Heartbreak and Honor (10 page)

“Houston, which do you suggest I attend this evening?” Lucan waved at the stack. The majordomo’s preference might prove diverting.

Houston lifted the invitations and, lips pursed in concentration, after thumbing through them, displayed three.

“Well, Your Grace, the Eggleston’s musicale is sure to be attended by several young ladies of quality, as is the
soirée
at the Wrottsley’s.” He raised one ruby-toned paper adorned with a black ribbon and a monogrammed
R
. “However, the Rutledge’s annual autumn gala is a Little Season high point. I recommend you put in an appearance at the musicale and then finish the evening at the ball.”

“Musicale and ball it is.” Lucan enjoyed musicales as much as getting tossed from his horse.

Naked.

In Hyde Park.

In the dead of winter.

No, he preferred being thrown on his arse, but if he recalled correctly, the Egglestons had four marriageable daughters. Not one of whom sang a note on key. Fighting cats held more talent and harmonized better too. Still, he couldn’t afford to ignore a quartet of potential prospects.

The doorknocker echoed. “Are you at home, Your Grace?”

“Not to females, by God, unless it’s my grandaunt.” Lowering his feet, Lucan dropped the infernal list on his desk. “I’ve had quite enough of being ogled like a fancy pastry or a new parasol.”

“Most discomfiting, I’m sure.” Houston’s lips slanted minutely, his version of full-on guffaw as he left to answer the door.

Lucan rifled through the new post in search of a correspondence from Chattsworth. Finding a letter in his mother’s tidy script, he settled back into the chair once more.

“Your Grace, Viscount Warrick and the Marquis of Bretheridge have called.” Houston stepped aside as Lucan’s friends showed themselves in, still wearing their coats, hats, and gloves. Houston pointedly frowned at their attire before sniffing his disapproval and shutting the door.

Lucan hid a grin at his butler’s pompous formality.

“Harcourt.” Warrick strode to the desk, Bretheridge in his wake. “We’ve just come from White’s. Renishaw has placed a bet on the books.”

“What concern is that of mine?” Lucan stood and folded the letter. He cocked a brow at the fierce expressions lining his friends’ faces. “The Renishaws have always been despots, wastrels, and gamblers.”

“Yes, well, the jackanapes has gone beyond the bounds.” Bretheridge tossed his hat and gloves atop the desk. “He’s bet your ‘idiot brother’—his words, not mine—will be jailed for trespass by Yuletide.”

Chapter 11

Alexa attempted to not gape at the woman staring back at her in the floor length looking glass. No vestige of the Highland Gypsy remained except when she spoke and her light brogue gave her away.

She would attend her first ball tonight, performing rigid, structured steps vastly different from the free-spirited, creative movements she’d danced since childhood. The notion bathed her in a twofold surge of excitement and dread.

Katrina, exquisite in a gown of ivory lace and Pomona green silk edged in silver braid, grinned at Alexa’s reflection.

“You look magnificent, Alexa. Your hair is the most remarkable color, practically midnight black, but when the light hits it so, it shimmers bronze. I’m glad Mama allowed us bolder colors rather than insipid white or cream for our gowns.”

“As am I.” Alexa eyed her vibrant gown, the same shade as newly bloomed heather. She yearned for the Highlands . . . missed the musical Scottish brogues. Nevertheless, circumstances put her past beyond her reach, and she must forge a new future.

Katrina laughed and grabbed Alexa’s hands. “Lavender is your color. It emphasizes your eyes, and Mama’s amethysts are the perfect finishing touch. They match your slippers’ beading splendidly.”

Alexa lifted her hem, exposing the embroidered shoes enclosing her feet.

Too pretty to wear
.

She owed a great deal of her newly acquired wardrobe to a young woman who’d failed to return for the garments she’d ordered.

Delighted upon discovering Alexa and the absent woman wore practically the same size, the merchants offered the ready-made garments for a pittance when they learned she intended to purchase an entire new wardrobe, from undergarments to pelisses, muffs, bonnets, and shoes.

Always prudent with funds, Alexa politely ignored her aunt’s protests that she should purchase someone else’s leavings, and took the entire lot. However, not without a tug of remorse at whatever ill-fortune prevented the other woman from returning for her garments.

The lady’s taste had been superb, if a trifle reticent. Alexa preferred bolder colors, but for the price, she would make do.

Katrina’s brow knitted as she clasped an emerald and pearl drop earring to her ear.

“You should have been permitted to wear the Atterberry jewels. I don’t believe for a moment, Minerva’s balderdash about them being locked in a safe at Wedderford Abbey.” She crinkled her adorable nose. “No one without a turnip for a brain would. I’ll bet Minerva or Shona wear gems tonight. You wait and see.”

“Don’t
fash
yourself, dearest. We shall have time to sort everything out while we’re here.” Alexa half-pivoted to glance at Katrina. “Uncle Hugo has scheduled an appointment with the solicitor, and we’ll know precisely where everyone stands after that.”

“Yes, well, thank goodness Papa discovered the scheming crow petitioned to have the abeyant peerage terminated in Shona’s favor, and did so within days of receiving notice you were alive.”

That unpleasant revelation yesterday unnerved Alexa. Her prospects, the hope of helping the travellers and postponing marriage, might require reevaluating if she didn’t receive the title.

Though, unlike Shona’s, Uncle Hugo assured Alexa her parentage remained uncontested. She didn’t consider for a moment he’d let that particular remain hidden; Shona’s pedigree was no trifling matter. A bastard couldn’t be permitted to inherit, or so Uncle insisted.

“It’s understandable, Katrina. I’ve disrupted their entire way of life. I imagine they are quite desperate.” And angry. At least Harrison was. The man fairly simmered, bubbling with ire, each time they met.

Alexa couldn’t quite reconcile the kind, biddable woman Minerva portrayed herself at Wedderford Abbey with the conniving, deceitful wretch who’d pretended to rejoice in Alexa’s return, the whole while knowing she’d petitioned to have her stepdaughter disinherited.

What else did she hide?

The entire family seemed a bit off-putting, truth to tell. Harrison had, in fact, had the effrontery to suggest he view Alexa’s bottom, to which Uncle Hugo had emphatically told him to go bugger himself.

Clearly, Harrison had an agenda; to disprove her identity and claim to the title.

Enough.

Tonight she’d foray into High Society’s evening activities for the first time, and she’d not muck it up. Facing the mirror once more, she rearranged a curl framing her face. Never had she felt half so lovely, yet the thought that gentlemen might find her appealing didn’t settle well in her middle. She hadn’t sought a man’s attentions since Rígán’s, and he’d been a youth of nineteen when he’d disappeared.

Her chest constricted—more for the loss of her best friend than heartbreak. She’d been terribly fond of Rígán and expected they would marry, yet theirs hadn’t been a heated romance, but rather a comfortable camaraderie.

Her right glove crept toward her elbow, and she tugged it back into place. How did ladies do anything with their hands constantly in gloves?

So impractical.

What if she needed to use a chamber pot tonight? Best ask Katrina about that difficulty before they left for the ball.

Aunt and Uncle hadn’t mentioned if the Duke of Harcourt would attend the gala. Alexa’s pulse gave a queer skip. Imagine their surprise if they discovered precisely how she and the duke had become acquainted.

Yes, his grace risked his life to rescue me, my brother, and my sister from certain violation or death.

Of course, I thanked him properly.

I punched him a good one when he tried to kiss me.

Her stomach quivered then gurgled. She pressed a hand there. She should have eaten her luncheon, but she’d been too busy practicing her dance steps and reviewing the
ton’s
protocols and expectations.

Pray to God she didn’t revert to a lifetime of habits and seize a piece of meat with her fingers, talk with her mouth full, or snort when she laughed. She’d never claimed a dainty, musical laugh like Katrina or Aunt Bridget. No, hers sounded like a bleating goat with a head cold.

“I’m fraught with apprehension.” She met Katrina’s excited gaze in the mirror. “I’m going to commit a gaffe. I know it.”

Katrina heaved an exaggerated sigh and wrapped an arm around Alexa’s waist. “You’ll take London by storm.”

Alexa chuckled at her stunning cousin. “You’re not exactly street rabble, and I’m sure every gentleman present tonight will wish to dance with you. Me, on the other hand.” She pulled a face and stuck out a silk-clad foot. “I’m all heels.”

“Flim-flam. You’ve come so far in two weeks. You have mastered most of the dance steps, and your manners are as pretty as mine.” Katrina dimpled. “Papa paid Mr. Beufort handsomely for the little inconvenience he suffered.”

In the process of dabbing perfume behind her ears, Alexa shook her head and released an unladylike grunt. “Katrina, I broke the man’s toes. He swore in all his years as a dance master, he’d never known anyone as ‘maladroit’ as me.”

“Pooh.” Katrina flapped her hand. “He’s a cross old boar who likes to use pretentious words. You’ve practiced with me this entire week and only trod upon my foot twice. My toes are none-the-worse for it.”

“Liar.” Alexa shook a finger at Katrina. “I saw the bruise atop your foot, cousin.”

In the past fortnight Aunt Bridget, and a beehive of others, had attempted to transform Alexa from a Highland bumpkin into a lady worthy of a title.

Alexa didn’t share her aunt’s enthusiasm about presenting her long-lost niece to Society, not only because Alexa’s education in comportment had only just begun, but in truth, she had no desire to fit in to the
haut ton
. Nonetheless, she wouldn’t deny Aunt Bridget her joy, and her aunt’s exuberance
was
contagious.

The same couldn’t be said for Minerva’s and Harrison’s eagerness to marry her off. After Shona’s remark at Wedderford Abbey, Alexa hadn’t minced words. She wasn’t in the market for a husband, and when she did decide to pursue marriage, she, and she alone, would select her mate. Even so, their persistence spurred Alexa’s impatience and wariness.

They’d soared into Town a mere two days after Alexa arrived. Thankfully, Minerva hadn’t fussed when Alexa insisted on continuing with the Needhams rather than moving to her residence on Regent Street where Minerva intended to remain for the Season.

Minerva and Harrison came round the next day with a slew of suggestions, from practical to outrageous, as to how Alexa might most effectively and efficiently go about acquiring a spouse, post haste. One of their tamer recommendations consisted of hiding in a peer’s carriage wearing nothing but her chemise.

One would think them desperate to see her married.

Perhaps they thought she’d reside at her husband’s home and they’d be free to do what they pleased at Wedderford.

The entailment included other properties as well, and Alexa hadn’t quite decided how to proceed with her new family or her holdings. Her change in circumstances became a mixed bag of blessings and conundrums. After a visit with Uncle Hugo’s solicitor, she’d be in a better position to make decisions.

Difficult at best and humiliating at worst, Alexa didn’t envy Minerva and Shona’s situation. Nevertheless, that hadn’t prevented Minerva from indulging in enthusiastic shopping sprees which Uncle Hugo politely, but firmly, put an end to. Minerva’s generous allowance would have to suffice.

Why Harrison continued to reside at Wedderford Abbey, or tag along wherever her stepmother went, baffled Alexa, unless he had no means. He’d been living off the barony’s funds for the past two decades. Rather hard to respect an opportunist and wastrel of that caliber, but she didn’t know his whole situation either. Perhaps he suffered from a malady of some sort.

Laziness.

She shoved the uncharitable thought aside.

Alexa scrutinized her appearance in the mirror one final time. “I’m afraid I shall make a God-awful blunder.”

Katrina gathered her gloves. “You’ve nothing to worry about. Do as I do and smile. People will understand when they learn of your uncivilized upbringing.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, Alexa. I didn’t mean that how it sounded.” Laying the gloves aside, Katrina glided to Alexa’s side. “I only meant, dear one, you cannot be expected to learn in a fortnight what most members of
le beau monde
have had a lifetime to perfect. And trust me when I tell you, many of that pompous lot are quite barbaric beneath their snooty, outward mien.”

“It’s fine. I’m not offended.” And Alexa wasn’t.

Although she’d been in London a short while and attended several intimate functions, she felt as inadequate as a pig dressed in chartreuse satin taking tea in Lady Jersey’s parlor. Nonetheless, she intended to learn as much as she could and make the most of the opportunity she’d been afforded. As an heiress, she possessed the power to help the gypsies and other less fortunates.

An hour later, holding Katrina’s hand, she entered Lord and Lady Rutledge’s glittering ballroom. Several people turned to stare as Uncle Hugo guided the women to empty chairs near parted French windows. As they took their seats, a few guests smiled and inclined their heads while a good number whispered to those nearest them.

By design, Alexa’s fascinating tale hadn’t remained a family secret. Uncle Hugo and Aunt Bridget had thought it best to let the story out in the open, lest viper-tongued gossips contrive something unpleasant and untrue. However, their romanticized version of her disappearance and life amongst the gypsies didn’t include sharing her abduction and imprisonment at the Blackhall’s hands.

A stout, older gentleman examined Alexa through his quizzing glass while two dandies openly leered—one wearing a rose and jonquil striped waistcoat, and the other, a neckcloth so stiff and complicatedly tied, he could scarcely move his head.

“The rotund fellow is Mr. Myers, the fop, Lord Craven, and the starchy chap, Sir Howard,” Katrina whispered from the side of her mouth while bestowing a brilliant smile on a dark-eyed man, with hair slightly longer than fashionable, lounging against a pillar.

You can do this, Alexa. Remember, savoir faire.

Alexa recited in her mind, again and again, what Aunt Bridget drilled into her.

“A lady must demonstrate
savoir faire
, Alexa. She must behave correctly and with poise in every situation.”

Raising her chin, Alexa smiled at those smiling at her, unflinchingly met the direct stares of those rudely gawking, and raised an amused brow at the haughty few turning their noses up. She also indulged in a bit of
Name the Lord and Lady
, a child’s game she had played growing up. No ill-intent was behind the silly, fabricated names, just nonsensical fun.

A triad of overly perfumed, bejeweled dames sauntered past, taking Alexa’s measure as surely as her nose objected to their powerful aromas. Holding her breath and stifling the urge to sneeze, she offered a genial smile and received flat, unblinking stares in return.

No allies there. She promptly dubbed them
The Three Un-Muses.

Fixing her smile firmer, she inspected the teeming ballroom, already beastly warm. Alexa inhaled a bracing breath. These people would not intimidate her.

Desperate for the insignificant draft waving the frilly accessory afforded, she flipped her fan open despite not having concentrated in her studies on how to most effectively use the thing to communicate. Silly her. Here she thought a fan a tool to cool oneself, not to send coded messages.

She had allowed a tiny whimper and slouched onto the salon settee yesterday when Aunt Bridget announced she must also learn the language of parasols and handkerchiefs.

Absurd.

Just talk, for the love of God. Wasn’t that why the Good Lord gifted people with mouths and tongues? Pray she didn’t thwack herself on the nose or poke herself in the eye with her fan tonight. Or communicate something wholly inappropriate.