Heartless (45 page)

Liza entered her mistress’s room cautiously. She’d heard her mistress’s screams and gone to Mrs. Stark immediately so that lady could send for the doctor. Liza had too many younger brothers and sisters, had seen too many difficult pregnancies to not be aware of what was happening as soon as Leandra screamed in the night. The housekeeper agreed with Liza’s assessment of the situation and sent up a sleeping draft should Leandra need it. Then she roused a footman and sent him to order a groom to ride for the doctor.

As Liza looked around, she saw his grace in the bed with the duchess and her heart nearly broke. She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs that tried to escape and knocked the tray she carried out of her own hand. It clattered to the floor, shattering the early-morning peace.

The noise woke Derringer, who had fallen asleep only minutes before the maid’s entrance. He looked up at Liza, down at his wife, and couldn’t stop a fresh torrent of grief. He buried his face in Leandra’s neck and wept bitterly for the loss of his wife and child.

He wasn’t aware of Liza’s leaving the room. Indeed, he was aware of nothing but the agony that threatened to tear him apart. He didn’t even hear his name whispered over and over until someone rudely shook him.

“What?” he roared at this hapless person. He opened his eyes and stared into hazel eyes turned dusky green with pain and a shared sorrow.

Scarcely daring to believe, Derringer sat up, touching his wife’s ashen cheek with one long finger. She smiled wanly at him and opened her mouth to speak. But the duke forestalled her by covering her mouth with his in a kiss that spoke of love, passion, heartbreak, and relief. And somewhere in the depths was a profound grief over the loss of their child.

Leandra recovered slowly, which was no great surprise to anyone. She had just lost a child, a child she had for so long thought of as her only link to a man she loved more than life itself. Her grief consumed her and Derringer tried to help her through it as best he could. But he was grieving, too, and had little experience with helping others to heal.

Greville departed shortly after Derringer’s return. Prestwich remained for a few weeks, determined to stay until he knew the duchess was out of danger. He knew his wife would never forgive him if he left too soon. But he was next to useless when trying to help a grieving female, a failing he openly acknowledged, and in so doing, was oddly more comforting than not. Mostly, he kept the duke from going stark-staring mad.

But the duke was at his wit’s end regardless. He stalked the castle corridors, talking to himself, trying to work out a solution, one that would resurrect the lively beauty that was his wife. Something had to get through to her, wake her up from her sorrow, help her move forward.

Derringer sent for Michaella. He hoped his wife’s sister would be able to help her. Besides, he had some very bad news that should only be delivered in person.

Lady Michaella arrived a few days after she was summoned. Derringer greeted her, taking her to his study. She sat down, pretty face blank, waiting. After ordering a servant to fetch the duchess, he paced before his sister-by-marriage.

The duke wondered how much this young lady had been made privy to during his absence. He’d been aware of a certain attachment between her and the man the world thought of as his cousin, Gabriel St. Clair. He did not look forward to telling her of his demise but he hoped that she and Leandra might be able to help each other.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Lady Michaella,” he began formally.

“Please, call me Michaella,” she inserted quickly, a sweet smile curving her lips. Derringer could understand Gabriel’s having fallen for this rose. She was completely unspoiled.

He bowed. “Michaella, then. And you will call me Hart, I hope. We are brother and sister, after all.” Michaella smiled and nodded.

Derringer stared down at her. He felt like pacing but he knew this would not soften the blow she was about to receive. So he sat beside her instead. “Michaella, I wonder if you would permit me to ask you something very impertinent before Merri arrives.”

Brows lifting in surprise, she replied, “If you wish.”

“Are you in love with Gabriel?”

Her blush was answer enough but to his surprise she didn’t hesitate in replying in the affirmative.

Leandra must not have been far when the servant found her. It was then that the door opened to admit Lady Derringer.

Doubt curled in Derringer’s chest. He hoped the sisters could help each other through their grief. Neither lady had yet learned of Gabriel’s death and Michaella was as yet unaware of her sister’s loss. His loss.

He had no other ideas to try to help his wife and he was beginning to feel rather helpless—an emotion he quite simply could not countenance.

Standing as she entered, he offered her his seat beside her sister. A taut smile briefly curved her lips as she acknowledged his unwonted courtesy. He felt his own lips twitch in response. His Merri was still in there somewhere, beneath all that mind-numbing grief.

Assuming bad news was best delivered while all, including the bearer, were seated, he dragged the chair from before his desk and placed it near the settee upon which the ladies perched.

Derringer opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “First, have you heard any rumors of my cousin, Michaella?”

Michaella blushed quite becomingly, darting a look at her sister. “No. I was rushed home soon after you… left.”

He smiled. “No need to feel shy about mentioning that. It was a difficult time for us all,” he remarked in the single biggest understatement of the century.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I was sorry to leave Merri at such a time but I felt she was in capable hands with Rory and Bri. Much more capable.” A smile trembled on her lips when Leandra reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Quite. You have not heard then that Gabriel is not my cousin?”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

He sighed, clenching his fingers in an unusual display of uncertainty. “Gabriel was taken from our mother just after his birth and raised by my aunt and uncle. Gabe is my twin.” He paused, drawing in a deep, rather unsteady breath. “Gabe
was
my twin.”

It took but a moment for his listeners to digest what he was saying. Leandra gasped, a tear sliding down her pale cheek. Her sister released a shaky breath but did not cry.

“He is… dead?”

Derringer was very much affected by the empty look in Michaella’s eyes but he did not show it. “Yes, he is.”

The young lady’s lips curved upward a bit but it was not a smile. It was more a grimace of acceptance, a look of acute awareness of life. Somehow, this was far worse than if she had screamed and wailed against the unfairness of fate. But at the same time, he had to admire her strength.

“Thank you for telling me, Hart,” she said, her voice hollow, dead. She rose in one graceful movement. “I know how difficult it must be for you right now. Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

“Lady Michaella—Michaella—he was as much your loss as mine. More so yours, I think,” the duke observed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Michaella did smile then, a soft, heartbroken little twisting of her lips that slammed Derringer in the stomach. “We all lost something wonderful, Hart. The key is to live on with his memory strong in our hearts and minds. To wake up each day, thankful we are alive, and thankful we had the pleasure of knowing him. I am thankful for that pleasure, Hart, and I know I owe that to you.” She went forward and bent to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Derringer watched her leave, unsure what to say to that. He’d neglected to tell her of Leandra’s misery, too stunned by her words to do anything other than stare at her.

And ignore the memories clamoring for attention. His mother, his father, his brother and the added horror of his child’s death fought for dominance, threatening to drive him mad. His wife sat silently watching him, tears streaking her cheeks. He had nothing he could say to her, nothing to ease the agony in her eyes, heal the ache in her heart. How could he help her? He couldn’t even help himself.

The duke left her alone with her misery. Leandra closed her eyes, willing the tears to cease. She felt powerless against all the grief and even more so against the hurt she saw in her husband’s dark eyes—hurt that she’d caused.

And so, with just a look from the person she loved most in life, the Duchess of Derringer died a little more inside.