Heaven Sent the Wrong One (21 page)

"M-Mister Carlyle?" Alexandra shot a dumbfounded glance at Jeremy, before sending her round-eyed gaze back to Andrew.

"You do remember Mister Carlyle, don't you, Alex?" Jeremy's voice took an exasperated tone. "You even said so in your letter."

Alexandra wanted to say something
—anything, but the words couldn't tumble out of her rapidly constricting throat. Andrew
was
Allayne Carlyle? The viscount's
heir
? The
one
her papa had been so adamant for her to meet—to the point of forcibly making her take that trip?

"Alex?" Jeremy tilted his head with an inquiring lift of an eyebrow.

At her lack of response, she heard Jeremy say, "Pardon my cousin,” to the man she knew as Andrew, but who turned out to be Mister Carlyle instead. "Good God—" he shook his head with a chuckle, "— what a pickle! I suppose neither of you remember each other."

"She's your cousin?" Mr. Carlyle, alias Andrew, exclaimed.

"Sorry, old chap. I know, I should've told you," Jeremy shrugged. "But I did not want you to think I was in cahoots with your mother about the whole Bath thing. Nevertheless—let me rectify this unforeseen awkward situation and reintroduce the both of you."

"Allow me to do the honor." The Duke of Grandstone stepped in with a somewhat meaningful glance at Jeremy.

"If you insist." Jeremy quirked a dark brow, but nodded for him to go ahead.

Grandstone took Alexandra's hand, clasping her cold gloved fingers i
n the warmth of his. He gently drew her closer to Mr. Carlyle, who up to now was intently regarding her with eyes that had darkened to almost black.

"Mister Allayne Cassius Carlyle, may I present Her Grace, The Duchess of Redfellow," Grandstone said, exten
ding Alexandra's hand towards Allayne Carlyle with a visibly encouraging expression for him to take it and bow over her fingers.

Alexandra watched Allayne Carlyle's face contort in stupefaction and prayed he would keep his composure long enough to heed Gra
ndstone's fosterage of a formal introduction.

But Allayne Carlyle was completely oblivious to propriety. "You married
—a duke?" he blurted aloud, ignoring her proffered hand still resting on the duke's fingers, suspended between them.

"Allayne." Grandstone
uttered in a stern tone.

Allayne, however, seemed to have lost all sense of decorum. "When?" he spat the word so harshly that Alexandra flinched.

"What the devil is going on?" Jeremy flickered his eyes from Allayne to Alexandra, then back to Allayne again.

"When
—goddammit!" Allayne did not even bother to unfasten his blazing eyes from Alexandra, his deep voice climbing to a degree audible enough to turn curious heads in their direction.

Jeremy cleared his throat. "Easy, old chap. Perhaps we should
—"

"Answ
er me!" Allayne roared through clenched teeth.

Alexandra recoiled from him, clutching the duke's hand for support. She never shied from confrontation, but for some reason, Andrew
—Mr. Carlyle—with his anger evident in the set of his jaw and the tension in his posture—rendered her weak, dazed, and bereft of the ability to speak.

"That's enough!" Grandstone growled in a voice laced with censure, narrowing his eyes at Allayne in warning. He placed Alexandra's trembling hand on his arm and patted it in reassuran
ce. "I apologize in behalf of my friend, Duchess." He sent another scathing glance at Allayne. "Let me escort you to a seat and procure you something to drink."

Alexandra bit her quivering lip and nodded, thankful for the chance to escape. She needed space
to collect herself—to think, digest, strategize—on how to deal with this unbelievable mess she found herself embroiled in.

Grandstone covered her hand with his on the crook of his arm and began to lead her away.

"No." Allayne's strong fingers clamped on her arm, restraining her flight.

Alexandra froze, startled at the first contact they've had in years. Even with his gloves on, the heat of his skin seared her flesh to the bone
—tingling, stirring, and awakening every dormant nerve ending. She ached for his touch—his proximity—the feel of all of him for so long—that the mere brush of his fingers sent frissons along the length of her spine, quickening her pulse, intensifying her awareness of the masculine virility that was uniquely his.

"Unhand the duchess,"
Richard said in an ominous tone.

"Now, Allayne." Jeremy demanded.

The air suddenly thickened with animosity.

Alexandra raised imploring eyes at Allayne, who was searching her face as if he was trying to find something
—or someone—and waiting for that person to come forth and acknowledge him.

"Please
—" she slipped her other hand from the duke's arm and laid it atop of his. The action was meant to indicate her displeasure and relinquish herself from his grip, but instead, a flare of recognition—an echo of an old bygone magic, sparked between them. His fingers instinctively twined with hers and a myriad of emotions replaced the austereness of his visage. The tautness in his stance subsided, his chest expanding as he inhaled a lungful of air, holding his breath for a moment before exhaling it in a heavy sigh. Then, with a surprising vulnerability that was plain for her to see, his eyes filled with something she hadn't seen—yet desperately yearned for—with every breath she took, every single day, every single hour of her life, for more than four years.

Tenderness. Love. Affection. All mingled in those beautiful eyes she adored, with an equal amount of uncertainty
—and fear.

And for the first time, since they last saw each other, since that
day he asked to marry her, since that moment they promised to love and cherish one another forever—he looked at her—the way he used to do, long ago, in Bath.

Alexandra's self-control waned. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms
—cling to him, bind her body and soul with his—and never, ever let go. Because if she lost him once more, she would not have the strength to bear it. Her heart had been so tattered from their separation, that even now, it was barely mended. She would rather die a thousand deaths than live through another heartbreak all over again.

"There you are!" A cheerful female voice disrupted the spell that blinded Alexandra from everything around her.

Allayne swiveled his head at the sound, releasing Alexandra's arm.

A beauti
ful, petite blond woman in an exquisite evening gown, her ears and throat dripping with diamonds, approached him with a wide smile.

"Oh! Pardon me
—" the woman exclaimed, her gloved fingers covering her mouth as her pale blue eyes shifted from Allayne to Alexandra. "I did not notice you had company." She beamed sunnily at Alexandra. "Hello! I'm Marion Ellery." She extended her hand towards her without waiting for anyone to make the introductions.

Alexandra gaped at her hand. What was she supposed to do with
it? "I—ah—"

"Marion." Allayne drew Marion's hand away and lowered it to her side with a pointed look.

"I believe it's my turn to make the introductions," Jeremy quickly interjected. "Miss Ellery, let me present my cousin, Her Grace, The Duchess of Redfellow."

"Oh
—goodness." Marion reddened. "I muddled it all up again, didn't I? Your Grace,—I'm so sorry—," she curtsied and grimaced sheepishly at Alexandra. "I could never get used to all the English protocols. You must think I'm silly."

"Oh, no. Please don't
apologize," Alexandra replied with empathy, noting the woman's distinct foreign accent. "Even I could not remember all the formalities."

"Thank you for understanding," Marion immediately brightened. "I'm afraid I've committed enough faux pas in one night
to embarrass Allayne. We are a lot less conventional in America.'

America
? A nagging suspicion bloomed in Alexandra's gut. Didn't Allayne just come from there? She flicked her gaze from Marion's blissful countenance to Allayne's somber expression. His eyes had become distant—unreadable. He seemed to have transformed into a stranger, withdrawn from the bond they shared not a minute earlier.

A sparkle caught her eye as Marion slid her arm around Allayne
’s arm and interlaced her fingers with his, leaning her head affectionately just below his shoulder. Alexandra followed the source—a brilliant diamond on Marion's left ring finger.

All at once
—she comprehended everything with crystal clarity.

This
—was the culmination of their love story. This—was the conclusion she had been waiting for. This—was the tragic ending to her fairy tale.

Then
—as if on cue to the curtain call—the orchestra began to play.

Acute despair knifed in her chest, reopening the old wound she presumed healed and obliterated. Her lungs emptied
of air and she felt suffocated, as if a heavy brick fell and collapsed her ribcage. The fragile heart she guarded so closely and nurtured to recovery—shattered like brittle glass into a million pieces, all over again.

With quavering knees threatening to b
uckle beneath her, she stumbled back a step, accidentally bumping into the Duke of Grandstone who was standing behind her.

"Duchess?" The duke steadied her with both hands.

Jeremy moved towards them with an anxious frown. "Alex? Is anything the matter?"

She frantically shook her head in denial, raising her hand to pacify his concern, all the while trying to blink away the tears that had sprung in her eyes. No
—she wouldn't make a scene and cry. Not in full view of the entire ton—and certainly not in front of Allayne and his fiancée.

An overwhelming urge to disappear consumed her. She
must go somewhere—anywhere—far from everything and everyone. Somewhere where she could curl up and hide; a dark, distant place where she could wither quietly away and die.

"E-excuse me," she managed to choke out, the press of moisture weighing heavily on her lids, before she plunged into the crowd, and tore across the room in a half run.

The Viscount’s Heir

F
rom the moment he saw her, the peaceful, carefree, mundane world Allayne Carlyle tried so hard to regain for the past four years—catapulted from its axis.

Good God
. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Her lustrous chestnut hair, done in a simple coiffure atop her head, showed off her long, elegant neck. Her gown, in a comely shade of red, flattered her tall, willowy figure. The tops of her breasts peeked alluringly over the wide scoop neckline and the bodice hugged the shape of her slim waist down to the gentle flare of her hips. She peered at him with those magnificent, dark, expressive eyes, a rich blush staining her cheeks. Allayne couldn't take his eyes off her. The joy that welled in his chest upon seeing her—took his breath away—riveted him on the spot—stunned him into silence.

And then, Jeremy introduced her as Lady Ale
xandra Davenport. He could only but repeat her name, and gape at her in confusion. Anna was the earl's daughter—the woman his mother had been hounding him to meet. He was still reeling from the blow when he realized Jeremy had told her who he was. And the look on her face reflected what must have been on his.

Then
—Richard corrected the introduction and presented her as the Duchess of Redfellow.

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

She married a
duke
.

And he found his elation turning into anger. Was that the reason she left him?
—Because she had a duke waiting in the sidelines the whole damn time? But then—what did he expect? He pretended to be a lowly valet and she impersonated her maid—both of them bored aristocrats looking for amusement. Nothing meaningful should have come out of their ruse and yet—the attraction, the powerful pull that bound them to its web—blindsided, fascinated, swept them—into a fantasy, a dream neither of them wanted to awaken from.

Liberated and unburdened from society's dictates
—he lost his head—unaware that all the while, she knew when to draw the line, when to stop the charade, when to revert to reality as if nothing happened between them. Unlike him—who believed everything she said, fell for her meaningless words—her acts of affection.

All of it
—goddamn
lies
.

He was such a fool
—such a stupid jackass, for failing to realize she simply picked him as her shiny new bauble—to entertain herself for the moment. And, while he pined for her, punished himself for losing her, exiled himself from his beloved family and friends, she'd bounced right back to where she left off in her privileged life—and married her fucking duke.

The confirmation that she favored someone else
—better, richer—a far cry from the servant she presumed him to be, struck him with immense disappointment. She was no different from the rest—who measured his worth in terms of gold. Who vied for a man based on his title and properties, not on the merits of his character—and certainly, never on the foundation of love. Allayne never felt so unmanned, so insulted—grievously offended to the extent that he actually wanted to shoot someone, kill someone—namely,
her
. He wanted to hurt her—the same way she hurt him now.

And then
—he made one crucial mistake.

He touched her.

Allayne had been confident that he was formidable enough, indomitable enough—from succumbing to any more of that ridiculous, sentimental rubbish, that hopelessly amorous poets called love. His heart, hardened by cynicism and disillusionment over the years, had become aloof—wary of personal entanglements. He was now more careful, more logical than emotional, more objective in his choice of relationship, which he plainly viewed as a responsibility to his family; a suitable arrangement to expound important connections; a convenience to beget an heir. Never again would he allow himself to lose control and fall head-first. To need, to love, to give his all and trust another woman—the way he mindlessly had in Bath.

But with just one touch, Anna
—Alexandra—or whoever the fuck she was—tore the walls he'd erected around himself, charging his guard, breaching his defenses—exposing his vulnerability to the one thing he kept hidden—the one woman he disavowed ever gracing his life at some point in time in the past. Seeing her again—resurrected every unspoken question, every single emotion, every miniscule glimmer of hope he tried to suppress over the years. Touching her again—knowing she was here, she was real—made his heart soar—beat again—come to life—emerge from the grave.

Allayne's resoluteness cracked. No. This could not be happening. Not after all the pain and heartache. Not after
he finally dug himself out of his deathly existence and rejoined the land of the living. Not after he restored the balance of his neat, well-organized world. Not after all these years—all this time he'd spent picking up the pieces of his broken heart—which he could never attest—had truly mended.

No
—he could not go through that again.

And then
—she reciprocated his mistake.

And touched him.

And that was all it took to push him to surrender.

Every cell in his body honed in on her
—in awareness—recognition
—that she was the missing piece of the puzzle, the essential component of his completion—his woman—his other half. The simple feel of her hand on his, made his blood boil and his body react in ways that could put any decent man to shame. Recollections—of the softness of her body against his, of the weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of every inch of her skin, the slick, tight, heat of her sheath pulsing around him—filled him with mind-numbing need.

Good God
—but he'd never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her. She was his addiction—the opium in his veins, the obsession, and the object of his lust. He could never get enough of her, could never tire of making love to her, could never satiate his desire for the sultry oasis between her long, exquisite legs wrapped around his hips as he entered her repeatedly—harder and faster until both of them screamed in ecstasy.

A woman's voice reached his ears.

Marion
.

Within that short period of shock from seeing Alexandra again, touching her on
ce more—he had forgotten he was engaged. It took him three years to even notice Marion existed, and another year to convince himself to appreciate what she had to offer. Given her wealth, beauty, and agreeable nature, Marion complemented his status. It was plain to see that she was his ideal match. His decision to marry her had been easy, predictable—the practical choice. But not once in his lifetime did the possibility of seeing Alexandra again cross his mind. He thought he'd lost her—that their saga had ended in Bath. That the moments they shared could no longer affect him—so long as he kept them under lock and key—never to be unearthed, buried, and forsaken in the confines of his heart.

But now, standing here, face to face in the middle of a crowded ballr
oom, suddenly—everything fell into perspective.

The mere nearness of her made him lose his footing, his sanity
—his inclination to spend his life with another. Marion may have distracted him overtime, extended a hand, and rescued him from the darkness, encouraged him to move on and take a different path, but Alexandra made him see beyond today, made him want to rediscover his true destiny, stirred his soul to want to live—kindled his severely wounded heart—to love again.

Much as he tried to erase her face,
her scent, every morsel of her memory from his mind, deep in the very core of his soul—he knew. No matter how much he tried, no matter how long the passage of time—the gloomy days, the endless, lonely nights, the many changes in his life—one thing couldn't be denied.

He had never stopped loving her.

He loved her then. He loved her still.

Even more so
—than before.

The simple truth knocked the wind from his lungs
—brought back the uncertainty, the fear—of how much her love truly mattered to him.

He steeled hi
mself from the impact of that realization. Even as Marion unabashedly twined her fingers with his, openly showing her affection, his attention had shifted and focused solely on Alexandra.

He watched her recoil
—stagger. And for a fleeting moment, he saw in her eyes the very same emotions battling within him, before she turned around—and fled.

Against everything he knew was right, against what other people might think
—his family, his friends, Marion—his honor be damned—he muttered his excuses—and went after her.

For nothing in this world could make him let her run away
—not even the devil himself—and let her leave him without a word of explanation—again.