Книга - A Stolen Heart

A Stolen Heart
Candace Camp


Lord Thorpe's new business partner is not what he expected. With her billowy black hair and creamy skin, Alexandra Ward is stunningly beautiful, brashly outspoken…and the perfect image of a wealthy woman long thought dead.Straight from America, Alexandra finds London fraught with danger. Her appearance on Thorpe's arm sends shock rippling through society and arouses hushed whispers: is she a schemer in search of a dead woman's fortune, or an innocent caught up in circumstances that she doesn't understand?Someone knows the truth, someone who doesn't want Alexandra to live long enough to learn anything. Only Lord Thorpe can help her now–if he can overcome his own suspicions.









Praise for the novels of

CANDACE CAMP


“Camp has again produced a fast-paced plot brimming with lively conflict among family, lovers and enemies.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Dangerous Man

“Romance, humor, adventure, Incan treasure, dreams, murder, psychics—the latest addition to Camp’s Mad Moreland series has it all.”

—Booklist on An Unexpected Pleasure

“Entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”

—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure

“A smart, fun-filled romp.”

—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous

“Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Winterset

“From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”

—Booklist




A Stolen Heart

Candace Camp





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)



A Stolen Heart




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


Paris, 1789

LADY CHILTON PUSHED BACK THE draperies of her bedroom window and peered out into the night. In the distance she could see fire leaping up, and she shivered. It was the Mob. She was sure of it; she had heard their howls the day before, seen them pushing through the streets like some great amorphous beast, hungry for blood.

She stepped back from the window, her hands twining together nervously. Emerson was certain that the Mob would not turn on them. Her husband had that careless, casual confidence of the English that no harm would dare come to them. Simone was not so sure. She was, after all, French, and a member of that aristocracy whom the Mob was so eager to destroy. The fact that she was married to an Englishman might not be enough to save her if the Mob came here—indeed, she feared that her French identity might destroy her husband, as well.

And the children.

It was that thought that made her sick with fear. What would happen to her little ones if the sans-culottes came to their house?

She stood for a moment indecisively, a beautiful woman with liquid brown eyes and clouds of dark hair, dressed in the finest clothes that Paris had to offer, her neck circled with precious gems, yet paper-white with fear, her huge eyes haunted.

Finally, with a little sob, she went over to her dressing table and pulled out her jewelry case. Quickly she took out her jewelry, glittering gold studded with diamonds, rubies and emeralds, satiny pearls strung together or dangling from ear studs. Some were family heirlooms, others gifts from an adoring and wealthy husband. Simone was a woman who loved decoration, and her vivid dark coloring and white skin were perfect foils for the richly colored jewels.

She stuffed the pieces into a velvet bag, paying little attention to the sparkling gems. Last, she reached up and removed the emerald drops that hung from her ears, then the matching emerald pendant that had been a wedding present from Lord Chilton eight and a half years before. Her hand closed around it for a moment; it was still warm from the heat of her skin. Then, with a little sigh, she slipped it, too, into the bag.

Her friend could be trusted; after all, she was trusting her with her children, far more important than any jewelry. If she survived, she would be reunited with them all.

She opened the false bottom of the jewelry case and took out three small items. Though relatively inexpensive, they were the most precious, for they belonged to her children. There were two lockets that opened up to reveal miniature portraits of herself and Emerson. The Countess had given them to the girls last year at Christmas. The third object was a plain, bulky ring, far too large for her son’s finger. She strung it on a piece of string so that he could wear it around his neck. The ring was ordinary looking, flat-topped with an odd design. But it was hundreds of years old, the family ring of the Earls of Exmoor. Only heirs to the title were allowed to wear it. Emerson owned it now, though he did not wear it. One day it would be his son’s.

Simone went to her desk and took the quill from the inkwell and began to scratch out a note. She was never the best of letter writers, and this note was disjointed and almost illegible. But it would at least let the Earl and the Countess know what had happened. She stuffed it into the bag with the jewels.

Clutching the velvet bag and the three small pieces of jewelry, Simone left her bedroom and started up the stairs to the nursery. Downstairs, she could hear Emerson’s voice, growing impatient as he tried to explain to her parents why they had to leave Paris as soon as possible. Simone shook her head. Her parents were frozen by fear, so much in shock from the upheaval of their world that all they seemed capable of doing was staying still and saying no. Simone and Emerson could hardly leave them behind; it was why they had not left already. But she refused to let her children die because her parents were too stubborn or too silly to do what they ought to.

That was why she was sending the children away. She would entrust their lives to her dearest friend here, who was leaving for England and its safety tomorrow. She had not asked yet, but she was sure that her friend would do it. Childless herself, she had always doted on Simone’s children, especially the youngest. Simone would get them away to England, and the jewels would help pay their expenses, if necessary. Once they were safe, if Simone did not make it, they would be her last present to her children.

Simone reached up to dash the tears from her eyes. She could not let the children see her crying; that would frighten them even further. So she pasted a smile on her face before she opened the door to the nursery and went inside. The French nurse was already putting them to bed. Simone dismissed her, saying that she would tuck the children in herself.

Once the maid had left, she turned to the three children. For a long moment she let herself look at them, the lump in her throat swelling as she faced the thought that perhaps she would never see them again. There was John, with the thick, dark hair he had inherited from her and her own dark brown, almost black eyes. A sturdy boy of seven, he had his father’s long bones and mischievous smile, and Simone had not met a woman yet, of any age, who did not succumb to his charms. She bent to kiss his forehead, then moved on to kiss Marie Anne’s cheek. Marie Anne had her father’s eyes—deep blue, guileless orbs—and the bright red curls that had surprised them both, coming as she did from his blondness and Simone’s black hair. But the Countess had nodded wisely and said that red hair cropped up periodically among the Montfords.

She had to swallow hard as she moved on to Alexandra, the baby. Only two, she was a delight; chubby and sunny of spirit, it seemed she was always laughing or babbling. She was, Simone’s mama said, the very image of Simone when she was a toddler, with black curls and merry dark brown eyes and a laugh that made everyone who heard it smile. Simone picked Alexandra up and hugged her, then sat on the floor with the children and put Alexandra in her lap.

“I’ve come to tell you that you are going on a trip,” she said lightly, hoping that her voice displayed none of her anxiety. “You’re going home to England to see your grandmama and grandpapa.”

She told them about her friend, whom they knew and liked, and how they must go with her by themselves, but that Mama and Papa would be joining them later. Though she usually spoke French with her children, who were as fluent in it as in English, she used English with them now.

“You must only speak English,” she cautioned them. “Not French, because you are going to pretend to be her children, not mine. Won’t that be a fun game?”

John regarded her solemnly. “It’s because of the Mob, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Simone admitted. “That is why I am sending you this way. It will be less danger to you. So watch out for the girls, John, and make sure that they don’t get into trouble. Don’t let them speak French, even when you are alone. Can I rely on you?”

He nodded. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Good. That’s my little man. Now, here are some things you must wear. Don’t take them off—even Alexandra. John, you make sure of it.”

She hung the ring on its rough string around his neck and tucked it under his shirt so it did not show. She did the same with each of the girls, stuffing the lockets down the necks of their dresses.

The children were dressed fairly plainly, in the clothes they wore to play in. That was the best that she could do, Simone thought, to hide their aristocratic backgrounds. Quickly she placed a few more changes of play clothes, nothing with lace or velvet, in their little cloaks and tied them up into bundles.

“Now we must go very quietly down the stairs,” she told them.

“Can’t we say goodbye to Papa?” Marie Anne asked, bewildered and looking about ready to cry.

“No, he is talking to Grandmère and Grandpère. We must not disturb them.”

She knew that Emerson would be furious with her for sneaking the children away without telling him. But she could not risk letting them say goodbye to him. His confidence in his indestructibility was too great. She was afraid he would forbid her to send them away, sure that they would be safest with him.

Simone gave them all a shaky smile and stood, picking up Alexandra to hold her in one arm and carrying Alexandra’s little bundle in the other. “Now, children, pick up your bundles of clothes. Stay close. Hold on to my skirts and don’t let go, no matter what happens. And be very quiet—like little mice.”

John and Marie Anne nodded, though she could see the uncertainty in their faces. They walked quietly out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs. Simone did not go out the tall front door, but led them to the side door. She paused, her hand on the knob, taking a deep breath. John and Marie Anne clutched her skirt.

Simone opened the door, and they scurried into the night.




CHAPTER ONE


London, 1811

ALEXANDRA WARD GLANCED AT HER companion in the carriage. He looked as if he were about to fall into a swoon. His face was a pasty white, and sweat dotted his upper lip. Alexandra suppressed a sigh. Englishmen, she was discovering, seemed to be a curiously poor-spirited lot, always gaping and staring and sputtering about how something could not be done. It was a wonder that the country had ever achieved its place in the world, either politically or financially.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones,” she said in a pleasant tone, trying to ease the man’s fears. “I am sure that your employer will be quite amenable to seeing us.”

Lyman Jones closed his eyes as he let out a small moan. “You don’t know Lord Thorpe. He is a…a very private sort of man.”

“So are many men, but that doesn’t make them poor businessmen. I cannot imagine why a man would not be interested in meeting someone who had just signed a quite lucrative contract to ship his company’s tea to America.” Frankly, Alexandra had been amazed that Thorpe had not been at the office to meet her and sign the contract this morning. He had not even attended any of her meetings with his agent, Lyman Jones. It seemed foolish in the extreme to turn over so much of one’s business to another without supervising him. She herself had many employees on whom she depended, but she would never think of not joining them in an important meeting with a client. However, she refrained from pointing this fact out to Mr. Jones, who seemed too upset as it was.

“I—I don’t know how it is in America, Miss Ward,” Mr. Jones said carefully, “but here, well, gentlemen don’t generally engage actively in business affairs.”

“How do they get any business done, then?” Alexandra asked in amazement. “Someone must be engaging in business affairs. How else can England be so prosperous?”

“Well, of course, men engage in business affairs. It is gentlemen, men like Lord Thorpe, that I’m talking about.”

“Oh. You’re talking about the nobility?” She appeared to consider the idea.

“Yes.” Mr. Jones looked relieved. He had had a rather difficult time talking to Miss Ward through the negotiations. It had seemed most bizarre to even be discussing business dealings with a woman, much less bargaining with one—especially one who looked like Alexandra Ward. Lyman Jones would never have imagined a woman running a business, as Miss Ward seemed to, so he would have been hard put to say exactly what he thought such a woman would look like. But he knew that she would not have been a tall, statuesque woman with a cloud of thick black hair. Nor would she have had Alexandra’s strawberries-and-cream complexion and large, expressive brown eyes, eyes so dark that they were almost black.

But then, Alexandra Ward was unlike any other woman Lyman Jones had ever met. Perhaps it came from her being American; he wasn’t sure. But she spoke in a blunt, decisive manner and left no room for disagreement, sweeping everyone before her in a way that was almost impossible to resist. After a session with her, he usually found himself exhausted and unsure exactly how he had been talked into something. He was feeling that way now. He wondered sinkingly if Lord Thorpe would end his employment for this.

“I am afraid I’m not used to such distinctions,” Alexandra admitted. “In the United States, a gentleman is determined more on the basis of his actions, I believe, than on his birth.” She paused, then asked curiously, “This Thorpe is a feckless sort? I suppose he must have inherited his wealth. Still, one wonders how he has managed to hang on to it.”

“Oh, no, miss,” Jones protested hastily. “I didn’t mean that. It’s not that his lordship doesn’t know or care about the business. He does. What I meant was that a gentleman wouldn’t be, well, seen in the day-to-day running of it.”

“I see. It is a matter of appearance, then.” Alexandra thought that Thorpe sounded more and more foolish.

“I suppose.” Jones frowned. He didn’t like the way that sounded. “I mean, well, it just isn’t done.” He hastened to add, “Lord Thorpe is an excellent businessman. He made most of his money himself, actually, in India.”

“Ah.” Alexandra’s dark eyes sparkled with interest, all thoughts about Lord Thorpe’s business acumen fleeing. “That is precisely why I am so eager to meet the man. His collection of Indian treasures is well-known, and I am rather a devotee of the subject myself. I have even corresponded with Mr. Thorpe, I mean, Lord Thorpe, on the subject.”

Alexandra thought it prudent not to mention that she had asked Lord Thorpe about seeing his collection when she was in England this year and had been turned down flat. That was, actually, why she had settled on the Burchings Tea Company with which to negotiate a contract. The company had an excellent reputation, of course; Alexandra would never have made a bad business decision just to satisfy a personal whim. However, the fact that the Burchings Tea Company was owned by the same Lord Thorpe whose collection she so wished to see was a very pleasant bonus. She had been sure that she would meet the man—who, she presumed from the tone of his letter, was a crotchety old fellow—during her business dealings with his company.

“I understand that his collection is quite impressive,” Mr. Jones replied. “I, of course, have never seen it.”

“Never? None of it?” Alexandra looked at him in surprise.

Jones gazed at her with a slightly puzzled expression. “No. I mean, I have, of course, sometimes brought something to his lordship at his home, and I have seen some objects in his foyer, but generally, Lord Thorpe comes to the office to discuss his business.”

It seemed odd to Alexandra, whose family had always held open house every year at Christmas for their employees, that one’s highest-ranking employee would not have spent time inside one’s house. She felt a close, almost familial bond with many of her employees. Indeed, some of them were related to her. But, she supposed, it was simply another example of how the British—or perhaps it was just the nobility—were different.

The carriage pulled up in front of an impressive white stone edifice and stopped. Lyman Jones looked out the window and said in a stifled voice, “We’re here.”

He turned to Alexandra with an almost pleading look on his face. “Are you sure you wish to do this, Miss Ward? Lord Thorpe is—he’s a bit of a recluse. He truly does not appreciate visitors. I—it’s quite likely that he will refuse even to see us.”

“Then we shall have to leave, won’t we?” Alexandra returned lightly.

“On the other hand, he might very well agree to see us just to tell us what he thinks of such impertinence.” Jones felt slightly sick at the thought.

“Buck up, Mr. Jones,” Alexandra said, trying to instill some spirit in the poor man. “I promise you I have dealt with many an old grump, and I generally handle them rather well.”

“But he’s not an—”

“Whatever he is, I feel sure that I shall be able to deal with him.”

Mr. Jones subsided, reflecting that perhaps she would be able to sweep Lord Thorpe before her, just as she had him.

“Don’t worry,” Alexandra went on. “If he rings a peal over your head, I shall tell him that it was all my fault.”

Jones doubted that such a statement would change his employer’s opinion about his intruding on him this way, but he said nothing. He was almost resigned to the berating he would doubtless receive. He opened the door and stepped from the carriage, turning and reaching to help Alexandra.

Alexandra politely took his hand and stepped down, turning to look at the graceful white stone house in the Georgian style. It was built close to the street, as so many houses in London were, with a black wrought-iron fence stretching the length of it to separate it from the traffic. A set of six steps led from the street to the imposing front door, centered by a rather fierce-looking door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Her companion, gazing in the same direction, faltered, and Alexandra took his arm, gently pushing him in the direction of the door. She felt a little guilty at using the poor fellow so. However, she was determined to see Lord Thorpe’s collection of Indian treasures. She had read much about it in her correspondence with other aficionados of the style. Lord Thorpe’s collection was generally considered to be the finest in the world, and it had been one of the things she had been most looking forward to on her first trip to England. She was not about to let this man’s faint heart keep her from seeing it. Lord Thorpe himself would have to bar her from the door.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones,” she said, to soothe the prickings of her conscience, “if Lord Thorpe lets you go for bringing me here, I shall employ you myself.”

Jones gave her a small smile. Miss Ward, for all her odd ways and bossy nature, was a kindhearted person. “Thank you, miss. I am sure that won’t be necessary.”

He wished he felt as confident as his words sounded. Though Lord Thorpe was a fair employer, there was a hard, implacable quality to him that made one leery about crossing him. He had made the bulk of his fortune in India, and there were many rumors, some of them unsavory, about how he had gone about doing so. Mr. Jones discounted most of them, but there were times, when Lord Thorpe’s face hardened and his eyes turned that flat, almost silvery color, that Jones wondered if at least some of the rumors were true.

Drawing a steadying breath, he took the ring of the knocker and brought it down heavily, sending a resounding thud through the house. A moment later, a liveried footman opened the door. He looked from Jones to Alexandra, then reluctantly stepped back and let them into the house.

“I am here to see Lord Thorpe,” Lyman said.

“Wait here,” the footman said shortly and left them standing in the foyer.

It was, Alexandra thought, rather rude behavior for a footman, but she did not dwell on it. She was too busy looking around her. At her feet the parquet floor was overlaid with a plush woven carpet of wine red depicting a hunting scene, with a turbanned man spearing a tiger. On one wall hung an elephant mask of beaten silver, and below it stood a wooden trunk, the top of which was intricately carved into a garden scene of two Indian maidens standing amidst drooping trees.

She was bent over, examining the trunk more closely, when there was a soft shuffle of footsteps and a man entered the foyer, followed by the footman. Alexandra raised her head and barely suppressed a gasp of pleasure. The man whom the footman had brought in was swarthy-skinned, with large, liquid dark eyes, and he was dressed all in white from the top of his turbanned head to the bottom of his soft-shoed feet. As Alexandra stared in fascination, he placed his hands together at chest level and bowed to them politely.

“Mr. Jones?” he said in a soft, accented voice. “Was Lord Thorpe expecting you today? I am most sorry. I have no knowledge of your visit.”

“No, uh…” Lyman Jones had spoken to Lord Thorpe’s butler many times, but he always found the event unnerving. He invariably stumbled over the man’s name, and his unswerving dark gaze made Jones uncomfortable. “Lord Thorpe does not know about it. I—it was quite unexpected. I had hoped to introduce Miss Ward to his lordship, although of course if this is an inopportune moment, we can—”

The butler’s eyes moved consideringly to Alexandra. She, seeing that Jones was making a mess of things, took over in her usual way. “I am Alexandra Ward, Mr….”

“Punwati is my name, miss.”

“Mr. Punwati. I have business dealings with the Burchings Tea Company, and I had hoped to meet Lord Thorpe while I was in London. I think it is very important to know exactly with whom one is dealing. Don’t you agree?”

There was a flicker of something—humor, perhaps—in Punwati’s dark eyes as he said, “Oh, yes, miss.”

“So Mr. Jones kindly agreed to introduce me to Lord Thorpe. I do hope it is not too much of an inconvenience.”

“I am sure that Lord Thorpe will be most interested to hear of your visit, Miss Ward,” the servant said, bowing slightly. “I shall tell him that you are here and see if he is receiving guests this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” Alexandra rewarded the man with a smile that had dazzled more than one man into doing what she wanted.

After Punwati had left the foyer in the same quiet way in which he had entered, Mr. Jones smiled a little awkwardly. “As I told you, Lord Thorpe is a…trifle different. His servants are somewhat odd. The butler, as you saw, is foreign, and some of the servants look, frankly, as if they would be more at home among the criminal class. I am sorry if you were, um, taken aback.”

Alexandra cast him a puzzled glance. “What do you mean? There’s nothing to apologize for. This is wonderful! I have never before met a person from India. I have a thousand questions I would love to ask him, but I am sure it would be much too impolite. And did you see this exquisite elephant mask? And the rug…the chest!”

Alexandra’s eyes glowed with excitement, and her cheeks were delicately flushed. Jones, looking at her, realized that she was even more lovely than he had originally thought. He wondered if her beauty would soften Lord Thorpe, one of the most dedicated bachelors in London. But then, he doubted that Thorpe would ever even see Miss Ward. No doubt his Indian servant would reappear in a few moments with the news that his lordship was unable to receive them, and that would be that—except, of course, for whatever Thorpe decided to do because of Jones’s presumption in coming to his door unannounced, a visitor in tow.

So sunk was he in his gloomy thoughts that Jones did not notice someone had quietly entered the foyer from the opposite end until the man spoke. “Ah. Mr. Jones. Punwati tells me you have brought a guest with you.”

Mr. Jones jumped. “Lord Thorpe!”

Alexandra, who had been squatting beside the chest, tracing the intricate carvings, stood and turned toward the voice. It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping. From the moment she had received the letter from Lord Thorpe, she had envisioned him as a crotchety old man, averse to company and probably quite eccentric. She had been sure that once she met him, she could talk her way around his oddities and convince him to let her see his collection. But now, seeing him, she realized that she had been completely wrong.

The man standing at the other end of the foyer was in the prime of his life, no more than in his thirties. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long, muscular legs, accentuated by close-fitting buff-colored pantaloons and rich, butter-soft brown boots. He was dressed well, but simply. He started toward them, and Alexandra realized with a funny jump of her stomach that Lord Thorpe was not only young, but also quite handsome. His hair was a thick, dark brown, cropped close to his head. He had a sculpted face, with high, jutting cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a squared jaw, the rather stern features softened by a wide, sensual mouth. His eyes were large and intelligent, gray in color and ringed by thick, black lashes that gave them a smoky look. His expression gave little away, but Alexandra thought she detected the faintest bit of humor in his eyes. When his gaze fell on her, the oddest feeling started up deep inside Alexandra, a strange, effervescent, tumultuous sensation she had never experienced before. All thoughts seemed to scatter.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Jones began awkwardly. “I should not have come here unasked, I know, but I—I was sure you would wish to meet Miss Ward.”

“One wonders why,” Lord Thorpe drawled, his words dipped in sarcasm.

Alexandra, seeing Jones pale at his employer’s words, shook off the peculiar feeling in her midsection and stepped forward, assuming a pleasant, confident smile. “Pray, do not blame Mr. Jones, Lord Thorpe. It is all my fault. He did not wish to bring me at all. It was I who insisted.”

“Indeed?” Thorpe arched one black brow in an expression of polite disdain that had intimidated more than a few people.

Alexandra scarcely noticed. She was far more aware of the fact that his eyes were so light a gray they were almost silver, and that her knees had begun to tremble in a most unaccustomed manner.

“Yes. You see, I believe in meeting the people with whom I do business.”

“Business?” Thorpe looked genuinely puzzled, and he turned inquiringly toward his employee. “I don’t understand.”

“It is Miss Ward with whom I have been negotiating a contract this week—I believe I mentioned it. With Ward Shipping, to transport Burchings Tea to the United States.”

Thorpe looked at Alexandra blankly. “You work for Ward Shipping?”

“Mm. My family owns it, actually. Unlike you, I prefer to keep an active hand in my businesses. While I have found Mr. Jones to be both agreeable and acute, still, I feel that I get a better impression of a company from meeting the owner. Ultimately, all decisions come back to you. Or do I have that wrong?”

“No. I am in charge of my company,” he answered a little wryly. “You, I take it, do not approve of the way I run my business.”

“Well, it is your business, and you may do as you choose,” Alexandra began.

“How kind of you.” Thorpe sketched a satiric bow in her direction.

Alexandra cast him a quelling look and continued. “However, I have always felt, as have my managers, that a business runs more smoothly if the owner takes an active role in it—unless, of course,” she added smoothly, “the owner is not competent to run it.” She ended on a slightly questioning note, casting Thorpe a sideways glance that contained more than a little challenge. She was not sure exactly why—whether it was Thorpe’s arrogant air or a dislike of the unaccustomed response he had aroused in her—but she felt a certain need to set Lord Thorpe in his place.

To her surprise, he let out a short bark of laughter. “And that, I presume, is what you are suggesting about me? That I am incapable of running a business?”

Lyman Jones let out a small groan and closed his eyes.

“Ah,” Thorpe went on, a faint smile hovering about his mouth. “Mr. Jones brought you here so that you could see that at least I am not drooling or locked in a cage in the attic?”

“My lord!” Mr. Jones exclaimed, shocked. “No, nothing like that was ever suggested. I swear to you, it was—”

“Stop teasing Mr. Jones,” Alexandra retorted bluntly. “You know as well as I that Mr. Jones had no wish to bring me here. I was the one who insisted on it. I was not worried that you were completely incompetent. But I do think one can tell a lot about a company by the owner’s personality.”

“And what can you tell about Burchings Tea, Miss Ward?” he asked, the faint smile lingering on his lips. “Now that you have met me?”

“For one thing,” Alexandra said tartly, “I have a better understanding of why your employees are scared of you.”

“Scared of me!” The smile disappeared at her words, and he looked nonplussed.

Lyman Jones covered his face with his hands, certain that all was lost, so he did not see the short, considering glance Lord Thorpe shot at him.

“Yes. Oh, they do not tremble at your name, but Mr. Jones’s reluctance to bring me over here was quite obvious. Why? I wondered.”

“I think I can answer that,” Thorpe replied coldly.

Sebastian, Lord Thorpe, had been amazed when Punwati had told him that his business agent was at the door with a young woman in tow, and he had been sufficiently intrigued that he had decided to see them. He had not known what to expect, but it had certainly not been to find this tall, black-haired beauty in his entryway examining his property. Even more unexpected had been the sudden, hard jolt of desire that had shot through him at the sight of her. She was dressed in a demure sprig muslin day dress, but its high waist emphasized the voluptuous curve of her breasts, and its soft folds could not conceal the long, slender legs beneath it. Her skin was touchably soft and smooth, and her full lower lip fairly cried out to be kissed. Thorpe was not a man who was immune to feminine charms, but he had learned his lessons early and hard, and his passions were usually kept under strict control. It had been some time since he had felt such a swift and deep response to a woman.

As he listened to her speak, he had been by turns amused, bemused and irritated, and underneath it all had lain the hot, heavy thrum of arousal. Miss Ward was unlike any woman he had ever met, and Thorpe was a man who appreciated the unusual. But now, with her last statement, she had decisively pushed him over the line into the realm of anger. How dare this upstart American question his running of his business or imply that he terrorized his employees?

“Mr. Jones is well aware that I value my privacy,” he said, his jaw set and his eyes flashing silver. “I am not accustomed to every person who does business with my company showing up at my home.”

“Mm. Yes, I can see that you believe yourself superior to the rest of us humans.”

“I beg your pardon.” Thorpe stared. Each statement this woman made was more outrageous than the last.

“That quality generally does not make one a pleasant companion,” Alexandra said blithely, ignoring the thunder beginning to grow in his face. “However, as you know, that is not my primary concern. My concern, of course, is how does this attitude affect Burchings Tea?”

“Ah, yes, Burchings. For a moment there I thought we had wandered far afield.”

“I am inclined to think that your belief in your superiority would carry over into your company, that you would not allow an inferior product or any sort of base dealing that would reflect badly upon you,” Alexandra decided.

“Thank you,” he responded sardonically. “I think.”

“Also, the awe and even fear in which your employees regard you would ensure that they pay careful attention to the details so as not to incur your displeasure. Sometimes such fear can be so extreme that it has the opposite effect—people are so worried that they make more mistakes than they would normally. However, having seen that you are more sarcastic and biting than in a rage over Mr. Jones having invaded your privacy, along with the fact that Mr. Jones was willing to try what I asked even though he thought you would not like it, leads me to think that your wrath is not such that it renders your employees terrified and therefore useless.”

“Then you approve of my business?” he asked, tight-lipped. “I am indeed honored at the encomium.”

“I am sure you are being sarcastic,” Alexandra replied. “However, the truth is that you should be pleased. There are those who value my opinion in business.”

“The United States must be quite different.”

“Yes, it is. I believe we are more inclined to value honesty.”

“Bluntness, I would say. A lack of tact, even.”

“I find that tact is generally not a valuable commodity in doing business. I would much rather know where I stand. You, I take it, prefer to remain in the dark?”

For a moment Lord Thorpe simply stared at her. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “My dear Miss Ward, you almost leave me speechless. Do you conduct all of your business in this fashion? I am surprised that you have any customers.”

Alexandra smiled back at him, finding it difficult not to respond to the softening of his face. “No,” she replied frankly. “You seem to raise my hackles more than most. However, I do find that, being a woman in business, I have to spend an inordinate amount of time arguing with men before they will accept me on equal terms.”

“Equal?” His lips curved up. “I would think that would be too paltry for you. I would imagine utter subjugation would be your goal.”

“Oh, no,” Alexandra retorted blithely. “I, you see, have no inclination toward arrogance.”

“A direct hit,” Thorpe murmured. It occurred to him that the purpose of this odd American’s visit had been accomplished, and that the interview should be at an end. But he found himself curiously reluctant to send her on her way. He wasn’t sure whether she more annoyed or aroused him, but he realized that he wanted her to stay.

He hesitated for an instant, then said, “Now that we have met, Miss Ward, perhaps you would care to have a cup of tea with me.” He turned a bland gaze toward Lyman Jones’s astonished face. “You, too, of course, Jones—unless you have pressing matters at the office?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Jones replied, blushing with pleasure at the honor of taking tea with his lordship. “That is,” he added hastily, realizing that his words might sound wrong, “of course I have things to do. There are always things to do at the office. What I meant was that today I think everything will run quite well without me for an hour or so. I’m ever so grateful—it is such an honor—if you’re sure, of course.” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Of course he is sure,” Alexandra said firmly, coming to the floundering man’s rescue. “I doubt that Lord Thorpe is ever anything but sure.” She turned to Thorpe. “Thank you, my lord. Tea would be most welcome.”

Thorpe rang for his butler and ordered tea in the blue saloon, then led his visitors down the hall and into a gracious room, the walls of which were decorated in a delicate blue-and-white wallpaper above the wainscoting. It was an airy room, the heavy drapes pushed aside to let in the afternoon sun, and it was furnished not in the heavy, dark woods that Alexandra had found common in London, but in a wickerwork that gave the room a look both informal and exotic. The foreign air was heightened by the lush carpet in a design of stylized flowers and vines, and the rich, jewel-tone patterns of the chair cushions. A trumpeting elephant carved out of ivory stood on a small table, and on the wall hung a series of small, colorful paintings.

Alexandra drew in her breath and went to the paintings. “Are these Rajput?” she asked, referring to a kind of manuscript illustration of Hindu epics that had flourished in India in earlier times.

Mr. Jones looked blank, and Lord Thorpe’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Why, yes, I started collecting them when I lived in India. Do you know Indian art?”

“I have seen very little of it,” Alexandra confessed, “but I am quite interested in it. I have read descriptions, of course, of the bright colors and the patterns, and I have seen some drawings made from them, but never the actual thing.”

At first she studied the paintings intently, unaware of Thorpe’s gaze lingering on her. Then she turned and caught him watching her, and she flushed. There was something about the look in his eyes that made her feel suddenly warm all over. She glanced away quickly, casting about for something to say to cover her reaction. “I, ah, have purchased a few things—a small jade Buddha and, um, a Paisley shawl, of course, and a few ivory carvings, but Indian things are somewhat rare in the United States.”

“Perhaps, after tea, you would like to see some of my collection?”

Alexandra’s face lit up, causing Thorpe to draw in his breath sharply. “Oh, yes, I would like that more than anything else.” She sat as the butler entered with the tea tray and set it on a low table, but she continued to talk excitedly. “I have a confession to make. That was one of the reasons I bullied Mr. Jones into bringing me here today. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of some of your Indian treasures. I have heard so much about your collection….”

“Indeed?” Thorpe studied Alexandra, wondering what bizarre thing would come out of her mouth next. He had never met a woman who enthused over his Indian objects, except perhaps for a luxurious Paisley shawl or a spectacular piece of jewelry.

“Oh, yes, I wrote you, in fact, a few months ago, when I knew I was going to be in London, asking you if I could see your collection, but you turned me down flat.”

“I did? How rude of me.” He frowned. “But I don’t remember…. No, wait, there was a letter from some fellow in the United States, but I thought—wasn’t it Alexander Ward?”

“Alexandra. People often make the mistake. They don’t expect an enthusiast of art objects to be a woman.”

“At least not to be writing letters to strange men and trying to set up appointments.”

“And what would you have me do?” Alexandra asked, her dark eyes firing up. “Ask my uncle or cousin to write a letter for me, as if I were incapable of writing a coherent letter myself?”

“It is not a question of your competence, Miss Ward, but a matter of taking care of, of protecting, a woman.”

“From what? The rudeness of a letter such as yours, denying me admittance?” She chuckled. “I was not pleased, of course, but it did not send me to my bed in a state of despair and shame. I have been told no before, I assure you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Thorpe retorted, grinning. “Well, please allow me to make up for my rudeness by showing you as much as you would like to see.”

“That would be the entirety, I’m sure.”

They talked a little while they drank their tea and ate the small cakes and biscuits that accompanied it. It was general talk, about the weather and London and the state of Massachusetts, where Alexandra lived. He inquired how she was enjoying her visit, hoping that it was not all business, and she dutifully related the sights she had seen and the things she had done. They spoke of Burchings Tea and of her own company, though Alexandra could see in Thorpe’s face that he found it odd to speak of such things with a woman. She wondered if he usually talked to women only about the weather and such and concluded that he must find it dull, indeed.

Mr. Jones returned to his office soon after tea was finished, assured by Lord Thorpe that he would see Miss Ward home in his own carriage. Thorpe offered his arm to Alexandra, a faint, almost challenging smile on his lips. Alexandra slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and tilted up her chin, tossing back the challenge, although she was not entirely sure what it was.

“You know,” Thorpe said in a low, conversational tone, “your staying and walking through these rooms with me by yourself is not recommended behavior for a young lady.”

“Oh?” Alexandra rounded her eyes into a look of great innocence. “Are you in the habit, then, of attacking defenseless young women in your home?”

“Of course not. Although I would hardly call you defenseless.”

“Then I have nothing to fear, have I?” Alexandra went on coolly, “You, being a gentleman and so concerned about protecting women, will doubtless see that no harm comes to me.”

“You’ve the tongue of an adder, my dear Miss Ward.”

“Why, what have I said, my lord?”

He cast her a look heavy with irony and abruptly turned into a room, pulling her in with him. Gripping her upper arms, he looked into her eyes, so close to her that his face filled her startled vision. His bright silvery eyes bored into hers, and she could feel the heat of his body, the power of his hands on her arms. She was intensely aware of his mobile mouth hovering only inches above hers. She could not move.

“You know, sometimes even a gentleman can be pushed beyond his control by a beautiful young woman.”

Alexandra had the wild thought that he was going to kiss her right there, and she realized with a start of amazement that the thought was more exciting than scary. “But I am sure that you never lose control,” she replied, annoyed at the shakiness of her voice.

“It would be foolish to count on that. If you had talked to the good ladies of London, you would know that I am considered capable of almost anything. I am, my dear naïve Miss Ward, the black sheep of my family. Not one to be trusted alone around young ladies.”

“Then it is a good thing that I am not a young English lady, but an American woman who learned early on how to discourage unwelcome attentions, is it not?”

“Indeed.” He leaned a little closer. “And would my attentions be unwelcome?”

Alexandra drew in her breath sharply, her heart hammering within her chest. She found it difficult to think, with his eyes staring into hers.

“No.” The word came out breathily as she swayed toward him.




CHAPTER TWO


“NO!” ALEXANDRA REPEATED, HORRIFIED at what she had been about to do. She jerked away from Lord Thorpe, moving farther into the room as she tried to bring her rapid breathing back to normal. “What—what nonsense you talk!”

Thorpe followed her into the room, but he did not touch her again, as she had feared. She felt curiously let down. Sternly, she tried to focus on the room. It was large and furnished entirely in teak. From the desk and the shelves of books behind it, Alexandra identified it as Lord Thorpe’s study. An ornately engraved rifle hung on one wall, and below it hung a sword with a wide hilt made of ebony and steel, also engraved. In one corner stood an unusual shirt of chain mail armor with metal plates across the chest and a long mail neck guard hanging down around the helmet on three sides. The edge of the neck guard was bordered in red velvet, and gold inlay was worked across the chest plates.

“Indian armor?” Alexandra asked with real interest, going over to study it. She tried not to think about how his hands had felt on her arms or the way she had yearned to press herself against him.

“Yes. It belonged to a Mogul officer from the last century.” Lord Thorpe’s voice was as calm as if the moment in the doorway had never happened. “The rifle was a present to me from a rajah.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I happened to be with him on a hunt and shot a tiger that had him targeted for lunch. He gave me the rifle and several trinkets in gratitude. The trinkets turned out to be sapphires and rubies.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. I sold them and bought my first piece of land.”

“A tea plantation?”

Thorpe nodded, somewhat surprised to find himself telling Alexandra the story of his early years in India. He had told very few people anything about what happened to him there. But, somehow, looking into Alexandra’s huge brown eyes, alive with interest, he felt little hesitation. She might know as little about the place or people as any of the other young ladies he knew, but one thing he was certain of was that her interest was genuine. It occurred to him that perhaps there was something to be said for Miss Ward’s policy of frankness. “I spent every bit of profit I made investing in land. Eventually I bought a piece that connected the rest of my plantation to the sea. It had a lovely white beach. I was walking along it one day and stepped on this dull round stone, but when I lifted it up, I saw that it wasn’t like other stones. It was an unpolished ruby.”

“On the sand?” Alexandra asked in astonishment.

He nodded. “Yes. About the size of a gold sovereign. I’ve never been so shocked in my life.” He smiled faintly, remembering the heat of the sun on his shoulders, the sound of the surf crashing nearby, the pounding excitement in his heart as he had stared at the stone. “A stream ran through there, joining the sea, and it had washed the ruby and several other stones down, depositing them on the beach. I found some other small rubies and a number of sapphires. So I started mining the stream and the area around it. And that is how the tea plantation became my secondary business.”

“So you own a ruby mine?”

“Mostly sapphires. But I sold it before I moved back to England. I kept the plantation because I had a very good manager, but the mine—well, I find, like you, that things don’t run very well without one’s personal effort.” He shot her an amused glance.

“You have lived a very exciting life.” It was no wonder, she thought, that a dangerous air clung to him.

Thorpe shrugged. “I have done what I had to do.”

Alexandra raised a brow. “You have to admit that you have done things few of the rest of us have—lived in exotic lands, shot tigers, found gemstones littering the sands….”

He chuckled. “It sounds more exciting than it seemed at the time. Then it mostly seemed like heat and sweat and trying to escape death.”

“That is what my uncle says about the War. He says everyone always wants to think of it as romantic and brave and daring, but mostly it was dirt and sweat and fear.”

“The War?”

“Yes. You know. That small war thirty-odd years ago in America…”

“Ah, yes.” He quirked a smile. “The conflict in the colonies. Fortunately, I wasn’t in the tea business at the time.”

Alexandra chuckled. “You take, I see, a large view of world affairs.”

Thorpe went to his safe, unlocked it and took out two packets of soft cloth. He laid them on his desk and unwrapped the first one. On the velvet lay an old necklace. Seven separate pieces of enameled gold dangled from the circlet by separate strings of emerald beads.

“It’s beautiful. It looks quite old.” Alexandra leaned closer.

“It is. It’s called a satratana. Each of these sections represents a planet in the Indian astrological system.”

“Fascinating,” Alexandra murmured. “It is such beautiful workmanship.”

He unrolled the other cloth, revealing a necklace of startling beauty made of sapphires and diamonds, with a large sapphire pendant hanging from the center.

“Are these from your mine?” Alexandra asked.

Thorpe suppressed a smile. Every other woman who had seen the necklace had practically salivated over it, caressing the jewels and holding it up to her throat. He supposed it should not surprise him that Miss Ward seemed more interested in the background of the jewels.

“Yes.” Perversely, he found himself wanting to see the jewels around her neck, though she had not asked.

“Was this a gift to your wife?”

“I have no wife. I intended this piece for no one,” he answered harshly, pushing aside the memory of the woman whose neck he had envisioned it on, knowing even as he did so that he would never see it.

He began to roll the necklace up in its velvet, then paused and looked at her consideringly. “Did you think I had a wife and yet was—” He glanced toward the doorway.

“Making advances to me?”

“Yes, making advances to you in my own wife’s home. You must think me a very low creature.”

Alexandra shrugged. “I know nothing about you, sir. I mean, my lord. You were, after all, intimating that I was putting myself in danger by being alone with you. If you are the sort to take advantage of a woman alone, I would suppose the fact of a wife would not stop you.”

He winced. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”

“I try not to.” Alexandra softened her words with a smile, a dimple peeking in one cheek. “Actually, I did not think you were the sort. But I have always found it best not to assume too much.”

“Mm.” He wrapped the other necklace and returned them to the safe.

“Where is the original ruby?” Alexandra asked. “Did you keep it?”

He smiled at her intuition. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much—if you don’t mind showing it to me.”

He reached into the safe again and pulled out a small pouch. Bringing it to where Alexandra stood, he opened the pouch and turned it upside down. The uncut ruby rolled into his hand. “I’m afraid it’s not as impressive as the necklace. It’s not polished or cut. I left it as it was.”

Alexandra smiled with something like approval. “That is exactly what I would have done.”

He held it out to her, and she took it, holding it in her palm and looking at it from this angle, then that, and finally handed it back to him. He replaced the ruby in its bag and closed it up in the safe. He turned to her. Normally he would have shown a visitor no more than what he already had, if that much. But he found himself wanting to show her more. He took her arm.

“Come upstairs. I will show you the India room.”

They climbed the wide, curving staircase to the next floor. Alexandra knew that this must be the floor on which the family bedrooms and more private sitting rooms lay, and it made her feel a little odd to be here alone with him. But she put the thought aside; she was not going to allow proprieties to spoil her enjoyment of this day. She had waited for years, it seemed, for a chance to view the kind of things Lord Thorpe was showing her.

Thorpe ushered her into a room, and Alexandra let out an exclamation of pleasure. The entire room had been given over to India. Huge jewel-toned cushions were scattered around the floor, which was softened by a wine-colored rug in the stylized Mogul fashion. Precisely realistic portraits of men in Indian dress hung on the walls, along with two more ornate swords. A chest of beaten brass, a low, round table of intricately carved wood and several pedestals and shelves held more treasures. There was a large head of Buddha made from gold and decorated with jewels. A vase of obvious antiquity filled with long, lovely peacock feathers stood on the floor, and several other pieces of pottery, some painted or gilded, others glazed, sat atop pedestals. There were ivory and jade statues of various animals, from elephants to tigers to coiling cobras, as well as figures of Hindu gods and goddesses and legendary heroes. Alexandra could not resist picking up first this one, then that, running her finger over the delicate carving.

“They’re beautiful,” she breathed. “Look at this knife.” She picked up a small, curved knife with an ivory hilt carved into the figure of a tiger, smoothing her finger over the hilt. “It seems odd that there would be such beauty expended on a thing of destruction.”

Thorpe watched her as she examined the things in the cabinet. Her face glowed as if lit from within, making her even more beautiful. He wondered if she would glow like that, her eyes soft and lambent, when she was making love. He knew, with a heat low in his abdomen, that it was something he would like to discover. Her fingers moved over the objects sensually, as though she gained as much enjoyment from touching them as from looking at them. Thorpe imagined the cool, smooth feel of the jade and ivory beneath her skin. He imagined, too, the warmth of Alexandra’s skin as she touched them, the softness and the faint texture, and the fire deep in his loins grew. This was a woman who used and enjoyed her senses, a woman who could dwell in the physical plane as easily as the intellectual. Nor did she try to hide her pleasure behind a cool mask of sophistication. She would be a passionate lover, he thought, as uninhibited in bed as she was in her speech, as eager to taste all the pleasures of lovemaking as she was to enjoy the beauty of his works of art.

Was she experienced? She was a woman of some wealth and position, at least in her country, and she was not married. Normally he would assume that she was, indeed, a virgin. But there was little that was normal about Miss Ward, he knew, and therefore he wondered if in this regard she flouted convention, also. It would be an interesting topic to pursue.

Alexandra laid the knife down with a sigh and looked around her one more time. “They are all exquisite. Thank you so much, Lord Thorpe, for allowing me to see them.” She smiled. “I realize that I pushed myself on you quite rudely. I have no excuse except my intense desire to see your treasures for myself. You have acted in a most generous manner.”

“It was a pleasure,” he responded truthfully.

“Thank you. I should be leaving now. My aunt and mother will be expecting me.”

“You are visiting London with them?” he asked, strolling with her out of the room and down the stairs.

“Yes. Mama was somewhat reluctant to come, but I could not leave her behind. And Aunt Hortense would never have forgiven me if I had come here without bringing her, too. Besides, even in America, we have rules about what a young lady may or may not do, and generally I find it easier to obey them. Traveling by oneself is not one of the things one may do.”

“Miss Ward…” They were approaching his front door, and Thorpe found himself filling up with an odd feeling of loneliness. “Would you—that is, I would be most honored if you would accompany me to a ball this evening.”

“What?” Alexandra stared at him. The last thing she would have expected from him was this. He had been quite forward, of course, in the doorway of his study, but once she had made it clear that she was not a loose sort, she had assumed he would have no interest in seeing her again.

“I am asking you to a dance.” He had not planned on going to one, but he felt sure that he could pull an invitation to one ball or another out of the pile of invitations on his desk.

“But I—” She realized that she wanted very much to go. She had little interest in London society, but the thought of dancing with Lord Thorpe set up a jittery, excited feeling in the pit of her stomach. “But surely your hostess would not wish you to bring a stranger to her party. Someone uninvited.”

A cynical smile touched his mouth. “My dear Miss Ward, no hostess would object to my bringing whomever or whatever I wanted to a ball, provided it meant she was able to score the coup of having me there.”

“My,” Alexandra said mockingly, “it must be marvelous to be so important.”

He let out a short laugh. “You think me arrogant again. Let me assure you it is not self-importance, only an acquaintance with London Society. I am a hostess’s prize for two reasons only.” He held up his hand, ticking off the points. “One, I never go to parties, therefore it is considered an accomplishment of the hostess to get me to come. Two, I am a prime candidate on the marriage mart, being both titled and wealthy. It matters not at all that very few of these same hostesses have any liking for or knowledge of me. In fact, I am considered something of a bad apple, but that is overlooked for the sake of my fortune.”

“Goodness. I don’t know which is worse, your arrogance or your cynical view of the world.”

“No doubt that is why I am not a well-liked guest.”

Alexandra had to laugh. “No doubt.” She hesitated, then gave a little nod. “Yes. Yes, I would like to go.”



ALEXANDRA LEANED BACK AGAINST THE cushioned seat of Lord Thorpe’s carriage, a small smile playing about her lips. She could imagine the look on her aunt’s face when she told her she was going with a lord to a London ball. Aunt Hortense, who had grown up during the war with England and the incendiary time period before that, had a deep-seated suspicion of Britain and all things British. Her dislike had only been strengthened during the last few years, when the British, in the midst of their war with Napoléon Bonaparte, had been stopping and impressing American sailors and impounding ships that were bound for France. Ward Shipping had lost a number of men and two ships that way. Aunt Hortense had been insistent upon accompanying Alexandra to London, stating flatly that she had to protect and help Alexandra, who would, in her words, be “like a lamb among the wolves.”

Of course, her dislike of the British was not as unswerving as that of Alexandra’s mother, who had argued steadfastly against her making the trip. Alexandra sighed. She didn’t want to think about her mother right now. She turned her mind to what gown she would wear tonight.

When she stepped inside the front door, however, all such pleasant thoughts fled. One of the maids was standing on the stairs, crying, with another maid trying vainly to soothe her, while her mother’s companion Nancy Turner stood apart from them, looking disgusted, her hands on her hips. From upstairs came the sound of pounding, punctuated by her aunt’s voice, calling, “Rhea? Rhea? Let me in!”

“Mercy’s sake, child, stop all that blubbering!” Nancy Turner exclaimed, her voice filled with exasperation. “You’d think nobody’d ever gotten mad at you before.”

The girl’s only response was to cry harder, and her companion said sharply to Nancy, “None of her employers has thrown a teapot at her head before! It’s not her fault. It’s you and your heathen American ways, all of you.”

“Exactly what heathen American ways are those, Doris?” Alexandra inquired icily.

Doris gasped and whirled around. When she saw Alexandra, she blushed to the roots of her hair and bobbed a curtsey. “Oh, miss, begging your pardon. I was—that is, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m that distracted. I didn’t mean—well…” She wound down lamely in the face of Alexandra’s coolly inquiring expression. “It ain’t what we’re used to, and that’s a fact!” she declared defiantly.

“Presumably not, if it involves flying teapots. That’s not exactly accepted behavior in the United States, either.” Alexandra turned toward her mother’s companion, a sturdy American servant they had brought with them and who had worked for their family for years. “Nancy?”

“Mrs. Ward didn’t want her tea, miss, and she, well, flung it, but I’m sure she wasn’t aiming at the girl. You know Mrs. Ward couldn’t aim that well.” Nancy sent the snuffling maid a hard look. “It wasn’t even hot—and I must say, I don’t know what she expects when she brings a pot of barely warm tea to the missus.”

“Probably not to have it thrown at her,” Alexandra said with a sigh. “I take it that Mother is in one of her moods?”

Upstairs, the pounding, which had been going on throughout their conversation, grew more fierce, and Aunt Hortense’s voice was sharp as she shouted, “Rhea! Unlock this door this instant! Do you hear me?”

Nancy nodded, sighing. “Yes. Miz Rhea’s locked her door now and won’t let anyone in.”

“All right. I’ll go up and see about her. Doris—you take Amanda down to the kitchen and get her a cup of tea. See if you can calm her. I am sure that my mother meant her no harm. Perhaps she should take off the rest of the afternoon and go up to her bed and rest.”

The maid nodded, put her arm around the other girl and led her toward the kitchen. Alexandra started up the stairs toward Nancy.

“What happened?”

“It was my fault, miss,” Nancy admitted with the air of a martyr. “I shouldn’t have left her alone. But she’s been right agitated all day, and I thought a cup of hot cocoa might calm her down. So I went down to make it myself because she likes it just the way I fix it, you know, and I can’t get that foreign cook to make it right.”

Alexandra nodded sympathetically, resisting the urge to point out to Nancy that she was the foreigner here, not the English cook.

“But then, when I get down there, they tell me they already sent up a cup of tea—and after all the times I’ve told them that Mrs. Rhea doesn’t like tea in the middle of the afternoon! Not only that, that silly twit Amanda took it, and she’s enough to make anyone throw something at her, I say. Always blathering on in that little voice of hers, and you can’t even understand half of what she says. By the time I got back up the stairs, I hear a crash, and Amanda comes flying out of your mother’s room, crying up a storm, a big wet spot all down the side of her dress—where that tea was, I’ll warrant the pot didn’t come anywhere near her head—and then Miz Rhea slams the door and locks it. She’s been in there for twenty minutes, refusing to come out, and Miss Hortense can’t make any headway with her, it seems like.”

“Oh, dear.”

“She’ll open it for you,” Nancy went on confidently.

Alexandra wasn’t so sure. There had been one or two times since they’d been in England that her mother hadn’t even seemed to know who she was.

However, she continued up the stairs and strode with more confidence than she felt toward the door where her aunt stood, red-faced, her hand poised to knock again. When Aunt Hortense saw Alexandra, she let out a sigh of relief and started toward her.

“There you are. Thank heavens. Maybe you can get through to her. Rhea’s locked herself in and won’t come out. It’s bad enough when she acts like this at home—I don’t know what she’s thinking, behaving this way in front of a bunch of Englishmen.” Her tone invested the term with scorn. Alexandra’s aunt was a sturdy, middle-aged woman in a sensible brown dress with a plain cap covering her hair, and her features, now frowning, were usually pleasant.

“I’m afraid she doesn’t think about such things, Aunt Hortense—or care, either. Why don’t you go down to the sitting room, and I will see what I can do. Oh, and, Nancy, get her some of that cocoa now. It might just do the trick.”

Alexandra waited while her aunt and the other woman walked away, giving her mother a moment of silence. Then she tapped lightly on the door. “Mother? It is I. Alexandra. Would you let me in?”

There was a moment’s silence, then her mother’s voice said faintly, “Alexandra? Is that really you?”

“Yes, of course it is, Mother,” Alexandra replied pleasantly. “Why don’t you unlock the door so we can talk?”

After a moment there was the sound of the lock being turned, and then the door opened wide enough for Alexandra’s mother to peer out. Her face was drawn and worried, her eyes suspicious. Her expression lightened a little when she saw Alexandra. “Where have you been?” she asked as she opened the door wide enough to allow Alexandra in.

“I had business to conduct. I told you that this morning. Remember?”

Rhea Ward nodded vaguely, and Alexandra was not sure that she remembered at all. “Why do you have on your hat?” Rhea asked in a puzzled voice.

“I haven’t had time to remove it, I’m afraid.” Alexandra reached up, untied the ribbon and pulled the hat off, continuing to talk in the soothing voice she used with her mother. “I just walked in, you see, and I came right up. Aunt Hortense was rather concerned about you.”

She studied her mother unobtrusively as she spoke, taking in her untidy hair and messy appearance. Several buttons were unfastened or done up wrong, and stray hairs straggled around her face. Remembering her mother’s once neat, trim appearance, Alexandra felt her throat close with tears. What had happened to the gentle, sweet woman she had known in her early years? Though she was still a pretty woman, even in middle age, her face was becoming lined beyond her years, with an unhealthy puffiness that was echoed in her once petite figure. The degeneration was due, Alexandra was sure, to Rhea’s obsessive worries and her unfortunate, secretive dependence on bottles of liquor.

“Mother, what’s the matter?” Alexandra asked, her worry showing through her assumed calm. “Why did you lock the door against Aunt Hortense?”

Rhea Ward made a face. “Hortense was always a bossy soul. You’d think the world couldn’t run without her.”

Certainly their household had been unable to run without her, at least in Alexandra’s youth, she thought wryly, but she kept the opinion to herself. One of the things that her mother frequently despaired about was her own lack of ability.

“But why did you lock the door? I don’t understand. Was Amanda rude to you?”

“Amanda? Who is that?”

“The maid who brought your tea.”

“Her!” Rhea scowled. “Always sneaking in here. Spying on me.”

“I’m sure Amanda wasn’t spying on you, Mother. She was just bringing you your tea.”

“I don’t want tea! I told her that, and she acted like I’d grown horns. Nancy had gone to fetch my cocoa. That was what I wanted.” Tears were in the woman’s soft brown eyes, and her face started to crumple.

“Yes, dear, I know.” Alexandra put her arm supportively around her mother’s shoulders and led her to a chair. “She’s getting you some right now.”

“I don’t know what’s taking her so long.” Rhea’s mouth turned down in a pout.

“She heard the commotion and came running upstairs. You know how loyal to you Nancy is. She was afraid you needed help.”

“She was right. I did. They’re always watching me, and I know they laugh at me behind my back.”

Alexandra thought with an internal sigh that her mother was probably right about both the laughter and the curiosity, after the odd things she had been doing since they got here. Was it possible that her mother had been drinking this early in the day? It had proved more difficult to keep liquor out of her mother’s hands since they had been in London, where it was always easy for Rhea to find a street urchin or some peddler who would fetch her a bottle for a few extra shillings.

“Don’t worry about them,” Alexandra told her mother firmly. “Why, we don’t even live here. You won’t see them again after a few more weeks.”

Rhea did not look much encouraged by Alexandra’s words. She sat for a moment, frowning, then jumped up, went to her dresser and opened a drawer. She took out a small cherry-wood box that lay within and caressed it, then carried it to her chair and resumed her seat, holding the box firmly in both her hands. Alexandra suppressed a sigh. Her mother’s fascination with this box had grown worse the past few weeks, too. She had had the box for as long as Alexandra could remember, and she kept it locked, the key on a delicate chain around her neck. No one, not even Aunt Hortense, knew what was inside it, for she adamantly refused to discuss it. When Alexandra was young, her mother had kept the box hidden away on a shelf in her wardrobe. The mystery of it had so intrigued Alexandra that she had on one occasion stacked books on a chair and climbed up them in order to reach the box on its high shelf. She had been discovered trying to pry the thing open, and it had been one of the few times her mother had ever spanked her. Alexandra had never tried to open it again, and it had remained inviolate on its shelf. But in recent years her mother had taken the box down and kept it in a drawer beside her bed, locking the drawer, as well. She had brought it with her on the trip, and nowadays she seemed to have it in her hand most of the time.

“Mother, what is distressing you so?” Alexandra asked softly, reaching out to take her mother’s hand.

“I don’t like it here!” Rhea pulled her hand out of Alexandra’s grasp, replacing it around the small wooden box. “It’s always cold, and the people are odd. They don’t like me. None of the servants like me.”

“They don’t dislike you,” Alexandra assured her, not adding that they were more scared of Rhea than anything else. “They just have a different way about them. There are so many wonderful things yet to see. Why, we haven’t even left London yet! There’s still Stonehenge and Stratford-on-Avon, and Scotland. It’s supposed to be beautiful there.”

“Here we go, Miz Rhea.” Nancy entered the room briskly, a small tray in her hand. “I’ve got your chocolate all ready.”

Rhea brightened, turning toward the servant and reaching for the cup of steaming liquid.

“Now, I reckon that will hit the spot,” Nancy went on cheerfully. “And then, if you like, I can loosen your hair and rub lavender on your temples, and you can have a nice little nap before teatime. How does that sound?”

“Just the thing,” Rhea murmured, a smile beginning to touch her lips.

Alexandra decided to leave her mother in Nancy’s capable hands and made her way downstairs to the sitting room, where her aunt was installed, working away at a piece of embroidery.

“Hello, dear.” Aunt Hortense looked at her. “It sounds as if you succeeded.”

“I got her to open her door, if that’s success.” Alexandra sank into a chair near her aunt. “Oh, Auntie, I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake in bringing Mother here. Perhaps I should have left her at home.”

“Oh, no, dear, she would have been so lonely.”

“I don’t know. She didn’t want to come. She didn’t even want me to. But I wouldn’t listen. I was so sure that she would be better with me, that she would enjoy it once we got here—that she was just afraid to travel, you know.”

“I am sure she is better with you. It’s better that we can…well, keep an eye on her. You would have worried yourself silly if we had been over here and your mother back home, and you had no idea what she was doing or if anything had happened to her.”

“Yes, but she’s so much worse!” Alexandra shot to her feet and began to pace. “I’ve been selfish. I wanted to see England, to visit all the places I’ve always heard and read about. I was so sure it would help our business.”

“And it has, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so. And I have enjoyed myself. There is no denying it. I would have hated to give it up. But Mother has been acting so strangely—locking herself up in her room, saying odd, wild things. Why, do you know last night that she looked at me as if she didn’t even know who I was! And today, throwing a pot of tea at that poor girl. I don’t care how cold it was or how little she wanted tea. It is decidedly bizarre behavior for a grown woman.”

Aunt Hortense sighed. “Yes, it is.”

“I mean, it isn’t as if she were some ignorant person who had grown up in the wilds somewhere. Why, she used to be a diplomat’s wife!”

“I know. And she was excellent at it. Rhea was always so good at giving parties, so skilled in getting people to talk and enjoy themselves. She always had odd turns, of course, when she was rather melancholy, but most of the time she was quite vivacious and happy—sparkling, really. I used to envy Rhea her ability to make friends, to draw people to her.”

“What happened to her?” Alexandra asked bleakly.

Her aunt shook her head. “I don’t know, dear. She has been getting worse for years. It was better when you were young. But even then, it seemed to me that she had very melancholy moments. I often wonder—well, she was never the same after she came home from Paris. Hiram’s death affected her greatly, you see. They were most devoted. I’ve often suspected that she saw things during that Revolution, horrible things that affected her long afterward. She had a great deal of trouble sleeping at first. I could hear her up, pacing the floor long after everyone had gone to bed. Sometimes she would cry—oh, fit to break your heart. I felt so sorry for her. But what could I do? All I could think of was to take care of you and the house as best I could, to help her with all the business things that she disliked so. Even with Mr. Perkins managing the shipping business and her cousin running the store, she hated to have to listen to their reports and try to sort out their advice. I don’t know, perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps I took away too much responsibility from her. But she seemed so helpless, so needy…”

“I know. I’m sure you did what was best. Mother could not have handled raising me or managing the house by herself, much less running a business, too. You must not blame yourself.”

“And you must not, either,” her aunt retorted decisively, bobbing her head. “Your mother is the way she is, and who’s to say she wouldn’t have been worse if you had left her back in Massachusetts with only servants and distant relatives to take care of her? She is used to having the two of us with her. She probably would have taken it into her head that we had abandoned her or some such notion.”

“That’s true.”

“And don’t tell me that you shouldn’t have come to England at all, for I won’t hold with that. You can’t live your whole life around your mother’s…oddities.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’s just so distressing to see her this way. Sometimes I—” She stopped abruptly.

“Sometimes you what?” Aunt Hortense turned to look at her niece when she did not continue.

“Nothing.”

“It sounded like something to me. Out with it. Is something else troubling you?”

“No. Only—” Alexandra’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “Do you ever wonder if Mother is—well…” She twisted her hands, frowning, reluctant to voice the fear that had been nagging at her for some time now. “What if she’s not just odd? What if she’s mad?”

“Wherever did you come up with such nonsense?” Aunt Hortense demanded indignantly. “Your mother is not mad! How can you say that?”

“I don’t want to think it!” Alexandra cried, her voice tinged with desperation. “But you’ve seen how she acts. Most of the time I tell myself that she isn’t insane—obviously she’s not insane. After all, she doesn’t run screaming naked through the house or tear her clothes and try to do herself harm like Mr. Culpepper’s sister did.”

“I should say not!” Aunt Hortense crossed her arms pugnaciously.

“But sometimes I can’t help but think these things she says and does are not simply genteel eccentricities. Aren’t they something worse? More peculiar? In a person without wealth or standing in the community, mightn’t they be called evidences of madness?”

“It doesn’t matter what they’d call it if she were poor, because she isn’t and never has been. She’s not mad. She’s just…more fragile than the rest of us.”

“I hope you’re right.” Alexandra summoned up a small smile for her aunt, but she could not completely rid herself of doubt. Nor could she admit, even to Aunt Hortense, the other cold fear that lay beneath her worry. If her mother did indeed lean toward madness, would the taint of it lie in her own blood, as well? Might she, someday, disintegrate into insanity?




CHAPTER THREE


ALEXANDRA TOOK A LAST LOOK AT HERSELF in the long mirror of the hallway; then, satisfied that she would look her best among the titled crowd this evening, she turned toward the staircase. Her deep rose satin gown would doubtless be outshone by many of the gowns on the ladies present at the ball. Her clothes, while of good cut and material, were not in the first stare of fashion in London, and she had not brought her very best ball gown with her, not thinking that she would attend anything dressier than the opera. Still, she knew that the dress was fashionable enough to cause no comment, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that its rose color was excellent on her, bringing out the rose in her cheeks and contrasting stunningly with her black hair. Her hair was done up in a mass of curls, thick and shining, with a pale pink rose nestled on one side as adornment. In her hand she carried, besides her fan, a small corsage of rosebuds delivered an hour earlier and sent, she was sure, by Lord Thorpe, though the card had contained no message.

Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she walked into the formal drawing room. Much to her chagrin, she saw that Thorpe was already seated there with her aunt. Alexandra had made it a point to come downstairs as soon as the maid had brought her word of Thorpe’s arrival precisely because she did not want Lord Thorpe to be subjected to her aunt’s inquisition. From the frozen look on Thorpe’s face, she guessed that he had already been here for several minutes, and Alexandra was struck with the suspicion that her aunt had deliberately bade the servants to delay taking Alexandra the message that his lordship had arrived.

As she started into the room, Lord Thorpe was saying tightly, “I assure you, madam, it is a most respectable party, given by one of the leading peers of the realm.”

Alexandra had to stifle a smile at the man’s barely concealed look of affront.

Her aunt continued blithely. “Be that as it may, Lord Thorpe, I don’t know any of your peers of the realm, so their respectability is unknown to me. I’ve heard stories of some of the doings of so-called noblemen, and it’s not what would be called suitable in America. The Hellfire Club, gaming hells, houses of—”

“Miss Ward!” Lord Thorpe looked shocked. “You can’t believe that I would take your niece to such places!”

Alexandra wasn’t sure whether his dismay came from the idea that her aunt thought him capable of such ungentlemanly actions or because she so bluntly brought up the subject.

“Too bad,” Alexandra interjected lightly. “They sound terribly fascinating, I must say.”

“Miss Ward.” Thorpe jumped to his feet, relief spreading across his face.

“Good evening.”

“You look—”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow as he paused. “I hope you are not going to say ‘like a country bumpkin.’”

“No, indeed. It is simply that you render me speechless.” His gray eyes shone in the candlelight as they drifted involuntarily down the front of her body, taking in the curves to which the rose satin clung. “You look stunning. I fear you will cast our London beauties into the shade.”

Alexandra chuckled. “Very pretty words, my lord, but I am not so naïve as to believe that.” She turned toward Hortense. “Good night, Aunt. I am going to take your victim away from you.”

“Victim!” Aunt Hortense assumed a look of great offense. “I was merely looking out for my niece’s best interests.”

“Your aunt is a very careful woman,” Thorpe remarked politely. “You are quite rightly cherished.”

Alexandra grinned. “You see, Aunt Hortense, how polite he is.”

A servant brought her Paisley shawl, which Thorpe took and draped across her shoulders with a courtly air. The brush of his fingertips against her bare arms sent a tingle through Alexandra, intensified when he leaned in to murmur, “It seems a shame to cover up such beauty.”

Alexandra ignored the little thrum that started along her nerves and smiled at him. “It is a lovely dress.”

“It was not the dress of which I spoke.” His gaze dropped significantly, if fleetingly, to the expanse of bosom that swelled above the square-cut neckline.

Alexandra wrapped the shawl more tightly around her, covering the swell of her breasts. “I think it’s time to leave,” she said repressively. “Good night, Aunt.”

She smiled across the room at her aunt, who was glowering suspiciously at their whispered conversation. Lord Thorpe sent the other woman a polite bow, and they left the room.

Outside, he helped her into the same elegant carriage that had taken her home this afternoon, and they settled across from each other on the plush seats.

“I was beginning to fear that your aunt was about to question me about my intentions toward you,” Thorpe said dryly.

“I am sure she would have, given enough time. Her first concern, of course, was the wickedness of the place you were taking me. Aunt Hortense has a collection of stories of what has happened to innocent girls in the Babylon of London.”

“I don’t doubt that. What intrigued me was why she presumed I was going to introduce you to these evils.”

“That is easy,” Alexandra replied with an impish grin. “The English are given to wicked pursuits, but those who are most given to them are English noblemen, who, apparently, spend most of their time abducting or seducing innocent maidens.”

“Indeed? I suspect that abducting you would prove to be a tiresome experience, so I must stick to seduction.” His sensual mouth curved up in a way that made Alexandra’s heart pound.

“Indeed?” Alexandra smiled, striving to keep her voice light. “I’m afraid you might find that experience equally tiresome.”

“Oh, no.” His eyes glittered in the dim light. “Lengthy, perhaps, but never tiresome, I assure you.”

Alexandra’s mouth went dry, and she had to glance away from his gaze. She looked out from beneath the rolled-up curtain of the carriage window, watching the houses go by as she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Why did this man have such a strange effect on her?

After two blocks, the carriage turned and joined a long line of carriages stretching down the block. At the front of the line stood a house ablaze with lights.

“Is that where we are going?” Alexandra asked in some astonishment.

“Yes. Why?”

“But it—it can’t be more than four blocks from my house.”

“Probably.” He looked at her, faintly puzzled.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to walk?” She looked at the stalled line of carriages again. “Faster, too?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then why did we take the carriage?”

He smiled. “It wouldn’t do to be seen arriving on foot, my dear Miss Ward—as if one didn’t own a carriage.”

Alexandra gazed at him for a moment, unsure whether he was joking. “That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a balmy night, the distance is short, and in a carriage we will have to wait substantially longer. Yet we don’t walk because it would look wrong?”

His eyes danced. “I think that about sums it up.”

“I presume it would be too gauche for words to get out of the carriage now and walk the rest of the way instead of sitting inside it for twenty minutes.”

He nodded. “Decidedly déclassé.”

She shook her head. “Sometimes I think my aunt is right.”

“What? That we English are all debauched?”

“No. That the nobility are rather absurd.”

“Absurd? I have never heard that one. Arrogant, yes, prodigal, yes, impractical and even decadent. But absurd?”

“Of course. It’s too silly a concept to be taken seriously. What else would you call a system where the wealthiest and most highly regarded people have done nothing to earn their position but are there simply because they are descendants of other people?”

“Family is often considered a good indication of character, I believe. Do you have no regard for bloodlines? For what is passed from one generation to the next? Do you not believe that families instill their values in their offspring, and so on and so on, for generations?”

Alexandra felt a slight chill run down her spine at his mention of bloodlines. She wondered what he would think if he knew what sort of mother she had and what she might have passed on to her daughter.

“Family is an indication of character, yes, and certainly there are families who instill courage and honesty and all sorts of commendable traits in their children. My point, however, is that in England it doesn’t matter whether one’s family is good or bad, but simply what one’s family name is.”

“Are there no leading families in America?”

“Of course there are, but at least they have done something to earn it. They have worked hard, built up wealth, been educated or simply been honest, decent people.”

“But let us say one’s grandfather did that. His descendant today is regarded highly because of who his grandfather is. Isn’t that right?”

“Sometimes.”

“It is the same principle. It is just that with us the ancestors were farther in the past.”

“What did they do to deserve their titles to begin with?” Alexandra asked tartly. “Wage war? Take lands from others who were not as strong?”

“Service to King and country,” he countered.

“Ha! Catering to the whims of another man who is revered solely because of his ancestors!”

Thorpe let out a short bark of laughter. “I am looking forward to this evening! I can just imagine what furors your conversation will stir up.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you invited me? To stir up a social tempest?”

“No. That is simply an added benefit.”

Alexandra studied him for a moment. “Why did you ask me?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Thorpe admitted. “I think because you intrigue me.” He paused, then asked, “Why did you agree to come with me?”

A smile curved Alexandra’s lips as she said, “Perhaps for the same reason.”

They inched their way along the line until their carriage was at last in front of the door. They climbed down and followed the family in front of them across the red runner laid over the front steps and through the imposing double front doors, held open by two liveried footmen.

They stepped into an entry hall that was, by any standards, grandiose. Black and white marble tiles checker-boarded the floor, and the walls rose to the second floor. It was large enough to fight a pitched battle in, Alexandra thought. At the far end a double staircase curved upward, the mahogany balustrades twined with masses of white flowers. Candles burned in a multitude of wall sconces and struck sparks off the glass drops of two enormous chandeliers, casting soft prisms of light over the people. Huge portraits of people in various styles of dress hung around the walls of the entry room. In the place of honor hung an enormous portrait of a bay horse.

“Where are we?” Alexandra asked, glancing around the room, aware of an unaccustomed feeling of awe.

“This is Carrington House, the town house of the Duke of Moncourt. That is the second Duke’s favorite mount,” he added, noticing the direction of her gaze. “It’s said that he ordered the painter to make sure that its portrait was twice as large as that of his wife.”

“What an odd man.” Alexandra’s gaze went from the surroundings to the people going in a line up the graceful staircase, to where a couple waited at the top to greet them. The woman was dressed all in black, with diamonds around her neck and arms and a diamond spray in her hair. “Obviously this Duke must value his wife more.”

She nodded toward the bejeweled woman.

“Ah, yes. The Carrington diamonds. Been in the family for centuries. This Duchess had the temerity to have the earrings reset. The Dowager Duchess hasn’t stopped talking about it yet.”

Alexandra could see that she had been right when she had assumed that most of the women here would be dressed more elegantly than she. Lace, satin and velvet were everywhere, sewn in the latest styles by London’s most fashionable modistes. Jewels winked at ears and throats. Hair was curled and upswept, decorated with roses, feathers, jewels, combs. It was, Alexandra thought, the most breathtaking display of extravagant beauty that she had ever seen.

She was therefore rather surprised to realize, after they had passed through the receiving line and gone into the ballroom, that she was the woman who was the most at the center of stares. She was too busy for a few minutes looking around at the mirrored and gilt walls and the crush of people to notice the whispers and the sidelong looks. Finally, however, she did. Alexandra shifted uneasily and glanced at Thorpe. He was gazing coolly across the room, seemingly oblivious to the small ripples they created wherever they went.

“Lord Thorpe,” she whispered. “What is going on?”

“What do you mean?” He glanced at her with polite inquiry.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it. People keep looking at us. They’re whispering.” She heard with a little chill the eerie echo of her mother’s words, but she shoved the thought aside. This was entirely different.

“I would think you would be accustomed to that. It is often the fate of beautiful young women.”

“Don’t be obtuse. I look the same as I always do, and I am not usually talked about.”

He cast her a wry look. “With your tongue? You must give me leave to doubt that.”

“Rudeness is not called for.”

He smiled. “Whatever you may think, Miss Ward, you are unusually attractive.” He cast a look at her smooth, sculptured face, the dark glowing eyes, the thick mass of dark hair that made her head look too heavy for the fragile support of her slender white neck.

“There are many women in this room just as pretty as I and doubtless others who are prettier.”

“But none as…arresting.” She was tall and statuesque among a ballroom of dainty women, vibrantly black-haired among a plethora of sweet-faced blondes. Alexandra Ward was different. Thorpe felt sure that there were as many biting comments being made about her as there were admiring. But whatever the words, they came because it was impossible not to notice her.

“Bosh,” Alexandra retorted rudely. “Actually, I think they are looking at you.”

“I am not a usual guest at such events,” Thorpe admitted. “The London social world is such a stagnant pond that even so small an event as my appearing at a party will cause a ripple. When I appear with a stunning beauty on my arm, and no one has the least idea who she is, the ripple turns into a wave.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Sebastian!” As if to prove his point, a man’s deep voice rang out, and they turned to see a large, broad-shouldered man shoving his way through the crowd toward them, a fragile-looking beauty walking with him, her hand tucked into his arm. “What the devil are you doing here? Beg pardon, ma’am, Nicola.” He nodded toward Alexandra, then glanced at his companion, who smiled with easy grace, obviously used to the man’s unbridled speech.

“Hello, Bucky,” Thorpe answered. “I had an invitation, actually, so I came.”

“Not like you, old fellow,” the man whom Thorpe had called Bucky responded cheerfully. He had an open, pleasant sort of face, with wide-set blue eyes that looked out on the world with an expression of vague bonhomie. “Everyone’s wondering what brought you out.” He smiled at Alexandra. “And who your lovely companion is.”

“It always astonishes me how interested everyone is in my comings and goings, considering that I scarcely know half the people at this gathering.”

“That’s what happens when you’re marriageable.” Bucky shrugged. “They’ve been after me for years, and I’m nothing but a Baron.”

“Ah,” the willowy blonde with him said, smiling and casting a significant look at Lord Thorpe. “But you are a man of charm, Buckminster, which gives you a certain advantage over others.”

“Nicola, you wound me,” Thorpe said, looking anything but hurt. “I’m sorry. Allow me to introduce you to Miss Alexandra Ward. Miss Ward is visiting from the United States. Miss Ward, this is Lord Buckminster and his cousin, Miss Nicola Falcourt.”

“How do you do?” Nicola said, smiling at Alexandra, and Alexandra decided that her initial impression of the woman as fragile was wrong. It was her slenderness and pale beauty that made her look deceptively frail, but in her eyes and warm smile, Alexandra sensed a definite strength.

“An American, eh?” Lord Buckminster repeated with affable astonishment, as if he had never expected to meet such a person. “Pleased to meet you. However do you know Thorpe?”

“She is a friend of the family,” Thorpe said smoothly before Alexandra could open her mouth to explain the relationship. She shot him an odd look, but said nothing.

When, after a few more pleasantries, the couple moved on, Alexandra turned to him, eyebrows soaring. “A friend of the family? Afraid everyone will shun you for associating with someone in trade?”

“Since I rarely seek out anyone’s company, the prospect of being shunned scarcely frightens me,” Thorpe retorted. “I was trying to shield you a bit from the gossip.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“An apology? I am shocked.” He held out his arm toward her, crooked at the elbow. “Shall we stroll around and let everyone look their fill at us?”

Alexandra smiled. “All right.”

She tucked her hand in his arm. They had taken only a few steps when a man turned away from a knot of people, almost running into them. He stopped abruptly and stared at Alexandra. It seemed to her as if for an instant he turned deathly pale. He looked at her for a full beat, then drew in a breath, the color returning to his face.

“Lord Thorpe,” the man said stiffly. “I’m sorry. I was—a trifle startled to see you.”

“Lord Exmoor.” Thorpe nodded briefly at the man, his face carefully devoid of expression. Alexandra, feeling the tensing of his muscle beneath her hand, glanced at him. He did not like this man, Alexandra thought, though she was not sure how she knew.

Intrigued by the change in attitude that she felt in Lord Thorpe, Alexandra looked with interest at the stranger. He was tall and slender, with light brown hair and eyes a hazel color. Wings of silver ran from his temples. Everything about him was long and angular, from his hands to his narrow nose to the careful eyes beneath his straight eyebrows.

Lord Exmoor returned her gaze inquiringly, and Thorpe, with a sigh, went on. “Miss Ward, allow me to introduce you to the Earl of Exmoor. Lord Exmoor, Alexandra Ward.”

“How do you do?” Alexandra nodded politely toward him.

“Are you an American?” Exmoor asked.

“Yes.”

“How interesting. I thought I detected it in your speech. You are here visiting relatives?”

“No. I have no relatives in England,” Alexandra replied, finding that she had little desire to tell the man anything about herself. “I am traveling with my mother and my aunt.”

“Ah. I see. I hope you are enjoying your visit.”

“Very much, thank you.”

“I had no idea you knew anyone from the United States, Thorpe,” Exmoor went on.

“I am sure that I have many acquaintances about which you know nothing, Lord Exmoor.”

“Yes. No doubt.” He sketched a bow toward them. “Good evening. It was nice to meet you, Miss Ward. I look forward to running into you again.”

He turned and walked away. Alexandra glanced at her companion. “Why don’t you like him?”

Thorpe looked at her coolly. “Exmoor? What makes you say that?”

Alexandra raised a sardonic brow. “I was standing right here. Even one as ignorant as I of the behavior of the English nobility could tell that you were nothing more than polite to him.”

Thorpe shrugged. “We are not friends,” he said carefully. “We are not enemies, either. Merely two people who are not interested in extending our acquaintanceship. Now…would you care to dance?”

It was hardly a subtle change of subject. Alexandra felt that there must be more to the story, but she let him lead her onto the dance floor without protest. The waltz began, and they swept around the ballroom with the other dancers in time to the music. Alexandra’s hand rested lightly in Thorpe’s; his other hand was at her waist. It was quite proper, yet a little titillating, too, to be standing so close to him, gazing into his eyes only inches from hers, feeling the heat of his hand at her waist, as if at any moment he might pull her tightly against him.

Alexandra wondered how he felt about her. It was not a question that normally concerned her. She was sure of her own worth, and while men usually were attracted by her beauty, it did not worry her if they were equally dismayed by her brains or bluntness. But this time, it did matter, just as this time she found his nearness, his touch, his smile, all disconcerting.

After the waltz, Alexandra danced with several other men, but she found them dull compared to Thorpe. She was relieved when Thorpe reclaimed her after the cotillion and escorted her to the informal supper on the floor below. Alexandra sat in a chair against the wall while Thorpe went to get plates of food for them. She started to protest that she was quite capable of getting her own food, but she saw that most of the other couples were doing the same thing, and she decided to say nothing. It seemed remarkably silly to her, but the English were attached to their customs.

As she sat, idly watching the other people in the large room, she noticed that a woman across the room was watching her. She was a small woman, even delicate, and that image was amplified by the gauzy, floating dress she wore. She was quite beautiful, with fair skin and golden hair. Alexandra wondered who she was and what she found so interesting about her.

The woman cast a quick look at the buffet tables, where Thorpe stood, then floated—there was no other word for the graceful, dainty way she walked—over to where Alexandra sat. Alexandra watched her approach with interest. As she drew nearer, Alexandra could see that the woman was older than she had initially thought, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth and a certain brassiness to the gold in her hair that Alexandra thought betokened the touch of something other than Nature. Still, she was lovely in a cool, elegant way.

“I see Thorpe has taken you up,” she said without preamble.

“I beg your pardon?” Alexandra looked at her in surprise. Did the woman not realize how rude she sounded?

“They say you are an American,” the woman went on, ignoring Alexandra’s comment.

“Yes, I am. What does—”

“Then you obviously don’t know about his reputation.”

“Lord Thorpe’s?”

“Of course,” the woman answered impatiently. “Mamas keep close watch on their daughters when Sebastian is around.”

This woman must know him well to refer to him casually by his given name, Alexandra reasoned. She had discovered that the British were amazingly formal about such things.

“They do so with good reason,” the woman went on, her blue eyes frosty.

“And what is that reason?” Alexandra asked, matching the freezing tone of the other woman’s voice.

The woman gave a small, twisted smile. “Ah, I can see that he has already worked his spell on you. Just take my word for it—he is well-known for his seductions.”

“I am surprised that he is received in polite society, then.”

“Money and a title have an amazing power to make up for all sins.”

“Lady Pencross.” Both women, engrossed in their conversation, started and glanced up at the sound of a masculine voice a few feet from them.

It was Lord Thorpe, and his eyes were fixed on Alexandra’s visitor. His face held no emotion, but the tone of his voice was as unyielding as iron. A little shiver ran down Alexandra’s spine. She would not relish having Thorpe look at her in that way.

“Sebastian.” Lady Pencross opened her eyes a little wider, her mouth turning down in a hurt way. “You don’t sound pleased to see me.”

“I doubt you are surprised,” Thorpe replied dryly. “I am sure you have business somewhere else, don’t you?”

Alexandra drew in a sharp breath at his blatant rudeness. The blond woman’s eyes flashed, and for an instant Alexandra thought she was going to lash back with something venomous, but then she merely smiled and moved away.

“Another person with whom you are not interested in extending your acquaintanceship?” Alexandra asked lightly.

Thorpe, who had turned to watch the woman walk away, swiveled to Alexandra. His eyes were dark, his face etched in bitter lines. He looked at Alexandra for a moment, then relaxed, letting out a little laugh. “Yes. Lady Pencross and I have had far too much acquaintanceship as it is.”

Alexandra was filled with curiosity about the incident, particularly what had caused the ill will between the lady and Thorpe, but, infuriatingly, Thorpe did not elaborate on the matter. He seemed to shrug it off, handing Alexandra her plate and sitting beside her.

“I hope I did not keep you waiting too long,” he said. “The tables were rather busy.”

“No. I was well entertained.”

He glanced at her sharply. “Did Lady Pencross disturb you?”

“No. Not disturb, precisely. She was, ah, concerned about my virtue in your company.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Trust me, she is not disturbed about anyone’s virtue, especially her own. I would not refine too much on what Lady Pencross says.”

“I won’t. I am well able to make up my own mind.”

Thorpe looked at her, a smile beginning in his eyes. “Of course. How could I have forgotten that?”

They ate their food, a delicious repast that had Alexandra regretting the supper she had eaten earlier, and occupied their time with discussing the various people around them. Thorpe knew most of them and their foibles, and painted them with an acid wit that kept Alexandra chuckling.

“How hard you are on your peers,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I am a mere novice compared to many of them. Malice and vitriol are the oils that keep the ton running.” He set aside their plates. “Are you ready to return to the dancing?”

“Of course. It will be much more enjoyable watching everyone now that I know all their secrets.”

“You have barely scratched the surface, my dear girl.”

They left the room and made their way to the stairs, but Alexandra paused to look at some of the paintings that hung on the walls of the huge entry hall.

“That is the present Duke’s mother,” Thorpe told her, pointing to a picture of a woman with her arms around a young girl and two toy spaniels at their feet. “Painted by Gainsborough.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“He has some fine art, nearly all portraits, of course—that is what the former Duke valued in art.”

“His favorite, doubtless, was the horse.” Alexandra nodded toward the massive portrait of the animal that she had noticed when they first walked in.

“Definitely. Would you like to see some of the other things?”

“Why, yes, if you think it would be all right.”

“I’m sure of it.” He guided her up the stairs and away from the ballroom, heading down the long gallery. Just past the stand of armor began a row of portraits, many dark with age.

“Why, this looks like—”

Thorpe nodded. “A Holbein. It is of Isabella Moncourt, the lovely young wife of the then Marquess of Moncourt. The young woman met an untimely end.”

Alexandra eyes widened. “Really? She was murdered?”

Thorpe shrugged. “Who knows? She died young—a fall down the stairs one night. Murder was definitely rumored—a charge the Moncourts vehemently deny to this day. But it is said that she had caught the eye of one of the Howards. And her husband was known to be a jealous man.”

“Caught his eye? That was all? Why didn’t the husband kill the Howard, then? It sounds to me as if he were more at fault.”

Thorpe chuckled. “No one even knows if it is true. But if it is, I would guess that the lady was not entirely blameless.”

They continued along the hallway, peering to see the portraits in the light of the wall sconces. “I would love to see them by day,” Alexandra commented.

“I can show you an even better collection another day, if you’d like.”

“Your family’s ancestors?”

“No. My family’s art, such as it is, is primarily at the estate in the country. I spend little time there. And my house, as you know, is given over to ‘heathen art,’ as Lady Ursula has told me.”

“Who?”

“The daughter of a very good friend of mine. I hope you will be able to meet her tonight.”

“Lady Ursula?”

“No, although I dare swear we will be unable to avoid that if the Countess is here. But it is the Countess I want you to meet.”

“She is someone special to you?”

Thorpe nodded. “Yes. Her grandson and I were friends at school, and I often visited with them. The Countess was—Well, let’s just say I found more understanding and love there than was ever at my home. Sometimes I feel that she is almost my mother—or grandmother.”

“I look forward to meeting her, then.”

They reached the end of the gallery and turned to look back down the empty hallway. There was a pool of darkness at the end of the long corridor, the golden circles of light cast by the wall sconces ending several steps before them.

Alexandra turned, her eyes going to Thorpe’s. His face was shadowed, but the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. Her breath caught in her throat. Was he going to kiss her? He took a step toward her. She knew that if she turned away, it would break the moment, and he would not touch her. But she found that she had no interest in turning away. She waited, her eyes locked on his.

He smiled faintly as he reached out and brushed his knuckles down her cheek. “You intrigue me, Miss Ward.”

“Indeed?” Alexandra struggled to keep her voice light, even though the whisper-light touch of his skin upon hers made her blood race. “Is this your common practice with women who intrigue you, my lord? To lure them down dark, deserted corridors on the pretext of showing them art?”

His eyes danced. “’Twas no pretext. We have been looking at art. And you are free to go any time you wish. I am not holding you here.”

Alexandra could feel the pulse pounding in her throat, the heat rising in her face. She did not move.

A smile touched his lips, and his hand moved to cup the back of her neck. She watched him, her breath coming faster in her throat as he leaned in. She had no thought of scandal or propriety, only of the fact that she wanted to feel his kiss. She turned her face to him.

His lips were soft and hot on hers, and she shivered a little at the new sensation. Only one man had ever tried to kiss her on the mouth, and his wet, inebriated kiss had felt nothing like this. She had given that man a good, hard shove, and he had ended up sitting on his backside in the snow. This time, however, she had no desire to push Thorpe away.

Little tendrils of sensation darted through her, raising tingles and heat throughout her body and a sudden strange weakness in her knees. She leaned in, her hands going up to grasp his lapels for support, for she felt as if her legs might give way beneath her. She heard Thorpe’s breath draw in sharply at her movement, and his arms slid around her, pulling her tightly into him. His body was deliciously hard against her softness, pressing into her all up and down. Their mouths blended; their arms sought to pull each other closer and closer still; their skin surged with heat.

Alexandra was lost in the experience, dazzled and dazed. Her flesh quivered, and blood pooled in her loins, throbbing and heated. There was an ache between her legs, and her breasts felt swollen and tender, her nipples hardening.

His tongue swept her mouth, exploring and arousing her. Alexandra moaned, clinging to him, as she tentatively answered with her own tongue. Thorpe made a noise deep in his throat, and his hands moved down her back and onto the rounded flesh of her buttocks. His fingers dug into the firm mounds, lifting her up and into him. She could feel the ridge of his desire against her, hard and insistent, and somehow the knowledge of his hunger for her aroused her even more.

Finally Thorpe raised his head and looked at her, his face flushed, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “Good God! I had not meant—”

Alexandra gazed at him, stunned momentarily into speechlessness. Her thoughts tumbled crazily, scattered by the tumult of sensations coursing through her.

“This is far too public a place,” he said finally. He drew a deep breath and stepped back, his arms falling away from her. He glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see that the corridor was still empty. “I do not want either of us to be fodder for the rumor mill.”

“What do you want?” Alexandra asked, the first words that came into her mind.

The sensual curve of his mouth as he smiled was answer enough. “You must know what I want.”

“Indeed. I think I have some idea.” Alexandra struggled to pull herself together. She was well aware of what he wanted; the same desire was pounding through her veins. Keeping her virtue had never been a difficult decision before; indeed, it had not required any thought at all. She had never felt tempted to give it up. Now, for the first time, she had to struggle to make the right decision. “You, I take it, do not have honorable intentions.”

Thorpe smiled sardonically. “My dear Miss Ward, my intentions are rarely honorable. Surely someone must have told you that by now.”

“It has been mentioned to me that you have…something of a reputation.”

“You put it delicately.” He crossed his arms. “The truth is, I am scandalous, Miss Ward. I am considered a roué. While I am welcome husband material, having a fortune, I must be watched at all times by any young girl’s chaperone.”

“You are in the habit of seducing young girls?” Alexandra asked, her back stiffening. Could it really be true that he vilely preyed on innocent maidens? That he sought out and seduced vulnerable girls whose heads were easily turned by a man of looks and fortune?

“No. I am not. I find simpering young debutantes deadly dull. There are many mamas who would love to think that I covet their darlings’ virtue, but I rarely find virtue interesting. Nor am I interested in tricking a woman of any age or amount of innocence into my bed.”

“Then what do you seek, if I may ask?”

“A night of pleasure with a woman who knows what she wants.”

“I see. Love, I take it, plays no part in your plan.”

His lip curled slightly. “Love, Miss Ward, is a notion for young fools, neither of which I am any longer.”

Any longer. “I see,” Alexandra said again, thinking that indeed she did. Thorpe’s words were bitter, not indifferent, the words not of a man who had no use for love but of one who had been disappointed in it. “So you are offering me a brief, loveless moment of mating? I must say, it seems hard to turn down.”

Her words surprised a grin from him. “You have a way with words. I would hope it is not exactly that.” He reached out and looped a single finger through hers—the briefest of touches, yet it sent heat shimmering through her. “I would say a time of passion, hopefully not brief, a mutual sharing of pleasure between adults without any efforts to control or gain an advantage.”

Alexandra looked down, smoothing her skirt. “I fear you must think I am someone other than who I am.”

“Are you going to tell me that you are a conventional shrinking maiden?” he asked, humor lacing his voice. “My dear woman, I just kissed you. I would have to differ.”

She raised her eyes, looking at him in her usual honest way. “I would be a fool to deny what I felt. And I realize that I am rather unconventional in many of the things I do. Nor am I a young girl. I am twenty-four years old and used to making decisions.”

“I am quite aware of that.”

“However, I think you seek a woman of experience.”

His eyes seemed suddenly to burn hotter. “And you are not?”

“Not of the sort I believe you require.”

“Excuse me. I had thought—when I kissed you—”

Alexandra blushed. “I am sorry to disappoint you.”

He smiled slowly. “Oh, no, you did not disappoint me. But I can see now that I rushed my fences. I am not usually so foolish.” He took her hand and raised it formally to his lips. “My dear Miss Ward, please forgive my importunities. I can see that we need to take our time.”

“Then you are setting out to seduce me?” Alexandra asked curiously.

“If you mean to trick you into my bed, no,” he replied. He kissed each of her fingers lightly on the tip as he went on. “But to supply you with the information you need to make a decision, yes. As a businesswoman, I am sure that you would appreciate the distinction.”

A laugh burst from Alexandra. “You are clever, my lord. But I think we are miles apart. I, you see, believe in love. Without it, passion is a hollow pleasure.”

“This, I believe, is an argument we shall have ample time to discuss,” he said, a sensual smile playing on his lips. “In the meantime, perhaps we should return to the party. Otherwise tongues will indeed be wagging.”

He offered her his arm, and Alexandra slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. They strolled down the hallway to the ballroom.

They had just stepped into the room when Thorpe’s gaze lit on a group of people, and he smiled with satisfaction. “Ah. There she is.”

“Who?” Alexandra turned and looked in the direction of his gaze, her curiosity aroused.

He was looking at a group of four people who were chatting with Nicola Falcourt. There was a balding, plump man, rather ordinary-looking, and beside him a formidable middle-aged woman in deep royal blue. She was squarely built with a jutting bosom like the prow of a ship. A young slip of girl was with them, colorless in a maidenly white dress. Her hair was a nondescript brown, and Alexandra could not tell the color of her eyes, for they were hidden behind spectacles. The last member of the party, who was bending to kiss Nicola’s cheek, was, in Alexandra’s view, the most interesting. She was older than the formidable woman, but infinitely more attractive and intriguing. There was the air about her of a woman who had always been attractive to men, a certain confidence of carriage, a poise and even a hint of flirtatiousness as she smiled. She was tall and slender, with a mass of white hair, and her blue eyes, hooded by age, were still keen and twinkling with amusement.

“The elegant lady in gray and silver crepe?” Alexandra asked Thorpe. “Is she your Countess?”

Thorpe smiled fondly. “Yes. She is indeed my Countess.”

They started across the room toward the group. Thorpe said as they walked, “Her granddaughter, Penelope, is a pleasant girl, but don’t expect much from Lady Ursula. She was never fond of me—always thought I was a bad influence on her son, Artie.”

“And were you?”

“Doubtless,” he responded, smiling. “But, then, Artie desperately needed a bad influence. Poor lad, he grew quite dull after I left.”

They drew close to the group. Lady Ursula turned and saw them, and her mouth drew up like a prune. “Thorpe,” she said without enthusiasm.

The Countess turned at her daughter’s words, smiling brilliantly. “Thorpe! How wonderful to see you.” She held out her hands to him. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Thorpe stepped forward, between Alexandra and the older woman. He took the Countess’s hands and raised them to his lips. “My lady. I, on the other hand, had hoped that I would find you here. There is someone I would like you to meet.”

He stepped aside at his words, holding out a hand toward Alexandra. She moved toward them. “Countess, allow me to intro—”

The Countess looked beyond him to Alexandra, and the blood drained from her face. “Simone!”

She crumpled to the floor.




CHAPTER FOUR


FOR AN INSTANT THE GROUP WAS FROZEN in horror, staring at the Countess in a heap of silver gauze upon the floor.

“Countess!” Thorpe moved first, going down on one knee and gently lifting her upper torso from the floor, his arm around her shoulders.

“Mother!” Lady Ursula declared in startled accents. “Good God, why did she—” She bent over her mother. “Is she all right?”

Thorpe felt the older woman’s pulse. “I think she just fainted. Let’s get her out of here.”

“Yes, of course.” Ursula glanced uneasily around at the room, where faces were turning curiously toward them.

Thorpe put his other arm under the Countess’s knees and stood up, lifting her easily.

“What made her say that name? It’s so bizarre.” She turned to look accusingly at Alexandra, as if somehow the incident were her fault. She stopped in midsentence, staring at Alexandra. “Good God!”

Alexandra gazed at her wonderingly. The other woman whirled abruptly and hurried after Thorpe.

“Wait here.” Thorpe tossed the words over his shoulder toward Alexandra, and then he was gone, striding out the door with Lady Ursula, her husband and her daughter scurrying after him like a flock of agitated chickens.

Nicola and Alexandra turned toward each other in astonishment.

“How extraordinary,” Nicola commented. “I’ve known the Countess all my life, and I’ve never seen her faint. She’s a very strong woman.”

“She seemed to, ah, find the sight of me disturbing.”

“I am sure it wasn’t that,” Nicola reassured her.

Alexandra, however, was not so sure. Lady Ursula had reacted strongly to the sight of her, as well, even though she had not fainted. “Why do you think she said that name? Was she calling me Simone?”

“I don’t know. Why would she call you that?”

Alexandra shook her head. “Perhaps I reminded her of someone?”

Nicola shrugged gracefully. “I don’t know of anyone named Simone among our acquaintances. It sounds French, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

Alexandra glanced to the side and saw a man making his way purposefully toward them. It was the Earl of Exmoor, to whom Thorpe had introduced her earlier in the evening. Nicola let out what sounded very much like a curse beneath her breath.

“I hope there was nothing wrong with the Countess,” the man said smoothly as he joined them.

“I am sure she will be all right,” Nicola said coolly. “No doubt it was the heat of the room.”

“Mm. I am sure you are right. The Countess is getting a trifle advanced in years, perhaps, to be attending such a crush.”

“You make her sound as if she were feeble, Richard. She’s a strong, vibrant woman.”

“My dear sister, I meant no insult to the woman. She is a remarkable woman, and I admire her tremendously.”

“I am not your sister.”

Alexandra glanced at Nicola, recognizing the iron in her voice. Thorpe’s earlier coolness toward this man was as nothing compared to Nicola’s obvious dislike.

“Come, come, Nicola, you will give our visitor here the wrong impression.”

“If I have given her the impression that I do not like you, then it is a very accurate one.”

Alexandra was impressed. Nicola might look as fragile as a flower, but her backbone was obviously made of steel. She stood facing the man, her body stiff, her arms rigid at her sides, her eyes flashing.

Exmoor made a wry face, looking at Alexandra. “I am sorry, Miss Ward. Miss Falcourt and I have the problem of perhaps being too close.”

His words seemed deliberately suggestive, and the look he shot Nicola was challenging.

Nicola answered by curling her lip into a sneer. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Exmoor.” She turned toward Alexandra. “Please excuse me, Miss Ward.”

“Of course.” She watched the other woman walk away. Then she turned toward the Earl. He certainly did not seem to be a popular man.

He shrugged and smiled. “Nicola and I have always had our little disagreements. Still, we are family.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Her sister is my wife.”

“Oh.” Alexandra was taken aback. There was certainly no love lost between these in-laws.

“Perhaps that explains her antipathy toward me. She and Deborah were quite close growing up. It can often cause jealousy in a younger sister when the older one marries.”

“I suppose it can,” Alexandra replied noncommittally.

“What happened to the Countess?” he asked, abruptly reverting to his earlier subject. “It looked as if she fell.”

“I believe she fainted.”

He frowned. “I trust she was not ill.” He glanced toward the door. “Perhaps I should go see about her.”

“Lord Thorpe and her daughter are with her. I am sure that they will see that she is taken care of.”

“Do you, uh, know the Countess?” he asked.

“No. That is, I just met her.”

“I see. Remarkable woman. Quite a beauty in her day, I understand.”

“I’m sure she was.”

He continued making polite chitchat. Alexandra supposed that the Earl felt he must keep her company since Nicola had left. However, she soon grew tired of the insipid conversation about her life in America and her visit to England. As soon as she could politely take her leave of him, she did so. She strolled around the room for a while, but she soon grew bored with that. She knew no one there except Nicola, and while she liked her, Alexandra felt that she could not hang upon Nicola’s skirts all evening like a lost child. Quite frankly, without Thorpe’s presence, the gathering had lost most of its appeal. She wondered when he would be returning and whether the Countess was all right. Finally she went in search of the group.

She could not find them outside the doors of the ballroom or in the entry hall. When she asked one of the numerous footmen if he had seen Lord Thorpe, he informed her that he had left with the Countess of Exmoor and her group.

Alexandra’s first thought was that he had abandoned her, and she felt a flash of hurt. But she reminded herself that he had told her to wait as he was leaving, and that must have meant that he intended to return. She sighed. She had little interest in hanging about here being bored until Thorpe came back for her. Surely she could leave by herself and go home. After all, it had been only a short distance from her house to this one, a matter of mere blocks, and she was certain that she could find her way. She could walk it easily.

The idea of going home and indulging in a cup of hot cocoa and going to bed grew more and more appealing. Her feet hurt; she was bored; she felt like a fool standing around in the front hall. She made up her mind, then sent one of the footmen for her Paisley shawl. She wrapped it around her shoulders and walked out of the front door, ignoring the rather shocked expression of the footman. Doubtless properly brought up Englishwomen did not walk home from a party, she thought, but Alexandra had little patience for such foolish rules.

It was a pleasant walk. The May breeze still held a hint of coolness, but her shawl combated that. The evening was quiet, as it never was in the daytime. She was used to walking quite a bit back home, and she realized that she had missed it.

She crossed the street and started up the block toward her house. There was the sound of footsteps behind her, walking rapidly. They were gaining on her, and for the first time, she felt a bit of unease. She reassured herself that this part of town was quite safe, but nevertheless, she picked up her pace. Suddenly the sound of the steps stopped. She turned around, surprised, and suddenly a figure burst out from the shrubbery behind her and launched himself at her. They tumbled to the pavement.

Alexandra let out a shriek before he covered her mouth with one hand. They rolled across the ground, grappling, until finally he succeeded in wrapping his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. He stood up, jerking her to her feet.

“Dammit! You virago!” he whispered, holding her immobilized from behind. “Go back where you came from. You understand?” He shook her a little.

Alexandra kicked back, the heel of her slipper connecting hard with his shin. The man let out a grunt of surprise and pain, and his arm slackened around her. Alexandra pulled away from him, and he grabbed her, catching her sleeve. It ripped, tearing her dress loose at the shoulder and leaving him with only a sleeve in his hand as she raced away.

Alexandra ran toward her house, screaming, as the front door opened and two footmen stuck curious heads out. They goggled at the sight of Alexandra running toward them. Aunt Hortense pushed them out of her way as she ran onto the front stoop.

“Alexandra!” She hurried toward her niece, holding up her lamp to see, and the two footmen, embarrassed, came running out, too.

Behind her, Alexandra heard her attacker take off in the opposite direction. She swung around to see the dark figure receding down the street. The two footmen gave chase but gave up by the end of the block.

“Alexandra! Child! What happened?” Aunt Hortense wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Did that Englishman attack you?”

Alexandra smiled a little at her aunt’s warlike expression. “No, Auntie. That is, I suspect it must have been an Englishman, but not the Englishman you mean.”

“What happened? You’re all a mess.” Aunt Hortense led her into the house. “Your cheek is scratched.”

“I’m not surprised. Someone jumped out at me.” Alexandra shivered a little, suddenly cold in the aftermath of the excitement. Her nerves were jangled, and she felt stunned and rather fuzzy. Her cheek was beginning to sting, and she felt sore all up and down the front of her body where she had landed so hard on the pavement. Her dress was torn and dirty. She drew in a straggly breath and blinked away the tears that were threatening to pour out.

“Jumped out at you! Exactly where was that man who took you away from here?”

“You make it sound as if he abducted me.”

“I assumed, when he escorted you from your home, that he would return you safe and sound, not abandon you to be set upon by thieves.”

Aunt Hortense steered her into the nearest room, the formal drawing room, leading her toward the blue couch.

“He didn’t abandon me,” Alexandra retorted with irritation. “He had to leave, and I was bored, so I came home by myself. It was only a few blocks. I could easily walk it.”

“Ha! You obviously couldn’t,” her aunt pointed out. “I’d like to know what kind of man would just walk off and leave you at a party! Well, never mind that now,” she went on as Alexandra drew breath to argue. “Sit down here on the sofa. What you need is a stiff shot of brandy.”

Aunt Hortense looked around and caught sight of the clot of servants standing just outside the drawing room door. “You, there, what do you think you’re doing, standing about like a gapeseed? Go fetch your mistress a glass of brandy. The rest of you, take some lanterns and go check the street—make sure that scoundrel isn’t still out there.”

The servants scattered at her words. Aunt Hortense sighed. “No sense, the lot of them.”

There was a gasp at the door, and they turned toward it. Alexandra’s mother stood in the doorway, staring in horror at Alexandra.

“My baby!” she wailed. “What happened? Did they get you, too? Are they attacking us?”

She rushed into the room and dropped on her knees beside Alexandra. Tears gushed down her face as she patted ineffectually at Alexandra’s hair and arm and tried to wipe some of the dirt from her skirts. “Oh, my dear, oh, my dear,” she repeated over and over.

“Mother, it’s all right. No one is attacking us,” Alexandra said, trying to keep her voice soothing. Her mother’s light, frantic touch and words jarred her already frazzled nerves. “Really. It’s all right. It was just an accident. I fell.”

“No. No. They’re coming here. I know it. We have to flee. Get the carriage.”

Alexandra’s breath caught in her throat. The light in her mother’s eyes was alarming. She looked almost mad. “Mother, it’s all right. No one is coming to get us. We are fine. There are plenty of servants, and we are inside the house.”

“You don’t know! You don’t know!” Rhea’s voice rose in panic. “The servants will turn against us! We’ll be helpless!”

“Mama!” Alexandra gripped her mother’s arms. “It’s all right!”

Nancy, her mother’s companion, came hurrying into the room, her feet bare and her voluminous white cotton nightgown billowing around her. “Miz Rhea! There you are! I’m sorry.” Nancy cast an apologetic glance at Alexandra and Aunt Hortense. “I didn’t know she was up.”

She bent over Rhea Ward and pulled the hysterical woman to her feet, wrapping her arms around her in a hug that was both comforting and restraining. “There, there. Nothing’s going to happen to you or to any of us.”

“It’s not?” Rhea turned toward the other woman, hope dispelling some of the panic in her voice. “Truly?”

“I promise you. You know I wouldn’t let anybody hurt you.”

“But the mob—” She cast an eye agitatedly toward the front window.

“There’s no mob out there, ma’am. Listen. Do you hear a mob?”

Rhea paused, her head cocked, listening. “No.” A tremulous smile broke across her face. “You are right. They must have turned and gone somewhere else.”

“That’s it,” Nancy agreed soothingly. “Now, let’s you and I go back to bed.”

Rhea nodded and went along with her docilely.

“Nancy,” Aunt Hortense said as the two of them reached the door, “perhaps it would be best if you slept in Mrs. Ward’s room tonight.”

“Just what I was thinking, Miss Hortense. I’ll have someone set up a cot for me.”

Alexandra watched her mother leave with the servant, and tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Mother,” she breathed. She looked at her aunt. “What is the matter with her? What should we do?”

“She’ll be all right in the morning,” Aunt Hortense told her matter-of-factly. “You’ll see. The noise woke her up, and she got scared. Probably heard all the servants jabbering and running around.”

“But what was she talking about? Why did she think there was a mob?”

“Oh, that. She used to do that a lot when you were little. You just don’t remember. She would wake up from nightmares, terrified and talking about the mob coming to get her and you. It was that thing she went through in France, I think. That revolution, with all those people rioting and running around with torches pulling people out of their houses. Rhea never wanted to talk about it, but I think it scared her to death. She was afraid they were going to try to kill her and you, too—mistake you for aristocrats or something, I guess.”

“But why now?”

“Oh, I doubt it was anything but being jerked out of her sleep and seeing the servants acting scared. She probably heard you screaming. It scared me, I’ll tell you. She was confused. Ah, there’s that brandy.” Her aunt turned as the butler entered the room, wearing a dressing gown over his nightshirt, a nightcap on his head, and carrying a silver tray with a bottle of brandy and two snifters on it.

Alexandra subsided, a troubled expression on her face, as her aunt bustled to the small table where the butler set the tray and began to pour her a healthy dose of brandy.

“Here, you’ll feel much better after this.”

Alexandra took the snifter from her with both hands, surprised to find that she was trembling too much to hold it with one, and took a gulp. The liquor burned like fire all the way down to her stomach, making her eyes water. She coughed and tried to hand the glass to her aunt, but Hortense crossed her arms and told her to finish the liquor.

“Brandy was always Father’s cure for a case of the nerves—and anything else that ailed you, actually. And he lived to be eighty-six, so he must have gotten something right.”

“All right.” Alexandra tried not to breathe and took another gulp. A shiver ran through her, and her stomach felt as if it had burst into flames, but she could feel relaxation stealing through her.

“Good God, you fool, let go of me!” A man’s angry voice came ringing down the hall. “What the devil is going on?”

“Thorpe!” Alexandra surged to her feet just as Thorpe stalked into the room, shaking off the restraining hand of one of the footmen. The sudden movement made her feel dizzy, and she swayed.

“Alexandra!” he exclaimed, taking in her disheveled condition in a glance, as well as her wobbliness, and he crossed the room in two quick strides, then caught her in his arms. “My God, what happened to you? And why is your front door open and all the servants prowling about with lanterns?”

Alexandra sagged against his chest, warmth flooding her. “Oh, Thorpe. There was a man and he—he jumped out—”

“What!” Thorpe looked stunned, then thunderous.

“I—I—” Suddenly, surprising everyone, including herself, Alexandra burst into tears.

“Alexandra! My dear girl.” Lord Thorpe’s arms went around her, and he cuddled her close to him, bending his head over hers. “It’s all right. I’m here. I won’t let anyone get you. It’s all right.”

Gently he stroked her hair and back, murmuring softly. Aunt Hortense, who had watched in wonder the joy that spread over her niece’s face when she saw this man, as well as the way she collapsed against him, stood for a moment looking thoughtful, then tiptoed out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Alexandra snuggled into Thorpe’s arms, luxuriating in the feeling of warmth and security, and gradually her tears abated. She stood for a moment with her head against his chest, listening to the soothing beat of his heart. It felt so nice here that she didn’t want to leave.

She lifted her tear-streaked face to Thorpe. “I’m sorry.”

Thorpe looked at her, her cheeks soft and damp, the big, dark eyes luminous. He smiled. “No need to apologize.”

He took out his handkerchief and began to blot the tears on her cheeks. She was beautiful, and so soft in his arms. Her hair was in charming disarray, curls escaping from their pinnings and tumbling over her shoulders. His gaze slid farther, to where her dress had been torn in the struggle. It had come completely off one shoulder, the little puff of a sleeve torn away, and the front of the bodice had fallen on that side, exposing the creamy top of her breast, swelling above the lacy camisole.

Thorpe’s mouth went dry. He was unable to look away from that delectable mound of flesh. He could see the dark circle of her nipple through the sheer material of the camisole. He thought about putting his lips to the soft, quivering orb; he thought of taking the pink-brown nipple into his mouth and teasing it into diamond hardness. Desire swelled in him.

He dragged his eyes to her face, but he found that her beauty did not decrease his desire in the slightest. Her lips were full and deep red, moist and soft from her bout of tears. As she looked at him, they parted slightly.

Thorpe pulled her tightly against him, and his lips came down on hers. He kissed her fully and deeply, drinking in the sweetness of her mouth, his desire as suddenly full and tumultuous as it had been in the gallery. Alexandra pressed into him eagerly, her arms going around his neck and holding on. He let out a soft moan, his lips pressing harder against hers. Passion thrummed in him. She was soft and pliant against him, and the little sounds that rose from her throat stoked his desire.

His hand slipped to her breast, covering it and stroking the quivering flesh, bare above her camisole. He could feel her nipple hardening beneath his palm, and he wanted to feel it without any cloth between them. He pushed down the camisole, sliding it across the budding nipple, and took her nipple between his thumb and finger. Gently he rolled and pressed, caressing it, delighting in the way it thrust out even more, firm and proud.

He had to taste it. Pulling his mouth from Alexandra’s, he kissed a trail down the slender column of her throat and across her chest. His mouth moved tenderly over the slope of her breast until he found the prize he sought. Softly his tongue traced the button of engorged flesh.

A groan escaped Alexandra’s lips. She sagged against Thorpe’s arm, her eyes closed, lost in the sensations he was creating in her. With every movement of his tongue, her loins quivered and grew hotter. She felt like wax melting in his arms. When he took her nipple into his mouth and began to suckle, she cried out softly, her body jerking in a paroxysm of delight. She had never felt anything like this, had never even known that such sensations existed. Her body was consumed by heat; each rhythmic pull of his mouth sent another shock of desire through her. There was a deep ache growing between her legs, a yearning that she didn’t know how to satisfy.

Alexandra moved her hips against him instinctively, searching for satisfaction, and Sebastian shuddered. His hands went to her buttocks, digging into them and shoving her even more tightly against him. His desire throbbed against her, hot and rigid. Slowly he moved her hips over him, and Alexandra gasped at the new sensation, her passion spiraling.

In the hall there was the sound of footsteps and a man’s voice saying, “Nothing, Miss Ward.”

“No trace of him?” Aunt Hortense bellowed, sounding irritated.

Alexandra gasped and stepped back, jolted from her haze of passion by the sounds. She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes huge, looking at Thorpe.

Fury stabbed through Thorpe, and he wished the servants and Aunt Hortense to hell for interrupting them. He wanted to reach out and pull Alexandra into his arms, ignoring the world outside the room, but then reason returned to him. This was hardly the time or place for lovemaking. Anyone could walk in at any moment, and the scandal would be all over London within a day. He realized, too, with something of a jolt, that he was acting like a cad. Alexandra had just gone through a frightening experience; she was unusually vulnerable—and he was taking advantage of that vulnerability. He certainly had no qualms about having a mutually satisfying affair with a woman, but he knew that it would be unfair and dishonest to lure her into lovemaking when she was so shaken and frightened by an attack.

Irritated at himself, he turned away, saying gruffly, “Forgive me. I should not—”

Alexandra wrapped her arms around herself, feeling very empty and alone. She cleared her throat, telling herself not to be a fool. “There’s no need. I was not myself. The circumstances were—”

“What happened?” He turned, seizing on the topic. It was doubly irritating, he found, that he was still throbbing with desire, even if his good sense had taken over enough to stop him before they tumbled together on the floor.

“I’m not sure.” Alexandra frowned. “He jumped out at me from behind some shrubs. He followed me—at least, I think he did. I started hearing footsteps, and then they were gone, and the next thing I knew, he was rushing out of the shrubs down the street. He grabbed me from behind and he said—this is what is so very strange—he said, ‘Go home!’”

“’Go home?’” Thorpe repeated in disbelief.

“Yes. Or go back where you came from. Something like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am!” Alexandra snapped. “I could scarcely mistake something like that. He distinctly told me to leave. Why would anyone care? Why would someone attack me just to tell me to go back to the United States?”

Thorpe stared at her dumbfounded. “I cannot imagine. You must have heard him wrong.”

“I did not hear him wrong. That is what he said.”

Thorpe looked at her for a moment. He felt quite sure that the man had not grabbed her to tell her to leave the country. It was absurd. No doubt his intent had been to rape her; Alexandra was probably just too naïve to realize that. The thought made his blood boil. He thought with great satisfaction of what he would do to the man if he had him in his hands.

Frustrated, he snapped, “What the devil were you doing out there in the first place? Haven’t you any sense?”

Stung, Alexandra retorted, “I was walking home. If you will remember, you left me at the ball.”

“I told you to wait.”

“I didn’t feel like it. I was tired, and I didn’t know anyone. The footman told me you had gone away in the carriage with the Countess, and I had no idea when you would be coming back—or even if you would.”

“You think that I would simply abandon you there?”

“Well, you did.”

“I was coming back. I wanted to see the Countess home, to make sure she was all right. I specifically told you to wait. If you had listened to me instead of charging off on your own, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Oh!” Alexandra glared at him. “Now you are blaming me because some man decided to attack me?”

“I’m not blaming you. I am simply saying that it was foolish of you to walk home without an escort.”

“May I remind you that I am perfectly able to take care of myself. I don’t have to sit around kicking my heels, waiting for my escort to reappear and trundle me home like some piece of baggage.”

“Able to take care of yourself?” He raised a scornful brow. “It hardly appears that way.”

“What do you mean?” Alexandra clenched her hands, jutting her chin forward pugnaciously. “I did take care of myself. I kicked him and tore away from him and ran to the house. No one helped me but myself!”

“The point is that you wouldn’t even have been attacked if you had not been walking alone. He probably thought you were—”

“Were what?” Alexandra’s eyes flashed fire, and she set her hands on her hips.

“Easy prey,” Thorpe said, tight-lipped. “And, blast it, you were.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Alexandra said coldly.

Thorpe started to speak, then stopped. “Yes. No doubt you are right. I will take my leave of you.” He turned and strode toward the door. He stopped as he reached it and turned. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow afternoon,” he said peremptorily. “I promised the Countess that I would bring you over then. She wants very much to meet you.” He gave her a nod and added, “Good night. Make sure all your doors are locked.”

Alexandra’s jaw dropped. How dare he tell her where she was going and what she was doing tomorrow afternoon? She whirled and took out some of her frustration by kicking a stool across the room.

“Ow!” She hurt her toe and hopped over to the sofa, holding it. “Blast that man!”

Lord Thorpe, she decided, was the most arrogant, aggravating, high-handed man she had ever had the misfortune to meet. First he left her at the party, telling her to wait there, as if she were a dog or a servant. Then he had the nerve to tell her that she should not have left the party without him, that she had not heard what she had, and that it was her fault someone had attacked her because she had walked home alone. And he had finished it all off by telling her that he was taking her to the Countess’s the next afternoon, as if she had nothing to say in the matter!

The awful thing, she had to admit to herself, was that despite all that, no matter his arrogance or his ordering her about, she was still all aquiver from those moments when they had kissed. His kisses had stirred her in ways she had never known before, and even now she felt hot and jittery—and if he walked in the door this instant, she would have to struggle to keep from running to him to kiss him again! How could a man infuriate her so much and at the same time make her want him so? Alexandra would not have thought it possible.

Her aunt bustled in. “Has he left?” Her eyes searched Alexandra’s face carefully.

“Yes. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know—as if you are searching for something.”

“No. It’s only…I’ve never seen you look at someone that way.”

“What way?”

“The way you looked at Mr. Thorpe.”

“Lord Thorpe.”

“Of course. Lord Thorpe.” Her aunt rolled her eyes. “These Englishmen and their infernal love of titles. As if that makes any difference to what the man is.” She paused. “Alexandra, do you…have feelings for this man?”





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