Книга - The Governess’s Convenient Marriage

The Governess's Convenient Marriage
Amanda McCabe


A lady turned governessA life-changing proposal!When Lady Alexandra Mannerly last saw Malcolm Gordston he was a poor crofter’s son—someone a sheltered duke’s daughter would never be allowed to marry. But scandal has rocked her arrogant family, and Alex now leads a quiet life as a governess in Paris…—where she meets Malcolm again! Now he’s a wealthy, powerful department store owner…and determined to make her his bride!







A lady turned governess…

A life-changing proposal!

When Lady Alexandra Mannerly last saw Malcolm Gordston, he was a poor crofter’s son—someone a sheltered duke’s daughter would never be allowed to marry. But scandal has rocked her arrogant family, and Alex now leads a quiet life as a governess in Paris—where she meets Malcolm again! Now he’s a wealthy, powerful department store owner…and determined to make her his bride!

Debutantes in Paris miniseries

Book 1—Secrets of a Wallflower Book 2—The Governess’s Convenient Marriage Book 3—coming soon

“McCabe strikes the perfect note of sweet adventure and pure romance in her newest trilogy…a delightful read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Secrets of a Wallflower

“The author did not disappoint as she allowed me to travel back in time to a city I would love to visit… I enjoyed every minute of the book.”

—Goodreads on Secrets of a Wallflower


AMANDA McCABE wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class. She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, one dog and one cat.


Also by Amanda McCabe (#u54ae0916-b6eb-5933-87a2-b59b09e0ab67)

Betrayed by His Kiss

The Demure Miss Manning

The Queen’s Christmas Summons

Bancrofts of Barton Park miniseries

The Runaway Countess

Running from Scandal

Running into Temptation

The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding

Debutantes in Paris miniseries

Secrets of a Wallflower

The Governess’s Convenient Marriage

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.


The Governess’s Convenient Marriage

Amanda McCabe






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


ISBN: 978-1-474-07431-5

THE GOVERNESS’S CONVENIENT MARRIAGE

© 2018 Amanda McCabe

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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


Contents

Cover (#uda57ad69-34b0-5ece-9968-5ef1d21b3101)

Back Cover Text (#u59a1c0dd-14f0-5c29-9672-453b6c6ce64f)

About the Author (#ueda8864c-ce49-5ffb-a2b9-8ba8a91b5dee)

Booklist (#u3a0a3f02-d570-5099-b27b-9470fbf8f2f4)

Title Page (#ub6e99d3c-6235-5cb4-a5f3-3735614cd7fe)

Copyright (#ubfc92415-8016-5a73-9174-216e1e1d4f55)

Prologue (#ub3a970cc-2555-5c41-8301-a9a18711c501)

Chapter One (#uba42e794-d5ef-5d68-a82d-b35f0d32fd66)

Chapter Two (#uf7287c00-1947-5226-b0d8-4125b63dadf7)

Chapter Three (#u73add19a-2ee8-5e03-985d-6d7d8571fa58)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u54ae0916-b6eb-5933-87a2-b59b09e0ab67)

Scotland—1882

Lady Alexandra Mannerly hurried down the back stairs of her father’s hunting lodge, trying to tiptoe so no one would see she had escaped her governess. Even in Scotland, where life was much more free than London or at her father’s ducal seat in Kent, she was supposed to have lessons in the mornings. But she did not want lessons. She was nearly thirteen now. Surely she deserved to be free? At least for a little while?

And besides—she knew exactly where she wanted to go now. Who she wanted to see.

She could hear the clatter of the kitchens, the cook shouting for more salmon to make mousse for dinner, the maids dropping pans, her brother, Charles, begging for cakes. Her father was out shooting for the day, as he always did in Scotland, and her mother was locked in her chamber with a tisane for her headache, as she always did in Scotland. Alex knew her governess would like a free hour to flirt with the butler, so Alex was free for a little while.

She slipped out through the back door unseen and ran through the kitchen garden to the gate. The brisk, cool wind, smelling of the green hills, caught at her loose, slippery pale curls and the skirts of her blue-muslin dress, biting through her jacket, but she didn’t care. She could run now, run and run with no one to stop her!

The weeks they spent in Scotland every early autumn were her favourite of all the year. In England, she always felt so shy, so nervous of everything, so sure she was not being a proper duke’s daughter. That was what her mother lectured her about all the time—what a duke’s daughter should do.

In Scotland, no one was looking at her. She was just Alex, especially when she escaped to run outside and make her own friends. One friend in particular.

She pushed the gate closed behind her and ran through the thicket of woods. She could hear the wind whistling through the branches, rustling the drying leaves. From far off, she could hear the bang of the guns, but she knew they wouldn’t come near. Her father wouldn’t be home for hours, when there would be dinner, bagpipes and dancing, which she and Charles would spy on from above-stairs.

Beyond the woods wound the river, rushing fast over the rocks, a silvery tumble that made its own music, flowing down icy-cold from the heather-purple hills above.

And waiting for her was just the person she sought so eagerly. Malcolm Gordston.

Well—maybe he wasn’t waiting, not for her anyway. He was fishing, as he did nearly every day from the same large, flat rock, casting his line into the water and coming up with salmon for the cook’s mousse.

Alex stood very still for a moment, hidden behind a tree, and watched him. He was older than her by several years and thus quite ancient, yet he fascinated her. The son of one of the crofters on her father’s estate, he was unlike anyone she had ever met. So handsome, tall and strong, with dark gold hair that was too long for any London fashion and features as sternly carved as the rocks around the river. His rough, working clothes never seemed to matter; he was too much like some long-ago king, even in patched trousers and old boots.

And he was always kind to her when they met. He spoke to her as if she was herself, Alex, not Lady Alexandra. Not a child who couldn’t understand anything. She especially liked it when he told her old stories, legends of the Scottish hills, which his grandmother had once told him.

She ran towards the rock and he waved at her with a smile. ‘My lady,’ he called. ‘Come for another fishing lesson?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Alex answered eagerly. ‘I’m sure I can do better this time.’ Last week she had only caught a tiny sparling, fit just for throwing back. She wanted to do more in front of him, see pride in his icy pale blue eyes.

‘I’m sure you can.’ He handed her his extra rod and the bucket of cut bait, small strips of slimy herring. She knew just what to do, thanks to his lessons, and threaded the slippery bit on to her hook.

He gave her an approving nod. ‘You’re no squeamish lass afraid to get her hands dirty.’

Alex laughed. ‘Faint heart never caught fat salmon, right, Malcolm?’

She cast her line into the water and for a long time they sat together in silence, the peace of the hills and the river wrapped around them. She felt so close to him then, so comfortable. She never felt that way anywhere else.

‘How is your father this week, Malcolm?’ she asked. She knew from listening to the maids’ gossip that Mr Gordston was not well, had not been well since his wife died last year. Alex felt terrible about it for Malcolm, worried about his family woes, but he always kept such emotions at a distance.

His jaw tightened. ‘He’s getting better, I think. The cooler weather affects his chest right now and he misses my mam. But we get the work done.’

‘Should I bring him one of our cook’s herbal tisanes?’ Alex asked. ‘My mother is ailing whenever we come to Scotland and she says they do her good.’

Malcolm gave a strange, wry smile. ‘You’re a kind lass, my lady. But some herbal concoction can’t help what ails my father now.’

Alex was worried by his tone and wanted to ask more, but she felt a sharp tug on her line. ‘I’ve got a bite, Malcolm!’ she cried.

He grinned at her. ‘Don’t jerk hard on it, my lady. Reel him in easy-like, see. Nice and smooth. Don’t let him wriggle free.’

She followed his instructions and pulled up a lovely, fat salmon, her first real catch. And Malcolm had seen her do it! ‘Look! Malcolm, I did it!’

‘Of course you did, my lady,’ he said with a laugh. He so rarely laughed and it was a wonderful sound, deep and merry. She wished she could hear it again and again.

She was so overcome with joy at the perfect moment, so wonderfully giddy just with being so close to him, that she bounced up on her toes and kissed his cheek. It felt slightly rough under her lips and he smelled wonderful, of fresh air and crisp greenery and just like—himself.

‘Oh, Malcolm,’ she gasped. ‘I do hope we can be together here, just like this, always!’

She knew as soon as the words escaped that she should not have said them. His face went pale and he frowned, his earlier sunny laughter completely vanished. He drew back, his hands gentle as he held her away. Alex shivered, suddenly cold, wishing with all her might she could call back the last few minutes. Change it all.

‘I—I just…’ she stammered, feeling so very unsure. She longed to run away, but her feet seemed frozen to the earth.

Malcolm ran his hand through his hair. ‘Lady Alexandra—you are the daughter of a duke. I can certainly help you learn how to fish…’

‘But you cannot be my friend,’ she answered quietly.

‘You are a very kind young lady,’ he said, in that terribly quiet, sweet tone people used far too often to placate her. She couldn’t bear it from him, as well. Especially not him. ‘One day soon you will take your proper place in the world and you won’t want to waste time with a ghillie’s son like me.’

Alex knew, deep down in her most secret heart, that was not true. She knew what was expected of her as a duke’s daughter—her mother spoke of little else. Her governess drilled it into her. She was to bring honour to her family name, to marry well, lead society. But the thought of that made her feel terrified. She wanted to be free, to sit on the bank of a river just like this one, be part of nature, no one looking at her, expecting things she could not give.

To talk to Malcolm for as long as she wanted. For ever. He was the only one who seemed to just see her. And yet he did not, not really. To him, just like everyone else, she was the Duke’s daughter.

She hugged Malcolm again, even tighter, afraid it was the last time. The thought that she might never see him again, at least not like this, alone, easy and fun, made her want to sob. Malcolm hugged her back.

‘Let go of my daughter at once, you dirty cur!’ A sudden shout, as loud and shocking as the crack of a whip, shattered the perfect moment.

Alex jumped back to see her father looming on the rise of the bank above them. He was tall, the capes of his tweed greatcoat flapping like an ominous bird, his face bright scarlet. She couldn’t stop shaking with fear.

‘Papa!’ she cried. Malcolm moved away from her, sweeping his cap into his hand.

The Duke strode towards them and grabbed her arm, barely glancing at Malcolm. His hand was painful on her skin, bruising, yet she was so frozen she could barely feel it. ‘Come with me right now, young lady. Your behaviour is disgraceful.’

Through her fear, she felt a flash of burning anger. ‘It is not like that!’ she protested. She glanced back at Malcolm, who gave her a small shake of his head.

‘Your Grace, Lady Alexandra is not to blame…’ he began.

The Duke whirled around on him, his face turning even more red. His eyes bulged, almost as if they would pop free. Alex had to stifle a hysterical giggle. ‘You are just lucky that I do not thrash you where you stand! If I did not have to take my silly daughter home, believe me, I would. And I shall if I ever see you near her again. As it is, you should go home now and see to your worthless father.’

Alex had one more glimpse of Malcolm’s face, his handsome features twisted with fury, before her father dragged her away. A cart waited on the lane just beyond the rise and he pushed her up into it roughly.

Alex couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They burst from her in rough sobs and she buried her face in her hands. Her father ignored her, of course, steering the horse towards their house, but she couldn’t stop crying. That last, terrible sight of Malcolm, the fear of what he would think of her now—it made her want to sink into the earth and vanish.

The house was silent when they arrived, as if even the stones and glass knew she was in disgrace. That she had lost her friend. The hall, all cold flagstone floors, animal heads staring down glassily from the walls, echoed with heartless carelessness. She glimpsed a maid peeking over the balustrade from the top floor, a tea tray meant for Alex’s mother in her hands, but then she vanished. Alex’s brother was hiding in the attics, as usual, her mother resting with a headache.

‘Go to your chamber, Alexandra,’ her father said tightly. He tossed his coat on to a tall wooden chair and strode away.

But Alex had to try once more. ‘Papa, you must not blame Malcolm! He was only—’

The Duke whirled on her, his eyes burning. He pointed one long, shaking finger at her, making her fall a step back. ‘You know what is expected of you, Alexandra, how the family name must never be disgraced. Your cavorting with a farm boy will bring gossip and it must end. Now. Besides, his family is not respectable. They will soon be gone. If I hear of you seeing him again, the consequences for you both will be even more severe, I promise you.’

Alex’s eyes ached and she was determined not to let him see her cry again. He would never see her cry again, would never know what she was really feeling. She ran up the stairs, past the rows of silent closed doors, to her chamber. Once she had loved that room; it was small, but in the corner of the old stone hunting lodge so boasting windows on two sides to let in the rolling countryside. Her white bed, draped in yellow tulle, her dolls stacked in the corner, her little white dressing table with its antique mirror, she had loved it all, found it a sanctuary from her family’s silence. Today it was only another prison.

She threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillows, trying not to howl. She remembered the sun-splashed river, Malcolm’s smile, the touch of his hand. He had been a good friend to her, maybe her only real friend. She couldn’t leave things the way they were. She had to see him, to say she was sorry, if only she could sneak past her father.

She quickly wiped at her eyes and went to peer out the window. The sun was starting to sink in the sky, the familiar purple, dull-pink Scottish sunset gathering in. Her father would be in his library for hours, until dinner. She would have to hurry if she wanted to find Malcolm and apologise to him. See him one more time.

She wrapped herself up in a long, dark cloak and crept out of her room, praying she would not be seen.

* * *

The croft was silent as Malcolm approached it, no smoke curling from the chimney, no one working in the small kitchen garden to gather the last of the vegetables. It was just as he had left it that morning, yet he had hoped, as he always foolishly hoped, that something would change.

The Duke’s words, that he had to see to his own house now, echoed in his mind, ominous and chilling. He had long known that the Duke, not a soft or kind man, would be patient no longer, but he hadn’t expected that moment to come just then. Because of Lady Alexandra.

Malcolm shook his head as he studied the overgrown path of weeds that had once been a vegetable garden. Alexandra was a lovely girl, pretty and kind, eager to learn all kinds of new things around her, full of questions. At first, when he met her trying hopelessly to fish and offered to teach her, it had been out of pity. Yet he came to look forward to their afternoons together, to enjoy their conversations, hearing her laughter and chatter. She was extraordinary, entirely unworthy of her father. Surely she would do wonderful things in her future.

But now that friendship had brought trouble to his door. He only wished he could have protected her, kept her that sweet innocent he adored so much.

Malcolm shook his head and sighed. She would have to learn of the real world soon enough; everyone was forced to it sooner or later.

He took off his muddy old boots and left them with the basket of fish near the door. Despite his own efforts, he could see all the signs of neglect on the cottage. The peeling paint, the loose shutters, the tangled garden.

When his mother had been alive, it had always been bright and clean and welcoming. How Malcolm tried his best to keep it up, to keep his father from being evicted by the Duke. It was the only way Malcolm could escape, if his father was all right. The only way he could take the apprenticeship he had been promised as a draper’s assistant in the city. He could be more than a farmer, if he worked hard there. Could win Mairie’s hand at last. Only if his father could recover.

Mairie. Some of the glow from his afternoon with her faded as he looked up at the loose tiles on the roof. Her father would never give her to a poor crofter’s son; she would never so give herself. And Malcolm wanted more for himself, as well. The vicar who had been teaching him for years said he was smart and quick, and could build his own business if he wanted. Maybe one day he and Mairie could make something together. They both had their own interests at heart, the interests of moving forward in the world, which was all that really mattered in a relationship.

He thought of that morning, fishing with Lady Alexandra, so quiet and sweet and clean. He wanted to build a life like that, a life where everything could be fine and good. A life just like her. He knew he shouldn’t think that way; Mairie was more appropriate for him, was within his reach, only just. Someone like Alexandra, never. The terrible ending to their fishing meeting showed him that so clearly.

He pushed open the front door, loose on its hinges. Inside the small room, it smelled of smoke and mildew, of old whisky. When his mother was there, the floor was always swept, the furniture dusted, the air smelling of fresh herbs. He remembered when his father would come home in the evening, the way he would catch his mother up in his arms and kiss her until she laughed.

His parents had loved each other so much. Too much. His father had lost his way without her. Malcolm vowed never to love anyone like that, never to lose so much. He would never be helpless like that, never live his parents’ mistakes.

‘Pa?’ he called. There was no answer.

He found his father up in the loft, sprawled across his bed. Still wearing yesterday’s stained clothes, reeking of cheap whisky, his skin greyish and clammy, his jaw unshaven. An empty bottle had fallen to the dusty floor.

None of that was unusual any more. What was strange was the crumpled paper that lay next to the bottle. Malcolm scooped it up and read it quickly, anger burning higher and higher inside of him.

It was an eviction notice. Signed by the Duke of Waverton.

Malcolm remembered the sting of going last week to see the Duke, his hat in hand, to beg for time for his father. Time to gather the rent money. The Duke had only watched him, stony-faced, and said he would do what he could, but he could not help those who would not help themselves for very long.

Now, he had tossed Malcolm’s father out. Now, at their family’s most vulnerable moment.

One day, Malcolm vowed as he tucked the blankets around his father, the shoe would be on the other foot and the Duke would beg him for help. And Malcolm would never give it.

* * *

Near the gate that led to one of the tenants’ farms, Alex was surprised to see a glimpse of bright red against the grey-green of the fields. She looked closer and saw it was Mairie McGregor, the daughter of one of the shopkeepers in the village, perched on the gate. Alex always rather envied Mairie, for her beautiful, long dark hair and velvety-brown eyes, so different from Alex’s own pale looks.

Today, Mairie’s black hair fell free down her back and she wore a bright blue skirt and red shawl, looped loosely around her shoulders. And she was not alone. A man was beside her, leaning on the gate as he gazed up at her, their hands entwined. Their heads were bent together as they spoke together intently, seriously. Mairie tenderly touched his cheek and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.

It was Malcolm. Malcolm kissing Mairie McGregor.

Shocked, Alex tried to step back, to hide, even though she knew they could not see her. They were obviously much too wrapped up in each other to see anything else. And she felt the sinking, cold ice of disappointment.

Mairie jumped down from the gate and walked away, tossing a strangely angry look back at Malcolm as she left.

Impulsively, Alex called out to Malcolm as he started to follow Mairie.

‘Malcolm!’ she called. ‘Please, just a moment.’

He glanced back at her, but his expression was anything but welcoming. She had never seen him look so cold, so hard, so—so much older. ‘We can’t be seen together, my lady. You’ve already got me in enough trouble.’

‘I—I didn’t mean to, please believe me,’ she said, desperate. ‘I am ever so sorry. I didn’t think my father would see and—’

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. His Grace has done his worst by my family. Now I have to make my own way. And you have to make yours.’

Alex was baffled. ‘What has he done? I can go to him, explain…’ But even she knew her father would never listen. Never care.

‘Just take of yourself now, Lady Alexandra. That’s all any of us can do.’ For just a flashing instant, his hardness seemed to melt. He took her hand in his and squeezed it, holding on to it for one precious moment. ‘Never let them change you, no matter what.’

‘Malcolm!’ Mairie called and that hard mask came over him again. He gave Alex a bow and left her standing there alone in the middle of the road.

Alex tightened her hand over the feeling of his touch and shivered. She knew then she would never see him again.


Chapter One (#u54ae0916-b6eb-5933-87a2-b59b09e0ab67)

Miss Grantley’s School for Young Ladies—spring 1888

‘Alex! Alex, are you awake? Let us in, quickly, before we’re caught.’

Lady Alexandra Mannerly wasn’t asleep, despite the fact that it was hours past the decreed lights out. She was huddled under her blankets, reading—no, devouring—The Ghosts of Wakefield Forest, a forbidden novel loaned to her by her friend Emily Fortescue, who had smuggled it back from London. Em, whose father was distinctly unstrict, quite unlike Alex’s father, the Duke of Waverton. He insisted Alex be the perfect ducal daughter at all times, which didn’t include reading scandalous romantic novels.

But her parents couldn’t spy on her at Miss Grantley’s at every moment. And Alex had friends who knew how to get around almost every rule without getting into trouble. She herself could never have been so brave before coming to school. She hated trouble, because trouble brought attention and attention made her heart race, her mind freeze, her tongue tie. Made her want to run away.

So being a duke’s daughter was rarely fun at all. And it would surely get worse next year, when she made her debut at a grand ball at Waverton House on Green Park and began the search for a high-ranking husband. But not yet. Not quite yet.

‘Alex! Are you there? We see your light!’

Alex tossed back the bedclothes and hurried to the door, her bare feet cold on the wooden floor. Her best friends, Emily Fortescue and Diana Martin, were waiting there, wrapped in their dressing gowns, dragging an enormous hamper between them. Giggling, they raced inside before Miss Merrill, the hall governess, could catch them. If they were found sneaking out together again, they would be in real trouble.

Yet Alex didn’t seem to mind trouble so much when it was brought by Diana and Em.

‘What are you two doing here?’ she whispered, locking the door behind them.

‘What do you think?’ Diana answered. ‘Midnight picnic!’

‘Father sent a lovely hamper today. I couldn’t possibly eat all this myself,’ Emily said as she spread a blanket on the polished floor. Her father, who had started in business as a wine merchant and branched out to open one of London’s first department stores, was always sending Emily lovely things. Hampers, fashionable hats, books.

‘Isn’t Mr F. lovely?’ Diana sighed. ‘My parents only seem to send foot warmers and peppermints.’ Di’s father had been a high-ranking diplomat in India, but it was true he never sent anything exotic like Punjab muslins.

‘There’s Brie cheese and some wonderful pâté. Tea sandwiches, petit fours,’ Emily said, laying it all out on their blanket. ‘And Lindt chocolates! Your favourites, Alex.’

‘Oh, it is! How blissful,’ Alex said. She couldn’t resist taking one immediately, popping it into her mouth.

‘What are you doing up so late?’ Diana asked as she opened a bottle of ginger beer.

‘Reading, of course,’ Alex said. ‘Did you think I had a boy in here? Jimmy Wilkins, maybe?’ Jimmy Wilkins was the son of the local squire, handsome if a bit spotty, and, as the only male under sixty and over thirteen for miles near the school, the object of many pashes.

‘If you did such a wildly naughty thing, Lady Alexandra, I would know you had come down with a terrible fever,’ Emily said.

Alex took another chocolate. ‘Oh, I don’t know. If I married Jimmy now, there would be no need for a Season. I could live near here at his nice, quiet manor house, and read all the time and ride out with the local hunt in the autumn. Heaven.’

‘Oh, Alex, a Season will be fun!’ Emily said. ‘Think of the gowns, the dances, the tea parties, the theatre. The strange people we can laugh at in corners.’

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Diana declared. ‘Your father actually wants you to go into business with him, he doesn’t care if you marry. It can all be a lark to you.’

Alex gave her a sympathetic nod. They all knew Di wanted to be a writer, but her parents were much more conventional than Mr F. and wanted Diana to marry suitably. As did Alex’s parents, of course. But to the Duke and Duchess, suitable meant another duke, if an eligible one could be found, or an earl at the least. Maybe even a German prince, as all the English ones were taken.

The thought filled her with terror. She recalled, just for an instant, that boy she had known so long ago, a poor crofter’s son who’d looked like an ancient king, who’d smiled at her with the warmth of the sun. Until their painful parting. How long ago that seemed now. How impossible.

‘Alex’s Season will be the loveliest of all!’ Emily said. ‘You’re the goddaughter of the Princess of Wales, her own namesake. Just think of all the grand people who will come to your parties.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ Alex muttered. It was true the Princess was a good godmother, always sending splendid presents for birthdays and writing sweet letters, and Princess Alexandra would want to help make Alex’s debut a success. But it only made Alex want to run away even more.

Diana squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t think of it now, Alex darling, it’s all so terribly far away. You might marry Jimmy Wilkins in the meantime! But here, have another chocolate and tell us what you’re reading.’

‘The Ghosts of Wakefield Forest, of course,’ Alex said, happily obeying the order to have another treat. ‘It’s so thrilling!’

‘Have you got to the scene where Arabella meets the Count?’ Emily asked.

‘Not yet and don’t tell me!’ Alex said with a laugh. Em did tend to get carried away by her enthusiasm for stories and give away endings. ‘Did your father send more books this week?’

‘No, but he did send these.’ Emily pulled a pile of fashion papers from the bottom of the hamper.

‘Oh, this one’s from Paris!’ Diana cried happily. She grabbed one to pore over the sketches. She loved fashion and was always knowledgeable about the latest trends. ‘Are these the new sleeves for summer? How cunning. Look at this ribbon trim.’

‘Yes, and the hats are enormous compared to last year. Father is quite worried the costs will be ridiculous, with all these feathers and flowers. Alex, you must tell the Princess to start wearing small, plain bonnets immediately.’

Alex laughed. ‘I’ll write to her tomorrow.’ She scanned one of the papers, caught by a sketch of a grand building. All of five storeys, with classical statues of goddesses at every corner and as many windows as Hardwicke Hall gleaming. ‘Gordston’s Department Store is opening a new branch in Paris?’

Emily made a face. ‘Yes, and Father is furious! Mr Gordston seems to beat him at every post lately. The man seems unstoppable.’

‘Even my mother loves Gordston’s hat counter and she always said she would never buy ready-made,’ Alex said. She tried not to sigh when she recalled she had once known a Gordston, too, in those golden days in Scotland. Memories were always so sad now.

She read over the breathless descriptions of the new Paris store, its marble floors from Italy, its gilded lifts operated by young ladies in red-velvet suits, its shocking new cosmetics counter. It was just as giddy in writing about the store’s owner and his ‘godlike face’ and ‘intoxicating laugh’, hinting about his romances with actresses and countesses and American heiresses.

‘Is he really as handsome as all that, Em?’ Diana asked. Emily was the only girl at school who had ever met the notorious Mr Gordston.

Emily’s head tilted as if she contemplated this question carefully. ‘He is—interesting.’

‘I think he sounds like a character in a novel,’ Diana said. ‘So dashing! So rich. Maybe I’ll meet him in London and marry him instead of some dull diplomat or clergyman or army officer like my parents hope.’

‘You would be much happier with the officer,’ Emily said firmly. ‘Now, here, girls! Eat up before we have to sneak out again.’

Alex turned the page on the paper and froze in shock. There, staring up at her in a grainy black-and-white image, was Malcolm. Her Malcolm, from Scotland, the one young man she could never quite forget, despite the terrible way they’d parted. Gordston’s was not owned by some unknown Scotsman after all. He was at a racetrack, standing near the railing with a lady in trailing lace and one of those enormous feathered hats. She gazed up at him adoringly, while he gave a half-smile into the distance. So tall, so gorgeous, so utterly unapproachable.

She read the headline.

The delight of every lady’s eye!

She read on.

But is the handsome millionaire ready to take the plunge with Lady Deanston? She looks ready, but our sources say he never will be. Although a titled lady at his side could only improve his standing in society…

Malcolm was the owner of Gordston’s? The famous man about town, with all the most beautiful ladies in love with him? Alex was surprised, but not really shocked. He had always been special indeed. The wonder was he had ever looked at her at all, with such sophisticated ladies just waiting for him out in the world.

Afraid she might start to cry, Alex carefully folded the paper and set it aside. She had never told even Emily and Diana about Malcolm. He was her own little secret, to be taken out and looked at like a precious jewel when everything got too overwhelming. And now he was the Malcolm Gordston, further away from her than ever. Maybe one day she would talk about him, but not soon. She didn’t even have the words.

Alex lay back on their picnic blanket and listened to her friends’ laughter, their chatter about new French fashions and the relative merits of different chocolates. There, with the night gathered close beyond the curtains and silence in the schools’ halls, they were tucked away in their own warm, safe little world. How she loved it here at Miss Grantley’s, where she was only another young lady among her friends, only Alex! If only they could stay right there. If only she could be just Alex for ever. Alex who remembered her very own Malcolm.

‘I wish this would never end,’ she said. ‘That we could go on this way always.’

Emily and Diana lay down beside her. ‘We can’t stay at Miss Grantley’s for ever,’ Em said, touching her hand. ‘But we will always, always be friends.’

‘Are you sure?’ Alex whispered, all too aware of how fast things changed in the world beyond the school gates.

‘Oh, yes,’ Diana declared. ‘No matter where we go, or what happens to us, we will always have each other.’


Chapter Two (#u54ae0916-b6eb-5933-87a2-b59b09e0ab67)

London—spring 1889

Alex glanced over her shoulder as she tiptoed down the stairs of Waverton House. She held her hat and gloves, hoping she could stuff them behind a potted palm or one of the statues glaring down from their niches, if someone should see her. The enormous house was quiet—for the moment.

Her mother, the Duchess, was napping, her father was locked with his business managers in the library and her brother, Charles, was who knew where. He always left right after breakfast and returned in the dead of night, the lucky boy. Even the maids were quiet, their morning duties in the drawing room and music room finished and their evening tasks not yet begun.

Charlie could escape, but Alex was always there, practising at the piano, waiting for callers, having fittings, listening to her mother list eligible suitors. None of them was department-store owners, no matter how rich, of course. She was being slowly smothered by it all, by the velvet curtains puddling on the Aubusson rugs, the silk walls, the portraits of all the Wavertons alive and dead staring down at her.

Having a Season was even more exhausting than she had feared—and more lonely. She was surrounded by people almost all the time, but she hardly ever saw her old friends from Miss Grantley’s. That was why she was creeping down the stairs now.

Luckily, just as she was sure she would start screaming with it all, Emily’s note had arrived, asking her to meet them for a Blues and Royals concert in Hyde Park. She hadn’t seen Diana and Em except for balls and dinners, where they could only snatch a few whispers, in weeks. Surely a day with them, laughing in the fresh air, with no one around who knew or cared she was the Duke of Waverton’s daughter, was just the respite she needed.

Unfortunately, just as she was almost to the bottom of the stairs and nearly free, the library door opened and her father and his business managers emerged. It was far too late to flee back up the stairs. She followed her original plan of shoving her hat behind a vase of ivy and ostrich feathers and tried to look casual.

She peeked down over the carved and gilded balustrade at her father. The Duke was as tall and grandly moustachioed as always, a formidable presence she had always been frightened of, especially after Scotland. But in that moment, when he thought himself alone, he seemed rather grey-faced and distracted. As the businessmen shuffled out, a blur of black suits, silvery pomaded hair and leather valises, the Duke glanced up and saw Alex there. He smiled wearily, no curiosity or scolding glint in his eyes, and she was glad it was him and not Mama who had seen her. He wouldn’t notice she was wearing her new blue walking suit for a supposed afternoon at home.

‘Hullo, my Flower,’ he said. He used her old nickname, one he hadn’t said much since she came back from school, but still he looked tired. Distant. ‘What are you up to today?’

Alex thought fast. ‘Just fetching my workbox from the morning room.’ She paused, studying her father’s strained expression. Had he heard she had sent money to her charities again and was unhappy about it? Her parents approved of benevolence on the part of a lady, but only to a point. A point not nearly far enough for her. Or maybe it really was business. Charlie had mentioned their father was thinking of selling his Scottish shooting box. ‘Is everything quite all right?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, just talking to my silly estate managers, nothing for you to think about.’ He stepped closer to the staircase, reaching up to pat her hand where it rested on the balustrade. ‘Tell me, Flower, how would you like to visit Paris?’

Alex felt a small leap of excitement in her stomach and smiled. ‘For the Exhibition? Oh, I should love it! Everyone has been talking about nothing else lately. All that beautiful art…’

‘Perhaps there will be a bit of art, of course, but mostly it would be an official visit. We have been asked by the Prince of Wales himself to be part of his visit to the city. And to loan the Eastern Star for an exhibition in the Indian Pavilion.’

Alex glanced at her mother’s portrait at the head of the stairs, the Duchess in her blue-and-white satin Worth gown, the Eastern Star sapphire in her upswept hair. It was her mother’s favourite jewel, a famous piece the Duke’s father had brought back from India, bought from a maharajah under mysterious circumstances. ‘Have you talked to Mama about that?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Not yet. It was just presented to me as an idea. And I think it is quite a fine one, as I’m sure will your mother.’ He patted her hand again, staring up at her intently. ‘There are so many people flocking to Paris right now. It could be a marvellous opportunity for you, Flower.’

Alex felt suddenly cold and wanted to snatch back her hand. ‘Opportunity?’

‘Yes. So many royal personages are there right now. You are so pretty, Alexandra, you would grace any royal court in the world. It would be a good connection for our family, could see you secure for your life.’

‘I—I’m not sure I want to leave England, Papa.’

‘And I would miss you! But with so many railroads these days, a visit to any corner of Europe would take no time at all.’ His hand tightened on hers. ‘We are Wavertons, you know, my dear. Our first duty is always what is best for the family.’

Alex knew that. She had always known that, ever since she was in leading strings. It had been hammered into her when she’d been separated from Malcolm. The Mannerlys had been in England since the eleven hundreds, had been dukes for centuries. Every generation had to make the family name stronger, bring it glory. It was their purpose. ‘Of course.’

‘You are a good daughter, Alexandra. We only want the best, the very best, for you. Royal connections…’

‘Do we not have royal connections? The Princess…’

‘Your godmother has always been kind and her help will be invaluable to obtain the right introductions in Paris. I only want to ask you to make the very most of them. Seeing you well settled, and soon, would be the greatest comfort to your mother and me.’

Something in his voice, some edge of sharp desperation she had never heard there before, alarmed her. ‘Papa, is something amiss?’

His smile widened, but it did not quite reach his eyes. ‘Certainly not! I just wanted to tell you about Paris, Flower. It will be a splendid time.’ He patted her hand once more and retreated back into his library, closing the door behind him.

Alex grabbed her hat and dashed down the stairs, unsettled by what had just happened, though she couldn’t say why she would feel that way. It had been just a quick conversation with her father, him telling her what she had always known—she had to make a fine marriage. But it didn’t feel like that was all it was.

She paused for just an instant in front of a silver-framed mirror to pin on her hat. She made a face at herself in the glass. Surely if she was not a duke’s daughter, there would be no hope of her landing a prince and she wouldn’t have to worry! She was small, too slender to look quite right in fashionable gowns, and pale, with large eyes in a pointed face and blonde curls that wouldn’t stay in their pins. Not like Emily with her thick chestnut hair to her waist, or Diana and her auburn waves. With a sigh, she stabbed in her hat pins, drew the small net veil over her forehead and spun away from the glass.

Before anyone could stop her, she ran out to the lane just beyond the park and hailed a hansom cab. Maybe it was finally having the chance to see her friends again, but she felt a bit of a rebellious streak coming on, a restlessness. She dared not take a deep breath until the carriage door shut behind her and they rolled into traffic, leaving Waverton House behind.

She laughed, feeling free, though she knew she had to make the very most of it. If her parents had their way, she would be packed off to some German duchy forthwith.

Alex shuddered at the thought. She stared out the grimy window at the streets flashing past, the crowds, the carriages, the bright gleam of shop windows. It wasn’t that she would mind seeing the world beyond London; in fact, it would be fascinating. She was excited to be going to Paris, whatever the reason. In between official engagements, there would surely be time to see some museums, shops, the wonders of the Exhibition, like the Eiffel Tower and Mr Edison’s electric lights. Maybe even the Wild West Show!

Yet she had met princes and duchesses from Germany and Austria. If she felt smothered by life as the daughter of an English duke, that was ten times worse. The etiquette that ruled every movement in a German court, oversaw every moment, would never go away. How would it feel to be trapped in such a world for the rest of her life?

Neither, though, could she bear to think about letting her family down. Since the nursery, she had been taught that the good of the family was paramount. They had been dukes since the time of Queen Anne, devoted to royal service and rewarded for that devotion in turn. The Wavertons had one of the most respected titles in the kingdom.

But also ever since the nursery she had been plagued with a shyness, an overpowering desire to disappear into the background, that made that duty a blasted hard one! She had always known she would have to marry one day, but why did it have to be to some German prince?

‘Ugh!’ she groaned aloud. The very thought made her want to run away immediately to live alone in a hut on some snowy mountainside, if such a place could be found.

But she had no more time to think about her limited options as the hansom stopped at the gates of the park and she glimpsed her friends waiting. Diana had her sketchbook out, no doubt studying the ladies’ hats, and Emily and Christopher Blakely, Alex’s cousin and their not-very-strict-at-all chaperon, were arguing about something, as they usually did when they met. Chris was Alex’s favourite relative, always so light-hearted, so quick with a laugh, so handsome with his blond hair so like her own, but somehow much smoother and lovelier. She couldn’t understand why he and Em always seemed to be at odds.

‘Alexandra, there you are!’ Emily called as Alex stepped down from the carriage. ‘We’d almost given up on you.’

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ Alex said. ‘I’m afraid my father caught me as I was trying to sneak out and insisted on talking to me.’

‘I am sorry, old bean,’ Chris said as he kissed her cheek. ‘A ducal lecture must be tiresome indeed. My own fa’s are bad enough.’

‘It wasn’t a lecture, exactly,’ Alex said. She considered sharing her concerns, but then decided not to. She didn’t want to spoil the sunny afternoon. ‘In fact, it was rather nice—we’re going to Paris, it seems.’

‘Oh, Paris!’ Diana sighed as she tucked away her sketchbook. ‘How heavenly. You are so lucky, Alex.’

‘Maybe I’ll see you there,’ Emily said. ‘Father wants to expand the business to Paris and I’ve been trying to persuade him to let me go there. We have to compete with Gordston’s!’

Chris offered Alex his arm and they followed Diana and Emily as they joined the flow of people headed towards the bandstand. It was indeed a glorious spring day, the trees bursting into pale green, the flowerbeds bright with yellow-and-red blossoms, the crowds in their finest as they flocked to listen to the merry band music. How different it was from the people she saw at the round of parties and in her parents’ drawing room! It was all so fascinating, so full of wonderful, vivid life.

‘How is William?’ she asked Chris. His brother, William—now Sir William—Blakely, had been working with the Foreign Office in India and was due home any day. Will, unlike Chris, had always frightened her just a bit. He was always kind to her, but so very darkly handsome, so solemn and businesslike and strong, he intimidated her.

‘He’s home now and promised to be at your grand ball next week,’ Chris said. ‘But they already have him working all hours and, really, who can blame him for wanting to escape our parents as much as possible.’

Alex groaned. ‘He has my sympathies.’ Her aunt, her mother’s sister, and her husband had not been happy for years. Her uncle tended to be loud and overbearing to get his points across and her aunt silent and passive. It was not a happy example of marriage, which was yet another reason Alex grew frightened when her parents pressed so for her to marry soon. ‘I can’t wait to see Will again, but tell him he absolutely doesn’t have to come to the ball. It will be a dreadful crush, no fun at all.’

‘Fun doesn’t seem a concern to Will. Just work, work, work, that’s all he thinks about.’

Alex laughed and nudged him with her elbow. ‘Unlike his brother.’

Chris put on a stern expression, making her laugh even more. ‘Someone has to maintain the family presence in society, Alexandra.’

‘Yes, and you do that very well. Your name is always in the gossip pages.’ The crowd grew thicker as they came closer to the bandstand, people pressing in on every side. Alex’s hat was knocked loose from a pin and she clutched at it as she tried to hold on to Chris.

‘I see some places closer to the front!’ Emily called. Alex tried to follow her, to keep Em’s large, pink-feathered hat in view, but the knots of people gathered around her ever tighter and tighter. Her arm slipped out of Chris’s and she desperately reached out for him, but like Em he slipped away. She was alone, drowning in a sea of strangers.

She felt so cold, so stricken with a sudden giddy rush of panic that she wanted to scream. Her hat was almost knocked off her head and, as she grabbed at it, someone ran into her from behind, making her stumble. The people in front of her moved as she tumbled into them, but that left a patch of gravel clear for her to fall towards it.

Time seemed to slow down, to freeze with the fear, and her hands shot out to catch herself. She braced herself for the jolt of pain.

Before she could land, someone seized her around the waist and lifted her up—up and up, off the ground entirely. Everything around her spun like a stained-glass window, the green trees, the yellow flowers, the reds and blues and browns of the ladies’ hats, all blurred together. Alex couldn’t catch her breath.

When she finally landed on her feet again, clutching at her hat, she found herself facing the most astonishing man she had ever seen. For one giddy instant, she wondered if she had indeed hit her head and landed in a book of Norse sagas.

He was very tall, so tall he blotted out the sunlight, and was a silhouette haloed in its golden glow. His shoulders were so broad under the perfect cut of his fine hunter-green wool coat, and his hair, falling to an unfashionably long length from beneath his stiff-crowned silk hat, was a glorious red-gold colour. His nose was slightly crooked, as if it had once been broken and healed badly, but that didn’t diminish from his sharp-cut cheekbones, his square jaw. He stared down at her from eyes so icy and pale blue they glowed.

She tottered on her feet, disorientated, and he held on to her by her waist, most improper. Most—interesting. He frowned—in concern, or irritation?—as he looked down at her. ‘Are you injured, miss?’ he asked, his voice deep and rich, touched with a Scots burr that made him seem even more otherworldly.

He reminded her of something, but what? It was just there, just beyond the edges of her mind, but it kept slipping away. Maybe she had dreamed of him once or something, he seemed quite unreal.

‘I—I…’ she gasped, feeling foolish, as she seemed to have forgotten all words.

‘You can’t breathe, it’s no wonder, all these glaikit people everywhere,’ he said. ‘Eh!’ he shouted. ‘Everyone move and give a lady some space to breathe.’

The crowd immediately cleared around them, of course. Who wouldn’t, at the sound of such a voice? That brogue, so full of authority and menace, as if Hyde Park was a battlefield. Thor with a Scots accent. It almost made her want to giggle and she wondered if she was getting hysterical.

‘Let’s find you a place to sit down,’ he said, gently taking her arm. His hand, ungloved, felt warm and steady, something to depend on in a dizzy world.

‘My friends…’ she said, suddenly remembering Emily and Diana. Where had they vanished? She glanced over her shoulder, but couldn’t see them anywhere. The crowd had closed behind her again.

‘We’ll find them in just a wee,’ he said. Her gaze was drawn to his lips, strangely sensual and soft for such a hard man. He frowned as if he was concerned. ‘You look very pale.’

‘I do feel a bit—startled,’ Alex admitted. He led her gently to a bench under the shade of a tree, somewhat away from the crowded paths. The bench’s inhabitants moved after a stern glare from Thor and he helped Alex sit down. ‘I don’t think I was expecting quite so many people here today.’

‘Ach, a sunny day, a bit of free music, enough to turn things into a stampede ground in this aidle city. Let me fetch you something cool to drink.’

Before Alex could protest, he turned and strode quickly, long-legged, towards a stand selling ginger beer. She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself after the last few astonishing minutes. Surely she hadn’t felt quite so much excitement in—well, ever! She had been so sure her life would never change, that she would smother in her parents’ house, and now she had fallen and been nearly trampled, and then rescued by a Norse god who used the oddest words. No wonder she felt dizzy.

She craned her neck to study her rescuer as he waited in the refreshment line. He certainly was handsome. She was sure she had never seen him before, or anyone quite like him. He was so tall, so powerful-looking, so golden-amber, he looked nothing like the young men she danced with every evening, sat next to at dinner and listened to them talk about cricket. She was quite sure Thor never talked about cricket, or if he did she didn’t want to know about it and spoil the fantasy she was indulging in.

He did wear the finest, most fashionable clothes, his sack coat of dark green wool with velvet lapels perfectly tailored, a gold watch chain over a luxurious ivory brocade waistcoat, boots polished to a gleam, and he seemed perfectly comfortable in them. Yet something about him made the finery seem a bit incongruous, like it wasn’t his favourite attire. She could see him striding across the moor in shirtsleeves and tweed trousers, high boots, his hair shining in the sun.

Yes, he definitely didn’t seem like he belonged in the city. The—what was it he called it? Aidle city.

He came back with a glass of the ginger beer and Alex sipped at it gratefully. Its tart coolness, fizzy on her tongue, seemed to steady her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, hardly daring to look at him for fear she would be dazzled witless again. ‘You have been very kind. I feel so foolish.’

‘Not at all,’ he answered in his rough, warm voice. ‘Anyone would want to faint in such a crowd. I would never have walked this way today if I had known.’

‘So you aren’t here to listen to the music?’

‘I was on my way to work. I like to walk on fine days.’

Alex was dying of curiosity to know what he did for work, but she wasn’t sure it was entirely polite to ask. Aside from her uncle and cousin Will, both at the Foreign Office, she really had no relative who had work they went to. She decided he must be a poet, or maybe a spy. No, a royal Stuart, come to claim his throne! It was surely something terribly dashing and romantic.

She felt her hat slip again from its pins and pulled it entirely off, leaving soft curls of her hair to fall free against her neck and temples. She stared ruefully down at the bit of millinery, the scrap of blue velvet and net, now quite bedraggled. ‘I’m afraid it’s ruined.’

He studied the hat in her gloved hands with a small frown, his head tilted. He smelled heavenly as he leaned closer, like a green, summery forest. ‘That shape is out of fashion, anyway. You need something with a larger brim, maybe with a scoop here over the eye, with a cluster of feathers. The colour is good, though, especially with your eyes.’

Alex gave a startled laugh. ‘You know about ladies’ hats, then, sir?’

He sat back on the bench beside her, his arms crossed over his chest. ‘It’s my job.’

He worked in millinery? Alex could hardly have been more astonished if he said he was just about to jump to the moon. It seemed so—strange. He was surely the most masculine man she had ever encountered, so full of quiet confidence and strength.

‘What do you think of my walking suit, then?’ she asked, sitting up straighter and grinning at him, startled by her sudden boldness. It was very unlike her. Usually, she just tried to blend into the woodwork. ‘Am I terribly out of fashion?’

He studied her carefully, those ice-blue eyes intent on only her, and she was almost sorry she had asked. She felt so hot and flustered under his gaze, and was sure her cheeks had gone bright red. She quickly gulped down the last of her drink.

‘The colour is also good,’ he answered. ‘And the cut. Its fine cloth and the velvet and silk go well together. But the trim is all wrong. A fur collar would be just right, or some gilded embroidery, like Princess Alexandra wears now.’

‘Princess Alexandra?’ Alex said, thinking of her godmother, who was indeed always perfectly dressed.

‘Everyone follows what she wears.’

‘Yes, I know. She’s always very elegant. But I don’t look much like her. Would her style suit me?’

He studied her carefully, from her disarranged hair to the tips of her kid walking boots, and Alex had to look away. To will her heart to beat slower. ‘Your colouring is different from the Princess, of course, but you have the same delicacy. The same—distance.’

Alex didn’t feel ‘distant’ from him at all. She felt much, much too close. ‘Distance?’

His icy eyes narrowed. ‘Like you’re not of this world. My old nanna, my grandmother, would have said you were a fairy queen of winter.’

‘Of winter?’ Alex asked, intrigued.

‘Aye. All pale and delicate outside, full of icy storms, curses and danger inside.’

She laughed. ‘I think I’m the least dangerous person there is.’

He shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t contradict a female—but I think you’re wrong. You’re definitely of the winter fairy folk.’

She didn’t know how to admit that sitting here with him on this bench was by far the bravest thing she had ever done. She rather liked imagining being of the fairy folk, able to do as she liked when she liked. Just as she enjoyed thinking of him as a god of the Norse country. It all took her out of her dutiful life, the life where she was never quite right, never quite enough, for a moment. It took her out of the ordinary day, out of being Lady Alexandra.

‘I will have to buy a new hat immediately, then,’ she said. ‘A winter fairy can’t go around being dowdy. What would you suggest? Something like that? She looks in the stylish way.’ She gestured at a passing lady, who wore a gown of purple-and-cream-striped silk that was improbably close-fitting and an enormous cartwheel of a hat laden with fruit.

He didn’t even glance at her, just kept watching Alex, something seeming to sharpen in his eyes. He didn’t move closer, but it suddenly felt as if he had, as if his heat and strength surrounded her. ‘I could buy you the most fashionable hat you’ve ever seen, if you would have supper with me tonight at the Criterion.’

And the light-hearted moment shifted, like a grey cloud shifting in front of the sun. Alex sat up straighter, shivering. Even she knew about the Criterion. It was luxurious, all satin-wrapped and filled with French champagne, with private dining rooms where gentlemen took their actress and opera-dancer friends. She heard whispers about it all at balls and teas, quickly quieted when she came near. This gorgeous man thought she was an—an actress?

She felt outraged and wanted to laugh, all at the same time.

‘You—you think…’ she gasped.

She could see immediately that he realised his mistake. Once again, he did not seem to physically move, yet he was very far away from her. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his amber hair. ‘Forgive me. I should never have assumed…’

‘You assumed because I was alone for a moment, I am a woman of—loose morals?’ she whispered, still unsure what she was feeling. Embarrassment, yes, burning hot, but also filled with a strange, hysterical mirth. And disappointment, that her brief dream with this handsome man was gone so quickly. ‘I assure you I am not. I didn’t realise your kindness was based on such a notion.’ She quickly rose to her feet, glad she was steady now.

He stood up beside her and she instinctively stepped back. ‘Of course not,’ he said, his accent even heavier. ‘It is just that you’re so—so…’

‘So?’ So bold, so outrageous, so—not herself?

‘Beautiful,’ he blurted out.

Alex felt her face turn even hotter. He thought her beautiful? Just her, Alex, not the Duke’s daughter? ‘I must go!’

‘Let me help you find your friends.’

‘No!’ she cried. She was tempted to stay right there, standing with him, so she knew she had to run. She spun around and dashed away, not daring to look back. She lost herself in the crowd, hearing the brassy strains of music, of the laughter in the air. It all made her feel even more as if she was caught in a dream, where nothing in her real life existed any longer.

It was only when she heard Chris calling her name that she realised she had dropped her hat. She glanced back, hoping to see her rescuer, no matter how improper he was. And that was when it struck her, where she had seen him before. Not in her dreams. Oh, she was such a fool not have known him immediately!

He was Malcolm, her Malcolm. The sweet, handsome boy who had once taught her to fish. Yet there was no trace of that lad in him any more. Now he was the owner of Gordston’s Department Store, he had become arrogant, so sure everything belonged to him, just like the beautiful women he was with in the newspapers.

She thought she would drown in memories, the humiliation she felt when they parted. How had she ever considered him her friend? He never had been and he truly was not now. They were worlds apart.

But she still wanted to cry when she remembered the sweetness of what once was, even if it was all just a girlish dream.

* * *

‘Dobber!’ Malcolm Gordston muttered as he watched the winter fairy disappear into the crowd. He sat back heavily on the bench, wishing he could slap himself. He had indeed been a first-class fool. Anyone with eyes should have seen right away that she was a lady. Probably even one with a capital L. Her refinement, her voice, her clothes, so finely made and yet subtle, her gentleness—aye, it all said lady, loud and clear.

And yet the moment he had touched her, he had been overcome by a wave of longing like he had never known before. A need for her softness, her sweetness. It wasn’t like him at all, the tough offspring of a crofter on the Duke of Waverton’s Scottish shooting estate, longing for a delicate fairy. He had worked his way up from a ghillie’s muddy son to being one of the richest men in England and not by giving in to any longing for softness and refinement.

Nor had he done it by being ignorant of human nature. He’d learned how to read every nuance of people, to know what they desired before even they could see it and then provide it—for a price. Men and women, they were far more transparent in their wants, needs and deepest fears than they realised. It was his key to never going back to his miserable childhood, where one man was ruined at the mere whim of another.

It was his most invaluable tool in his professional life and in his limited personal time, as well. He liked women, liked the way their minds worked in such subtle, slippery, fascinating ways, so much more complex than most men, shrewder, sharper. Like him, they had to make their way up in a world not designed for them, through back doors. And in return, they seemed to like him, too. Female company was not hard to find.

But all his judgement seemed to have fled when he looked into a pair of heather-coloured eyes. Fairy eyes indeed, so large in her pale, pointed fey face, changeable blue-purple-green, set off by feathery, sooty lashes. He had never seen anyone quite like her. So small and delicate, pale curls escaping from that terrible hat, the silvery, unexpected sound of her sudden laughter. The way she felt under his touch, so light and frail, trembling as if she would sprout sparkling wings and fly away at any moment.

He was enchanted, in a fairy-story sense of the word, taken out of himself. And fairies were dangerous creatures. Always flying away as soon as you touched them. Always putting a curse on your home.

When he was a wee lad, after his mother died and his father went off drinking every night, his nanna would make him supper and tell him tales of the fairies, the winter and summer folk. When he held the lady’s hand in his, smelled her light, pale green lily-of-the-valley perfume, he whimsically wondered if he was seeing the pale winter queen set down in Hyde Park.

And he was never a man to be whimsical. He had learned that from his childhood. Never leave your heart open. Never be helpless.

It had made him take a foolish misstep, a rare misjudgement of a person. He had wanted her so much, he made himself believe she was available when she so clearly was not. He had a solid rule in romance—never dabble with an innocent. There was only pain and confusion in that for everyone involved. He stayed with women like himself, who knew the rules of engagement. He had built his life up by hard work to exactly where he wanted it. He wouldn’t let anything tear it down now. And he knew very well a woman like that was not for the likes of a Gordston.

But, just for a moment, as he sat beside her and watched her smile, he almost would have been willing to watch his kingdom burn down.

Surely it was a lucky thing she had run away. It just didn’t feel so lucky yet.

Malcolm laughed again and put his hat back on before he made his way through the crowd towards the park gates. As usual, because of his height and the long, quick stride he needed to get where he was going fast, the knots of people unravelled before him. He rarely noticed it any longer; his mind was always on the next task, the next new idea. Yet today, he scanned the bright crowd, looking for a pale woman in blue. She wasn’t there, of course, yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

At last he left the park and being on the clatter of the streets was like waking up to himself. There was work to be done. There was always work to be done.

* * *

Gordston’s Department Store was busy, as usual. Malcolm dashed up the marble front steps and through the gleam of the revolving doors into the lobby. Black-and-white stone floors were waiting, the gleam of glass counters, displaying every temptation from kid gloves to crystal perfume bottles to Belgian chocolates, beckoned. The salespeople greeted him with smiles, the customers with curious glances, but he saw none of it today.

He took his own lift straight to the offices on the top floor. It was a different world from the shimmer and perfume of the sales floors, still luxurious with dark-panelled walls and thick Persian carpets underfoot, but with the buzz of low voices and tap of typewriters rather than laughter and the murmur of fountains. The air smelled of paper and ink instead of rose scent and violet powder. The buzz of efficiency and commerce, his forte.

He went to his own office at the end of the corridor and had only a moment to drape his coat and hat on the rack before his secretary, Miss Mersey, appeared. Like everyone else on the top floor, she was efficiency itself in her white shirtwaist and black skirt, her greying hair pinned atop her head, her spectacles in place on her stern nose. She had been with him almost since he opened the store and he could not do without her.

‘Good morning, Mr Gordston,’ she said, snapping open her notebook. ‘Mr Jones has yesterday’s sales figures almost ready for you from the accounting office.’

‘Almost?’ Malcolm said as he sat down behind his desk. It was all in order, the stacks of reports where they were meant to be, his gold pen and blotter lined up.

‘It seems there was a small discrepancy with the glove counter, which is being sorted out. I have the travel arrangements finished for Paris, as well. The repairs to the yacht will be finished by Friday, so everything is quite on schedule. The latest reports from Monsieur Jerome’s architecture office are on your desk, as you see. The store will be finished on time and you will be able to depart for the grand opening as planned.’

‘You mean we will be able to depart.’

For once, a tiny gleam of interest pierced Miss Mersey’s admirably steely exterior. ‘We, Mr Gordston?’

‘Of course. I could never manage my business in Paris without you.’

‘But the store here…’

‘Mr Jones will be perfectly able to oversee things for a few weeks. If you can bear to tear yourself away for a time by the Seine. Maybe dine in a café or two, a new hat…’

Miss Mersey’s brow arched over her spectacles. ‘I think I could bear that, Mr Gordston, for the sake of my employment.’

‘Certainly. Now, Miss Mersey, about the new shipment of muslins from India…’

* * *

Once all the morning business was concluded, Miss Mersey closed her notebook and turned to leave, a stack of letters in her hand to be typewritten.

‘Miss Mersey,’ he called impulsively.

‘Mr Gordston?’

‘Do you happen to know of a customer who is a young lady, very petite, with pale blonde hair? Terrible taste in hats?’

Miss Mersey tapped her pencil thoughtfully on her notebook’s leather cover. She had a prodigious memory, almost as good as Malcolm’s own, and could remember every detail of every regular customer, their orders and perfumes and likes and dislikes. But that description was probably too vague even for her. ‘There is Miss Petersham. She is blonde and ordered that odd parrot hat last month. Or Lady Minnie Grant? Mrs Gibson?’

Malcolm shook his head. He knew all those ladies and none of them was his fairy. ‘If she’s been in, I doubt she’s a regular.’

Miss Mersey’s brows went even higher. ‘She, Mr Gordston?’

‘Just someone I met in the park. I was—curious.’

‘Curious, Mr Gordston?’

He tossed down his pen. ‘Yes. That’s all, Miss Mersey, thank you.’

‘Of course. Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you. An invitation to Lady Cannon’s garden party.’

Malcolm glanced down at the engraved card she handed him. ‘How boring.’

‘Just so. But it’s one of the most sought-after events of the Season and Lady Cannon is a very good customer. Perhaps just a tiny little short appearance?’

He knew she was right and gave a brusque nod. ‘Just a tiny one.’

Miss Mersey gave a delicate little cough. ‘About the lady—I could make enquiries among the staff? Maybe they have noticed her.’

‘No,’ he snapped irritably, because what he really wanted to do was shout Yes, of course, find her! And that would be a mistake. ‘Thank you, Miss Mersey.’

She sniffed and spun around to leave the office, the door clicking shut behind her. No matter how miffed she was, she would never slam. Malcolm reached for the architect’s drawings of the Paris store and tried to concentrate on the important business at hand, expanding Gordston’s on to the Continent.

Yet he couldn’t quite get a pair of wide, heather-coloured eyes out of his mind.


Chapter Three (#u54ae0916-b6eb-5933-87a2-b59b09e0ab67)

‘Alexandra! Aren’t you ready yet? We will be terribly late,’ Alex’s mother called from the dressing room doorway.

Alex studied her mother’s reflection in the mirror as her maid put the finishing touches on her hair. The Duchess was tugging on her gloves, straightening her hat, as impeccably dressed as usual in a green-and-white-striped gown, pearls and amethysts in her ears, blonde hair barely touched with silver. Tall, statuesque, exactly what a duchess should be. Alex knew her own tiny, delicate looks had always been something of a puzzle to her mother.

Just like now. The Duchess tilted her head as she studied Alex’s coiffure, her pale blue watered-silk dress. ‘Oh, that’s quite nice, Mary. You’ve done wonders with Lady Alexandra’s hair.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Mary said, stabbing another pearl-headed pin into Alex’s ruthlessly smoothed-down curls. Alex could still feel the sizzle from the hair tongs.

‘I know such things take time, but we mustn’t be late,’ the Duchess said.

‘I thought that was what you wanted, Mama,’ Alex said. ‘To be the last to arrive and make a grand entrance at the top of Lady Cannon’s garden terrace.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alexandra, we would never be so rude.’ Her mother tsked. ‘But to be seen is never a bad thing, of course. I have heard that a French comte will be in attendance! A French title is never optimum, they’ve become so sadly republican, but they do always sound so lovely.’

Alex cringed inside. Her parents were showing ever more eagerness to marry her off and it was keeping her awake at night worrying. Her grand debut ball was still several days away, her Season young. It made her nervous to wonder why there was such hurry.

Mary carefully placed her hat, a pale blue tricorn trimmed with white bows, on her hair and pinned it tight. Diana had assured her it was the latest fashion and Alex had to admit it was pretty.

It made her remember her sadly crushed dark blue hat last month, dismissed by the most handsome, intriguing man she had ever seen. The man who had once been her Scottish Malcolm. Those fjord-icy eyes, that voice! Like something in a novel. Even though he had thought her a woman of loose character, she couldn’t quite stop thinking about him. What had happened to him to make him change so terribly?

She sighed to remember him, her Thor, suddenly feeling a little pang that her life would take her in a different direction.

She reached for her gloves and reticule, and felt the weight of the book she had hidden there, just in case. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hide away and read a few pages. Her mother would be watching her like a hawk.

She followed the Duchess out to the waiting carriage. At least it was a fine day for a garden party, she thought, as she arranged her skirts on the velvet-cushioned seat. The warm days had helped clear some of the miasma of coal smoke clinging to the rooftops and the sky was a lovely soft turquoise. She knew Lady Cannon’s famous garden would be looking its finest—if only she could be free to explore it.

As her mother listed who was to be in attendance at the party, who Alex should speak to at length and who to show mere politeness, Alex studied the streets outside the carriage window. The allure of the bookseller’s window, with its rows of new volumes, the glow of silk ribbons at the modiste, the lush purple violets and pure white carnations at a flower stall. When they passed the gates to the park, she thought of Thor again. The way he caught her before she fell, holding her so close, closer than she had ever been to a man, the warm, green summer scent of him. His smile, so unexpectedly sweet in his harsh, handsome face. Why couldn’t he still be the man she remembered? Why did she still want to be near him, despite everything?

What would it be like, she wondered, to be a truly wicked woman? To do as she liked without a thought to what people would think. She sometimes had daydreams about skipping right over marriage to independent widowhood. Her own house, time that was all her own. Was that the same as being wicked?

‘Alexandra, are you listening to me?’ her mother demanded.

‘Of course, Mama,’ Alex murmured. She wondered what her mother would think of Thor and his outrageous assumptions. It was fascinating to imagine. She turned to smile brightly at her mother, who frowned quizzically in return.

‘You are always so distracted, my dear,’ the Duchess said. ‘It is so important that you pay close attention at such soirées. Everyone will be watching you, you are a duke’s daughter, meant to lead society. Every time you speak to someone it means so much. It must be correct.’

‘I know, Mama,’ she said. Good heavens, but she knew! ‘I will not disappoint you.’ She hoped. Disappointment was all she seemed to bring her family sometimes.

Her mother sighed. ‘I know you will not. It’s just that your father and I want so much for your happiness. With the right marriage, you could do so much. Use your advantages.’

Alex wondered if her mother had somehow sensed her dreams of independent widowhood. ‘I want that, too.’

Her mother frowned. ‘I did wonder if sending you to school was the right thing. No Waverton daughter had ever been educated outside of home. But you were such a shy child, so dreamy. Your father was sure making friends your own age would do you good.’

‘And Miss Grantley’s was good for me!’ Alex hastened to assure her, as she always had when her mother expressed her doubts about the school.

The Duchess still looked uncertain, but the carriage had rolled to a stop in front of the Cannons’ house, and she couldn’t say more.

* * *

‘Mr Gordston! How perfectly charming to see you again,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said, holding out her hand to be kissed. ‘I’m so glad you did not miss Lady Cannon’s garden party, it’s always so amusing.’

Malcolm smiled at her and bowed over the fine pale lavender kid glove he knew had come from Gordston’s own glove counter. Lady S.-T. was one of his best customers, and the first besides their hostess to greet him at the painfully genteel garden party. Not that there had been any lack of attention. Everyone stared, thinking themselves hidden behind teacups and parasols.

He glanced around at the groups gathered on the terrace, taking tea at small wrought-iron tables under the trees, strolling the flower-lined pathways. They all looked elegant, stylish in pastel gowns and feathered hats he could value to the shilling, smelling of attar of roses, smiling discreetly. A completely different world from the cold, harsh one he had known growing up.

It all made him think of the winter fairy, of her soft smile, her gentle touch. He had thought of her so often since their too-brief, too-embarrassing meeting, and he felt even more foolish than ever that he could have considered her less than a perfect lady. Everything about her had breathed gentleness and innocence, a castle tower high above the coal-streaked world. Just like this garden.

Lady S.-T. tapped his arm, bringing him back into that real world. She smiled up at him from beneath her wide-brimmed, lilac-trimmed hat. She was a widow of great fortune and whispered reputation, one of the great beauties of society with her masses of auburn hair and cat-like green eyes, her photograph displayed in shop windows along with Daisy Warwick and Princess Alexandra. Only a few people, like Malcolm, knew that slightly scandalous society lady was only a front for her work at the Foreign Office, for he sometimes passed on a titbit or two she might find useful. She was a great friend, someone whose company he much enjoyed—yet even her great beauty couldn’t quite distract him from the pale fairy.

‘Lady Cannon was quite naughty to invite you without telling me about it,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said. ‘I would have so enjoyed being here early, to watch the stir your arrival no doubt created.’

Malcolm laughed. There had indeed been something of a ‘stir’ when he first stepped out of the French doors on to the terrace, a ripple of silence across the lush flowerbeds. ‘I’m not sure why she sent the card. Miss Mersey insisted I accept.’

‘Ah, the excellent Miss Mersey. She was quite right. You want as much publicity as possible for your new Paris venture. That was surely why Lady Cannon invited you. Everyone is astir with all things Paris now.’

‘Including your own office?’ Malcolm asked quietly.

Lady S.-T. tapped her gloved fingertip on her dimpled chin. ‘I may be crossing the Channel very soon, yes. Strange things seem to be afoot along the Seine. Perhaps I will call on you at your new store?’

‘You are always welcome.’

‘You know what must happen if I do. I must seem utterly empty in the pocketbook.’ She took his arm and led him down the terrace steps on to one of the gravel pathways. She nodded and waved to various acquaintances. ‘In the meantime, I must show you who is who, though no doubt you already know! They all shop at Gordston’s. Lady Amberson and Mrs Downley. Now, those hats could have come from nowhere else than your own milliner. Miss Chumleigh—now she could use a trip to your underpinnings department, such unfortunate posture. The Viscount Hexham over there, and Mrs Browne, his mistress, though they think they are terribly discreet. And Mr Evansley over there, though I do wonder why Lady Cannon would invite him. We should watch out for him. I have been tasked with keeping an eye on him most carefully.’

Malcolm studied the man she indicated. He looked quite inoffensive, small and pale with thinning blond hair, obviously thrilled to be there among the cream of society. ‘Why is that?’

‘I can’t quite say yet, of course, but he has been known to associate with Mr Nixson. We don’t know yet how deeply involved he might be in the business. Did you not refuse to get involved with that scheme not long ago?’ she answered.

Nixson. Malcolm frowned to remember when the man had come to him to propose a business deal—one that was entirely illegal, not to mention immoral. Of course he had turned him down. But who knew who among society wouldn’t be so wise to know what the man was about?

‘But oh, look!’ Lady S.-T. said happily. ‘There is Christopher Blakely, how utterly charming. I was rather good friends with his brother, Sir William. We should say hello.’

She took Malcolm’s arm and led him across the garden to greet Mr Blakely. As he and Lady S.-T. happily chatted, Malcolm studied the crowd around them, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at people who frowned at him, obviously wondering how he had been allowed into the party.

Then his attention was caught by some newcomers who appeared on the terrace with their hostess. A stately lady in a striped gown, with a younger lady behind her, small and delicate in pale blue, smiling politely. The winter fairy.

‘Ah, the Duchess of Waverton,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas murmured. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of the family? Too high in the instep for the scandalous Marlborough House set, though Her Grace has deigned to talk to me once or twice. It’s a good thing, as they possess the Eastern Star sapphire, which would be a helpful decoy in Paris.’

Malcolm watched Lady Alexandra, his winter fairy who now had a name—and was a duke’s daughter. Not just any duke’s daughter, but Waverton’s, the man who had once ruined his family. The sweet girl who had once sat beside him near the river. The one whose innocence he would have done anything to protect. Now she was here, right in front of him.

She was smiling and nodding as Lady Cannon greeted them, but she seemed strangely far away. ‘A sapphire is involved in your plans?’

‘Bait for a villain, of course. Luckily, the Duchess’s nose is so far in the air she can’t see her husband’s business affairs dissolving right in front of her.’ Lady S.-T. tilted her head, watching as the Duchess nodded to Lady Cannon. She drew her daughter forward and Alexandra looked startled for a moment before her smile was in place again. ‘And that must be the daughter. They say the Wavertons have high hopes for her. She’s very unusual-looking, isn’t she? A bit rabbity and pale, maybe, but nothing the right clothes couldn’t fix in a trice.’

‘Pale and rabbity?’ Malcolm scoffed. ‘Fair, perhaps, but those eyes could never belong to a rabbit.’

Lady S.-T. gave him a long, considering glance. ‘How can anyone see her eyes from here? But now I am most curious. Little debs aren’t usually your style. Come, let’s go greet them.’

Malcolm remembered all too well how his first encounter in the park with Lady Alexandra had ended. She certainly wouldn’t want to see him now. ‘Laura, don’t be daft. No duchess wants to meet a shopkeeper.’

‘You are no mere shopkeeper. You are Malcolm Gordston, one of the richest men in London, keeper of the treasures of Gordston’s Department Store, where even the queen has bought a few things. Even a little rabbit is sure to be intrigued by that. And this party is too dull by half. Come along.’

She took his arm and pulled him along the path, back towards the terrace. He wasn’t entirely reluctant to go with her. Or, if he was honest with himself, as he always was, not reluctant at all. Surely he couldn’t embarrass Lady Alexandra so much when she was surrounded by her family and friends. And he was curious to know how it would feel to touch her hand again. Just for a moment.

* * *

Alexandra smiled at Lady Cannon, half-listening as her mother exchanged pleasantries with their hostess. She studied the garden, the crowd gathered there, arranged like a bright painting of an idyllic day. The Cannons’ annual garden party was famous, for they had what was easily the largest private garden in town, and they always seemed to find the loveliest spring day to show it off.

Surrounded by a towering box hedge, thick enough to keep the noisy streets at bay, the flowerbeds overflowed with white, purple, golden-yellow, pink, crimson, as bright as the gowns of the fashionable ladies who exclaimed over them. Classical statues, white and impassive, gazed down at it all as if unimpressed.

A buffet tea was laid out in the small, pillared temple, a tempting array of dainty sandwiches and sugar-art cakes, which people nibbled on at small tables in the shade. Parasols twirled, laughter echoed against the soft music of a string quartet tucked into an arbour and Lady Cannon’s little spaniels barked.

It was all most elegant and Alex wished she could explore it all. Could dash down the paths in search of her friends and whisper with them all day on one of the shady benches. But she knew she could not. She was on duty.

‘How excited you must be about Paris, Lady Alexandra,’ Lady Cannon said, drawing Alex’s attention back to that duty.

‘Oh, yes. It all sounds very agreeable,’ Alex murmured.

‘And so intriguing, with the Exposition going on!’ Lady Cannon sighed. ‘So many things to see from all over the world. I have told Lord Cannon we must go, but not until I have replenished my wardrobe. The styles are always so different in Paris.’

‘Different, perhaps, but certainly not better,’ the Duchess sniffed. ‘I have seen the latest fashion papers and the new sleeves are quite immodest. All those frills and bows.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lady Cannon said wistfully. ‘They rather remind me of when I was a girl and sleeves really meant something in fashion. Oh, look, here is someone who is certain to know all the latest style news from France! Mr Gordston.’

Alex froze, certain she’d turned into a pillar of ice. Mr Gordston was here. Her Malcolm, who once she cared about so much and who had hurt her.

The icy shock quickly turned to burning embarrassment and she was sure her face was the colour of an apple. Oh, why couldn’t the terrace be a magical one, the stone opening beneath her feet to swallow her up? She wondered wildly if she had time to flee, but she did not. Lady Smythe-Tomas, who held Mr Gordston’s arm, waved at them with a merry smile and steered him inexorably towards the terrace steps.

It was the sight of Lady S.-T. as his companion that brought the icy feeling back again. She seemed exactly the sort of lady who belonged with a man like that, a lady who was everything Alex wasn’t. A sophisticated widow, beautiful, witty, stylish, famous even. Free. Alex had looked at her images in the fashion papers, elegant portraits, group photographs of royal house parties, Lady S.-T. dancing, riding to hounds, playing lawn tennis, and Alex had secretly envied her.

Not quite as much as she envied her right now, though, as Lady S.-T. whispered something into Mr Gordston’s ear, which she could do because she was also wretchedly tall, and he laughed.

‘You invited Mr Gordston to your garden party?’ the Duchess murmured to Lady Cannon.

Lady Cannon’s cheeks turned bright pink. ‘Well—my husband asked me to, Your Grace. They do say even the Prince of Wales has received him, privately, of course. And he does add a certain—decorative flair, don’t you think?’

Oh, yes, Alex did think so. Here in the calm of the quiet garden, away from the pressing crowds of Hyde Park, she had a moment to really study him. She’d wondered, in her daydreams of him, if his attraction would fade if she saw him again. If it was only the unusual circumstances of their meeting that made him so fascinating.

But that had not been it. He was fascinating. So golden and powerful, so different from everyone else around them. And she could see that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. Heads swivelled as he passed by, everyone watching him.

Alex forgot her urge to flee until he climbed the terrace steps, almost to her side. Then she remembered every detail of their first meeting—and her face burned again. But it was much too late to run away.

‘Your Grace,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said, her voice full of laughter. ‘I hear we are to be in Paris together!’

‘Indeed, Lady Smythe-Tomas?’ Alex’s mother answered coolly. Alex knew her mother did not approve of the lady and her ‘fast’ friends. Not even the Prince of Wales was up to her mother’s standards.

‘Yes. Bertie and Princess Alexandra are always so kind to include their friends in their adventures. Mr Gordston here will also be in Paris, opening his latest investment on the Champs-Élysées.’ She smiled up at Malcolm from under her feathered hat. ‘Have you met Mr Gordston yet?’

‘No, I have not,’ the Duchess said shortly. Lady Cannon, who should have made the introductions, seemed to have frozen.

‘Well, Your Grace, may I present Mr Malcolm Gordston?’ Lady S.-T. said happily, seemingly impervious to any froideur, as if her elegant hat was a shield. ‘And this is the Duchess’s daughter, Lady Alexandra Mannerly.’

‘How do you do, Your Grace?’ he said with a bow, all perfectly correct.

‘How do you do?’ the Duchess murmured.

But Alex held her hand out to him. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. Would he remember her? ‘Mr Gordston. How do you do?’ She prayed her voice wouldn’t waver or dissolve into giggles. Luckily, it came out quiet but steady, like a normal person. ‘We do hear so much about you. I’m glad to meet you.’

He took her hand. He wore no gloves and through the thin silk of hers she felt the heat of his touch, the rough strength of his fingers. Just as when they had touched in the park, a spark seemed to dance over her skin, hot and shocking, bringing life with it. Everything around him turned into a mere blur of colour and she couldn’t look away from him.

He seemed to sense something odd, too. A frown flickered over his face and he looked rather discomfited, something she was sure he didn’t often do. He seemed made of confidence and strength and surety. ‘Lady Alexandra. How do you do?’

Alex’s mother gave a small cough and it was like being dropped with a thud back on to the hard stone terrace. Everything that had turned hazy sharpened and Alex saw that Lady Cannon and Lady Smythe-Tomas were watching her with avid interest.

She knew she would be gossiped about, which was the last thing she wanted. She stepped back, listening as Lady S.-T. and her mother exchanged news about Paris, and Lady Cannon was called away.

‘Your Grace, have you tried the raspberry ice yet? It’s quite divine,’ Lady S.-T. said and smoothly led Alex’s mother away under a cover of bright chatter that smothered any protest. Alex wished she knew that trick.

And now she was alone with Malcolm Gordston. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment and she wondered desperately what he was thinking. If he, too, was remembering their first meeting.

‘Would you care for a stroll, Lady Alexandra?’ he asked at last, his Scottish accent blurring his words.

‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ she answered. He offered his arm and she hesitated for a moment, wondering if that spark would fly through her again at his touch and she would burn to cinders. He frowned, as if he noticed her hesitation and mistook it, and she quickly slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

She did not burn up, but she did find she enjoyed the feel of his arm under her touch. A lot. Too much, maybe. But there was no turning away now.

He led her down the steps to the pathway that wound past the flowerbeds. The rose-scented breeze caught at her hat, but luckily Mary had pinned it down firmly enough there were no new millinery disasters. He was so much taller than her, his stride so purposeful, that she felt quite protected. It was rather nice.

He cleared his throat, and Alex glanced up at him. ‘I—I feel I must apologise, Lady Alexandra, for our last meeting. I must not have been quite myself that day.’

Alex thought surely he was himself in the park. It was here that he, that both of them, were constrained, unsure. She felt so shy, so flustered, which was silly. They came from different worlds; they could have no expectations of each other. Surely they should be free around one another? She wished she could be, anyway. That she could just be Alex with him, whoever that was, and not Lady Alexandra. Once she could do that with him. But no longer. He had changed.

‘It is quite all right, Mr Gordston,’ she said. ‘It was an—an odd moment. And it was nice not feeling like a porcelain doll for a little while.’

They turned a corner on the twisting paths, into a small herb maze that was much quieter. ‘Is that how you usually feel? Like a doll?’

‘Sometimes,’ Alex said, marvelling at how he made her feel. Shy and yet bold at the same time. ‘Many times. I’m told where to go, what to say, who to sit with, who to dance with…’

‘Who to walk with in the garden?’

Alex laughed. ‘Yes, usually. But this time I was rescued by Lady Smythe-Tomas.’ She glanced back towards the terrace, now far distant, where Lady S.-T. was still chatting with her mother. ‘She is so elegant, isn’t she?’

‘One of Gordston’s best customers.’

And was she more than that? Alex found she didn’t like the little green-eyed pang that came over her at the thought. ‘Is she—friends with you? Old friends?’

He looked down at her with a crooked smile and she feared she had given too much away. ‘Friends, yes, only. We’re too similar to get along in any other way.’

‘As we were once friends?’ Alex blurted.

He frowned. ‘Friends?’

‘Do you not remember me? In Scotland? You taught me to fish. I never forgot.’ And she had never seen him again after that day she saw him with Mairie McGregor. How high had he climbed since then.

‘I did remember you later, after we met at the park. I felt so foolish for not realising right away. You were quite a terror with a rod and reel back then. Are you still?’

‘There isn’t much call for it here in London.’ Alex looked away, pretending to study the flowers. ‘Look at you now, though. And Lady Smythe-Tomas shops at Gordston’s, as does everyone! How did you come to own such a place? They say it’s so elegant, all the latest fashions.’

‘You haven’t been there?’

Alex bit her lip. ‘I don’t often get to choose where to shop.’

‘The porcelain doll?’

‘Yes.’

He led her to bench under the shade of a looming oak tree and sat down next to her. ‘Well, I didn’t grow up dreaming of department stores. I was born in Scotland, a country lad, as you know.’

‘Yes.’ She remembered when she was a child, the craggy hills against the lavender sky, the cold, smoky air, running free over the moors. The excitement of fishing with Malcolm. ‘I’ve never felt so gloriously free as when I was allowed to explore the hills.’

He watched her closely, his expression closed, unreadable. ‘It’s a bonnie place, nowhere else like it, in the hills. But it’s no good for work. I was an apprentice at a draper’s shop in Glasgow when I left. My father had recently died then.’

‘Oh, I am sorry!’ Alex cried. She remembered his father had not been well the last time they met.

‘He missed my mother so much, it was probably a blessing he went quickly,’ Malcolm said tonelessly. ‘I found work a good way to forget.’

Alex fidgeted with her parasol, not sure what to say. ‘And you found you liked that work?’

‘Aye. I was surprised by it. As you said, I was used to exploring the hills, being free. But I liked meeting the customers, seeing the pleasure it gave them to find just the right fabric, the right style. I even liked keeping the accounts, seeing them all add up. It was a great satisfaction.’

‘I do envy you,’ Alex said. How lovely it would be to have a job to do, learn how to do it well and see its rewards.

But Malcolm looked surprised. ‘Do you? It’s long hours, learning from mistakes, hard work on your feet. Even now, with a new kind of store. Maybe even especially now.’

‘That’s why I envy you! You forge your own path. I have to always follow. I don’t even know what I would be good at.’ She didn’t want to admit to him she had never tried anything. Emily was good at business, Diana at writing. All Alex had that was her own was the charity work she did and she did find great satisfaction in that.





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