Heaven Sent the Wrong One (12 page)

Taking Chances

A
lexandra opened her valise as the carriage entered the yard of the coaching inn. They had been traveling for a while and she knew her driver and footman must be famished, so she asked them to stop at the next inn along the road to break their fast.

She retrieved her reticule and book, planning to read by the firep
lace after breakfast in the small sitting room provided for guests to stretch their legs, while the grooms fed the horses. The hour was too early and the place was quiet. She would at least have a little privacy, which she intended to spend by losing herself in her book, instead of dwelling on her troubles and crying another river of tears.

The carriage halted in front of the inn and the footman opened the passenger door.

Alexandra quickly closed her valise and slid it underneath the seat, picking up the reticule and book she'd set aside on the seat cushion next to her.

"We have quite a breeze today, my lady," her footman said as he lowered the carriage steps.

"Oh!" Alexandra exclaimed, holding down her bonnet to keep it from blowing away as she emerged from the carriage. A robust gust of wind lifted her skirts and she hastily gathered it tight with the other hand, dropping her reticule and book on the ground in the process.

"Not to worry, my lady
—I'll fetch them for you," her footman said, as soon as he finished helping her alight from the carriage. He easily located the reticule heavy with coins and handed it back to her, before running after the book that had been buffeted away by the strong current of air.

Alexandra watched in dismay as another rush of wi
nd blew the binding open and shuffled the pages, extricating a treasured memento she'd stashed between the printed sheets.

"Oh, no!" She ran after the rose, now flattened to an almost paper-thinness from the massive weight of the other volumes she'd placed
atop her little book during her stay at the countess' manor. Its white petals had dried to a pale yellow tint, the velvety texture altered and preserved to a slight crisp. For a minute, it flew and rolled in mid-air before it landed and leapt repeatedly on the ground, tossing and turning further away, teasing her to catch it.

By the time she managed to do just that, most of its outer petals had fallen off, leaving her with nothing but the stem and the short inner whorl of pressed petals making up the corol
la.

Alexandra picked up the once beautiful flower that Andrew had given her on that day when he first took her to the Town Square fair. "Roses for your beautiful wife," the flower vendor had called out to him, mistaking her for his wife. He had gamely let
the vendor assume they were married and bought her the white rose, its thorns removed and its stem clipped to a petite length upon his request, so he could slip it in her hair above her ear.

"You look very lovely today," he had whispered afterwards, as he
leaned closer and rubbed his nose playfully against hers. "I'm a lucky man."

I'm a lucky man
.

The words rang with such conviction in Alexandra's thoughts that inexorable guilt eclipsed every single rationale she had armed herself with to justify her leavin
g him. Indeed, she had enumerated and foresaw every single disadvantage that could beleaguer their relationship—but what she had failed to consider were the possibilities that could perchance defy the impossibilities.

She sighed and gazed sadly at what was
left of the rose. All the pretty, external petals had fallen off because of the harsh wind, but the core and stem remained strong, withstanding the onslaught of the gusts without breaking.

Dear God
. A sudden shaft of realization brought back the tears to her eyes. Was the Lord trying to tell her something? Was He trying to show her by example—how even a delicate flower could survive getting clipped, rid of its thorns, pressed, dried and stripped of its petals by a windstorm?

Was she no better than the litt
le rose?

Alexandra twirled the stem between her thumb and forefinger. Like the flower, her brief sojourn in Bath had given her a taste of what it was like to be free of the thorns on her side
—her name and status—privileges of her birth that she was grateful for—but were also the very conditions that clipped her wings and kept her from soaring to new horizons.

Oh
—and how she had savored every minute of that freedom! Imbibing herself with the mesmerizing flavor of her first kiss and the many kisses that followed thereafter. Intoxicating her senses, body and soul, with the succulent passion of making love with her first love, and relishing the delicious afterglow with declarations of commitment coming straight from the heart...

Only to throw everything away in
the end.

Unlike the little rose that had cast itself to the winds and gladly given up a few fancy petals to its wrath, when the opportunity came for her to make that leap of faith, she readily broke her promises and abandoned the one she loved.

Since when did she become a coward? What had happened to her—to make her turn into a weakling—running away at the initial sign of trouble in paradise? Had she lost herself in the pretensions—the lies she'd concocted to transform her personality into that of a humble maid—that she'd forgotten who she truly was?

She was Lady Alexandra Davenport, for goodness sake
—daughter of the Earl of Weston whose legacy dated back to the Norman Conquest hundreds of years ago! Her ancestors fought alongside the Duke of Normandy—who became the first Norman ruler of England known as King William the First, after defeating the English army under King Harold II in the Battle of Hastings.

With that in mind
—what was she afraid of? The Ton? Her father and relatives? What other people would say—or think—or do? None of it hardly compared to the odds her forefathers faced when they bravely invaded England! Truly, if only her great ancestors could see her now—they would not hesitate to club her on the head with a mallet for yielding to her fears—rather than facing them with the fierceness worthy of a true descendant of Viking Conquerors.

However, she was not scared for herself. That
—she knew. She was more worried for Andrew.

Most importantly
—Andrew.

But, didn't that signify just how protective she
had become over him? How increasingly vital he had grown to her existence? How insanely, exceedingly in love she was with him?

Weren't those reasons enough
—for their love to be worth keeping and fighting for—even if it took forever?

Alexandra closed her
eyes and saw the image of a man with long honey-blond hair, a dimpled smile, and pretty eyes.

How many more pirate princes' like him did she think she would encounter in her lifetime?

"My Lady? Are you alright?" She heard the footman ask.

Alexandra opened
her eyes and took the book he was holding out for her in his hand. "Yes. Yes I'm fine, thank you." She gazed longingly at the battered little rose and pressed it against her lips, before carefully inserting it between the pages.

"May I escort you into the
inn, my Lady?" The footman regarded her with concern.

Alexandra gave him a reassuring smile. The footman was fairly young
—perhaps her age. He looked quite handsome and smart in his red and gold Weston livery. "What's your name?" She surprised him by asking.

"Thomas Brownson, my Lady," he replied, coloring to a beet red, obviously unaccustomed to having a conversation with his betters.

"How long have you worked for my family, Mister Brownson?"

"Eight years, my Lady. I was eighteen when I took my father's pl
ace upon his retirement. He worked for forty years with your grandfather and another five years with your father."

"That's excellent, Mister Brownson," Alexandra nodded.

How odd—she'd never noticed the servants she'd practically grown up with. And, now that she'd had an affair with one, she couldn't help but think about their welfare; about how the sons and daughters of families in service never really had the choice, except to follow their parents' footsteps due to the lack of sufficient education precipitated by financial constraints.

Given the chance, Andrew would've done well for himself
—as a landlord or a businessman—or even a barrister. She absolutely had no doubt that he would achieve success in any given field he might have chosen.

With her by his si
de, the floodgate of opportunities would have opened for him. She was wealthy enough— he need not make a living. Her money was more than adequate to sustain them and any children they might have.

But Andrew was a proud man
—he would've never taken her coin to put a roof over their heads. However, if she'd approached him with a candid discussion of their future, she knew—he could've been persuaded. His male pride might be easily evident in his demeanor, but his logical side was likewise apparent in his astuteness. She could've spoken to him in a mature sense—perhaps convinced him to pursue the profession of his dreams—or go into business. She could've been his advocate. They could've been a team. If English society proved too caustic to accept their union, they could've gone to India where trade was booming—or to America, where rapid progress and industrial prospects abound.

So many possibilities
—so much potential. Why had she not considered all of these things—until now?

"Mister Brownson," she said in a determ
ined tone, as she pulled some coins from her reticule. "Go to the stables and lease two horses. Have the grooms prepare them at once. You and I are going back to Penthorpe Manor." She gave the flummoxed footman the coins. "Also, have the innkeeper's wife wrap some bread, ham, and cheese with two jugs of tea. We shall eat in the saddle. Order some repast for the coachman and ask him to wait at the inn until we return."

The footman gaped at her and dropped his gaze at the money in his hand.

"Go!" She urged. "There's not much time—we must hurry."

Regaining his composure, the footman took off running towards the stables.

Alexandra went back inside the coach and found her riding coat in the valise. Thank God, she had the mind to put it in there instead of the trunks! She quickly donned it, planning to ride astride at a fast gallop. It had taken them almost two hours to get to the inn, she frowned, as she pulled out her pocket watch and examined the hour. Riding on horseback would cut the travel time by almost half. They could more or less get there by six in the morning—an hour and a half delayed from their appointed tryst. Surely, Andrew would still be there. He would wait for her. Moreover, the viscount's son had eloped with Anna—he must certainly have brought the carriage with him, leaving Andrew to tend to his luggage and find some means of public transport. All that could take time. She could still make it!

~

Allayne awoke with a start as the carriage bounced over a bump on the road. He had closed his eyes fo
r a minute to rid himself of the headache caused by his lack of sleep, but it led him to succumb to a light slumber. Wearily, he lifted the window shade and peered outside. Nothing but darkness met his gaze, broken only by the meager light from the carriage lamps.

He held his fob watch nearer to the small lantern inside the coach. Four thirty-five in the morning. Anna would have been at the gazebo by now
—waiting for him. Most probably, wondering what was keeping him; fidgeting, pacing across the floor, worrying herself to tears.

Allayne's resolve faltered at the thought.

Yes—he'd deliberated on all the consequences their marriage could bring—but everything was to his detriment—the product of his fears. He'd never really focused on Anna nor put his faith in the strength of character she'd repeatedly demonstrated during their short time together. If she learned the truth of who he really was, she would be angry—no doubt, but in the end, she would also understand his predicament. Anna was a formidable woman with a good head on her shoulders. Her intelligence and confidence were the very traits that attracted him to her. The negative implications of marrying a man of his rank would not easily dissuade her. She was not the type who would shrink from neither challenge nor censure.

Moreover, his family and best friends would never turn their backs on them. They were too good
—too sensible. His parents might suffer some degree of disappointment, but they loved him too much to condemn him. And his sister Cassie would most certainly not give a fig where Anna came from. She would be too happy to have the sister she'd longed for—even one acquired by law.

But in the event of his desertion, how would Anna react? He had essentially ruined her. Her chances for matrimony to a dec
ent man had radically dwindled to almost none. Their indiscretion could have taken root—not an impossibility given the circumstance. He had been careless—or more precisely—out of control. The religious cautiousness he practiced with other women had not occurred to him with Anna. His desire to possess her completely—to release his seed into her womb many times over throughout the night had given him extreme satisfaction.