Heaven Sent the Wrong One (14 page)

No. Andrew would never leave without her. He knew she was alone and laden with luggage. She needed his help. He would wait for her.

Alexandra eyed the settee. She was bone tired and her body ached all over from the long ride. It would be nice if she could lie down for a minute to ease the stiffness in her joints and relieve the throbbing pressure in her groin. She slid into the blissful softness of the cushions.

The gentle warmth caressing her face woke Alexandra. She had been dreaming of Andrew. He had come to the gazebo and found her sleeping on the settee. He had kissed her lids and trailed his lips along her cheeks down to the corner
of her mouth. She reached for him—but he was not there.

Alexandra sat up with a wince. It felt like forever since she'd closed her eyes. She looked around the sun-brightened gazebo. What time was it? She searched
for her pocket watch inside the reticule secured to her waist. Her eyes widened as she stared at the timepiece. A quarter hour before seven in the morning!

She went to the railing and hailed the footman, who was lounging under the shade of a willow tree, watching the horses graze.

"Are you ready to leave, my lady?" Thomas asked as he approached with their horses in tow.

"No, not yet. I need you to go to the house and look for Mister Carlyle's valet," Alexandra said, not wanting to leave the gazebo just in case Andrew ventured out to
their meeting place to check on her again. "His name is Andrew."

"Ah yes, my lady
—the tall, blond, handsome chap all the maids are chasin' about—I know him," Thomas said with a grin.

"Yes, that's the one." Alexandra nodded. "Tell him that Anna is waiting
in the gazebo for him."

"Anna? Your maid, my lady?" Thomas raised his eyebrows in befuddlement. "But you just told me and Harry the coachman this morning that she ran off with the viscount's son."

"Just do what I tell you to do," Alexandra said in a firm tone, encouraging no further arguments. "Hurry!"

"Yes, my lady." Thomas tied the horses to a tree and took off running in the direction of the house.

The footman returned twenty-five minutes later, sweaty, and panting with exertion.

"Did you find him?" Alex
andra ran down the short stairs to meet him on the path.

"No, my lady." Thomas paused to catch his breath, before adding, "I searched the entire house and asked the servants, but no one's seen him." He paused again to catch another breath. "I went to the s
tables and asked the grooms if they saw him and some lad—Tommy—that's his name—said he'd left an hour or so ago."

Alexandra's heart dropped to her knees.

He left. He did not wait for her. She wanted to think that he'd given up, but she could not bring herself to. Giving up easily did not fit his personality. If he left an hour ago or so ago, then he departed on or before six in the morning—just as they were arriving. That meant he'd waited an hour and a half for her. A substantial amount of time enough to cause worry and disappointment. Still—he must have gone looking for her afterwards, if the lad saw him at the stables.

"D-did Tommy know where he was going?" Alexandra felt the hope rising in her again.

"No, my lady," Thomas replied as he wiped the sweat off his brow. "But he did say he was askin' for the whereabouts of the Weston coach and looked mighty furious when he learned we'd left at three in the morning."

A mixture of urgency and alarm assailed her. Dear God
—Andrew had discovered that she'd deserted him! She could not allow him to believe that—not when she'd come back to marry him. And if society tipped its snooty nose in the air and snubbed them, she didn't give a damn—they could all go to hell and roast their poisonous tongues!

"We must go back to t
he inn and get the carriage," Alexandra said, regretting the fact that the chore would set them off by another three hours. "We are going to Cornwall."

"Cornwall is over a hundred miles away, my lady!" Thomas exclaimed in bewilderment. "It will take us thr
ee days or more to get there."

"Not if we travel fifteen hours a day with a constant change of horses," Alexandra said with a tenaciousness she'd never felt before. If they traveled at that rate with all the meal stops and a few hours of rest, they could m
ake it to Cornwall within two days at most. It should not be difficult to find the Viscount's estate when they got there.

Alexandra formulated her plan as they rode back to the inn where they'd left the carriage. She would have to make up some excuse and s
end a note to her father explaining her delay. Then, they would begin their journey to Cornwall. If the coachman begged too fatigued, Thomas could take over the reins and if needed, she would likewise take her turn. They would probably need three changes of horses, aside from meals and accommodations for two nights. It would be costly, but Alexandra did not care—she had enough blunt to finance their travel. She needed to get to Andrew as soon as possible—and if it meant spending the money she had in her reticule to the very last shilling, then so be it.

~

Allayne stumbled into his bedchamber at the Carlyle townhouse in Grosvenor Square, London. Dirty, hungry, bone-tired and in a black mood, he'd snapped at the housekeeper to bring him a hot bath and supper. When the footmen and maids arrived to deliver his orders, asking if he needed anything else, he'd practically snarled at them to be done with it and leave. They'd all scurried like mice out the door, tripping on each other as they went—no doubt shocked that their usually jovial master had a secret beast of a temper.

He just wanted to be left alone, Goddamnit! Some peace and quiet
—that was all he needed to catch up on sleep and clear his head. He ate quickly, then, tore off his dusty clothes, sinking into the blissful comfort of the soothing fragrant water in the tub.

Only a minute of solitude had passed before he began to fantasize about Anna. She was crouching over him, impaling her wet, slick heat on his cock. Her luscious breasts bounced before his eyes w
ith every silken glide of her hips, her taut nipples brushing against his lips, teasing him to take each distended, ripened bud in his mouth.

Christ! Allayne shifted abruptly in the tub, causing a wave of water to splash over the edge and spill onto the fl
oor. Just what the fuck was he thinking? He groaned at the sight of his massive erection jutting out of the water's surface. Anna was like a plague that had infected his blood. He could not get her out of his system. Her scent, her body, her tight virginal sheath had become permanently ingrained in his memory, torturing him with the taste of what he had taken—but would never have again.

He angrily grabbed the soap and scrubbed himself until he was certain he'd gotten rid of the feel of Anna from his skin. T
hen, he brushed his teeth until his gums bled and washed his mouth with Mint Wine Rinse to flush away the sweetness of Anna's kisses that had been driving him mad since he'd ridden out of Bath.

God, but he missed her! he furiously admitted to himself. He'd
gotten used to seeing her every day and spending lazy afternoons with her—talking, touching and kissing in the little haven they'd made for themselves in the gazebo. The knowledge that those days were over, made him sigh heavily with regret. But, he knew he shouldn't give in to this melancholia. Her early departure had made it clear she wasn't interested in spending the rest of her life with him. Well—if that was the case—then neither was he.

Allayne climbed into bed. Sleep. He needed lots of it. It would
make him feel so much better—saner—in the morning.

Two hours of tossing and turning later, with nothing but images of Anna filling his head and invading his much needed rest, Allayne tossed the covers off with a curse. Brandy
—not sleep, was what he needed. He quickly dressed and made his way down to the library.

As he poured his fourth drink of the potent amber liquid, his senses began to mellow. "Cheers." He raised his glass at the dark, empty room, before swallowing the liquo
r in a single gulp. Another measure followed after another, until he had consumed every last drop in the crystal decanter.

He took out a fresh bottle from the liquor cabinet, uncorked it, and drank it straight from the bottle. His vision wavered. The portr
aits hanging on the wall danced and chortled.

Well, hell
—he blinked—he definitely felt a lot better. He took another long, hearty gulp. What do you know, he smiled to himself, watching the furniture waltz around the room,—it seems he'd found a new mistress.

Brandy
—he brought the bottle back to his lips—what a beautiful name.

~

Two days of grueling travel later, Alexandra and her downtrodden coachman and footman arrived at the Golden Goose Inn in Cornwall. The hour was too late to make calls so Alexandra decided to order supper and take rooms for the night for herself and her servants, who must be famished and weary from the long drive. She sighed in relief as she settled in the steaming bath she had ordered after supper. They would depart at mid-morning for the nine-mile trip to Rose Hill, the viscount's estate, following the directions that the innkeeper had supplied.

At exactly eleven thirty in the morning, the Weston carriage bowled down the long drive of Rose Hill Manor. Alexandra peered out the window
to admire the sprawling green pastures dotted with sheep, and the lively, colorful gardens as the manor came into view.

The house itself was grander than she had originally thought. Everything about the property showed signs of prosperity
—from the well-maintained facade to the manicured lawns. A quaint cobblestone walkway bordered by a profusion of blooms led up to the entrance.

She immediately liked the place. It might be stately in size and appearance, but it also exuded a homely feel th
at she found quite charming.

As the manor loomed nearer, Alexandra had a sudden fit of panic. She could not simply knock on the door and ask to see Mr. Carlyle's valet. She was not Anna, the lady's maid, any longer. As the unmarried Lady Alexandra Davenport, it would be
highly irregular to come without a chaperone and visit the home of a bachelor—even if Mr. Carlyle wasn't the person in her agenda—which made matters worse—because an earl's daughter didn't do things like seek out the master's valet.

The carriage came to a
halt in front of the main entry. Alexandra peeked out the window before Thomas could open the door, beckoning him to come closer.

"Is something the matter, my lady?" He asked as he approached.

"No—everything is fine, but I want you to knock on the door and ask the butler for Andrew," Alexandra said urgently. She must think fast before one of the Rose Hill staff decided to come out and inquire about their business. "Tell the butler that you're Andrew's cousin—yes, that's right—you delivered your employer to a house party nearby and thought of visiting your cousin whom you haven't seen for a long time. Yes—that should do it."

Thomas the footman looked unconvinced. "B-but
—which cousin am I supposed to be, my lady?"

"Oh
—just make up something!" Alexandra waved her hand impatiently. "And don't tell the butler that I'm with you. Make him believe that it's just you and the coachman, stopping for a few minutes on your way back. Ask Andrew to come out with you once you are alone with him."

Thomas scratched his head, s
till looking a bit doubtful, but nodded his assent to her preposterous scheme nonetheless.

Alexandra observed through a slit in the curtains as he walked up to the entrance and rapped the brass knocker on the door.

An older gentleman in formal attire, which she presumed to be the butler opened the door. They spoke for not more than two minutes and then the butler inclined his head in dismissal before closing the door again.

Alexandra watched in apprehension as Thomas made his way back to the carriage with a
n unreadable expression on his face.

"What is it?" She asked as he leaned towards the small opening on the window.

"My lady—the butler said, Andy—that's what he called him—no longer works for Mister Carlyle."

"What?" Alexandra almost knocked her forehead o
n the glass windowpane in her astonishment. "B-but how could that be? There must be a mistake!"

"I don't think so, my lady," Thomas replied grimly. "Mister Morton
—the butler—said that Mister Carlyle sent a note that just arrived late yesterday, informing Mister Gordon to hire a new valet for him. Apparently, Andy—or Andrew, has gotten married and won't be coming back to Rose Hill."

Alexandra stared at Thomas, unable to grasp what she'd just heard. It didn't make any sense! The stable boy at Penthorpe Manor
said he'd left an hour or so before Thomas came looking for him. He couldn't have gotten married that fast—nor could Mr. Carlyle have known of his nuptial plans that soon, when he himself was on his way to Gretna Green.

But then... Alexandra's heart constr
icted in her chest. What if Andrew really hadn't been waiting—to elope with her? What if he was waiting for her—to say goodbye instead?