Heaven Sent the Wrong One (13 page)

It had felt right.

Good God. What had he done? What twisted psychosis had addled his brains to make him leave her? Had he fallen so deeply into the fires of hell that he'd been divested of his conscience? What kind of man was he to abandon the woman he loved—to whom he'd pledged his name and protection—after taking her innocence?

He abruptly
pushed open the hatch on the roof and shouted to his driver, "how far are we to the next village?"

"It's just round the bend, Sir," his driver yelled over the din of horse hooves hitting the dirt, half turning his head without taking his eyes off the grave
lly road.

"Locate a stable where I can lease a mount. I need to go back to Penthorpe Manor. Take the footman with you and find a place to eat and rest while I'm gone. I shouldn't be long." Allayne mentally calculated the time it would take him to return to
the manor. They had not covered much distance in their thirty-five minutes of travel via carriage. By horseback, he should make it there in a quarter hour—twenty-five minutes behind their scheduled rendezvous.

"Yes, sir," the driver replied with a nod, as
the village lamps shone in the path ahead and a hostelry with a stable came into view.

Five minutes later, Allayne rode his rented gelding in a swift gallop out of the village, heading back to where they'd come from.

Accepting Fate

A
lexandra grimaced as she pushed her mare to a faster gallop on the road. The tenderness in her breasts intensified with every jolt, and her bottom was sore. In fact—everything down there ached like the very devil after their rigorous lovemaking the night before.

Her cheeks flamed at the memory. Andrew was an incredibly virile man with an insatiable lust. He was an excellent lover, conquering her body like an explorer in search of undiscovered treasures. The things he did to her
—Dear God! A pool of warmth stirred in her belly. She'd never thought a man could make love with such uninhibited passion—entering her in many different ways; showing her the pleasure that could be derived from each erotic position—every titillating touch; driving her repeatedly to such climactic heights until she was wanton and boneless in his arms.

"La petite mort," he whispered afterwards in that deep, sensual bass voice that never failed to make her knees weak, "the little death one experiences during sexual o
rgasm."

And she did die
—several times—only to be resuscitated once again by the persistent ravishment of his luscious mouth, sinfully carnal tongue, and impertinent fingers.

Alexandra shivered not with the damp cold of the early morning, but with the sudde
n heat of desire that spiraled through her veins and scorched her nerve endings. Her anxiety to reach the manor on time built. She bit her lip at the stab of pain with every pounding of the horse's hooves on the ground. She would endure the agony for Andrew. For at last—she knew. No other man could take his place as her lover and friend—nor possess her heart so thoroughly—that she would cease to exist without him.

~

Allayne rode his mount down the drive of Penthorpe Manor a little before five in the mornin
g. The grooms were already up and about, helping the coachmen prepare the horses and carriages for the departure of the guests. He galloped past the bewildered young lad who hailed him to take his horse to the stables, riding his mount directly instead across the vast gardens, in the direction of the gazebo by the pond.

The faint light of the fading moon just as the blackness of the early hour turned into gray provided some illumination to the path where the archway of roses leading to the structure stood.
He dismounted and tied the gelding loosely to a nearby tree along the bank, where it could graze and drink water from the pond.

"Anna!" he called out, as he hurried towards the gazebo partially hidden from view by the lush willow trees.

His expected answer did not come forth.

"Anna?" He craned his neck in the semi-darkness as he reached the side of the gazebo, taking the short flight of steps two at a time.

Silence greeted him.

Allayne's heart sank. Had she thought he wasn't coming and ha
d decided to leave?

He moved closer to the settee and chairs grouped together in the middle. No sign of occupancy dented the seat cushions. The matching pillows were perfectly arranged. Perhaps Anna was running late.

Allayne sat on the settee and stretched his long legs. What time was it anyways? He pulled his fob watch from his pocket. Five minutes after five in the morning. Yes—she was probably delayed. Poor darling. He shouldn't have ravished her so exhaustively last night. She was probably chafed and too frazzled to get out of bed early.

He rubbed his hands on his face and plunged his fingers through his disheveled windblown hair. He could use some coffee and toast just about now to revive his sluggishness. Lack of sleep never agreed with him. It fogged
his mind and made him crabby. He propped a pillow behind his shoulders and rested his head, feeling his lids grow heavier by the minute.

The sound of voices and garden shears penetrated his stupor. He opened his eyes to find that daybreak had broken the gl
oom, bathing the gardens in the twilight gray glow of dawn. The countess' gardeners had already begun their tasks for the day, pruning the roses and bushes around the gazebo.

Allayne abruptly stood up, cursing as he snatched his fob watch from his jacket p
ocket. Five and thirty! Where the hell was she? He debated with himself if he should keep waiting in the gazebo or look for her in the house.

He favored the latter.

Locating his mount, he rode towards the back entrance of the house. But as he passed the stables, he noticed that most of the carriages had been saddled with horses and were now parked alongside the manor. He reined his gelding to a slow trot. If Andy left with the earl's daughter straight from the theater early yesterday afternoon, then the Weston carriage would still be here because the countess' servants had ridden it to and from the fair last night. And if indeed he found it here, then Anna could not have gone anywhere without it.

He swept his gaze at the long line of gleaming coaches. None o
f them bore the distinctive red and gold Weston crest. He turned his mount back to the stables. It was empty save for the countess' flamboyant white carriage and white horses.

Allayne flagged the groom working in one of the stalls. "The Weston coach," he a
sked with urgency, "where is it?"

"Weston ... Weston ... aye
—I remember," the groom replied after a brief contemplation, "it ain't 'ere no more."

Allayne flinched with a sudden flash of panic. "What do you mean it's not here? Who took it?"

"Aye, me tells ye the truth—some dark-haired gel—damn tall as a lamp post—came 'ere an' made a ruckus wakin' up the Weston coachman and footman. All o' them left like the devil 'imself were at them 'eels."

"What time did they leave?" Allayne asked in disbelief.

"I dinna knows—me was too sleepy to care," the groom scratched his eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder at the young lad rubbing down one of the horses whom Allayne recognized as the same boy who had hailed him earlier.

"A'ey, Tommy!" The groom beckoned to the lad wh
o immediately stopped his chore and hurried over. "The man 'ere was askin' 'bout the Weston rig—d'ya 'ave an idea wot time it left?"

"Aye, I know 'im. Work fer Mister Carlyle, 'e does." Tommy nodded. "T'was 'is gel
—the tall an' pretty maid ye saw, who took it. Woke me wit' them noise saddlin' four big grays 'round past two in the mornin'." Tommy shook his head with an irritated sigh. "Yer gel had them coachman an' footman load a mountain o' luggage. Kept me up all night—they did, 'till they fin'lly left at three in the morn."

Allayne felt the burn of anger in his throat. Here he was, waiting for Anna, and the wench had sneaked off, most likely to Weston Court in Oxfordshire, where she said her employer resided
—if his memory served him right.

He tossed a coup
le of half-crowns to the lad and groom on his way out of the stables, wondering what had possessed Anna to go. She had a lot to lose—why would she leave without a note or saying goodbye? Whatever her reasons were, they must be substantial enough to compel her to flee.

A bad feeling stemmed in his gut. He'd known her only for a fortnight
—hardly enough time to be truly cognizant of her situation in life. She was hiding something, he was certain of it.

Good God. Perhaps she was already betrothed to someone els
e—and he had taken her virginity! Or perhaps... a sharp sting of disappointment lanced in his chest—perhaps she didn't really care for him like she'd said. If she had the predetermination to pack up and leave hours before they were set to meet, then she must be steadfast in her decision to leave him. He was, after all, a mere valet. A man with dim prospects.

She did not want to be with him
—it was as simple as that.

Allayne gritted his teeth at the sudden onset of pain in his chest caused by her rejection. H
e urged his horse to a fast gallop out of the Penthorpe estate, letting the cold morning air bite into his skin to deaden the increasing ache in his heart.

Perhaps, this was the way it should be. Except for the intense attraction they had for each other, e
verything had been wrong from the start. He had embarked on this journey with deception in mind, concealing his true identity and dallying with a maidservant to amuse himself for a fortnight—nothing more. The whole affair had gotten out of hand. He shouldn't have proposed to her on a whim; he shouldn't have been intimate with her in the first place. What he should have done was ended it between them—just as he had planned—instead of troubling himself with all the repercussions of a future with her.

Yes
—it must have been meant to be this way. She not knowing his true identity worked out for the better. He should be thankful that Anna had given him a way out of his predicament. Now, he could resume his carefree life as it had been.

The thought should have
given him some degree of relief, but instead, a great sadness washed over him. Somehow, the rest of his devil-may-care life had lost its appeal. He could clearly see its shallowness and lack of purpose; its ostentatiousness, routine idleness and frivolous amusements. The absence of the true essence of a man's existence: a home and family of his own, a gaggle of children, a son who would be his heir someday—a wife whom he loved and was equally devoted to him.

Anna.

Allayne shook his head to rid himself of the image of her face. No. Not Anna. Anna was gone—together with all the complications she could bring if he married her. Everything between them was done and over with.

The village loomed into view. He reined his horse to a canter as he spotted his carriage
in front of the hostelry where he had left his servants earlier.

A feeling of dread to see his mother and answer her questions gripped him as the stable boy approached and held the horse's bridle while he dismounted from his rented gelding. The last thing
he wanted, was to talk about what had happened in Bath. He needed some space. To think, to grieve, to restore himself—to
forget
.

Allayne went inside the hostelry and requested writing implements from the innkeeper.

"Take the carriage back to Rose Hill and give this note to Morton, our butler," he said to his footman who came with the coachman to greet him, as he sealed the vellum with wax and embossed it with his signet ring. "Inform my mother that I have gone on to stay at the townhouse in London. I shall see them there when they come up for the season in a few days." He took some coins from his purse and handed them to the coachman. "Lease a fresh mount for me and use the rest for your food and accommodations on your way to Cornwall."

"Right away, sir," t
he coachman took the money and went out the door to the stables.

Allayne dismissed his footman and ordered some repast from the innkeeper. If he ate quickly and left within a quarter hour, he should make it halfway to London before he had to stop somewhere
to have the horse fed, watered, and rested.

He pulled out his fob watch as the innkeeper's wife served his breakfast. Six o' clock in the morning.

He should be in London by nightfall.

~

Alexandra dismounted in front of the rose archway leading the path t
o the gazebo, without waiting for her footman, Thomas, to help her.

"Andrew!" She called out, brushing away the long willow leaves that dipped low in her face as she rushed towards the structure.

The morning sun had risen high in the clouds, casting gentle rays that twinkled against the rippling water in the pond. They had ridden into Penthorpe manor just as she had predicted—at exactly six o' clock in the morning.

"Andrew?" Alexandra burst into the airy deck of the gazebo, her excitement plummeting as she
realized that the place was empty.

Her gaze alighted on the dented seat cushion and tumbled pillows on the settee. Someone had certainly been here. She moved towards the long chair and placed her hand on the crease in the seat cushion. It no longer held
the warmth of whoever sat there, but the lingering dent on the cushion told her that the person had stayed for some time.

She noticed the sprinkling of dirt on the coffee table. It had been pushed away from the sofa far enough for her to know that whoever ha
d sat there had long legs and had propped his boots up on the table.

Andrew.
Alexandra's heart thumped in her chest. He had been here—waiting for her. How long did he stay? How many minutes had passed before he had decided to leave?

A crunch on the gravele
d path made her swivel and run towards the railing. But it was only Thomas, her footman, leading the horses down to the pond.

Alexandra couldn't settle on what to do. She could run quickly into the house and look for him, but he might come back to the gaze
bo and they would miss each other altogether. Perhaps she should stay here for a few minutes. Andrew would not leave without her. By now, he should have discovered that his master had eloped with her lady's maid. She had no idea what hour during the night the two had left while they were with the servants at the fair, but she was quite certain that the viscount's son would have brought his carriage with him and Andrew would not have any means of transport. He would assume that she would likewise not have the means too, since her mistress would have surely taken her coach with her even if she was riding with the viscount's son.