Cavendish Brothers 01 - An Unintended Journey Page 3

  Had the Christmas spirit invaded Tristan and taken over his senses momentarily? Praise be to Saint Nicholas, if that were the case. No matter what had caused it, Wesley knew better than to press his luck. “Thank you, brother.” He inclined his head and turned to leave.

  “Wesley?” Tristan’s voice barely carried through the hallowed corridors of Blacknall to reach his ears.

  He turned, a question he dared not ask hovering on his lips. His hand still lingered just over the door handle.

  “If you pursue a woman—any woman—of unsuitable rank for any reason, I’ll be certain you’re never welcomed into polite society again. Not here, not on the Continent, not even in the cursed Americas. If I’m to agree to your wishes, you must agree to mine.”

  Wesley waited for long moments for his brother to continue. At long last, he raised a brow. “And those would be?”

  “You’re to marry a lady from a Tory family. I’ll condescend myself to select the blessed lady for you. Perhaps one of Silverton’s brats would suffice. I’ll send him a missive in the morning and see what we can work out between us.”

  “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.” How in blazes was he supposed to be accepted back into society, to attain a position within the Whig ranks, if he were so firmly attached to staunch Tory supporters on every side? And even the eldest of Silverton’s daughters couldn’t be older than thirteen or fourteen, at the most. What would he want with a child for a bride? He wanted Abby.

  “Not joking in the slightest. I trust you’ll concede to my wishes.” With a malevolent half-smile, Tristan gestured towards the waiting doors. “I expect to see you in the morning so we can discuss this further. Good evening to you.”

  Wesley nearly ripped the door from its hinges in his furious haste to leave the bloody wretch’s presence. His Hessians pounded against the flagstones as he tramped across Blacknall’s damned grounds. Only after he was halfway to the mews did he remember he’d left his beaver hat and gloves on the blasted hall table. He’d be damned if he’d return for them now.

  What good would having his name restored do if he couldn’t pursue his dreams? Worse yet, what good would anything do if he couldn’t have Abby?

  3

  As he raced around the corner of Henley Green on his way to the stables, already late for the repugnant appointment with his brother, Wesley pulled himself up short and nearly tripped over his own two feet. The Goddards stood as a huddled mass, dressed in black on this already black day, just in front of the stables. One of Pritchard’s carriages was being readied behind them, and a series of footmen transported trunks to load it with.

  He did a quick count. The family was all present. All but Abby’s grandmother, that was, but she worked on the other side of town. Still, who else would they mourn?

  There was nothing for it. He would have to pass them all in order to reach his mount, as distasteful as the idea of disturbing their family moment might be. Adopting a more sedate pace, Wesley headed across the lawn.

  When he was within a few paces of the Goddard family, Thomas Goddard inclined his head. “Off to Blacknall Manor this morning, are you, Mr. Cavendish?” His voice hitched slightly, but Wesley would never comment on such a thing. He’d been the one with the hitch in his voice for too long.

  Abby was studiously avoiding his eyes, staring down her long nose with the slight bump in the middle at her delicate, utterly impractical black slippers. They grew muddier by the moment in the remnants from the morning’s rainfall. Wesley tamped down the urge to defy the whole damned world and wrap her in his arms, though he did so with great difficulty.

  He did his best to smile, but feared it came out more like a grim, twisted scowl, particularly when it pulled on his scar. “Yes, my brother has been so kind as to request my presence for an interview of sorts.”

  The elder brother, Robert, cleared his throat. “We ought to wish you well, then. I doubt you’ll return to Henley Green before we must be off for Yorkshire.”

  Wesley’s eyes shot back to Abby, though she would not meet his gaze. A fresh wave of tears formed in her eyes, shimmering in the overcast light of morning. Yorkshire? Perhaps the mourning was not for her grandmother. But then, for whom? And how could he let her ride out of his life in Pritchard’s carriage so soon after he’d returned?

  Recovering belatedly from his shock, he turned to the brothers. “I didn’t realize you would be traveling this Christmas.”

  “Nor did we,” Mr. Goddard said. “My mother passed away, and she revealed the identity of my father finally. We are off to Danby Castle to meet him.”

  Danby Castle? Wesley did his best to keep his jaw in its proper position as myriad thoughts swirled through his mind. His pulse thundered through his veins with…what? Anticipation? Or, dare he say, hope? “I had no idea you were in some way related to His Grace.” Instantly, he felt like an uncouth dullard for saying such a thing.

  The kindly butler merely smiled at him with the barest hint of a chuckle. The small upturn of his lips tugged at the matching bump on his nose. “Nor did I, Mr. Cavendish. Yet I’m hopeful the duke will take the news of his newfound grandchildren benevolently.”

  Grandchildren. Abby was the duke’s granddaughter. His granddaughter through a bastard, true, but surely a connection such as that would be enough to appease Tristan, wouldn’t it? Danby could hardly be a more ardent Tory. For once in Wesley’s misbegotten life, it looked as though fortune might finally smile upon him.

  It was about damned time.

  “I am so sorry to hear of your loss,” he finally managed to stammer. “And you travel for Yorkshire today?”

  “As soon as the carriage is prepared, sir.” Goddard glanced over his shoulder at the progress. “I’m afraid we cannot say when we’ll return.”

  “Will you remain at Blacknall long, Mr. Cavendish?” Abby blurted out, then flushed a most becoming shade almost instantaneously.

  He’d seen that pink on her before, when he’d catch her eyeing him while she went about her work many years ago. When he’d kissed her the very first time, both of them overcome by lustful thoughts and the boldness of youth. When Daniel Pritchard had come upon them kissing rabidly in the middle of Lord Pritchard’s maze, their hands in places they oughtn’t to be and their clothing not quite in position as it should have been. If he didn’t guard against the direction of his thoughts, they’d head in a most inappropriate direction, and he’d harden until he was unfit to be in anyone’s presence.

  He balled his hands into fists again, then realized what he was doing and released them. Finally, her eyes met his, though he couldn’t decide if they were filled with fear or hope.

  Please God, let it be hope.

  “Abby!” Mrs. Goddard admonished. “I must apologize, sir. It seems my daughter has forgotten her place.”

  Wesley never took his eyes from Abby as he spoke to her mother. “There’s nothing to apologize for, madam. Alas, I cannot say how long I shall remain.”

  The bit of hope in Abby’s eyes fled from her alongside twin streams of tears, and she deflated before him like a ruined soufflé. He wanted to say something—anything—to reassure her, but what could he possibly tell her? Now was not the time for false promises. He needed to be sure, entirely certain, before he allowed her to yet again hope for a future with him. His own infinitesimal shred of hope was enough to destroy a lesser man, should it not be realized.

  Before the silence amongst the group turned uncomfortable, a groom came up to Mr. Goddard and nodded to them all. “Your belongings are all aboard, sir, and the horses have been prepared. You may begin your journey as soon as you’re ready.” The groom’s gaze lingered on Abby longer than Wesley liked.

  Thomas lifted a brow and cocked a smile. “Have you readied Mr. Cavendish’s mount as well, Bradford? He’s off to Blacknall.”

  “Lackey is finishing up with it as we speak.” Then he inclined his head again briefly and backed away. “If you don’t need anything else?” he asked.


  “That will be all, son.” Goddard took his wife’s hand and guided her towards the carriage and waiting horses as the groom disappeared into the stables. “We should be off,” he called out over his shoulder to his grown children. “I hope you have a productive interview with Lord Fordingham, Mr. Cavendish.” There seemed to be an underlying message in his words, but Wesley refused to dwell on that overlong.

  Thomas Goddard followed his parents, and Robert took Abby’s arm, gently prodding her along. She took a few steps and then stopped, twisting to look back at Wesley.

  His heart leapt to his throat at the anguish in her expression. His leaden feet remained firmly rooted in place. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to kiss away her tears and hold her until they stopped. He wanted so many things that might never be. Wesley fought the urge to ball his hands into fists again. That wasn’t what she needed to see.

  “Mr.—Mr. Cavendish,” she stammered, after long moments had passed. The space between them felt like a vast breadth, like a crater, far too immense for his tastes. “Will it be another three years before we might see you again?”

  Wesley didn’t trust his voice, but he had to answer, had to respond in some manner. “Do you want it to be so long?” he finally asked, dreading her answer.

  Her expression was indiscernible. Abby stared at him, and then stared some more, until he thought he might go mad with needing her to voice a reply, any reply. Wesley looked to Robert for some guidance as to what he should do, but the brother’s mien was set in stone, unmovable and imperturbable.

  At length, her countenance softened slightly. “Would that it could be much sooner, sir.”

  A great breath filled his lungs, burning as he inhaled from the severe lack of air. “As you wish,” Wesley said.

  And then he silently said the most fervent prayer of his life. He prayed that he could keep his word.

  *

  Abby sat with her forehead pressed against the already dusty window of Lord Pritchard’s carriage. She wiped another tear from her check and stole a glance at Mother, who was fully engrossed in her stitchery on the padded seat across from her. Thank goodness Father and her brothers had chosen to ride on horseback instead of sitting in the carriage with them. She’d never be able to keep her crying hidden if they were all crowding her on the benches.

  Botheration, she hated crying, but her life had been flipped on its head and shaken for good measure in the last day, and the tears just wouldn’t seem to stop no matter what she did. She’d think they were all dried up, that she couldn’t possibly have another tear in her body, and then the wheel would hit a rut or a raven would fly into her view overhead or an image of Wesley Cavendish’s clenching hands would skitter across her mind, and a fresh bout would leave her eyes.

  It was downright maddening.

  As was the thought that her family could just intrude on the Duke of Danby’s castle at Christmas and he’d welcome them with open arms. Good God in Heaven, her father was a bastard. Yes, it was an ugly word. It was an even uglier thing to be in the modern world. Yet that wouldn’t be changed simply because the duke knew of his existence. And she, Abby, would still be a bastard’s daughter, no better than the bastard himself.

  This was a pointless journey, and it couldn’t come at a worse moment.

  Abby wished to be home at Henley Green, mourning Grandmama in peace while she had duties to occupy her mind. She wished they could have stayed long enough to put a holly wreath over Grandmama’s grave. She wished she knew for certain Wesley Cavendish would still be in Macclesfield upon her return, and she wished she hadn’t had to leave him in the first place when he’d only just come back into her life.

  But wishes and dreams were like fishes in streams. Or so Grandmama had always told her when she’d cry over something she couldn’t have.

  Dashing away another tear, Abby opened to her reticule and took out some sewing. One of her aprons had torn last week, and she’d yet to repair the damage. Well, she would have more than enough time to do that sewing and then some while they traveled to Yorkshire on this fool’s journey.

  She’d found everything she needed other than her thimble. It must have fallen to the bottom of the reticule, dash it all. Abby pulled bits and bobs out, reaching her hand all around, and thoroughly oblivious to anything else happening as she searched for the missing thimble.

  Just as she found it, pulling it out triumphantly, the racing clatter of horses’ hooves bore down on the carriage from behind. Abby’s eyes shot up to meet her mother’s, which were equally wide and terrified. Could it be highwaymen? Her pulse thundered to life in terror.

  But then Father’s booming laughter sounded and a jovial sound came from both Robert and Thomas, and she took a calming breath. They wouldn’t be laughing and joking if there were anything to fear.

  Mother craned her neck over to glance through the dust-covered window. “I can’t see who it is. Can you?”

  Abby tried the opposite window, to no avail. She shook her head with a frown.

  The masculine voices drew nearer to the carriage. She concentrated hard, trying to make out who might have followed them. They’d been gone half a day, already. Perhaps they’d forgotten something and Lord Pritchard sent a rider after them to deliver it? Or maybe he’d changed his mind and was ordering them to return to Henley Green.

  She could hope that last was the case.

  Finally, the men were close enough that she could make out words amongst the racket of the carriage and horses.

  “It seems I also have business with His Grace that cannot wait. Lord Pritchard suggested that if I rode hard, I could catch you and travel with your family. If you don’t mind, of course.”

  Wesley! She’d know that voice anywhere. But what business could he possibly have with the Duke of Danby? Then again, Abby hardly knew anything at all of him these last years. For all she knew, he could be a spy for the crown or a horse thief, or any number of other things. He’d left without a word, and with horrifying rumors flying about after him, and she hadn’t heard anything at all since that day.

  Attempting to discover the man’s purposes through searching her own mind wouldn’t accomplish anything. Particularly not when her heart hammered in her chest and sparks shot off in her head at the thought of suffering his presence until they reached Danby Castle.

  “You must have had a very difficult ride,” Father said. “We planned to stop for the day at the Bear and Thorn Inn. Will that be soon enough for you, Mr. Cavendish?”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “I’ve had harder rides. The Bear and Thorn will be quite sufficient.”

  Mother lifted a brow in question in her direction, but remained quiet. No matter what the question, Abby couldn’t have answered it at the moment anyway.

  She could hardly catch a breath at the wanting and dread fighting for domination of her mind.

  4

  Mother came into Abby’s chamber from the sitting room of their suite at the inn, brushing her hands over her skirts, as though her apron were still there and the keys were still knotted about her waist. “Father has invited Mr. Cavendish to dine with us. The inn keeper will send up our meal shortly, and I expect the men will be here before our meal arrives.”

  Abby dried her hands and face on the towel lying on the bureau before her. They’d only been at the inn long enough for a few of their belongings to be taken into their rooms. She sighed and resigned herself to the fact that she’d likely not have a moment to herself for quite some time. After all, there was no telling what would happen once they arrived at Danby Castle.

  Her stomach leapt to life at the thought of seeing him again, whether in anticipation or agitation, she couldn’t determine.

  Sure enough, within moments the clomping steps and rumbling voices of her brothers and Wesley came into the suite behind her while she was still refreshing herself. She hadn’t even had time to change into a clean gown after their day stuck in the carriage. Not that it really mattered. Black bombazine was black bombazine was blac
k bombazine.

  Saying a quick prayer for courage and sanity, she took a breath and then went into the sitting room. Robert and Thomas had already seated themselves next to each other on one side of the table, with Mother at the foot. There was nowhere for Abby to sit but directly next to Wesley. She shot a we’ll-discuss-this-later look at her brothers and then took a seat beside their guest.

  He leapt to his feet as she did. “My apologies, Miss Goddard. I didn’t realize you’d come in.”

  Miss Goddard. So formal. But then, they were amongst her family. She supposed they ought to observe the formalities. “Not at all, sir. Please, have a seat.” Particularly since her brothers hadn’t arisen and were looking at him like he was half-cracked for treating her thus.

  Father joined them moments later, and then the innkeeper and some serving girls brought in their meal, and they were all taken up with eating barley soup and roast chicken and parsnips after a long day’s travel.

  Throughout the meal, though, Abby was entirely too aware of the man seated on her left. The heat of his leg warmed her, though they did not touch. The elegant manner in which he ate drew her notice, and she fought to keep anyone from recognizing how much attention she paid him—least of all him. The angry scar on the side of his face pulled taut with each bite he took, calling to her so that she had to fight her nature.

  She couldn’t touch him. She daren’t take such a risk.

  As the platters of food emptied and their stomachs filled, talk began to fill the silence. Abby ignored much of it, trying to maintain her composure as best she could. It wouldn’t do to break down into tears in front of Wesley, despite her mourning.

  Father caught her attention with a question. “Mr. Cavendish, what business takes you to see His Grace, if I might ask?”