Page 10 of The Wayward Lady (The Wayward Widows of Willoughby Hall #1)
L avender’s heart pounded as she hurried along the winding path toward Seacrest, her skirts rustling with each determined step. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, the gentle beauty a cruel mockery of the turmoil within her.
She hated to be the one to tell Kendrick what Genevieve had found out, but she also did not want him to hear the news from a stranger. She pushed aside her conflicted feelings and tried to rehearse what she would say to him, though really, what other way was there to impart such news than to just blurt it out?
She hesitated before the weathered oak door, raised her hand, and knocked firmly. Seconds stretched into eternity before the door swung open.
Kendrick’s dark eyes widened briefly, a flicker of pleasure lighting them before he schooled his features into careful neutrality. “Lady Crestwood,” he said, his deep voice sending a familiar shiver down her spine. She hated that he’d addressed her so formally. It seemed a travesty of everything that had passed between them over the last few months, but she had to admit that she certainly hadn’t left things on a good note with him. After Genevieve had spoken to him, he probably didn’t dare address her familiarly.
“Mr. Wycliffe,” Lavender replied in kind, her voice trembling slightly. “Might we speak?”
He nodded curtly, stepping aside to allow her entry. “This way,” he murmured, leading her through the house to a room she assumed was his study. It seemed strange to her that this was only the second time she had entered his home, given all the time they’d spent together, but theirs had always been an outdoor relationship, spent upon grass and sand.
Lavender’s gaze darted about the room, drinking in the details. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents a testament to Kendrick’s passion for literature. The books seemed very orderly, and she was certain they would probably be in alphabetical order if she looked closely at them. The entire space smelled of leather and old books, and she realized that scent always clung to him as well.
His typewriter sat on the polished surface of his desk. The intricate contraption was black and metallic, adorned with delicate cursive designs and ornate knobs. The clatter of the keys had always accompanied her sketches while they were working on their book, and she hoped she had a chance to one day hear that sound again. Sheets of paper were scattered around it, some in a neat pile, others crumpled and tossed aside. She wondered if he was once again having trouble finding his way forward in his story.
Daisy lay on a braided rug near his feet, sleeping soundly.
“I love this room,” she breathed, settling into a chair across from his desk. “It’s so warm and inviting.” She imagined the rest of his home was the same way and wished she could see it all, but perhaps the time to ask for a tour had already come and gone. Today certainly wasn’t the right time.
Kendrick cleared his throat, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on the polished wood. “Lavender, I... I owe you an explanation about what I told you last time you were here.”
She held up a hand, uncomfortable with his apology given everything she knew but glad he was calling her Lavender again. “Genevieve told me everything. I’m not angry, truly.”
His brow furrowed. “The duchess told you about my wife and child?”
“She meant well,” Lavender assured him quickly. “And I am grateful she did. I... I’ve missed you, Kendrick.”
Something in his expression softened. He looked relieved. “And I you,” he admitted quietly. “Those days we spent together were very special to me. I hope you know that.”
Lavender’s heart swelled with hope. She reached across the desk, her small hand covering his larger one. The physical connection soothed something inside her that had seemed raw and broken ever since she’d last seen him. She held his gaze for a long moment before clearing her throat.
“There’s more,” she said gently, knowing they still had to deal with his past before she could even think about there being anything between them in the future. She cleared her throat. “The duchess has contacts all over the world. After hearing your story, she decided she wanted to help you. She hired a private investigator in Spain to look into the matter, and today, she received news about Isabella and your daughter.”
Kendrick stiffened, his eyes searching her face, obviously willing to overlook Genevieve’s high-handed meddling for some closure on the matter that had haunted him for so long. “What news?”
Taking a deep breath, Lavender squeezed his hand, hoping to provide some small comfort to brace him for what she had to say. “Isabella and her... companion... did take your daughter to Spain. But Isabella... she passed away two years ago. From illness.”
A storm of emotions played across Kendrick’s face—shock, grief, anger—before settling into a pained resignation. “What about my daughter?” he asked hoarsely.
“She’s alive,” Lavender whispered. “In an orphanage in Barcelona.”
Kendrick’s hand trembled beneath hers, and he pulled it away, covering his face. “My God,” he breathed. “After all this time...”
Lavender’s heart ached for him, for the years of separation and uncertainty he had endured. “What will you do?” she asked softly.
He lowered his hand and met her gaze, determination blazing in his dark eyes. “I don’t understand why they didn’t let me know. Why didn’t they send Miranda home to me?”
“The investigator said that Isabella never told anyone who Miranda’s father was. The people who knew her thought it was her lover, who left her mere months after they arrived.” Lavender wanted to cry for the little girl who had been left all alone in the world when she had a father who so obviously loved her. It seemed pointless to have so much anger for a dead woman, but she couldn’t help it. How cruel and unfair Isabella Wycliffe must have been.
He pushed to his feet, raking a hand through his dark hair until it stood on end. “I must go to her. I’ve lost so much time already.”
Lavender nodded, fighting back the selfish disappointment that threatened to overwhelm her at the thought of losing him again so quickly. But she couldn’t be selfish when it came to him getting his daughter back. “Of course,” she murmured, pushing to her feet as well. “She needs her father.”
Lavender hesitated, then closed the distance between them, her fingers hovering before Kendrick’s face. The air between them was charged with so much still left unsaid. Gathering her courage, she reached out, and her fingertips grazed the rough stubble along his cheek—a whisper of a touch, yet she felt it to her soul.
Kendrick’s dark eyes, still veiled by the shadows of his loss, locked onto hers. The world seemed to retreat, the study dimming around them as the intensity of their shared gaze drew everything into sharp focus. His eyes held raw honesty, a vulnerability that belied the gruff exterior he presented to the rest of the world.
In those eyes, Lavender saw the reflection of her own longing for a connection that reached beyond the bounds of mere friendship. Her breath hitched, caught on the precipice of something profound as he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. His big body was so warm and solid against hers. Unable to help herself, she closed her eyes and leaned into him, determined to enjoy every second of this momentary sense of belonging that she’d missed so much.
“Thank you for coming here to tell me this,” he said at last, seeming to find some small comfort in their embrace as well. “For so long, I’ve been consumed with guilt and regret, but my attempts to find them never bore fruit. I have to admit that I’d given up. It wasn’t until what happened between us that I decided to try again so I could divorce her.” His breath hitched, and she knew he had just processed the fact that it was not necessary to divorce a dead woman. “If the duchess hadn’t chosen to help, who knows how long it would have taken me to find them on my own. I don’t have nearly the resources.”
“You would have found out what happened to Miranda eventually,” she replied fiercely. “But I’m glad no more time will be wasted.” She reluctantly pulled away and reached into her reticule, pulling out the telegram Genevieve had given her. “Here are all the details. If you have any other questions, you can talk to the private investigator once you arrive in Spain.”
He took the missive, holding it as if it were fragile and could shatter at any moment. She couldn’t fathom the weight of finally holding all the answers he had been seeking for such a long time. She wanted to say more, to comfort him with another heartfelt hug, but she understood that he had more pressing matters to attend to. “Take care on your journey,” she whispered softly, unable to resist giving his hand one last squeeze before leaving him to make his plans alone.
A s the door closed behind Lavender, Kendrick’s carefully constructed facade crumbled. He sank into his leather armchair, guilt and grief clawing up from deep inside him. A choking sob welled within him, but he bit it back, feeling as though he didn’t deserve to grieve for Isabella, given all the anger he’d directed at her over the years.
“Damn it all,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Daisy whined, seeming to sense that something was wrong. He petted her head distractedly, making her thump her tail slowly.
His mind reeled with the revelation of Isabella’s death and their daughter’s abandonment. How could Isabella have left their child alone in an orphanage? The thought of his little girl spending years in such a place, believing herself unwanted, tore at his heart.
Kendrick’s fists clenched as all the other emotions again defaulted to anger. Why hadn’t Isabella come home to England when she realized she was so ill? Why hadn’t she brought Miranda home to him or at least ensured someone knew to do so once she was gone? Had she truly hated him so much that she would rather their daughter make her way alone than with him?
The guilt of not mourning Isabella more deeply still gnawed at him, but it paled compared to his fury toward her actions. Years lost, memories never made—all because of Isabella’s irrational decisions.
He stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. The need to take the next boat to Calais was nearly overwhelming, but he knew he needed to think things through. He couldn’t go running off in the middle of the night. He needed to make a plan.
But doubt crept in, momentarily paralyzing him. What did he know about raising a child, let alone a young girl on the cusp of womanhood? She probably didn’t even remember him.
Kendrick’s gaze fell on the chair where Lavender had sat earlier, her golden hair glowing in the sunlight that had streamed in through the window. A spark of hope ignited within him.
Lavender. Would she... could he ask her to come with him? She would probably be wonderful with Miranda, providing a gentle buffer as he and his daughter grew reacquainted.
The thought of facing this journey alone was daunting, but with Lavender by his side...
He shook his head, chastising himself for even considering it. And yet...
“I’m not married anymore,” he realized aloud, the words hanging in the air. For years, he had been free. He just hadn’t known it. The main obstacle between him and Lavender was gone, leaving a world of possibilities in its wake, but would she be willing to give him another chance?
He knew he didn’t deserve it, but he really wished she would.