Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 14

  Heathgate was a papa too, several times over. Also a quick study. “Rose hasn’t had playmates before, has she? Not from outside the family.”

  “No, she has not, and Heathgate, that is not right. Gwen is a good mother, but the longer I think on it, the more remiss I believe we have been in caring for our cousin. Astrid agrees with me, too.”

  “Good mothers allow their children to form friendships,” Heathgate admitted. “Good mothers take their children to services. Good mothers know that a child needs to see more of the world than one rural estate. Why didn’t we notice these things sooner?”

  The obvious answer—that both brothers were more at ease focusing on their wives and families than on Gwen’s uncomfortable and lonely existence—need not be stated. Then too, Gwen had kept Rose a secret, even from them, until the girl was several years old.

  “What is Gwennie afraid of?” Andrew wondered aloud. “What is she so terrified of, that she can allow herself to flirt and smile only when she’s off with Douglas, visiting an estate I’ve barely kept staffed?”

  Heathgate turned his horse toward the left fork in the bridle path, while Andrew aimed Magic toward the right. “And how will Douglas fare when dear Gwen drops him flat at the end of their rustic idyll?” Heathgate asked with a wave good-bye.

  On that unpleasant question, Andrew urged his horse into a flowing canter as Heathgate’s gelding disappeared around a bend in the bracken and bare trees.

  Before Andrew reached the comforts of home, his musings had circled back to their origin: Gwen and Douglas were billing and cooing now, but Andrew doubted that their attraction, no matter how strong, could overcome Gwen’s determination to resume a life of rural obscurity.

  Someone had stolen from Gwen the future she was entitled to, and unless Douglas could earn a permanent place in Gwen’s heart, Rose would also be victimized by that larceny.

  ***

  Douglas poured Gwen a glass of red wine midway through dinner. He knew exactly how to twist his wrist so not a drop spilled, and he absently served her the exact portions appropriate to her appetite.

  His attention to detail—his competence—impressed Gwen in a way she would not have noticed had she not embarked on a more intimate acquaintance with him. Thoroughness was a part of him, a vigor of the mind and spirit that could also be a bit intimidating.

  Maybe more than a bit, at times.

  Over the fruit and cheeses and more expertly poured wine, they planned a reconnaissance mission in the village for the next day, and finished the evening with Douglas escorting Gwen to her room and accompanying her into her chamber.

  “If I get into the bed with you, Guinevere,” he said as he lit her candles, “I will not answer for the ensuing events.”

  Gwen did not want to deny him, and yet she was also not ready for the events he alluded to. She needed to be alone, to think, to come to some understanding of what was passing between them. Douglas must have seen something of her thoughts on her face, because he drew her into his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder.

  “We are in no rush, sweetheart,” he reminded her gently. “I know you are accustomed to doing without a lady’s maid, but would you allow me to brush out your hair?”

  Douglas’s surprising request restored some sort of balance for Gwen, and she suspected it did for him as well. They touched, they talked, and they spent time together without enflaming each other’s passions—as they had earlier in the day in the library—or tempers.

  To which the selfsame library had been witness when they had debated the virtues of wheat versus oats. Marvelous rooms, libraries.

  Gwen closed her eyes and wondered if Douglas would offer this attentiveness to his viscountess when he married—for a man with a title must marry, eventually.

  “Your hair,” Douglas mused as he drew the brush in sweeping strokes from her crown to her bottom, “is almost as lovely as your eyes.”

  “I’ve always wished I had my cousin’s blue eyes.”

  “You are partial to blue eyes?” Douglas asked, putting the brush down to braid her hair.

  Gwen watched him in the mirror, and in this as in many things, his competence was easy to miss for its very quietness and lack of fuss. “I like your eyes, Douglas. They are honest and kind—and a very handsome blue.”

  An unforgettable blue.

  In response, he busied himself with the considerable length of her hair.

  “I recall the first time I did this,” he said after he’d organized three skeins. “I had walked in on you at your bath, and suffered paroxysms of mortification over my equally intense paroxysm of lust.”

  “Lust?” Gwen couldn’t turn around to look at him askance, which was likely why he’d chosen this moment for his surprising disclosure—or confession? “I would never, ever have guessed. You braided my hair and bid me a pleasant good night, all the while lusting for me?”

  “A man of sense learns to curb his impulses.” He finished her braid and tied it off with a green hair ribbon, then bent over Gwen and wrapped his arms around her shoulders from behind and above her. His forearms, strong, male, lightly dusted with blond hair, rested along her collarbones.

  “I’ll dream of you,” he whispered in her ear, and those were not the sentiments of a man of sense.

  “You need your sleep. You didn’t get enough last night.”

  “I seldom enjoy a whole night’s sleep, though I seem to be doing better since coming to Sussex. The air must be salubrious.”

  Gwen brushed her lips over his forearm, wanting to give him something as mundane and necessary as a good night’s sleep, and sentiments much less mundane than that. “Douglas Allen, I would be your friend.”

  “And I would be a friend to you.”

  She remained in his arms a few moments longer, treasuring the gift of a mere embrace. When she rose, she indulged in a kiss to his cheek. “Good night, dear man. Pleasant dreams.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Douglas replied, returning her kiss with lingering tenderness.

  When he’d left, Gwen sat wrapped in a blanket by the fire for a long time, thinking about the day’s events, and about the man who’d just left her room.

  Today, he had begun to use endearments—“sweetheart,” and when cuddling “a bit” in the library, he’d called her “love.” Gwen had known few endearments in her life, and she hugged Douglas’s to her soul with jealous zeal. Better still, when they weren’t on Douglas’s lips, the endearments were in his serious blue eyes.

  When the time came to leave Sussex, Gwen would miss those endearments sorely—miss them, too.

  Eight

  When Douglas inquired as to when Miss Hollister would be coming down to dinner, Mrs. Kitts informed him Miss Rose was “a mite peaky,” and that the girl’s mother was still in the nursery.

  Douglas himself was feeling “a mite peaky,” having spent the day tramping from shop to shop with Guinevere and Rose, calling on the vicar, the curate, and several of the Linden tenants.

  And on the bakery—twice, owing to the excellent quality of their apple walnut muffins and to Rose’s flagrant ability to wheedle.

  Which had saved Douglas the trouble of finding an excuse to make a second stop.

  “Hullo, Cousin Douglas,” Rose greeted him as he entered the nursery. She sat in her mother’s lap in a rocker pulled close to the hearth. Realizing he was to be spared—or denied—the usual enthusiastic hug, Douglas took the remaining rocking chair.

  “You’re reading ‘Hansel and Gretel’? I never did fancy that witch. Whatever could she have been about, snatching up children for her pudding?”

  “Children are sweet,” Rose informed him. “That’s why my big cousins like to nibble on me. Mama says I’m sweet too.”

  “Sweeter than Christmas pudding,” Guinevere assured her. “Also quite tired. I think we’ve had enough story for one night. Time for
prayers.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Rose slid off her lap and repaired to her bedroom, leaving Guinevere standing in the bedroom door to monitor Rose’s exchange with the Almighty. Douglas stayed in his rocking chair, having no wish to intrude.

  Rose was apparently comfortable enough with her Creator to prattle on at some length. By the time she got to “…and God bless Daisy,” Douglas’s stomach was growling. He did notice, however, Rose had included him in her litany. “And God bless our friend Cousin Douglas…”

  On what basis had the child decided he was her friend?

  “There,” Rose said. “Time for beddy-bye.”

  When Guinevere returned to the outer room, Douglas was sitting in near darkness, waiting for her and enjoying this peek at a routine very different from his own nursery days. She took up the second rocker and appeared content to spend a moment enjoying the cheery fire with him.

  “Do you put her to bed every night?”

  “I do. When a child has only one parent, that parent needs to be rather in evidence if the child is to feel safe and happy in this life. I think David suffered from his parents’ inattention, and I would not wish that on any child, much less my daughter.”

  “Her father, then,” Douglas said, nudging the screen closer to the flames with his toe. “He had nothing to offer a child?”

  Nothing to offer the child’s gently born mother?

  “He had wealth and position and certainly could have given Rose some advantages, had it been consistent with his wishes. It is hypocritical of me, I know, but I did not want Rose exposed to his character. My own character, certainly, was lacking to the point that I conceived the child, but having the ability to exercise hindsight, I choose to hold him in lower esteem than I do myself.”

  “As well you should,” Douglas concurred, rising. “Shall we go down to dinner?” He offered her his arm, wondering if she would have answered more questions regarding Rose’s father, had Douglas had the inclination to ask them.

  Which he did not, not given that he wanted to end the evening in Guinevere’s bed.

  Throughout the day, Douglas’s body had been in happy anticipation of consummating his relationship with Guinevere. Helping her in and out of the carriage, taking her arm while they strolled the shops, sitting beside her in various parlors and drawing rooms, had been tantalizing. Her scent, her warmth, her glancing touches had Douglas frequently forcing his thoughts off certain paths.

  But now that the hour was drawing near, an odd reluctance had taken hold, not of his body, but of his spirit. Guinevere deserved not only the pleasure of a passing affair, but also marriage with all the trimmings—respect, security, affection.

  Love.

  “You are quiet,” Guinevere remarked as they arrived to the dining parlor.

  “Tired,” Douglas replied, seating her.

  “You did not sleep well again last night. Grandpapa would say you looked jug-bitten.”

  Not a sanguine conversational direction, so he tried for a distraction. “Guinevere, I know it isn’t exactly on topic, but why were Rose’s eyes so… they were odd tonight.”

  She paused in her consumption of a savory beef and barley soup. “Odd, how?”

  “Her eyes looked shiny, as if she were teary, though I know she wasn’t.”

  “I know what you mean, and it’s a look she gets when she’s under the weather. I suspect she’s coming down with wee Ralph’s sniffles.”

  “Delightful.”

  “You were charmed by wee Ralph.”

  Douglas held up a hand. “Not at table. How anybody has any hearing left at the vicarage is a wonder.” Wee Ralph, despite his poor health and tiny size, had been possessed of a marvelous set of lungs and tremendous stamina.

  “Don’t you think it odd, Douglas, everyone in the village was friendly and polite, but little information was forthcoming about our missing steward or the estate’s business in general?”

  Yes, he rather did think it odd and a much worthier topic than wee Ralph. “I agree with your assessment,” Douglas said, setting his soup spoon aside. “I also think we had to investigate, and the continued lack of information suggests we are dealing with someone local when it comes to the crooked books.”

  “How so?”

  “The merchants and tenants were politely evasive, though they apparently favor my purchase of the estate. They wouldn’t risk my ill will for just anyone. They have to be protecting one of their own.”

  When the dishes were cleared, Douglas placed his hand over Guinevere’s—a simple touch, but gratifying in the way a skillfully prepared meal never could be.

  “You, madam, look exhausted. Shall I escort you directly to your room?”

  “You may,” Guinevere said, rising and accepting Douglas’s arm. And thank whatever lucky star was beaming down on Douglas in a forgetful moment, the servants were not in evidence as he escorted her through the house and up the stairs.

  Her steps were slow and weary, as if she genuinely needed an escort to lean on.

  “Guinevere, if you are too tired, I would not inconvenience you with my company tonight.”

  She paused on the landing under the flickering light of a wall sconce. “In my life, Douglas Allen, I have had… intimate relations, and we have the evidence thereof. I have waited my entire adulthood for someone to make love with me, someone I could make love with. You are that man, Douglas, and tonight is when my waiting will end. I want to be with you in this way.”

  Such fierce, generous, remarkable words—from a woman who did not want to marry him. As glad as her declarations made him, that last thought—that she would not accept him as more than a passing comfort—troubled him, for himself and for her, too.

  Douglas tucked his hand over Guinevere’s and resumed their progress. They had reached her door, and Douglas’s fingers were on the latch, when Hester appeared from the servants’ stairs.

  “Oh, ma’am,” she said, trotting toward them. “I think you’d best come to the nursery. Wee Rose is sickening, and she wants you.”

  A beat of disbelieving silence went by as Douglas watched Guinevere shift in a blink from a woman anticipating lovemaking—with him—to a mother focused on the welfare of her child to the exclusion of all else.

  Sexual grief lashed at him, along with a single question: How would Douglas’s life have been different if he and his brothers had had such a mother, rather than the vain, selfish debutante whose fortune had preserved the family from ruin three decades ago?

  “Go to your daughter, Guinevere. I’ll check on you before I retire.”

  She gave him a look conveying gratitude for his understanding, but also—surely he did not imagine it?—disappointment that their evening was ending thus.

  ***

  “How is Rose?” Douglas set down a tea tray he’d brought to the nursery and took the second rocking chair.

  “Ill. Probably flu.” Gwen nearly choked on those few words. David had said influenza could carry off a healthy young adult in a matter of days.

  Douglas passed her a cup of tea. “You don’t seem alarmed.”

  She drained the cup and passed it back to him empty. “I am not, yet.” Except she was. In a quiet, determined way, Gwen was settling in for a fight, a fight she would not lose.

  “What can I do?” Douglas asked, reaching for her hand.

  If she hadn’t been in love with him before, that simple question and that simple gesture sealed her fate.

  “You’re doing it,” she said, squeezing his hand. Some of the grimness left her, and she rested back against the rocker. So many of her fights had been solitary battles, for she hadn’t wanted even her family to know of Rose’s existence.

  Hadn’t wanted to burden them, hadn’t wanted her troubles to become theirs.

  “Why don’t you have another cup of tea and try a scone, then see if you can’t nap on the
daybed?” Douglas suggested. “I’ll call you if Rose stirs.”

  “You’re exhausted,” Gwen protested, “and she’s my daughter.”

  “And you are my Guinevere,” Douglas replied, regarding her sternly. “I am used to doing without much sleep. It’s you she’ll want, and it’s you who must rest now.”

  Gwen saw worry in his eyes—worry for her—and something else, something steady and solid and good.

  You are my Guinevere.

  She had been nobody’s Guinevere. Lately she’d been Cousin Gwen and Gwennie… none of it added up to the tender concern Douglas offered with his lecture.

  She accepted his help and sought some rest, falling asleep gazing on his solitary profile as he rocked slowly by the fire. It felt like only moments later that Douglas was gently touching her shoulder.

  “Sweetheart?” His hand brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Guinevere? Rose is awake.”

  His words got through the fog of Gwen’s fatigue and had her swinging her legs over the side of the daybed before her mind was fully alert. Somebody—Douglas—had removed her slippers and stockings and loosened the top buttons of her dress. The fire had died down, and in the dim light, Gwen could see Douglas had gathered up the tea things and taken off his boots.

  “Tell me what I can do, Guinevere.” In the other room, they could both hear Rose whimpering.

  “Fetch the white willow bark tea. The kitchen made up what was available, and I’ll need some cool water. Hester already brought up a basin and towels.”

  The resolute set of his shoulders as he departed made Gwen smile, but Rose’s plaintive voice had her hurrying to her daughter.

  “Mama?” Rose struggled to sit up in her small bed. “I’m hot, I have to pee, and my head hurts.”

  “Poor girl. Let’s deal with the chamber pot first, shall we?” Please God, could those remain the child’s worst problems.

  By the time Douglas returned with more of the bitter tea, Rose was back in bed, in a clean nightgown, her hair brushed and rebraided.