Chapter Seventeen

June 15, 1812

Alice had never known so much nervous energy in her body.

It was today. She'd woken up and known it, deep within herself, deep within her soul. Her heart had fluttered the moment that she'd opened her eyes, knowing that after waiting so long, after risking everything, she had done it.

And today . . .

She rose from the window seat, peering closer to the glass as though that would give her a clearer view down the street. The angle made it impossible, but that did not prevent Alice from performing the same action twice again in the following five minutes. Each time she sat, disappointment transformed back into excitement as she leaned close to the window, pulse hammering.

It's today.

"Now then, Your Grace, you'll do yourself an injury, bobbing up and down like that," came the gentle yet slightly reproving tone of Nicholls.

Alice glanced over her shoulder and shot a grin at the butler. "I know. I can't help it."

"Hmmm," came the reply as she turned back to the window, hands pressed together in her lap.

It was difficult to believe the day had finally come—but all reports had suggested the roads were clear. There was no reason to suppose they would be delayed. That she would be delayed.

Maude Shenton. Her daughter.

Alice tried to calm the shivering nerves that rustled up her spine.

Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined this perfect family that she was about to have. The man she loved, who adored her, who was everything she could have wanted and knew she didn't deserve... and her daughter. Together.

She stood up again, pressing her nose against the glass as though that would aid her in looking around the stubbornly unmoving corner.

There was a chuckle behind her. Alice did not look around as the sound of a newspaper being shaken and a page being turned echoed in the drawing room.

"Alice, my dear," said William genially. "You're not going to make her appear any sooner by almost breaking the glass."

Alice smiled, despite the slight flush tinging her cheeks. "I know that."

"She'll get here when she gets here," said her husband calmly. "You know, it does you great credit, being so concerned about a ward. There is many a person who would benefit from your—"

"It's here!" yelped Alice, entirely ignoring William's words and almost falling over her feet as she launched herself forward.

Heart hammering, fingers tingling with anticipation so much she could hard wield them, Alice rushed forward, pushed aside Nicholls's offering hand of assistance, and wrenched the door to the hall open.

"William, she's here!"

"Yes, I rather gathered that," came the dry voice from the drawing room. "Finally. I thought you'd never be put out of your misery."

He might have said something else—Alice was not sure. She was too far beyond the reach of his voice. Squeezing around two maids carrying a rug outside for beating, barreling by a footman attempting to be polite and open the door for her, Alice ran past them all.

Sweet summer sunshine poured onto the drive as a carriage with the Cothrom livery painted on the side, the same russet as her wedding gown, pulled in. The horses were shaking their heads, exhausted, and the driver looked just as worn out.

"Ah, Your Grace," he said, calling out as the carriage slowed. "I am honored by—"

Whatever he was honored by, Alice was not quite sure. She had little time for the words of a man she had never met, though she would never have phrased it that way.

Put simply, she needed to get to the carriage.

Mrs. Seaby descended from the other side, muttering about exhaustion and the direction of the servants' hall.

The other door handle slipped under Alice's fingers, and she almost laughed for joy at the ridiculousness of it all. Her daughter, out of her reach because of a silly little door!

Eventually her fingers were able to find purchase, and the door was open—

"Mama!" cried the little blonde girl who threw herself into Alice's arms.

And she almost wept. In that moment, when only she and her daughter existed, Alice could have wept. Tears were surely the only right response to having all one's dreams fulfilled, the soft downy blonde hair under her fingertips, the tiny little body of her child.

The baby that had come from her, in pain and in sadness, had become this tiny little thing that smiled and babbled, and now walked and talked—and she was here. Her baby. Alice's arms wrapped about the little one and they stood there, in the door of the carriage, for she did not know how long. The relief that swept over her was so tangible, she could almost taste it in her mouth.

She'd done it. She had her daughter back. Mr. Shenton was gone, no longer a part of her life.

And she had William.

Everything was going to be all right.

It was only the footsteps on the gravel behind her that prompted Alice, brushing aside a few errant tears, to release her daughter.

"Remember, I am Alice here," she whispered into the tiny shell-pink ear of her child.

Maude nodded seriously and glanced over her mother's shoulder. "Who's that?"

Taking her daughter's hand in hers, Alice helped the little one from the carriage then turned, bursting with pride, to introduce the two people who mattered most to her in the world to each other.

What a life they would have! A family, finally—and if everything went as they hoped, soon brothers and sisters for little Maude to play with. William would—

William was staring.

He had not come close. In fact, as far as Alice could see, William had only taken a few steps out of the house before he had halted, his mouth open, hands hanging at his sides.

And his face—his expression was most peculiar. As though he had seen a ghost.

Alice surreptitiously looked behind her but could see nothing that would have prompted such a reaction. Perhaps one of his brothers had arrived at the same time, and had ducked behind the coach as a jest?

"I . . . you . . ." William said hoarsely.

Perhaps he was overcome with the sudden arrival of a child to care for. Yes, that would be it, Alice told herself firmly as she stepped forward, gravel crunching under her feet as she approached William.

It was a great deal to take in, after all.

"Your Grace, William Chance, Duke of Cothrom," Alice said formally, though with a joyful lilt. "May I introduce you to my ward, Maude. Maudy, this is William."

Her daughter looked up at the tall man with the open curiosity only a child could have.

Something happy twirled in Alice's stomach. She'd remind Maude of this in years gone by, of how the two of them met as though they were strangers. Perhaps her daughter would be unable to believe that. If she grew as close to William as Alice hoped—

"Hello," said Maude shyly, taking a step into Alice's skirts and reaching up to grasp her leg.

Alice beamed down at the child, then looked at William.

By now, there were certain characteristics of the man she knew she could depend on. He would always be polite, of course, and merry when there was something that pleased her. William was the sort to be slightly stiff upon a first meeting, but his acquaintance once gained was warm and welcoming.

The strange thing was, she seemed to be utterly mistaken in this description now.

Alice stared, confusion rising as all the color drained from William's face. Where there should have been warmth and welcome, there was nothing but... it could not be horror, but it looked very like it. It did not make any sense.

"William?" Alice prompted.

Perhaps this was too sudden—perhaps she should not have accepted his offer to bring Maude into their lives so quickly. But the idea of waiting, knowing her daughter was miles away—

"Ah," said William. Then he took a deep breath and appeared to regain a little equilibrium. "Miss Fox-Edwards. I trust your journey was not too discomforting?"

"I was in the carriage a long time," Maude said solemnly. "And one time, when we stopped, the horsey at the front did a big—"

"Mrs. Ransome?" William said swiftly.

The housekeeper, a woman with a sharp temperament and an even sharper look, poked her head through the door. "Y'Grace?"

"Would you please take this... this child inside and... feed her, I suppose," William said vaguely, not taking his focus from Maude.

Alice's shoulders relaxed, the tension that had been building in them at William's strange reaction melting away. Well, perhaps William was not the most instinctive parent, but one could not demand that of a man who had never had a child before.

Or seen one, apparently. He trusted her journey was not too discomforting?

"Yes, we'll all go in and eat," said Alice, stepping forward. "I want to show you—"

"Mrs. Ransome, take the child," William said, reaching out and taking Alice's arm, halting her progress. "The duchess and I have a small matter discuss out here. Alone."

Alice frowned, eyes wide as she attempted to discern quite what William could mean. After all, they had already made love that morning, and the driveway was rather exposed. Surely he did not mean—

"A-Alice?" Maude said quietly, looking up.

Alice forced as much cheer into her voice as possible. "Go on in, my dear. I will join you in a moment."

It caused a strange pang to see Mrs. Ransome take the child's hand and lead her into the house. After so many years of depending on other people to care for her daughter, she had finally got her back. Was she truly to give her up again so quickly?

But it was only for a few minutes, Alice tried to remind herself. William wished to talk, and then they would be both inside and—

"You harpy," spat William the moment the front door shut behind Maude.

There was such vehemence, such bitter anger in the three syllables he uttered that Alice felt forced to take a step back, bewildered.

"H-Harpy?" she repeated, certain she had misheard the man. "I-I don't under—"

"I can't believe it," William said, pulling a hand through his hair and looking as though he had just received the worst sort of news. "I can't believe it."

Something had happened and Alice could not understand what. This sudden turn, this turning on her—what on earth had precipitated such a change?

Had not Maude been careful? She had been taught not to call her "Mama" in company from an early age, and try as she might, Alice could not recall a mistake they had made in the few minutes that they had stood in William's company. So what—

"You really thought you could fool me?" William said, looking her directly in the eyes.

Alice's heart sank. Swifter than a stone, it plummeted down her body and entered the earth, taking with it all hope, all expectation.

How on earth could he have known? How was it possible? She had been so careful.

Well, there was only one thing for it. She would have to lie.

"I-I don't know what you mean," Alice stammered, hating that her voice betrayed her in such a moment.

Evidently William was far cleverer than she had hoped, for he laughed darkly and turned away for a moment, as though it was too painful to look at her.

"William, I—"

"You must think I'm an idiot," said William bitterly as he turned back to her. "I cannot believe you did not tell me!"

Alice's mind was whirling, yet try as she might, there was no clue as to how William could possibly know. Had he read one of her letters? No, she had always been careful not to write down any of the specifics in her letters. Could Mr. Shenton—no, she had bought back all the incriminating letters from him almost the moment her engagement had been announced. He had his money, and no proof now as to what had occurred. What would William notice if she were a few gowns short in her trousseau?

How could this have happened?

The world was starting to spin, but Alice made one last attempt to defuse—no, deflect. "William, I don't know what you are trying to say, but—"

"She is the spitting image of you, Alice," William bit out, glaring. "The spitting image! I don't doubt you haven't noticed it, so wrapped up in your lies, but that child is so clearly yours, it's as plain as the nose on both your faces!"

Alice's mouth fell open.

Could she really have been that stupid?

She tried to picture herself and Maude inside her mind. Yes, they had the same white-blonde hair, the same gray eyes—there were probably a few mannerisms that were similar, now she came to think about it. But were they truly so alike that—

"You don't even see it, do you?" William's voice cracked, his pain so prominent. "Dear God, you really had me believing—I suppose there is no wild cousin in your family, is there? It was you, all along, all the rumors and gossip that you had me believe were because of someone else. It was you!"

Alice's breathing was short, darkness creeping into the corners of her eyes, and she was trapped. Unable to move, unable to run, unable to hide.

William knew now. He knew—not everything, but enough to know she had brought shame upon herself, her family, and now...

And now his. His name, the one thing he would do anything to protect.

She had ruined it.

Alice swallowed and for the first time in a long time, told the truth. "Not... not all of gossip was true."

William swore under his breath.

"It wasn't like—I never planned to—"

"I can't believe I have finally managed to do the one thing I have been working so hard to prevent my brothers from doing!" William spoke with such a pained laugh, it broke Alice's heart in two. "I've ruined the family name. I'm ruined!"

"No—no, you're not," Alice said hurriedly, stepping forward with her hands out, desperate to hold him.

If she could just touch him—if she could find, once again, the connection they had—

William stepped back, his dark glare not leaving her face. "You ruined me, Alice."

"No, it's not that, we can lie, we can tell the world—"

"I am not a liar," he said quietly.

Alice felt the unspoken reprimand shimmering in the air between them, like a heat haze of silent condemnation.

Because she was.

"I know you're not," she said helplessly. "I know you're not, but truly, I don't think it is as bad as you—"

"I don't think you quite understand the severity of what has happened," William said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

And why should he, Alice thought wretchedly. There were no servants about. The gardeners were in the rose garden, the coachman had taken the horses around to the stables. There was no one here to eavesdrop on this conversation.

But that wouldn't stop the gossip going around the whole of London before the day was out. If William had noticed the similarity between her and Maude... it would not be long.

Alice swallowed. "I'm sorry—I didn't know what to do. I was being extorted—"

William's sardonic laugh cut her short, and each syllable he spoke was a dagger in her gut. "Oh, excellent! Is that supposed to make me feel better, that my wife was being extorted about an illegitimate child?"

And fire surged. "Maude is not illegitimate."

He waved away her words with little care, as though she had not just handed him her soul. "We may be married now, but she could never be mine, you must see that. I mean, dear God, Alice. The new Duchess of Cothrom has an illegitimate daughter!"

And the fire burned, and Alice looked William straight in the eye and knew that, no matter what, this was where she would stand her ground. "My daughter is not illegitimate."

But it appeared her husband had no interest in her words. His mind had already departed this conversation, hastening forward into the future where he was certain his reputation had been stained.

"After everything I've done," William was muttering, pulling a hand through his hair again as though he could not prevent himself from doing it. "All my effort, the sacrifices I have made, the times when I have been this close to giving up and just letting the Chance family destroy itself!"

Alice bit her lip and allowed all the guilt she had pushed aside through their short courtship to rush forward.

She deserved this. She'd used him, used him most ill. William would not forgive her.

"I have been fighting against scandal all my adult life," he said bitterly. "I thought Pernrith was bad enough, but at least there was a partial solution to that. Give the man a title, some sort of respectability, and hope the damned Chance brothers would do what they were told and stay in line."

"People don't like to be controlled," Alice said, before she could stop herself. "They don't want to feel used when given a chance. They don't want to feel beholden to—"

"What would you know about being beholden?" William snapped, raising a pointed finger. "You were extorted, you say? Well, it doesn't surprise me. An illegitimate child—"

"She is not—"

"—is not something most men would understand, I suppose. Who's the father?"

Alice bit her lip. One day, she had thought she might tell William this story. When they were old, and their own children were grown, and there was no possibility of hurt because it was so long ago.

But now . . .

"He died," she said stiffly. "And—"

"That would explain why you were being extorted, I suppose," William said darkly. "No protector. And here I am, picking up the scandalous pieces—"

"I love you, William," Alice interjected impulsively. If she could just make him see—

In the warmth of the summer day, William shook his head as he stepped away, another bitter laugh on his lips. "No, you don't."

Her pulse skipped a beat. "I am not lying—"

"I don't know if you're lying or telling the truth, and I clearly have never known. Ward," spat William. "No, you saw me as the sap I am, right from the first moment we met."

Alice swallowed. "I—"

"Oh, dear God, you were lying in wait for me, weren't you?" William said, clapping a hand to his forehead. "In the little woodland in Hyde Park—you would have demanded marriage from any fool that walked by, wouldn't you?"

The instinct to lie, to protect his feelings, to protect her own was so strong that Alice almost gave in.

But apparently the look on her face was enough.

William swore again. "And here I am, falling in love with you—or what I thought was you. With what I thought Alice Fox-Edwards—Alice Chance—was. An honorable woman. A good woman."

The dizzy feeling was returning, and Alice wished she were standing a little closer to the house so she could be in the shade.

It was all falling apart. Her plan, her life, the life she wanted with the people she loved—she had been so close, and now it was disappearing right before her eyes. Melting in the summer sun.

"I know I should have told you," Alice said quietly. "But—"

"Yes," William snapped. "You should have!"

His interruption did nothing to salve her conscience, however, and it merely prickled her irritation. Was it her fault how her life had turned out? Did William truly think she would have chosen this life if she'd had any other choice?

"You mean I should have told you," she said quietly, "so you wouldn't have had to marry me?"

For a moment, just a moment, William met her gaze. There was such adoration there, just for a moment, that Alice gasped aloud.

Everything could be mended if they just clung to each other. If they could just be honest, and open, and vulnerable. If he could see the hurt she had endured, and she could pour the balm of her affection on his wounded pride, maybe then—

"Yes," said William quietly. "That's what I mean. I wouldn't have married you."

They stood there for a moment, gazing at each other. Alice couldn't move. There was something in this moment that was fragile, a crossroads for the conversation, for them.

In one direction, she would eventually fall into his arms, and he could console her, forgive her, and she would make wild promises about never lying to him again, and William would laugh and say it wasn't Maudy's fault, and they would be a family together.

And in the other direction—

William sighed heavily. "Make preparations."

Alice blinked. Perhaps at the crossroads there had been a third path she had not considered. "Preparations?"

"Yes, preparations."

It appeared that was all she was to be told. "Preparations for what?"

William's jaw tightened. "I am sending you and your daughter to the Dower House of Stanphrey Lacey. In the country."

Each individual word made sense. Alice knew them, understood them. But when placed together, there was a deep disconnect between the words and her mind.

"You'll be well cared for there," William was saying, his words washing over her like water. "You'll be provided for."

"Provided—you are joining us, aren't you, William?" Alice said, a flicker of uncertainty tugging at her heart.

She could not leave him. Leave William? Leave the man she loved, while they still had such misunderstanding and confusion between them?

"I'm not leaving you," Alice said decidedly as William turned and started back to the house. "William—William! What about us?"

He halted, but he did not turn around. Alice found herself looking at every strand of hair, every lock, the way his collar crept up his throat, the breadth of his shoulders—every detail, memorizing them, loving them, committing them to memory because a part of her knew already that it was over.

"There is no us," he said finally, continuing on into the house. The door slammed behind him.