His Favorite Mistake

by Aydra Richards

  “My wife,” he said severely, “is thinking of another man. I won’t have it.” He snapped the parlor door closed, and clicked the lock into place, then proceeded to yank his shirt over his head.

  “I wasn’t!” she protested, inwardly delighted. “I was only thinking how very glad I am to be married to you.”

  “Better,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not quite enough.”

  Anticipation thrummed through her veins, but she said anyway, “Bartleby will knock any moment now.”

  “He can wait. They can all wait. I pay them very generous wages to do so.” He caught her as she leapt up from her chair, bore her back against the wood-paneled wall, and pinned her place with his body.

  When Bartleby did, indeed, knock a few minutes later, neither of them heard.

  And if they were both more than a trifle disheveled when they did, at last, go in to dinner, well…the staff was well-paid not to notice such things.

  ∞∞∞

  James tore into Nick’s letter—the response to one he’d sent out just the day after they’d arrived at Windclere—with a sense of acute dread. It could contain any number of terrible things, each of which would spell the end of his relationship with Jilly. She could find herself unexpectedly branded a whore across the length and breadth of England, and not even their swift marriage would save her reputation then.

  Instead he heaved a sigh of relief as he scanned the lines contained in the note.

  James,

  You’re a bloody idiot, but rest assured that Lady Jillian’s reputation has been salvaged. I've told a few of the Ton’s more notorious gossips that you had been called away on estate business, and Lady Jillian’s aunt has put it about that she has sent her niece off to visit an ailing relative. Put on a good show of it, too—I’ve never seen so spry a lady pass herself off to be too old and infirm to travel quite so convincingly. Of course I will do as you have asked. I’ve arranged a meeting with the Archbishop tomorrow. I shall keep you apprised of the proceedings.

  Nick

  Thank God. Thank God. That was one worry vanquished, at least. Provided he could arrange everything else exactly in his favor, she would never know how very close she had come to ruin—how very close he had come to ruining her.

  With Nick’s assistance, a special license—a real one—would hopefully be issued with all haste. Though he had no idea how he would explain the necessity of it to Jilly, with any luck they could quickly be married, and no one would ever know that she had been living with him here without benefit of marriage.

  He crumpled Nick’s note in his hand, but stopped himself before he tossed it in the wastebasket. Better to throw it into the fire, where it could not be uncovered by prying eyes. If Jilly should happen to lay eyes on it...

  No. It didn’t bear consideration. Letting himself dwell on such things at this juncture could serve no purpose. The guilt was flaying him alive as it was.

  All he could do was devote himself to Jilly, to her happiness. So that if somehow she ever did discover what he had intended for her, she would remember, too, the husband who had adored her.

  ∞∞∞

  Jilly watched her husband devour a thick slice of kidney pie in what seemed to be no more than seconds, with no small amount of bemusement.

  “My goodness,” she said, marking the faintly avaricious glance he had slanted at her own lunch. “One would think you weren’t being fed at Windclere.” But she pushed her plate across to him anyway.

  For half an instant something shadowed his eyes, some unvoiced thought that clouded them briefly. “I skipped breakfast,” he said, with a crooked grin, as he tucked into her own barely-touched lunch. “Are you certain you don’t want it? You haven’t eaten much.”

  “I’m certain,” she said. Something about it had disagreed with her just slightly, and she didn’t care to risk more of it. But James had no such compunction, clearly.

  The village nearest Windclere was a cheerful little sort, with a kind of picturesque beauty that could only be found in the countryside. They had stopped for lunch at the inn, and the proprietress had been only to thrilled to host them, setting them up in a quiet parlor room near a large bay window that overlooked the lane outside. It was warm and sunny, and she could not imagine any place that she would rather be just now but seated across from her husband.

  Those words still gave her that delicious skirl of pleasure—her husband. She had never thought they would apply to her, had never thought to attain this kind of happiness for herself. And sometimes she thought he feel precisely the same way, because just occasionally she caught him looking at her with something akin to wonder.

  It made her breathless and giddy. Perhaps, when they’d been married a dozen years or so, her heart would stop pounding madly when he entered a room. But until then, she was afraid he was going to find that he had married an extremely giddy woman after all.

  She’d never laughed as much as she did in his company, had never been so easily tempted into a bit of wickedness. Had never felt so frolicsome or carefree, as if he had effortlessly lifted away every last worry she’d ever clung to.

  She hoped she gave him the same sense of absolute freedom, of lightheartedness, that he’d given to her.

  She hoped she would always feel the same sort of breathless pleasure that assailed her when he reached for her hand, linked his fingers through hers. Married couples of their class rarely showed such affection toward one another in public, if indeed they felt it at all, but she loved those familiar touches, the way he brushed her hair away from her face or settled his palm on the small of her back.

  If the inn’s proprietress disapproved of such things, she would never have known, for the woman simply collected the payment that James offered her and dipped a curtsey as they exited her establishment at last.

  “You should have a parasol at least,” James said, as she shaded her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. “We’ll find one for you today.” And his fingers squeezed hers, a gesture that never failed to make her heart beat just a little faster.

  She leaned her head against his shoulder for just a moment, enjoying the peace of the day, the happiness that unwound like a spool of thread inside of her until it filled up every place that had been vacant. She felt the quick kiss that he pressed into her curls with a sense of wonder, pondering how it was she had managed to bind this man to her.

  She had thought she had had a peaceful life before him, but she hadn’t known what it was to be truly at peace. She had only been half-living after all. She had had a life that was not a life, had sealed herself off from anything that might have threatened the rigid order in which she had governed her days. This was peace—strolling hand in hand with her husband, as if they had nothing more important, more pressing to do than to enjoy one another’s company.

  They paused outside of the post office when James was waylaid by some gentleman with a business concern.

  “Do you mind, Jilly?” James asked her, when it became clear that the matter would take more than a moment. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Not at all,” she said, pleased that she had not wed the sort of entitled nobleman who would so easily shrug off the concerns of those beneath him.

  James withdrew his pocketbook and pressed into her hand, bussing a kiss to her forehead. “You should have a parasol,” he reiterated. “I’ll come find you when I’m through.”

  She eased away to give the men a bit of privacy and slipped first into the post office. She’d meant to give her letter to Bartleby to post, but she’d quite forgotten about it, and so she’d slipped it into her pocket instead with the intention of mailing it in town.

  Even if there had been no official announcement yet, even if she had wanted to avoid the inevitable deluge of letters that would soon come pouring in, David at least should know. He was her brother, and she should have informed him of her marriage immediately. Or as immediately as could be expected, given that he was currently traipsing around Scotland
, and she’d known him to go weeks without touching his correspondence.

  Still, a late letter was better than no letter at all, she supposed. For all the good it would do anyway. Probably he wouldn’t even have noticed she’d gone missing.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Some weeks later, James woke to the sound of retching. His arms were empty, and so was the space beside him where Jilly typically lay, though by the lingering warmth of the covers it had been vacated only recently. The sun was just beginning its ascent into the sky, the slight break in the curtains revealing a sliver of peach sunrise.

  He pulled himself out of bed, crossing the floor to the bathing room, where the door was slightly cracked. Jilly had shoved herself into a corner upon her knees, bent over a basin as her stomach emptied itself. His heart wrenched; she looked miserable, one shaking hand struggling to hold back her hair as she trembled and gagged.

  “Oh, darling,” he soothed, crouching behind her to scrape her hair away from her face. Tendrils of it clung to the back of her neck, soaked with sweat. With his free hand he rubbed her back in slow circles, willing some heat back into her cold, clammy skin.

  “Water,” she croaked as the last of the spasms passed, and she sank back, drained. Only when James was certain she would remain kneeling did he rise to pour water from a pitcher into a glass. Returning to her side, he gathered her against his chest as he lifted the glass to her lips so that she could swish it about her mouth to cleanse it of the vile taste lingering there. Then she gulped down the rest of the remaining water, sighing with relief. A sheen of sweat coated the back of her neck; he wiped it away with a towel, then collected her into his arms. Weakened from her illness, she rested her cheek against his shoulder, closing her eyes as he carried her back to bed.

  “Back to sleep,” he murmured. “I will summon a physician.”

  “No,” she said drowsily, reaching for him as he pulled the sheets over her and tucked the blankets up to her chin. “Just lay with me, James.” Her fingers snagged his wrist in an attempt to draw him back into bed with her.

  “Darling, you’re ill,” he said, smoothing her tangled hair away from her face. “You need a doctor.”

  “It will pass,” she said, turning her cheek into his palm. “I’ll be well enough in an hour or so.”

  Already her sickly pallor was fading, and she snuggled into the pillow with a soft sound of contentment. Still, James was unconvinced. “I won’t take chances with your health,” he said doggedly.

  She gave a little huff of laughter, her nose crinkling up adorably. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m not truly ill.” She gave a tug on his hand, drawing it down to her belly, where she pressed his palm flat beneath her own. “However, in about eight months I suspect I shall need a midwife.”

  James felt his legs give beneath him. His rear hit the edge of the bed with a muffled thump, and his face froze in shock. “You…you’re going to…”

  “A baby, James.” She gave him a watery smile.

  A baby. A baby. James took a shuddering breath, alarmed at the sudden tightness in his chest, the encroaching sense of panic. Jilly was going to have a baby. His baby. His fingers twitched beneath hers as if searching for proof of life, but her belly was just as smooth and flat as it had always been. “You’re certain?” he asked, his voice oddly hoarse.

  “As certain as I can be,” she said softly. “I’ve not had my courses since we arrived here. I’m always nauseated in the mornings. And I’ve been so tired lately.” She gave a small shrug. “It’s likely too early to say for sure, but I think it’s probable. Aren’t you pleased?”

  Somehow, by sheer dint of will, he managed to stretch his lips into something approximating a smile, and said, “Of course I am, darling.”

  ∞∞∞

  James had closed himself up in his study with a bottle of brandy, most of which was now gone. Though oblivion beckoned at the bottom of the bottle, he merely pressed the fingers of his left hand to his temple and willed away the impulse. His right hand cradled the forged marriage license, which had spent the last two months languishing in the back of his desk drawer.

  Pregnant. God, what damnable irony. She had been caught neatly in the trap he had set out for her after all. All of his nefarious schemes had come to fruition and all he could feel was shame. Guilt. Horror.

  She had been so happy to share her news with him, so pleased to inform him of his impending fatherhood. The joy that had sparkled in her eyes had been unmistakable. Even in the throes of her morning sickness, she had been delighted.

  She had absolutely no idea that unless his appeals came through, their child—perhaps his heir—would be born a bastard.

  The nausea that churned in his gut had nothing to do with the brandy. He had been so resolute in his inability to love that he hadn’t even entertained the prospect until it had been too late to save himself from it. And now it was too late for Jilly—for them.

  It would not matter to her that he had repented of his cruelty, that he’d been striving toward righting the wrong he’d done her. It would not even matter that he loved her desperately. How could she forgive him for what he had schemed to do to her? She had placed her trust in him, surrendered to him her heart, though it had been broken before by unworthy hands. He would never be worthy or deserving of her forgiveness. Kirkland, at least, had had some measure of honor. He had pursued her honorably, even if he had abandoned her.

  James had given her only a pretense at courtship, designed to bring about this very situation. He hadn’t even thought to protect her from such a circumstance once he had realized the depths of his affection for her. And if anyone discovered her condition before they were safely, honestly married, there would be no salvaging her reputation.

  He did not consider himself a particularly pious man, but for the first time in memory, he prayed—prayed that the multitude of letters he’d sent over the last several weeks, his influence, Nick’s influence, could work the miracle he needed.

  ∞∞∞

  Some hours later, when he finally retired, he found Jilly already abed, tangled in the blankets as though she had been twisting restlessly.

  “James?” she murmured as he climbed in beside her, stretching out on the mattress and sliding his arm beneath her to pull her close to his chest.

  “Had you been expecting someone else?” he chided, smoothing aside her rumpled curls to drop a soft kiss on her cheek, which was sleep-flushed and warm beneath his lips.

  She gave a soft huff, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “I expected you hours ago,” she said on a yawn. “What’s kept you?”

  “Just some correspondence,” he said evasively, dropping his head onto the pillow beside hers and breathing in the sweet lilac scent of her tousled hair. “I couldn’t wait to inform Nick of our happy news.” Not a lie, he reassured himself. Nick had needed to know, to understand why it was imperative to redouble his efforts with the Archbishop.

  For a moment she was silent, and her small hand slipped into his, her fingers cool and soft. “Is it happy?” she inquired, her voice just the tiniest bit strained, and he knew at once that he had not fooled her with his protestations of joy.

  James swallowed hard, willing the lump in his throat to descend. “Of course it is,” he said. “How can you think it would not be?”

  He heard her sigh, felt the catch of her breath in her throat as she said in a dull voice, “Because it’s gone past three in the morning and you smell like you’ve been stewed in liquor.”

  He stifled a wince, appalled at what impression he must have given her. And he could never explain to her that it wasn’t horror for the child she carried, but for the possibility that he might lose her. That unless a good number of things went precisely in his favor, she would slip from his grasp forever.

  “I’m not unhappy, Jilly. I suppose I simply don’t know how to be a father. My own father was not precisely what anyone would call a model of paternal devotion.” He felt her relax minutely—not all the way, but en
ough that he could tell that she wanted to believe he’d only been suffering from an ill-timed case of nerves. With deliberate slowness he eased his free hand over her hip, settling his palm over her stomach, where she had pressed it earlier.

  “James—”

  “I’m sorry I worried you,” he interrupted, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I love you, Jilly. I’ll love the both of you for the rest of my life.” Not a lie at all, that.

  She relaxed at last, settling her head beneath his chin, tucking herself firmly against him. To her, the words had sounded open and honest—to him they had sounded like the desperate plea of a man who suspected that his time with her had begun to run out, each precious moment slipping away from him like sand in an hourglass.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Two nights later, secluded in his office, James crumpled Nick’s latest note in his hand and heaved a sigh, torn between guilt and relief. At last, he had acquired the answer he needed. The Archbishop had relented in the face of James’ demands and issued a special license, which Nick would be bringing down to Windclere tomorrow.

  He cast the balled up bit of paper into the fire and watched it burn away, evidence of his sins erased in a puff of smoke and ash. If only the rest of them were so easy to dispose of. If only he had had the foresight never to have committed them in the first place.

  If only. If only. If only. His life was comprised of if onlys, built upon a crumbling foundation of what-ifs and should-haves, and it would take only the slightest breeze to send the whole thing crumbling to the ground, the tiniest spark to set it burning like the scattered ashes of Nick’s note.

  Worse still, to safeguard his fragile happiness, he would have to weave a web of lies—new ones to obscure the old. It sat ill with him, to fix what he’d broken with more deceit. But he knew of no other way to keep Jilly, to ensure that their child was born without the stain of illegitimacy.