Chapter 31

Night had drawn in, and from the shadowed gardens and lawns of Bruxton Hall, an owl hooted and foxes screamed at one another. From the kennels in the distance, restless dogs barked, and William had never empathized with a creature more.

He had known that coming to Bruxton Hall would not be an easy task and that he would be a fool to think he would be allowed inside immediately, but he had hoped that, between dukes, there might be an understanding. Still, he had been dismissed and instructed to wait until Lydia decided whether or not she wished to see him.

If you would just give me five minutes, everything would become clear.

That frustrated him more than anything, for it was a simple explanation. A simple misunderstanding. And he feared that the longer he waited out there, and the longer she had to dwell on what she thought had happened, the more difficult it would be for her to believe him.

He had hidden himself away on the cloistered terrace that ran along the front of the manor, though it was a balmy night, and he had his greatcoat to keep him warm if the air grew chilly. Nevertheless, he would have preferred to be wherever Lydia was, holding her close, watching her sleep peacefully in his arms. That was the only place he wanted to be.

He looked up sharply as the front door opened, and a figure slipped out into the darkness.

"Lydia?" he said, hope lodged in his throat like a fishbone.

"Afraid not." The figure drew closer, stepping through one of the gaps between the pillars. "I thought you might like something to eat. My wife told me not to, but she and I do not always agree."

William's shoulder slumped as he realized who it was. "I would insist that I am going to refuse to eat or drink until she comes to me, but I shall leave that extreme for later, should I need it."

"A wise choice." Edwin perched on one of the stone benches that lined the terrace and set down a plate and a cup of something that appeared to be steaming.

Rising from his hideaway, William padded over to the bench and sat down. "How is she?" he asked as he gratefully received the plate of food and took a sip from the cup. The hot, fragrant tea was the perfect medicine for his troubles, at least temporarily.

Edwin shrugged. "Joanna has mostly been tending to her. She has bathed and had dinner and is now, I believe, asleep. Or trying to sleep." He smiled in a friendly manner. "I imagine she is as restless as you."

"I doubt that can be possible when she has a feather mattress to rest on and I have cold stone," William replied with a wry laugh.

He concentrated on the food in front of him: a chunk of fresh bread, a wedge of sharp white cheese, apple slices, and a fanned-out array of cold meats. But he could not stomach a bite, though he had not eaten all day, for everything he wanted to say to his wife, everything he feared, everything he dreaded if she shunned him permanently, left him incapable of eating.

He sipped the tea instead, and murmured, "Goodness, I wish this was something stronger."

"Apologies. I would invite you inside for a snifter of something and somewhere more comfortable to rest yourself," Edwin admitted, "but my wife would not appreciate the generosity. I prefer not to involve myself in the struggles of other couples, so you will forgive me if I act as a waiter and nothing more."

William nodded. "Of course." He swallowed down another mouthful of tea. "Thank you for this. Truthfully, if you were to offer me a guest chamber, I would not take it. I have promised to remain out here until she speaks to me, and I shall not break that promise. If this is what I must do to prove that I am sincere in my determination, then I will make this terrace my permanent residence if I have to."

Edwin chuckled at that. "I doubt you would be so fond of it in the winter."

"Then let us both hope that my wife does not leave me out here that long." William pushed around an apple slice, his heart twinging at that sweet word wife.

He would not give her an annulment. He would not allow anyone else to call her by that most precious of titles. He would not call anyone else by it either. There were a thousand things he wanted to promise her if she would just listen, but making vows was the easy part. Getting her to listen was the hard part.

"I ought to return inside before my absence is noticed," Edwin said, getting up. "Is there any message you want me to pass to your wife? Anything that might persuade her to come outside?"

William hesitated. Then, with a small smile, he said, "Ask her what Lady Ursula would do."

"Lady Ursula?" Edwin arched an eyebrow. "I am unfamiliar with such a person. Is she a friend of Lydia's?"

William wanted to laugh, but he could not muster the mirth. "In a manner of speaking, yes. She has long been a favorite companion of my wife."

"Very well." Edwin bowed his head, but as he turned to leave, he added, "I do hope you can remedy this, William. I think she cares for you very much, and I think you care for her a great deal in return. It is a mess, I cannot deny it, but… those who adore one another have untangled themselves from far more gnarled knots than this."

William opened his mouth, wondering if he ought to use Edwin as a more detailed messenger, explaining everything that needed to be said, but he could not do it. He wanted Lydia to be there, standing in front of him, when he told her the truth. So, instead, he just bobbed his head and continued to drink the tea, though it tasted like mud in his mouth.

Lydia awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in the beautiful four-poster bed that she knew was wasted on her. She had been trying and failing to fall asleep for several hours and had only just managed to drift off.

"Is someone there?" she whispered into the darkness of the bedchamber, for she was certain that something had woken her up, but she did not know what. It had not been a nightmare, thankfully, but perhaps it was something worse.

Silence echoed back.

It is my mind playing tricks on me…

Shaking her head, she slowly lay back down and pulled the coverlets up to her chin, staring up at the gauzy fabric that acted as a canopy.

She jolted as a definite sound pierced the deathly quiet. A sharp tap against the windowpane, off to her right, behind heavy, velvet drapes.

"It is a tree branch," she told herself sternly, her nerves jittering.

The noise came again, sending a shiver through her. On second thought, it did not sound like a tree branch hitting the glass, and she did not remember seeing a tree outside. It was more forceful than that, as if a bird was pecking the glass.

A pigeon, perchance?

Swallowing thickly, Lydia threw back the coverlets and tiptoed toward the window, nearly jumping out of her skin as another strike hit the pane. It took her a few moments to steady her breaths and urge her feet forward, and it took another moment for her to be able to muster the courage to yank back the drapes.

But there was nothing there, other than the moonlight and the starry sky and the shadow-drenched lawns that stretched toward a looming forest. Unnerving trees that in the daylight would undoubtedly be beautiful.

Puzzled, she turned her gaze downward and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp as she saw a figure standing below. Even in the darkness, he was unmistakable.

He raised a hand in greeting.

Of all the stubborn, infuriating idiots…

She cursed him under her breath as she reached for the casement window and, with no small effort, heaved it upward, so she could tell him just what she thought of him.

"Lady Ursula!" he called out, grinning despite everything. "I have sailed the seven seas trying to forget you, but you are my north star, my beacon, my fixed mark, forever guiding me to you—to home. I have tried in vain to stay away from you, but I can do it no longer. I must be near you again. I must reach my home, or else I shall be forever cast adrift, forever lost at sea without you."

Lydia's jaw dropped, for she had read that part so many times that it was ingrained in her memory. And he had not missed a single word nor gotten one wrong. Indeed, she was so astonished that it took her a few moments to remember that she was heartbroken and furious with the man standing below.

"Leave me be, Will," she replied. "You cannot win me over with Captain Kildare anymore, for you have proven that you are nothing like him. He was devoted to Lady Ursula. He would have done anything for her. And most of all, he was loyal, and he loved her with everything he possessed. You are a fool if you think you are anything like him."

Will nodded slowly. "Then come down and speak with me, Lydia. Allow me to explain."

"I need no explanation," she shot back, terrified that she might start crying again. "I saw it all, heard it all. There is nothing I need from you now except an annulment."

Will ran a hand through his hair, looking so unfairly handsome in the moonlight that she had to wonder if fate was playing cruel tricks on her again.

"At least allow me to apologize," he urged. "Come down here and let me say that I am sorry without having to shout it. Although, if you do not come down, then I will have to shout it. I will bellow so loudly that it will wake everyone in the household."

Panic seized Lydia. "Do not dare!"

"I shall." Will heaved in a dramatic breath, and in a voice so booming that it startled a few doves from their roosts, he continued, "My darling wife, I?—"

"Very well!" Lydia hissed, her cheeks on fire at the thought of the household being awoken by her husband yelling into the night. "Come to the garden doors. I shall grant you enough time to apologize, nothing more."

She pushed away from the window and hurried out of the room, grabbing the spare housecoat that had been hung up for her on the way. Pulling it on, she muttered and cursed under her breath, mortified by her husband's behavior. It was bad enough that he had fathered a child with another woman and had intruded on Bruxton Hall in such a crude fashion, but to disturb people's sleep was quite another thing.

Creeping along the landing and down the elegant staircase, she glanced this way and that, but the manor was silent, and it seemed that Will's outburst had not disrupted anyone.

Still, by the time she reached the garden doors at the rear of the manor, she was fuming.

"I suppose you think you are amusing?" she chided, stepping out onto the rear terrace that overlooked the most exquisite rose gardens. Joanna's pride and joy.

Will sat on the balustrade as if he had been carved in that position—a perfect statue to be admired by anyone passing by and the envy of sculptors everywhere.

"I do not think any of this is amusing, kitten," he replied, standing up.

She had forgotten just how tall he was, but he made no move to come closer, keeping a polite distance between them.

"Well?" she said curtly. "I thought you said you wanted to apologize, though I should warn you that it will change nothing."

His brow creased, but he did not say a word. He merely looked at her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, but there was a sadness in his eyes, as if he knew that he had lost her.

"If you are eager to apologize," she continued haltingly, "then you must know the reason why you are apologizing. I assume you encountered your former lover at Stonebridge? I did tell her to stay in the drawing room. Your child is… perfect. Truly, she is. The eyes, they are entirely yours, though I hope she does not possess any of your other traits."

Will smiled. "She is perfect, but she is not my child."

"Oh, do not try to deceive me now, Will," Lydia shot back, her heart pounding. "It shall not work. Your lover told me everything."

"My ‘lover,' as you call her, is someone I have never met until today," Will replied evenly. "She was cloistered away while she was expecting, and as such, she had not heard that my father was dead. He is the Duke that Beatrice was referring to. The child is my sister."

Lydia stared at him in disbelief, a chill running through her veins. Her mouth opened and closed, but her mind could not formulate anything to say while her heart made somersaults in her chest.

She thought back through everything Beatrice had said to her when they had encountered one another by the porch, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not recall a moment where Beatrice had mentioned Will by name. She had just said "the Duke." And she had said that she had been sent away when she discovered she was with child. But how could she not have heard that her lover was dead if what Will was saying was true?

"You may ask my mother if you do not believe me," Will said. "I had to interrupt the beginning of a brawl when I returned to the manor after you departed. Apparently, my mother knew about her and had warned her to stay away. But what mother would not do anything and everything to protect their child?"

His expression was pinched slightly, as if there was more to those words than the obvious.

"But while I do want to apologize for the misunderstanding and take you over my knee for being so stubborn about leaving without talking further, there is something else I must apologize for first," he continued, sinking to his knees on the terrace.

Lydia shook away the shock of what she had heard. "Get up, Will."

"It is vital that I apologize to you for trying to stay away and for trying to condemn you to a loveless marriage." He stayed where he was, on his knees. "I am sorry for trying to condemn us both when the truth is, Lydia, I want the very opposite."