“Did you find her?”
There was no use pretending Winsome didn’t know who his wife meant. Olivia Marchand was a part of his past that would always be there. Because of Alexandra. “Yes.”
“What is she doing in town?”
“She said she believed I was finished raising Alexandra and wanted to see her. She also wished to know why Alexandra wasn’t yet married.”
“A perfectly respectable question,” his wife said softly. “Why haven’t we found Alexandra a husband?”
Defensive ripples skittered over him. “She didn’t wish to marry.”
“What does Mr. Millburn want?”
A band tightened around his chest. “To court… her…”
“Millburn. Hmm. Isn’t that the name of the man who—” She gave him a thoughtful look. “You don’t suppose he has nefarious intentions, do you?”
“Nefarious…” Winsome paced his study, stopping at the window and looking out. He pushed a hand through his hair. “Do you think he’s wants to use Alexandra to get to me because of his father?”
“Perhaps not.” Frederika walked up and wrapped her arms around his waist and his arms automatically closed around her. “That was a long time ago, darling. He was a child when his father died.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Yes, but his father’s death was my fault.”
“How can you say that, Gareth?” She was angry on his behalf.
“Because years ago, when I returned to the house, I caught sight of him escaping out the French windows. I couldn’t go after him.”
She leaned away from him, her gaze questioning. “But why? Why didn’t you go after him? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Elsa wasn’t dead yet. I heard her moan. I couldn’t leave her.”
She laid her head on his chest and her arms tightened. “No. Of course, you couldn’t. That sounds exactly like you.”
“I’d seen the bastard before. I recognized him from the Lending Library. Elsa had been a bluestocking of the first order.”
“Oh, Gareth.”
“It didn’t take long to find Millburn. I had him jailed immediately.” He couldn’t very well tell her how Olivia had chastised him. “The trial and the execution were expedient. That was directly related to my position. I can’t help but think… if I hadn’t been so quick to judge.”
“My poor darling. You’ve carried this burdened all these years.”
“Elsa had known the bastard who’d killed her. She said as much, just before she died.”
Winsome’s memory slid back… Olivia had been furious with him, telling him at the time, he was rushing things, that he didn’t know his own mind. Of course, he’d lost his temper.
“Blast it, Winsome, you can’t be sure he was the one. I’ve heard the man has a brother.”
“Are you telling me I don’t know what I saw with my own eyes?”
“No. But, this is a man’s life you are talking about. If you are wrong, you can’t bring him back once he’s been hanged.” She paced the extravagant hall of the townhome he’d supplied her.
“God’s blood, Olivia. I cannot believe you are saying this. I can’t be with you now. With a woman who believes I am led by my emotion or my ballocks. That bastard killed my wife.”
“Your wife,” she said, pulling up, her voice taking on a bemusement he hadn’t heard before. “That’s right. Your wife is now gone.” She strolled to the mirror and patted her perfectly coiffed hair in place. Something in her stance sent a whisper of dread over him, but he couldn’t seem to move. She faced him and spoke calmly. “I’m moving to Paris, Gareth.”
“What!”
“Yes. It’s time. You do not need me here distracting you from your duties. All eyes will be on you because of Elsa. You’ll need another wife.” She cupped his jaw and kissed the side of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Gareth. It’s time for me to leave.”
The entire incident could have been yesterday, the memory was so stark.
“Gareth?”
Winsome blinked and his eyes focused. Frederika stood in front of him, concern in her furrowed brows.
He’d forgotten how Olivia’s abandonment had devastated him at the worst moment of his life. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten through those horrid days, and worse, the nights.
“What is it? You’re frightening me.”
He lowered into a chair and pulled her onto his lap. “I’ve invited Olivia to the Christmastide fête.”
“You didn’t…” she breathed.
He winced. “I’m sorry, darling, but yes.”
She jumped up, nearly rendering him sterile. “This is outrageous. She was your mistress.”
“Yes, but that was thirty years ago,” he said, aggravated and back on the defensive. “She just wants to see her daughter. A daughter I literally ripped from her arms.”
Frederika’s fierce expression studied him, then softened. “You feel guilty.”
Winsome ran a palm over his face. “Alexandra’s screams and accusations still haunt my dreams,” he said. “Not a single tear fell down Olivia’s face, but I felt her hatred for what I was doing as if she’d rammed a serrated knife in my chest and churned it.”
“Oh, Gareth, we gave Alexandra a good life. You must know that and, I wager, so does Mrs. Marchand.”
“Yes. But you didn’t see their faces. Can you imagine someone taking Dinah, Bridget, Caroline, Sophia from you… us?”
Frederika’s shoulders slumped. “No. I would kill someone had they dared try.”
“At the risk of suffering your greatest wrath, I will say this. Olivia’s love for Alexandra is not unlike your own for our children. Or mine, for that matter. I would give my life for any of my children. And you, more than anyone, know that.”
She reached out and took his hand. He closed his fingers over hers.
“We are in this together, my darling,” he said gently. “If Olivia doesn’t attend the ball, perhaps we can invite her to tea. She deserves time with Alexandra. It is not too much to ask, is it?”
“No,” she agreed softly. “It is not too much to ask. We are both mothers, after all.” She let out a sigh. “We best let Alexandra know her mother is in London.”
“You make an excellent point. I do so love you, my dear.”
“And I love you. Come. We don’t want her learning from someone else, lest she think we’ve been hiding it from her.”
Frederika’s hand within his own felt small and feminine, yet strong, as they strolled from his study to the drawing room, only to find Sophia pacing like a caged tigress. “What the devil is wrong now, Sophia? And where is your sister?”
“Which one?” she demanded. “I have five in case you’ve forgotten.” Sophia was his most vocal daughter, and the most prone to drama.
“Alexandra,” he said impatiently. “Where is Alexandra?”
“Oh, didn’t you know? She went on a carriage ride. In. The. Freezing. Cold. She wouldn’t even help me find my gold chain.” Her bottom lip poked out and Winsome went over and hugged her. “I’m sure she’ll help you when she returns.” He let go of her. “She is coming back, isn’t she?”
“How should I know?” Sophia pouted.
“Yes, dear. She is coming back.” But his wife’s frown was troublesome. “Run along, Sophia. Dinah is here. She’s always been excellent at finding things.”
Sophia flounced from the room, mumbling something to the effect of being wed and not having to tolerate such ineptitudes.
“Now, where is Olivia staying? I shall send a note around,” she said. Fredericka’s ability to ignore chaos generated by others was something to behold, the duke decided.
Alex pulled her cloak tighter about her. “How did you find me?”
“My dear friend, Kearse. He recognized one or two of your friends at la Sous Rose. And I had the good fortune of running into your mother. I had planned to speak with Lady Ranstruther but—what it is?”
Alex stopped. “When you say, “my mother” you mean the duchess?” She let out a slow breath. “Of course, that’s what you meant,” she said with a quick smile. “The duchess went shopping with my sisters this afternoon.” But Alex’s heart was pounding.
“Actually, it was Olivia Marchand I met. I saw her on Bond Street.”
Despite the gentleness of Mr. Millburn’s words, Alex’s corset was suddenly too tight, and she couldn’t seem to take in a breath. Black spots swarmed her vision, and the carriage swayed violently.
“Giselle—Alexandra—” His voice seemed very far away. She was vaguely aware of him tapping the ceiling and words being spoken, but nothing she could make out. “That’s right, darling. Wake up. A spot of brandy will perk you right up.”
Alex put a hand to her head and blinked, trying to dispel the fog.
The carriage had stopped. “Where… where are we?”
“Soho Square. I’ll take you home the minute I can be sure you aren’t going to swoon… again.” He opened the door and assisted her down, then addressed the coachman. “We’ll leave within the hour.”
Darby was a minute too late in opening the door as Theo led her into the house. “Ah, milady. How lovely to see you.” There wasn’t the slightest censure in his tone, even while he must have known she’d snuck out in the wee hours of the morning.
“Thank you, Mr. Darby. It’s nice to see you too.”
She handed off her cloak. Chin lifted, Alex grasped her inner control, though her insides resembled a flock of rowdy geese heading south for the winter, and went into the library. It was as cozy as she remembered and inundated with the memory of her body coming alive, the bright flame of desire sweeping through her, rivaling the blaze in the grate. She craved Mr. Millburn’s touch—his lips and tongue teasing her flesh. Shivers raced up the back of her arms.
Theo walked over and with glass in hand, he guided her to a chair and handed it to her. “Drink this.”
There was a sense of déjà vu—no—more like… inexplicable longing that swept through her at being back in this place, in this chair.
She took a small sip and looked up at him. “You… you saw my mother? That’s what you said.”
“Yes,” he said gently. “I apologize for blurting it out. I had no notion you…”
“No, don’t apologize. I-I had no idea she was in London. I was caught unaware is all.”
“I thought she was you. You resemble one another greatly.”
“Do you suppose the duke knows?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, but you know how word travels.”
“I haven’t seen her since I was nine years old. He literally tore me from her arms. But she didn’t fight him.” Bitterness welled up her chest and threatened to choke her. “She pushed me toward him.”
Mr. Millburn took the glass and put it to her lips. “I suspect she realized how powerless she was.”
She swallowed another sip, thinking that over. “I was a horrid child to him and the duchess.”
“Something I find extremely difficult to imagine,” he said with a soft curve of his lips. He pulled a hassock over and sat down on it, keeping her hand, rubbing it between his own.
She found it… comforting. “It’s true. I screamed all the way back from Paris. I was truly hateful. They had everything my mother and I did not have. A nice home. Other children. My father made me sit with him every day, even when I refused to speak to him. ’Twas why he pulled out the chessboard, I suspect. Told me I’d never be able to best him.”
“And the duchess? Did she accept you?”
“Yes. Quite so, though, she had her hands full. Dinah was four at the time, Bridget two, and she was enceinte with Caroline.” Alex shook her head at the memories, a small smile touching her—inside, if not quite reaching her lips. “The duchess was very kind but reserved. I was the duke’s ex-mistress’s child, after all.
“Eventually, however, the duchess put her foot down to my tantrums and two years later I found myself enrolled in Miss Greensley’s School of Comportment for Young Ladies of Quality on the Isle of Wight.”
“That must have been difficult,” he said softly.
Her eyes found his and Alex couldn’t look away, wouldn’t look away. She was a person who dealt in reality. “You mean because I’m a bastard?”
He flinched.
She reached over and patted his hand. “Don’t fret, Mr. Millburn. Yes, some of the girls were quite catty and intolerable when I first arrived. But I found friends. Very dear friends. Some of them, quite high in society if you must know. I-I have a… good life.” She dropped her eyes and studied the goldish liquid in her glass. “A wonderful life in my father’s home. The duchess has never allowed the other children to treat me differently. I am a wretched person for desiring my own home after everything my father and the duchess have done and provided for me. Still, I can’t help feeling how nice it would be nice to have my own bath. One without a sister or two storming my chamber.”
“You could marry me,” he said. “That’s what most women do to gain their own home.”
Alex raised her eyes to his. Was that sincerity she saw in their depths, she heard in his voice? “How fair is that to you, sir?”
He grimaced. “I had a feeling you would say that. I suppose it doesn’t matter that I took your innocence.”
“No one should be bound to someone out of obligation.”
Her statement seemed to infuriate him. “Obligation,” he ground out. “Drink up, Miss Blessing. The duke will have my head and might force nuptials on you.”
She tossed back the remainder of her drink and handed him the glass.
Rather than taking it, his fingers clasped her wrist and he pulled her to standing. “You aren’t completely immune to my touch,” he whispered. He leaned in and his lips touched her neck. “My kiss.”
“Sir—”
“Mademoiselle.” His tongue lashed over a particularly sensitive area, leaving her gasping. “Say my name,” he demanded.
“Mr. Millburn.”
“Try again, Giselle.”
“Theo.”
“Much better,” he murmured, slanting his mouth over hers.
She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to breathe. She wanted to lose herself in his arms, in his bed, in his… heart. His tongue stroked against hers, and she twined her arms about his neck, and she clung to him for all her worth.
He tore his mouth away. “Come, I must return you or your father truly will have my head. Another minute in your company and I’ll have my mouth on other familiar places, taking other familiar liberties.”
She groaned, tingling in those familiar places and liberties. “But—”
He placed a finger against her lips. “Don’t tempt me any more than I already am. As I said, your father will have my head. Besides, you have much to discuss with him, I think.”
Her shoulders fell forward at that proclamation. “Yes. I suppose I do.” Her mother, Olivia Marchand was in London. And the duke likely knew it.