Two nights later, secluded in his office, James crumpled Nick’s latest note in his hand and heaved a sigh, torn between guilt and relief. At last, he had acquired the answer he needed. The Archbishop had relented in the face of James’ demands and issued a special license, which Nick would be bringing down to Windclere tomorrow.
He cast the balled up bit of paper into the fire and watched it burn away, evidence of his sins erased in a puff of smoke and ash. If only the rest of them were so easy to dispose of. If only he had had the foresight never to have committed them in the first place.
If only. If only. If only. His life was comprised of if onlys, built upon a crumbling foundation of what-ifs and should-haves, and it would take only the slightest breeze to send the whole thing crumbling to the ground, the tiniest spark to set it burning like the scattered ashes of Nick’s note.
Worse still, to safeguard his fragile happiness, he would have to weave a web of lies—new ones to obscure the old. It sat ill with him, to fix what he’d broken with more deceit. But he knew of no other way to keep Jilly, to ensure that their child was born without the stain of illegitimacy.
He pressed his fingertips to his forehead, rubbing away the lines of worry that he knew had creased his brow. A headache had settled in behind his eyes, and he knew that the only thing that would alleviate it was Nick’s arrival with the special license, coupled with a plan to wed her honestly.
Or as honestly wed as they could ever be, given the mountains of lies he’d heaped between them.
“James?”
He started, surprised by Jilly’s appearance in the doorway, half-convinced the guilty bent of his thoughts had summoned her to him. But no, she carried a tray in her hands, laden with plates topped with silver covers. He slanted a look at the clock—it had gone past eight; he’d missed dinner.
Another swift stab of guilt. While she didn’t look hurt, she did appear concerned. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said, rising to his feet to relieve her of the tray. “I must have lost track of the time.” He bent to brush a kiss over her cheek.
A tentative smile graced her face. She settled on the edge of his desk, near where he’d placed the tray. “It’s all right,” she said. “I wasn’t terribly hungry, myself.” She lifted a silver cover off a plate, and frowned down at the lamb dish revealed there. “My goodness,” she said. “It’s quite burned. How odd.”
Not so very odd. The servants all knew of his deception, and none of them approved. He’d not had a single palatable meal in nearly two months. Probably she had not had occasion to notice before now, as the dinner table was quite long, but she could hardly fail to notice the desiccated hunk of lamb on the plate right before her eyes.
“I suppose I shall have to have a word with Cook,” she sighed.
“That’s not necessary,” he said. “I’m sure it’s fine.” He collected his utensils and began the arduous process of sawing through the meat, the sound grating in the otherwise silent room. It seemed an eternity before he’d managed to carve out a chunk and pop it in his mouth. He chewed. And chewed. And chewed.
Jilly stared, her brows drawn in consternation. Her mouth opened as if to launch a protest, but ultimately she closed it again without a word. She shook her head, baffled, and asked, at last, “May I ask what kept you?”
He was saved from having to answer immediately by the bit of lamb that simply would not shred in his teeth. At last he managed to swallow it down and said, “Correspondence. Being a duke is often a thankless task.” A brief hesitation. “Nick intends to come for a visit in a few days.” As an afterthought, he added, “He wishes to congratulate us in person.”
“How lovely,” she said, and he could tell by the warmth in her voice that she meant it. “I’ll make certain Mrs. Simpson readies a room for him. Have you a preference?”
He shook his head. Now would be the perfect time to tell her, to allude to some unfortunate circumstance regarding their marriage license—to begin weaving that tangled web of lies to avert suspicion. He could simply tell her that the license had never arrived to the Archbishop as it ought to have, that he only intended to make certain that their marriage was recognized before the arrival of their child. She would believe it. She might fret over it until Nick arrived with the special license, but she would believe it.
And yet the words would not come. God help him, he didn’t want to lie to her.
“James?” She canted her head to the side, peering up at him with a troubled expression. “Something is bothering you. Won’t you tell me?”
“It’s nothing.” The words sounded as if they had been dragged out of him, heavy and pained. “Nothing you need worry over.” He tried to tell himself it was not entirely a lie. Once the situation was rectified, she truly would not need to worry over it. He pushed the tray away, rising to his feet once more. “I suppose I haven’t much of an appetite, either.”
“Well, how could you have?” she asked dryly, lifting his fork to jab at the hunk of lamb. “I’m not entirely certain your dinner is even edible.”
He managed a chuckle, sliding his arm about her waist. “I think I’ve spent far too long sequestered away in here,” he said. “And not nearly enough time with my wife.”
And finally the worry was chased from her face as pleasure suffused her. He had caused that worry—not with his lies, for she wasn’t aware of them, but with his inattention. Jilly had suffered for his distance. It was his guilt that had kept him away, but she couldn’t possibly understand that. She knew only that her husband had withdrawn from her when she needed his support, his affection.
With his free hand he tucked back that errant curl that simply would never stay where it was meant to, even knowing that it would simply spring free from where he’d secured it behind her ear. As she turned her cheek into his hand, he was struck by how simple it was to please her, how easily he could have made her happy.
She was nothing like the women that had plagued him since he’d come into his title. She’d never cared for the contents of his bank account; she probably had no idea how many estates he possessed. Any other woman of his acquaintance would have demanded that they return to London well before now so as not to miss the high point of the Season, or to set about ordering a new wardrobe befitting a duchess.
Jilly had only a handful of gowns, the simple ones she’d brought with her the night they’d skipped out on the house party. She’d said she was more comfortable in the country, and she’d meant it in all honesty. She did everything in all honesty.
And all he had given her in return was a handful of lies. A quiet life in the country might very well be all she would ever have, should the truth ever come out. No one would expect he had married her out of anything other than obligation. He had taken her sweet dream of love and made a mockery of it, turned it into a waking nightmare.
Her delicately arched brows drew together. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
“Only thinking,” he said evasively. “Suppose we don’t return to London for a while. The country is safer. The air is better, cleaner.”
A hint of a grin touched her lips. “I don’t think I took you for such a worrier,” she said, and while the words were chiding, her expression was delighted.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His own mother had died in childbed with Gloriana. The thought that such a thing could happen to Jilly, that her glorious, laughing eyes might close forever struck him with a cold ripple of fear. He didn’t want to think of it. Instead he settled his free hand over her stomach, a tentative touch that blossomed the smile on her face to giddy proportions.
Her hand touched his, flattening over it to hold it in place. With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes and rested her cheek on his chest, looking for all the world as if she had just slipped into a sweet dream. Guilt, his constant companion, sliced deep, shredding his heart to ribbons.
“I like the country,” she said. “It’s beautiful here. May I invite Nora and Robert to visit?”
He slipped his arm around her slender shoulders, cradling her closer. “Eventually,” he said. “In a month or so.” When they were safely wed, and he could ensure no hint of scandal—aside from what they’d drawn from eloping—would ever touch her. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, striving to memorize the feel of her tucked against him. Just in case his plans should fall apart. Just in case it was the last he would ever have, he wanted to tuck this moment away in his heart forever. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still on our bridal trip.”
She gave a soft trill of laughter. “But Nick is welcome to intrude upon it?”
“Nick’s not staying overlong,” he countered. “I’ll have Bartleby throw him out if he overstays his welcome.” He nudged her face up to brush a kiss across her lips. “I assume you’ll want Nora here for your confinement?”
“I would like that,” she said. “But I expect Robert would accompany her, and he’ll certainly try to fleece you out of your horses.”
“Darling, if their company comforts you, then I will bribe them to come in return for the damned horses, if need be.” For just a moment, with his hand flattened over her belly and her head tucked back against his shoulder, he allowed himself to imagine a future where no unpleasantness could touch them, where the past stayed buried, and only happiness awaited.
And for that moment, it was almost real.