But it had been a question, and it required an answer. The first time she had allowed—no, expected—him to write to her.
And so he scrawled out his response.
Of course. And then, because he was loath to let the chance slip by without taking it, he added, Might I accompany you on the journey there?
It was more than an hour before the response was returned to him, an hour in which he fretted, paced, tugged at his hair, and agonized over whether he had taken too bold an action by posing a question of his own.
But when at last he opened the note, it contained only a single word.
Yes.
∞∞∞
When the day arrived, a winter chill had crept over London, and James found himself fretting over the journey. Though the skies had threatened rain all morning, they had yet to open up, but the streets were still icy from the last bout of it, and carriage accidents were commonplace.
He had sent his own carriage ahead, but he had ordered up a heating pan to be kept fresh until Jilly arrived. Carriages were not known to hold heat well in the winter, and a lady in her condition ought not suffer through a long ride shivering.
Her carriage pulled up at last, just after noon, and he was out the door in seconds, a bundle of traveling blankets slung over his shoulder. A footman followed along behind him with the heating pan, and a maid scurried after clutching a hamper.
James flung the door open, and paused at the sight that greeted him. Jilly sat within, her hands folded on her lap, and across from her sat Westwood. Though he could not be said to have looked on James with anything approaching friendliness, he at least did not appear to be overtly hostile.
“Get in, Rushton,” he said at last. “It’s cold enough without you letting in the wind.”
There was a choice to be made that was no choice at all; he climbed in beside Westwood, since Jilly would certainly have found him taking the seat beside her objectionable. The footman tucked the heating pan into the corner of the carriage, and James tossed the blankets down on the seat beside Jilly as the maid passed him the hamper.
‘Goodness,” Jilly managed. “Don’t you think that’s…rather a lot of food for such a short journey? It’s just a few hours.”
“I thought it best to be prepared,” he replied. “There are a few coaching inns along the way, but I don’t think I would trust the food and drink served there. Not with you, at least.”
The carriage rocked just a bit as the coachman climbed into his seat, and at last they began to move. Jilly drew a short breath, and her lips pursed as she went just the tiniest bit green. Though he could not recall her having succumbed to motion sickness before, he expected her stomach was at least a bit weaker than usual, given her condition. He dug in the hamper, unwrapped a cup from where it had been packed within, uncorked a bottle, and poured her a drink.
But she shook her head as he held it out to her. “I couldn’t,” she said tightly. “Tea—or coffee—is rather unpleasant-tasting just now.”
“It’s lemonade. With mint.”
Her face changed, easing from uncomfortable and pinched to faintly covetous. She snagged the cup from his grip and took a sip, her features smoothing once more into blissful relief.
Westwood said, “Is it that good, then? I’ll have some as well.”
“You may have coffee,” James replied, slinging a corked bottle in Westwood’s direction. “The lemonade is for Jilly. It settles her stomach.”
“Surely there’s enough to go around,” Westwood said. But James handed the lemonade off to Jilly, who tucked it at her side firmly out of her brother’s reach.
“We’ll be traveling in a carriage for some hours,” James replied, “with a woman whose stomach is unsettled. Unless you want to risk her casting up her accounts in your general direction, I would suggest you leave it to her.”
And Jilly, for the first time in recent memory, flashed him a look that could almost have been said to be grateful.
Chapter Thirty Eight
Jilly yawned as the carriage at last pulled up into the courtyard at Windclere. James handed her out of the carriage, and the brisk breeze whipped at her skirts, drawing them tight back, revealing the swell of her belly. It had been months since he had last held her, and the baby she carried had been a sort of hypothetical thing—there undeniably, but with no evidence except the sickness that plagued her. Now he could see it, the proof that they were soon to welcome their child into the world, and it made him feel strangely humbled.
“I’m so tired lately,” Jilly was saying. “Oh—but Nora and Robert ought to be arriving soon…”
“They’d be the last to censure you for having a nap if you require one,” James said. “If they happen to arrive while you are resting, then Westwood and I shall keep them entertained. Go,” he urged, shepherding her toward the steps and out of the frigid winter chill. “The duchess’ bedchamber has been made up for you.”
A little frown settled between her brows. “Oh, but—”
“You are the duchess,” he said. “The room belongs to you.” And then, when that had failed to soothe her agitation, he added wryly, “The connecting door locks.”
“All right, then,” she said at last. “Please send Mary to wake me if I’m not up before dinner.” She ascended the steps at last and disappeared into the house, and he gave it a moment before he followed.
Mrs. Simpson waited in the foyer, and she dipped a curtsey as he entered. “Everything’s arrived already, Your Grace,” she said. “Bartleby and Mary came down with your carriage. I imagine Mary’s got Her Grace’s things all put away by now.”
“Good,” he said. “And Lord Westwood?”
“I showed him into the library, sir.” She hesitated. “I daresay Lady Gloriana will be thrilled.”
Christ. He hadn’t been warned of Westwood’s intention to accompany them, and so he’d had no opportunity to warn his staff in turn or to caution Gloriana against testing her wiles on the object of her affection. For God’s sake, the man had fled all the way to Scotland to evade her.
“If you would, Mrs. Simpson, see that Gloriana is kept busy. Away from Westwood.” He stalked off toward the library, his brows drawn as he considered the problem. How he would keep the two from encountering one another eventually he did not know. Perhaps if he confined Gloriana to the family wing…
Westwood had found the sideboard already, and reclined in an armchair, his legs stretched out in an ungainly sprawl, with a glass of some liquor or other dangling from his fingers. “Wretched business, carriage travel,” he said by way of greeting. “And it’s just too damned cold, or I would have ridden instead. Well, don’t just stand there. Pour yourself a drink.”
James managed a wry smile. “I think I’ve done enough of that lately,” he said, taking his own chair. “Soaked myself in whisky for weeks. Nick accused me of pickling myself.”
“Ah,” Westwood said. “Can’t say as I’ve had sorrows enough to require drowning them, myself. But my sister deserves better than a drunkard, and so I salute you.” He did, lifting his glass in James’ direction.
James brought his hand to his face, rubbing at the lines of worry that creased his forehead. “She deserves better than me for a husband, at any rate,” he said flatly.
“Of course she does,” Westwood said. “But then, women are magnanimous like that—they inevitably marry down. I’ve yet to meet a married man worthy of his wife.” He paused to take a sip of his liquor. “However, we are what we make of ourselves. If you think yourself unworthy, you will be. But, strive toward worthiness, and at some point”—he gestured carelessly—“you might, by some measure, approach it. You’ll fall short, of course. All men do. But it’s the effort that matters, much more so than the outcome.”
James heaved a sigh and dropped his head back against the chair. “I suppose I never thought to receive encouragement from you,” he said, “given our history.”
“I failed her, too,” Westwood said, in a curiously rough tone. “I was
just eighteen when I came into the title, you know. I was up at Oxford, and I had neither the time nor the inclination to leave my friends and hurry home to comfort my sister. She was twelve. She needed our parents, and they were gone. She needed me, and I could not be bothered to see her.” He gulped his liquor. “And so I left her. I left her to rot in the countryside while I gallivanted around town. When she came to London for her first season, it was the first time I’d seen her in six years. I’d intended to visit her before then, of course, but as time went on it only grew harder.”
And James said nothing. What was there to say? Clearly Westwood understood his mistakes, and there was no way to turn back the clock, to take back wrongs grievously regretted.
“I might not have been able to spare her Kirkland’s defection,” Westwood continued, “but I could have spared her this unpleasantness. I could have been a brother to her. I’m going to be a brother to her.” He cast James a crooked grin. “I do love her, you know.”
“I love her, too,” James said.
Westwood sighed. “Unfortunately, she’s heard quite enough of that to last her a lifetime, I imagine, and it’s been proven false before. You’ll have to do better than words, Rushton. You’ll have to show her.”
∞∞∞
Jilly woke to a light knock on the door, and she lifted her head from the pillow, rubbing the grogginess from her eyes. Sunset fell early this time of year, and she couldn’t adequately gauge the hour, but she assumed it must be approaching dinner time.
Reaching for her wrapper and slipping it on as she rose from bed, she called, “Enter.”
She had expected Mary to come bustling in, full of blithe chatter and household gossip. Instead, a young woman stepped cautiously inside, her eyes darting about as if she felt she were doing something she oughtn’t. Her clothing was too fine to be a servant, and her hair—
Her hair was the same tawny gold as James’. Weakly, Jilly grabbed for the bed poster to steady herself, unprepared for the stab of pain that hit her.
“Gloriana,” she whispered.
The girl dipped an awkward curtsey, her hands fisted in the fall of her skirt. Her lips trembled, and a queer shiver shook her for a moment.
“I—I thought I would…come to greet you, Your Grace,” the girl said in a voice that pitched awkwardly upward. “And–and to make my apologies in person.”
Jilly said nothing, but reeled in the aftereffects of shock. She could not make her mouth form a single sound.
A shred of a sob split the silence that hung in the air, and Gloriana took a quick swipe at her face with one shaking hand. “I was so foolish,” she said. “I didn’t think—I never even considered that there might be consequences beyond what I had intended, that you might have paid the price for my selfishness.” Her shoulders hitched. “I don’t expect that you will forgive me, and—and if you wish, I will keep to my rooms whenever you are in residence. Or—or perhaps I could go back to live with Aunt Alphonsine.” The girl tried for a smile, but even that meager effort was shattered by a nervous little hiccough. “I just…I wanted you to know how very sorry I am.”
She bowed her head, stoically awaiting Jilly’s judgment.
Jilly took a breath, what felt like the first one since Gloriana had appeared. It would have been so easy to simply order the girl from her room, to declare that she never wanted to see her face again. On some level it might even have been satisfying.
But she was only a silly young girl, younger, even, than Lady Beatrice. Jilly had made allowances for a girl who was not the least bit repentant over her bad behavior, and Gloriana—well, Gloriana had exercised no small amount of courage to come and make her apologies in person, given that Jilly hadn’t responded to her letter. She had come expecting the worst, and stood ready to accept whatever punishment that Jilly chose for her.
And she was James’ sister. Though she suspected that James would, if she insisted, honor whatever penance Jilly imposed, he was clearly fond of his younger sister. And it would be cruel to separate the girl from her only close family.
She released the poster of the bed, and drew another breath, feeling the tightness in her chest ease. “You’re my sister-by-marriage,” she said. “You may, of course, call me Jilly.”
Gloriana’s head jerked up, her blue eyes, so like James’, widening in disbelief.
Jilly offered her a small smile. “I did always want a sister,” she said.
And Gloriana burst into tears, and cast herself into Jilly’s arms.
∞∞∞
To James’ surprise, dinner passed without incident. Gloriana hadn’t made eyes at Westwood from across the table or caused trouble with even the slightest attempt at coy flirtation. Lady Ravenhurst hadn’t let slip even a single acidic comment directed at him. Even Jilly had involved herself in light conversation, and if she was a bit distant, it was enough merely to have her at the same table, to have her here of her own volition.
Gloriana had informed him privately before dinner that she had made her apologies to Jilly. And though James had had his doubts as to the outcome of that, Jilly hadn’t displayed even a hint of discomfort over Gloriana’s presence at dinner, and he was left to conclude that Gloriana had been honest in her description of their talk.
After the ladies had excused themselves to do whatever it was ladies did after dinner, James had taken Westwood and Ravenhurst up to the billiards room to engage in a game.
“You did well,” Ravenhurst said to James as he lined up a shot. “With the lemonade, I mean to say. Probably made the trip a good deal more comfortable for Jilly.” After a few glasses of port, he was not quite at his best, and his ball went careening past its mark.
“And me,” Westwood said. “I’m afraid to say I haven’t got anything even approaching an iron stomach. If she had retched, I would have, too.” He shuddered, his face twisted in distaste.
“It was only lemonade,” James said. “How did you learn of it?”
“Women tell each other everything,” Ravenhurst replied. “And of course, Nora tells me everything in turn.” From his tone, James couldn’t determine whether Ravenhurst was bragging, or whether he simply meant to imply that his wife talked too much. “Nora seemed to believe that Jilly was quite touched.”
“It was only lemonade,” James repeated inanely.
Westwood and Ravenhurst shared a meaningful look.
“You’re a bloody idiot, Rushton,” Ravenhurst said. “It’s not the damned lemonade. It’s that you considered what would please her.”
“It was nothing,” James said, bending to consider his own shot. “It was only that—well, she couldn’t stomach anything more than weak tea for that first month. Except for the lemonade. That, she could drink by the liter. Damn near plucked the conservatory bare of lemons.” He missed his shot. And he hadn’t even the convenient excuse of having imbibed too much port to indulge in.
“My shot,” Westwood said, and he jabbed James in the side with his cue to nudge him aside. “You listen,” he said, “but you do not hear.” He sank his chosen ball into a pocket without apparent effort, no worse the wear for his liquor. “You recalled her preference for lemonade, and provided it for her. You anticipated her needs. To you it might have been an insignificant detail—but to her it was not.”
James raked his fingers through his hair and heaved a sigh. “I’m always considering what she would prefer,” he admitted. “I suppose I always thought that women liked grand romantic gestures, but Jilly—she would not.” He glanced to Ravenhurst for confirmation, and received an approving nod.
“That sort of thing would be a fool’s errand with a woman like Jilly,” Ravenhurst said. “She’s not the sort of woman who wants a knight in shining armor, or a cascade of roses cast at her feet.”
“No,” James replied, thinking of his Jilly, his unconventional duchess, happiest in her simple day gowns. Walking barefoot through the fields of his estate. Exploring follies and wandering in the gardens. Not missing the clang and clamor of Lo
ndon in the least. Thrilled that dressing for dinner had entailed little more than tying up her hair.
“Love,” Ravenhurst imparted sagely, “is a collection of tiny moments. It’s not neat and tidy, and it can’t be pinned down into a single grand overture. It will never be just one thing, because it’s thousands of things that grow over time. It’s the things you remember about one another—how many strokes she brushes out her hair, or whether”—he paused meaningfully—“she prefers lemonade to tea. Those things are more valuable than diamonds. Those things, more than words, more than grand gestures, endure.”
And because Ravenhurst was the only one of them that was, to all appearances, happily married, James was inclined to believe him.
Chapter Thirty Nine
The duchess’ bedchamber was simply too big. Jilly had liked her cozy little house in Grosvenor square, had liked hearing the comforting sounds of Mary moving around, of Bartleby instructing the household staff. In a chamber this size, she could hear nothing outside her room, no pleasant sounds of the household retiring for the night. No footsteps, no hushed conversations—only oppressive silence.
It had been weeks since they’d come, and she felt she was growing rounder by the day. She’d taken on a sort of graceless waddle just recently that she felt made her look rather like a duck. Though Nora insisted that her gowns—which had had to be let out, then let out again—camouflaged it, she suspected it was merely a kind lie.
Her back ached terribly. Some women, she supposed, simply did not carry the added weight of a baby particularly well, and she must be one of them.
With one hand pressed to her belly, she considered the problem before her. The bed was so tall that it had become rather difficult to scramble into it. She had managed well enough before, but just lately she had had to rely upon Mary to assist her. Which was, in essence, humiliating. No woman wished to be so ungainly, so lumbering, that she had to be assisted in a task so simple.
His Favorite Mistake Page 29