it would take him to travel to Clystfield to decide exactly what to say to Jane. And to his brother. And hadn’t Jane said Olivia would be there, too? That would make his task even trickier. Olivia was never backward in challenging any member of the family if she scented trouble, and Alex had made a career out of being troubled.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Sorry, Kent. I was wool-gathering. What is it?’

  ‘Mr Lascelles is here, milord.’

  ‘This early?’ Alex waved at his breakfast, and stood up. ‘I’ve had enough, Kent. It can be cleared away. Thank you.’

  Drabble was upstairs, packing for Alex’s trip—he planned to leave within half an hour. Jane had the carriage, so Alex must drive his curricle to High Wycombe first, where he could hire a post-chaise. That would be an unwelcome delay—now he’d decided to follow Jane, he just wanted to get on with it.

  And now, another delay.

  ‘He awaits you in the hall, milord.’

  Anthony—his greatcoat buttoned up, a muffler around his neck, gloves on, and his beaver hat in his hand—smiled when he saw Alex.

  ‘Good morning, Alexander! It is perishing cold this morning, so I have provided hot bricks for the journey. My carriage is outside—if we set off now, we might make it as far as Andover by this evening. I know how eager you must be to settle your differences with dear Jane.’

  ‘I... We?’

  ‘Oh, do not think I shall interfere, dear boy, but I simply cannot bear the thought of you travelling such a distance alone. Not with such distressing thoughts to plague you. What kind of a friend would I be to abandon you to such a melancholy fate? I shall accompany you to Devonshire and then I shall return in my carriage while you and Jane will have your own carriage for transport home. She will never know I was there, you have my word.’

  Alex ignored the warning in his head. He was exhausted. All he wanted was to see Jane. To talk to her. To bring her home. He had no energy to even think about anything else, let alone talk Anthony out of travelling with him—he was a difficult man to shake once he had set his sights on something. Besides...this would save him a good hour and a half now he didn’t need to go to High Wycombe first, and Anthony was right. Left to his own devices, Alex would only brood all the way to Clystfield. At least Anthony would divert him from fretting endlessly over the whole sorry mess of his life.


  * * *

  Stuck in one another’s company for three days on that interminable journey, however, Alex began to see Anthony Lascelles in a different light. He’d been tolerable—even entertaining—in small doses but his purpose in accompanying Alex soon became apparent. He was oblivious to Alex’s reluctance to discuss his father as he dripped poisonous comments about him into the silence and tried everything to convince Alex to go to the Abbey and confront his father.

  ‘Do you not feel it is your duty to expose your mother’s killer?’

  ‘How can you live with yourself if you allow him to get away with your mother’s murder?’

  ‘Why don’t we travel on to the Abbey first? Once you have charged your father with the truth you will feel so much better, my boy...you will be able to rekindle your marriage with a clear conscience.’

  Alex exploded at that. ‘A clear conscience? What utter rot. I hid away while he strangled my mother and then denied the truth for eighteen years. How can my conscience ever be clear?’

  ‘But my dear, dear Alexander...how can you possibly have prevented such a tragedy when you were only seven years old? And who’s to say you didn’t remember, in the beginning, and that your father convinced you of your mistake? He is an arch manipulator. What he wants is what he gets!’

  A family trait, thought Alex as he eyed Anthony. And one you share.

  And doubts slowly crept in about any similarities in character between his father and Anthony. The latter was...sly. He manoeuvred behind the scenes, manipulating people into doing his bidding. Tricking them.

  Just as Jane warned you!

  His father, though. He was a powerful duke...yes, he manipulated people and situations when he felt it justified, but he was never sly.

  The closer they got to Devonshire, the more dread weighed on Alex until he was ready to scream. Or to punch someone. Preferably Anthony.

  The only way he found peace was to feign sleep. After a few attempts at conversation, Anthony would lapse into silence, leaving Alex to silently plan what to say to Jane. If he wanted her to forgive him, and to believe he loved her, did he have any choice other than to tell her the truth regardless of the consequences?

  Was his marriage worth that much to him?

  He concluded it was.

  * * *

  The carriage pulled up at an inn a couple of miles from Dominic’s estate at six o’clock on the third evening. Although desperate to see Jane, Alex felt grubby and exhausted and in no fit state to convincingly persuade his wife of his love for her.

  One more night. That’s all. Then I will see her, and we can put this behind us.

  Except they could never properly put it behind them, not now he had decided his only option was to tell Jane the brutal truth.

  Another very good reason to delay speaking to her until the morning. It would give him one more sleepless night to plan what he would say. The only positive result of his recent sleepless nights was that, gradually, he’d had no need to feign sleep in the carriage. And Anthony seemed to have finally accepted Alex would not confront his father, lapsing into a sullen silence on the final day of travel. Alex couldn’t wait for this evening to be over. He didn’t care if he never spoke to Anthony again, and he didn’t want to hear any more tales of his mother.

  When Alex returned downstairs after washing, and changing his clothes, it was clear from the slurring of his words that Lascelles had been drinking in the taproom the entire time.

  They were served roast beef and game pie, which they washed down with a full-bodied red wine, following which they settled in a quiet parlour with a bottle of port. Alex was determined to keep this final evening civil, conscious that Anthony had provided the transport even though his true purpose in accompanying Alex had nothing to do with Alex’s well-being and everything to do with causing trouble for Alex’s father.

  ‘Drink up, m’boy.’ Anthony filled Alex’s glass, slopping some on to the table. ‘You look like a man in need of fort...forti...fortification.’

  Alex raised his glass. ‘To the end of our journey.’

  ‘What is your plan?’ Anthony eyed Alex over the rim of his glass, his black gaze slightly bleary. ‘How shall you win back the fair Jane? What can you possibly say to help her understand the turmoil you were in?’

  Alex shrugged. That was between him and Jane. ‘I haven’t planned it. I shall speak from the heart.’

  He sipped his port. Anthony drained his glass, and refilled it.

  ‘You must tell her the truth,’ he said.

  Alex frowned. ‘What truth?’

  ‘About your father, of course.’

  Alex said nothing.

  ‘You will never find peace unless you do, my boy. Even if you fear to confront your father, you must at least reveal the truth of your mother’s death. Your brother Avon, too—he deserves to know. And your sister.’

  How could he tell Dominic and Olivia? But, again, how could he not? Their mother was still their mother, no matter how little she had cared for her children. But how could he burden them with the knowledge of their father’s part in it? It was an impossible dilemma...never had he felt so conflicted as Lascelles droned on, topping up their glasses time after time.

  ‘Poor Margaret. So vivacious...such a beautiful lady. What a tragic waste—she always looked so vital in yellow, my boy...pretty as a picture... She always had plenty of beaux swarming around her, you know, even after she wed your father.’ His face blazed with sudden fury. ‘She only married him for the title. All she cared for was the status...being the duchess. But later, when I knew her again...oh, then...’ He sighed, his dark eyes distant. ‘She tired quickly of the country life...she sobbed in my arms many times...’ He sighed again. ‘Such a beauty...skin like silk.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Alex leapt up, grabbing Lascelles’ lapels and hauling him upright. Rage scorched through him, erupting like a volcano, shooting sparks, hot swathes of molten anger flowing from him. ‘You were her lover? You utter bastard! She was my mother.’

  His fist landed square on Lascelles’ nose. The older man staggered back, stumbling over his chair, landing hard on the floor. Alex followed, fists clenched, murder in his heart. All this time Lascelles had exuded sympathy...told Alex to treat him as a father...

  Father! Sick anger churned his gut. He loomed over Lascelles, his lips drawn back in a snarl.

  ‘When?’

  That one question consumed him. Had Lascelles told the truth about going overseas after Mother and Father married, or could Lascelles be Alex’s father? Is that why he’d always distrusted the Duke? Was it an inherited trait? The air whooshed from his lungs as he prayed it was not true. He hauled a moaning Lascelles up, thrusting his face close to the other man’s.

  ‘I asked you when, you bastard! When were you my mother’s lover?’

  Those dark eyes—still, somehow, mocking—narrowed.

  ‘Never fear, m’boy. Your father made good and sure he sired every one of her children. But, once the girl was born, Margaret made certain she didn’t have any more.’ He frowned then. ‘I was not her only lover—she swore she was true to me, but she lied. She might have had the title of duchess, but your mother was still a common slut!’

  The roar began deep, deep inside Alex’s chest and it echoed around the room as his fury erupted. He drew his fist back, but came to his senses when a prick to his throat announced Lascelles had a knife. Alex gritted his teeth, slowly releasing the other man’s lapels.

  ‘Sensible boy.’

  Lascelles stepped back and then, before Alex realised his intention, he upended the table, knocking Alex to the floor. When he scrambled to his feet, Lascelles had gone.

  He was drained. His head hurt and his heart...his heart bled. And yet...the rumours about his mother—the rumours she had taken lovers—were not new. But having it confirmed like this—now—made the case agai
nst his father even blacker. Bleaker. Despair wrenched Alex’s heart but it was the fact he’d misjudged everything that made him truly sick. He’d trusted his mother’s former lover with the truth about his father rather than confide in his own wife. How had he been so stupid? He threw himself into an armchair and sank his head in his hands. But the truth still remained of that vision of his father with his hands around his mother’s throat.

  He gazed dully at the bracket clock on the mantel. Eight o’clock. He was only two miles from Clystfield. He needed to see Jane. He needed Jane. Tonight. He sprang out of the chair and thundered up the stairs. A quick glance into Lascelles’ bedchamber confirmed he’d already gone. That was unimportant now. He could wait...and yet, what could Alex do about something that had happened so long ago? Beating Lascelles to a pulp wouldn’t change the facts.

  Downstairs, he rousted out an ostler and paid him handsomely to drive him to Clystfield in the inn’s gig.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She had only been at Clystfield Court two days but Jane was already weary of pretending Alex had been delayed by business; weary of deflecting probing questions about her absent husband; weary of smiling in the face of sympathetic glances cast in her direction. It was clear they suspected all was not well, and she longed to confide in them—after all, who knew Alex better than Dominic and Olivia? But she could not bring herself to tell them why she was there on her own because she didn’t understand it fully herself.

  Had it just been a moment of pique? An ‘I’ll show him’ moment? She was hurt he wouldn’t confide in her, but was that really bad enough for her to leave without a word of explanation? She was supposed to love him, and yet her leaving would make whatever trauma he was suffering worse, not better. But as soon as she almost persuaded herself that her running off was unpardonable, the other side of the argument would rear its head—was the problem that plagued Alex genuinely so terrible he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about it? Or was this simply the same old stubborn, independent Alex who kept everyone who cared about him at arm’s length?