Chapter Twenty

The drive had been long, and William had been given plenty of time to consider how he would approach this first meeting after such an explosive last meeting, but he hadn't expected this.

Alice had risen swiftly, astonishment in her eyes, and William thought she was going to rush across the room and throw herself into his arms. His whole body had tingled at the expectation.

Oh, to touch Alice again. To have her in his arms, breathe her in, know they were together again—that no matter what, they would find a way through their differences and back to each other.

And Alice had run across the room. But not toward him.

With a pang in his chest that was violent in its grief, William watched as Alice immediately hastened to her daughter, pulling the child behind her as though he would—

The very thought of harming anyone, let alone harming a child, was repellant to him, and William's shoulders drooped as he watched Alice stare back at him defiantly. Had he truly reacted so terribly when the girl—Maude, wasn't it?—had been introduced to him? Did Alice honestly believe he was some sort of danger to her daughter?

Dear God, he had a great deal more ground to cover than he thought.

"Alice," William said, surprised to discover his voice was hoarse. "I..."

The speech he had almost perfected melted from his mind. All the words he had carefully chosen, organized in a straight line to make the perfect sentence, they all vanished, leaving him adrift in a sea of words and thoughts and emotions he could barely understand.

A coherent sentence would be wonderful about now, he thought darkly. But looking at her, seeing Alice—she was even more beautiful than he remembered. While his mouth hung open, desperately hoping it would be filled with the speech he had prepared, he just stared, unable to look away.

Every inch of her was Alice. The freckle by her left eye, the way her hair was pinned back yet looked as though at any moment it would cascade once more past her shoulders. The glare in her expression, the pursed lips, the way her hands clung to her daughter.

Hands which had once slipped into his own. Hands which had accepted his ring. Hands which he had considered just as vital as his own, once.

He still did.

William swallowed. All his righteous words, the way he was going to explain himself, make it clear that he was not completely in the wrong, that she had injured him just as he had injured her—it all disappeared.

He had not understood. But he did now.

All he had to do was somehow put all of that understanding into words.

Words, William. Say something, for God's sake!

"Words," William said helplessly at the same time as Alice said, "What are you—"

They both fell silent, the tension and awkwardness in the air so palpable, for a moment he wondered whether that was what was keeping him from Alice's side. Was it even possible to walk through it, push past it, reach her?

It appeared Alice was thinking the same thing—or at least, something similar. She glanced at her daughter, who was blinking owlishly up at him.

William's stomach twisted as he remembered Pernrith's words.

"A child knows when they are not wanted. For a child not truly of the family to be forced to dwell within it, that is perhaps the crueler choice."

How had he managed to blame an innocent child for this? Maude did not deserve to be pushed aside merely because the circumstances of her birth were not precisely what he had expected. What sort of a man was he, to blame a child for something beyond their control?

Something he would have to discuss with Pernrith at some point. And Aylesbury. And Lindow. Particularly Lindow.

"It's the man," Maude said in a loud whisper.

William watched color tinge Alice's cheeks, watched her kneel beside the child with her back to him. As though she could not bear to look at him. As though he were nothing. As though he were not even there.

"It is," said Alice firmly. "He's come to visit his house, and then he'll be going home."

William's heart skipped a painful beat.

Though she had not necessarily spoken the words as an indictment, they certainly felt like one. Come to visit his house, then he'll be going home? Did Alice not know—but then he had been so awful to her the last time they had spoken, she surely did not realize she was his home. Her, and nothing else, no one else.

He could not be happy in that townhouse. Rattling around in those rooms, wondering how he'd been such a fool as to lose her—did she honestly think William could keep away?

Maude was peering up over her mother's shoulder. "Why does he have two homes? Does he want us to leave? He's got lots of room, Mama."

William swallowed, hating the truth that spilled from the child's mouth. There was nothing like an inquisitive child to pull you right back to earth.

"Hullo, Maude," he said quietly.

Alice glanced over her shoulder with a glare which could have melted a mountain. "Maude," she said quietly, turning back to her child. "His Grace will be gone in a moment. He obviously came into this room by accident, and—"

"No, I didn't," William said hoarsely.

Damn his voice, why couldn't it speak with any sort of strength?

Alice did not bother to turn around. "He'll be gone, and we will continue to live here, Maudy. This is our home, now, and... and we are grateful."

Grateful.

He almost groaned aloud to hear such a word. Dear God, did she think herself beholden to him? How had he managed to destroy what had been between them so utterly?

A scent that had wafted into the hall and was starting to drift into the drawing room gained his attention. And an idea, a foolish idea but one he could not ignore, came to mind.

And this time William did not do what he always did. He did not consider, did not weigh up the pros and cons. He did not consider it from all angles, wondering what damage it could do to the family, to him, to their name. He just acted.

"Maude," he said quietly. The child perked up and met his eyes. "I think Cook is doing some baking in the kitchen. Some gingerbread, by the smell of it. Why don't I ask a maid to take you there so you can try some?"

It had been an innocent suggestion, but clearly there was more distrust between himself and Alice than William had thought.

Alice straightened up, standing tall and keeping her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "I don't think that is a good idea."

There was such panic, such fear on her face, and William could not understand why. It was the kitchen. Surely they had been in there, met Cook, knew everywhere here by now? It was hardly far away.

His confusion was clearly visible, for Alice said stiffly, "It has been made clear to us that we are not to go wandering about. We keep to the dining room and our bedchambers and here. We... we don't wish to be in the way."

A flash of anger seared across William, but he did his best to hide it. It was, after all, not their fault.

Had he not left instructions that they were to be well cared for—to feel at home, to be given every luxury which should be afforded to a lady of the family? He would have to have a conversation with Mrs. Colfer before he left.

Though of course the nature of that conversation would depend very much on the one he was about to have with Alice. That he wished to have with Alice.

"I will make it clear that both you and the child are welcome anywhere in this house," William said gruffly. "Anywhere. This is—you should not worry about... Would you like some gingerbread, Maude?"

Apparently he had made another mistake. Alice's face flushed as she muttered, "You don't just offer..."

William swallowed. This was all going so wrong.

In his imagination, as he had traveled rapidly from London to the ducal estates, the scene had been quite different. He would storm into the room, Alice would burst into ecstatic tears of happiness, step into his arms, and press her lips to his with muttered delight that he had returned for her.

In truth, Maude hadn't even been in his imagined picture.

Instead . . .

"No harm will come to her," he said stiffly. "And I would speak with you, Alice."

Alice's glance met his, though clearly reluctantly. Her fingers tightened, just for a moment, on her daughter's shoulders.

Difficult though it was, William forced himself to hold her gaze. He wasn't going to look away any longer, he wasn't going to be the sort of man who could just ignore a problem or try to fix it immediately.

Not that Alice was a problem.

Dear God, he needed to get his words untangled.

"Fine," said Alice, though there was a lack of grace in her tone. "Maude, we will find a maid who can accompany—"

"Mrs. Colfer!" William yelled, turning into the hall.

It was a mark of the housekeeper's skill that she was by his side within seconds—though now he came to think of it, it was probably more likely that she was listening at the door. Blast.

"You called, Your Grace?" Mrs. Colfer said, curtsying low.

William nodded. "The child is to be escorted to the kitchen where she can eat anything she—"

"William!"

"Where she is to eat a normal amount of food, not too much, obviously," William hastily corrected, his ears burning at Alice's sharp remonstrance.

Well, what was he to know? How much did a child need to eat—more than an adult? Less? His own youth seemed so long ago, he could barely recall. His plate had always been full, that was all he knew.

Another pang echoed through him. Had Pernrith known the same?

"I see," said Mrs. Colfer with pursed lips. "Well. Come on then, child."

Maude skipped forward. Out of the corner of his eye, William thought he spotted Alice's fingers leaving her daughter's shoulder at the very last moment.

What was it like, to have a part of yourself wandering about the place, fearing all the time that they would come to harm? If it was half the depth of concern he felt for Alice...

With the child happily chattering away and Mrs. Colfer shepherding her toward the servants' corridor, William finally did what he had intended to do the moment he had seen Alice.

He stepped fully into the drawing room. And then he shut the door.

Alice spoke at once. "You did not have to come here—I would have been perfectly happy to provide a written report of our occupancy, if you had required it."

And William deflated. "You... you don't want to see me?"

The thought hadn't even occurred to him. His desperation to see Alice had been so potent, the idea that she might not wish to see him had never crossed his mind.

A dark flush had tinged her cheeks. "Of—of course, but—"

"I wanted to see you," William said quietly, stepping closer into the room.

It was a good sign, he thought, that Alice did not immediately rush away. Or was it? She was a woman who stood her ground. It was one of the things he admired about her. One of the many things.

There was a scrap of paper and what appeared to be red... red something on the floor where she had been sitting. Just for a flickering moment, he wondered what it was.

"What do you want?"

William's attention was immediately pulled back to Alice, who had folded her hands before her, fingers twisting together.

How was one supposed to melt away all this pain, this anger, this regret?

Try as he might, no matter how many different scenarios he considered in his exhausted mind, William could not conceive of a way to do it.

He could try to understand—but it had been his brothers of all people who had helped him to a better understanding of the woman he purported to love.

He could try to explain—though how he would explain, and what precisely he would say was a mystery. How did one excuse poor conduct? How did a gentleman reveal he had been wrong, that everything he had attempted to do had backfired so spectacularly?

He could try to apologize. That perhaps was the safest way to begin, but William wasn't entirely sure if he would be able to stop apologizing once he started.

I am sorry for throwing you out of my home.

I am sorry for not welcoming your child.

I am sorry for not listening to you, not believing you, not loving you as I should...

"What do you want, William?" Alice repeated her question in clipped tones, her frown sharp.

And William replied in the only way he knew how. "You."

A flush tinged her cheeks, creeping down her neck toward her décolletage, which William was most determinedly not looking at. Much. "I think you have made it perfectly clear that you do not. Why else would I be here?"

The clarity and accuracy of her words was painful, but William allowed himself to feel the pain. He deserved to feel this—this guilt, this remorse, it was good. It showed him he was learning... didn't it?

"I was wrong to speak so rashly," he said quietly. "It is one of the parts—one of the many parts—of myself that I am always trying to hide. To push away."

Alice's flush darkened, and William wondered whether she was thinking the same thing he was. That the other part of him that he had revealed to her that he so often wished to hide was his desire. For her.

Well, she had not stormed from the room, called him a brute, or cried. That was something, wasn't it?

"I was wrong," said William quietly, taking a hesitant step forward, "to judge you."

It wasn't enough, but it was a start—and it may be all he'd be able to say, as Alice launched into, "You judged me poorly, and you did not even let me explain—"

"I know, and I am sorry," he began, seeing a ray of light. If they could just apologize to each other... "I should never have—"

"Have you really come all this way to speak over me?" Alice snapped.

William opened his mouth to retort, to defend... then let the excuses fade away.

She was right. Perhaps his brothers were even more right than they had known. Perhaps he was so good at speaking over people, deciding their fates for them, fighting for their chance to be something they did not want, he had almost forgotten how to have a conversation.

It was a worrying thought.

"Please," William said, spreading his arms out in a gesture of goodwill. "Tell me, then. I... I want to know."

The truth about Maude, about why Alice had been blackmailed, he needed to know. Even if it hurt. Especially then, for it was a hurt that she had carried all alone.

For a moment, Alice was clearly astonished she was going to have her own say. In a heartbeat, however, she had collected herself. "I told you, that... that day that Maude arrived. I told you she was not illegitimate."

William's jaw tightened. He did not like being lied to. "Yes, but I do not—"

"I was married," Alice said quietly. "Before you, I mean."

It was a good thing there was a sofa just to his left, for upon hearing such words, he was rather in need of a sit down.

Half sitting, half falling, William dropped onto the sofa without taking his eyes from Alice. "Married."

"Married," Alice repeated softly.

Married. It had not even occurred to him. Married? Alice?

So Maude... she was not illegitimate, then? Just as Alice had protested. But why lie—why keep this a secret?

Alice cleared her throat. "There is not much to tell. I thought he loved me, and I certainly believed myself in love. It was an infatuation. I see that now."

Her gray eyes met his and William's heart stuttered. Did she know that now because of what they had—because of what she felt for him?

"By the time I realized that I was just a tup, I was with child." Alice spoke with a calm finality that suggested little love had truly been lost between them. "He offered—he agreed, I suppose I should say—to marry me. We were married. He died a week later."

William's eyes widened. "He died—"

"A hunting accident," Alice said quietly. "I hardly knew whether I was coming or going, the pregnancy... I don't know what the family did with the marriage certificate. They wouldn't give it to me, none of Mark's estate came to me. It was easiest for them, you see, if his younger brother inherited without any... complications."

Complications. "Like if you had a son."

"Perhaps if they had known it was a Maude, and not a Matthew, they would not have acted so callously." Alice spoke with a finality that was painful to William's ear. How long had she suffered? Been alone, faced the stigma of illegitimacy without the true cause? "A year ago, that brother, Mr. Shenton, found me. He... he blackmailed me. Extorted me, I suppose. Said he required money, that I could buy back the marriage certificate and certain letters which, if released, would make it seem... He threatened to take Maudy away from me, to make her part of his family, to tear my very heart from my chest! And I thought... I thought..."

William sank back into the sofa.

It was all so clear now. She thought that if she could buy back her marriage certificate, she could prove her marriage—prove that her child was legitimate.

"But you didn't have any money," he said quietly.

It was obvious, with the beauty of hindsight and a few additional facts.

Alice's smile was pained. "I needed money, and I would not consider—marriage was my only option. I arrived in London with a month's worth of coin and a determination to find a husband before he—"

"What did he want? Other than money, I mean, and Maudy," William asked sharply.

She met his gaze. The answer was apparent, even in the silence.

William swore under his breath.

"I never intended to lie to you," Alice said, taking hurried steps toward him and sitting unexpectedly beside him. "I just... I avoided the truth as best I could. I never thought—"

"I would see that letter."

It was difficult to concentrate now she was seated so close to him. Just a few inches separated them, and Alice's presence had always been a mild intoxicant, even when he was furious with her.

Right now, he was furious with himself.

Alice had never asked him for money. She must have planned to use her pin money to pay off this Shenton blackguard, then to support the child. Her child. Maude.

And he'd had to go and shout at her, berate her for something completely beyond her control. And send her away.

"Well, you're a Chance now," he said stiffly. "No one can hurt you."

"I paid Mr. Shenton off the day after we were married," Alice said softly. "You gave me five pounds for a bonnet. Five pounds! Riches, riches I could never—but anyway. I bought a bonnet for fifteen shillings and sent the rest to Mr. Shenton. My final payment. His letter arrived the day before Maude did."

William's hopes sank. "And?"

"He never had the marriage certificate, of course. Or any letters. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it sooner. I was a fool, I was afraid—"

"Well, he can't hurt you now," William said, reaching out and taking her hand. She did not pull away. "And when we're back in London—"

She pulled her hand away. "Back in... why would you take me back to London?"

William steeled himself to say what he knew he must. It was hard to be so open, so vulnerable. But she was worth it. They both were.

"Alice," he said quietly. "I... I have been so blind, so wrong. I was so worried about fighting off Society's expectations that I forgot what I wanted. What was worth fighting for, what was worth loving."

He heard Alice's sudden gasp, but he could not heed it, could not slow down. The words were spilling out from him, and they were not the careful, prepared speech he had curated so elegantly. They were just the truth, pouring from him.

"And I am in love with you, and I'm lost without you," William said with a cracked smile. "I never thought I would—I don't know what to do without you. And I'm sorry, and I want to learn, I want to be a better husband to you... and a father to Maude, if you'll let me."

Alice's face was a picture of astonishment, and William could not tell if that was in wonder and joy or disgust and rejection.

"Please. Please, come back with me."

She swallowed, glanced at their hands, entwined, and murmured, "You... you really want me?"

And that was when William lost all self-control.

Perhaps it was the fact that they were talking on a sofa, just as they had been when they had first started to make love. Perhaps it was being so close to her, breathing her in, feeling her soft fingers in his. Perhaps it was just sheer nervous exhaustion.

Whatever it was, William leaned forward and kissed Alice hard on the mouth.

His longing for her was unbidden, unrestrained, but it was her response that made William moan with relief.

Her response was just as ardent as his own. Alice pulled him closer, her lips nibbling along his own before she parted them with her tongue, and her whimper of delight shot eager hunger through William's body as he had never known before.

When the kiss finally ended, they were both panting, Alice's hair was half undone, and William had a rather uncomfortable pressure in his breeches.

"Well," Alice said with a laugh, her fingers trailing through his hair before cupping his face. "I suppose I cannot argue with that."