Heartbreak and Honor (11 page)

A small cluster of distinguished looking ladies inclined their heads toward her before gliding from the room. Her confidence nudged up a morsel. They’d looked important.

Aunt Bridget tapped Alexa’s forearm with her closed fan. “Bravo, Alexa. You’ve won the patroness’ initial approval without an introduction.”

“Is that who they—” Alexa’s breath caught, and her pulse stuttered.

“We shall remedy that oversight before evening’s end. Well done. First round to you, dearest. I knew you’d take.” Aunt Bridget’s giddy whisper and beaming face hardly registered.

A tall, ash-blond man attired in black, except for his pristine cravat, ambled through the French windows accompanied by two laughing gentlemen.

The Duke of Harcourt’s languid gaze swept the room, passed by her and her family, then careened back to rivet on her as his eyes widened in disbelief. No sign remained of his injured eye.

A slow, wolfish smile curved his full mouth.

No doubt existed that he’d recognized her.

Look away, Alexa.

Her dratted eyes wouldn’t obey. She couldn’t blink as he strode in her direction. What must he think, seeing her here, elegantly attired, and in the company of her well-heeled aunt and uncle?

She permitted a welcoming smile and what she hoped qualified as a flirtatious flutter of her fan, which, from his astonished expression, confounded him.

Her smile slipped. Bother. Perhaps she’d told him to go to the devil or bugger himself with her inept flapping.

His striking companions exchanged amused glances before hieing after the duke. Probably didn’t want to miss the sport about to take place.

Heads turned and conversations tapered when people noticed the duke’s intent. She’d bet her new fortune
le beau monde
favored him, and that he’d set his attention on her—an unknown—marked her for their regard.

Uncle Hugo scratched his upper lip and murmured beneath his cupped hand. “Alexa, my dear. Do you know the Duke of Harcourt?”

“Stop staring.” Katrina nudged her. “People are taking notice.”

Alexa still gaped. She’d thought him attractive before, but dressed formally with a predatory glint in his eye . . . Her body reacted most peculiarly—hot, shivery, and excited at once.

“Alexa.” Katrina toed Alexa’s slipper then poked her in the side, using her fan to make her point.

Alexa perched, riveted on the edge of her seat, like a leery bird ready to take flight. Except, where could she escape to? She had the oddest urge to scamper to the curtains and hide behind their protective lengths.
With him
.

A sharp pinch to her arm at last made her turn and look at her aunt.

“Ouch, that hurt.” Alexa rubbed the offended flesh. “Why did you pinch me?”

A glittering false smile on her face, Aunt Bridget conveniently dropped her fan. Bending to retrieve it, she whispered, “A Covent Garden courtesan is less bold. Drop your gaze. He’s almost upon us.”

No need to ask who
he
was.

At once, Alexa found the parquet flooring’s pattern utterly fascinating. Three pairs of glossy black shoes soon obstructed her view. She switched her attention to the even more intriguing toes of her satin slippers.

Silly, this having to pretend demureness.

“Good evening, Mrs. Needham, Miss Needham, Mr. Needham.” The duke’s voice floated over and around Alexa, churning memories she’d tried to forget. Such as how she could listen to the rumble of his voice forever.

“Your Grace, my lords,” Aunt Bridget and Katrina murmured as one, sounding rather like trained circus parrots.

“Alexa.” Katrina poked Alexa’s elbow with her blasted fan.

Did every
tonnish
women use the things as miniature swords?

The women stood then dipped into graceful curtsies. However, Alexa continued to study his grace’s polished shoes. She wouldn’t want Aunt Bridget working herself into a fuss because Alexa couldn’t tear her gaze from a disturbingly handsome duke.

Why did she have to see him right off? Couldn’t she have been afforded a night or two . . . a week . . .
a month
to practice her newly acquired skills?

Why did it matter? He’d already seen her at her absolute worst and had still tried to steal a kiss.

Savoir faire, Alexa.

Uncle Hugo swept his hand toward the new arrivals.
“
Alexandra, may I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Harcourt, the Marquis of Bretheridge, and Viscount Warrick? Your Grace, my lords, this is my niece, Alexandra Atterberry.”

“It’s a pleasure, Your Grace, my lords.” Why, she sounded quite composed. No one present would suspect her heart had sunk to somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach—which tumbled riotously—or that a thousand red ants danced a Scottish jig along her nerves.

“Thank you, Mr. Needham. However, I’ve had the privilege of previously meeting your niece in Scotland.” The duke’s amused silver gaze collided with Alexa’s. Heaven forbid he reveal how they’d met. She’d be ruined, through and through.

Lord Warrick sent the duke an amazed look. “
She’s
the one?”

That didn’t bode well. Alexa swallowed and braved examining the ballroom beyond them.
Oh, God.
Nearly everyone present turned to watch, and the bolder amongst the crowd sidled closer.

She clenched her fan until the scalloped edges cut into her fingers, and clamped her teeth to keep from telling the meddlers to shove off and mind their own business.

“Harcourt, I thought you said the woman you rescued was a gypsy lass?” Lord Bretheridge, his green-eyed gaze baffled, sent Lord Warrick a questioning look before his attention leapt to Alexa.

The viscount shrugged then scowled at the brazen guests blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation. A half dozen had the grace to blush and, averting their gazes, bustled away. However, one prune-faced man had the audacity to smirk and step closer.

Perhaps the duke had decided to avenge her hitting him after all, and had chosen to do so publicly. He must have known she’d be here. Perhaps, Laird Sethwick had written his grace and told him of her change in circumstances.

No. The Duke of Harcourt hadn’t feigned his surprise upon discovering her here. He hadn’t known, and nothing he’d done at Dounnich House remotely hinted he possessed a rancorous character. In fact, the opposite might be argued. He’d been contrite and remorseful . . . thoughtful, in fact.

Uncle Hugo maneuvered until the peers’ backs faced the titillated onlookers, but the annoying, prying man slinked to the side in order to see and hear their exchange.

Alexa slid him a surreptitious glance and found him staring at her. His thin lips twitched upward, as did the hair on her nape.

A granary rat claimed better manners. Rather looked like a rodent, too, with his narrow face, pointed nose, mousy-brown hair, and close-set, beady eyes. He even wore a gray waistcoat and only lacked whiskers and a tail. She could almost imagine his nose trembling while he cleaned his paws.

Rat man
.

“You’ve met my niece, Your Grace?” Uncle gave Alexa a reassuring smile, although puzzlement lingered in his eyes.

She offered a sympathetic arcing of her mouth in return.

Dear man. He’s utterly flummoxed.

“Indeed, I’ve had the pleasure.” The duke didn’t sound angry.

Alexa took a deep breath, determinedly affixed a smile to her lips, and lifted her head to meet his gaze straight on.

Do your worst. I can take it. I am Scottish and a gypsy.

Well, not gypsy anymore.
Her heart gave a pang.

Only warm kindness shone in the duke’s eyes, and she relaxed the tiniest bit.

His grace took her hand then bowed over it. “And a braver, more courageous, woman I have yet to meet.”

She parted her lips in surprise as a flurry of whispers erupted around them.

Alexa’s story might seem romantic to some, but her aunt and uncle had warned her not to breathe a word about her captivity. Surely, the duke, too, knew how disastrous such a revelation would be to her reputation.

Harrison elbowed his way through the throng.

Perfect. Someone else disagreeable to deal with.

One step behind him, both wearing spectacular parure sets, Minerva towed a pale and trembling Shona.

Alexa doubted the shimmering rubies, diamonds, and sapphires were paste, and irritation pricked at their deceit. She couldn’t tolerate liars. What else had Minerva lied about?

Shona’s parentage
?

Most unwise to trust her stepmother.

Every now and again, Shona darted an enamored look at the rat. Apparently, she knew the man well enough to have formed an infatuation. Interesting. And nauseating.

“Alexandra was raised as a Scottish Highland traveller. A
gypsy
.” Harrison’s bold announcement held a gloating note. His eyes shrank to shrewd slits. “Having been abducted, and her true identity recently discovered, she’s just returned to her family’s bosom.”

Now he’s done it, the scunner.

Katrina slipped her hand into Alexa’s and gave a tiny squeeze.

Alexa forced air into her lungs
. Stay calm.
Mayhap he referred to her first abduction as a child.

Gasps ricocheted round the room, and Aunt Bridget regarded him with the same revulsion she would a headless cockroach scurrying across her dinner plate.

Katrina clenched her hand tighter.

“Pray tell me, Your Grace, how you came to be acquainted with her?” Harrison presumed to touch Harcourt’s arm, but dropped his hand when the duke eyed him as if he were plague-ridden.

Enough of his meddling. Except by marriage, Harrison claimed no kinship to Alexa, and his brazenness set her teeth on edge.

“You assume much, Mr. Peterson. The duke owes you no explanation.” She eyed him coolly. “Need I remind you,
again
, I am not your concern?”

“I beg your pardon.” His terse reply and hardened gaze belied his words.

With family such as he, who needed adversaries?

“Abduction, you say? How very intriguing.” Rodent man exchanged a meaningful look with Harrison. “I should like to hear more of your recent . . .
adventure
.”

She sent her uncle a guarded glance.

Brittle smiles painted on their faces, Aunt Bridget and Katrina kept glancing toward the exits.

Excellent notion. Let’s be away. Now.

Alexa’s fingers grew numb in her cousin’s viselike clasp.

Eyes glinting, Uncle Hugo smoothed one side of his mustache before answering frostily. “As you’ve not been introduced to my niece, Renishaw, your question is beyond impertinent.”

Several guests murmured their consensus, and a satisfied smile wreathed Aunt Bridget’s face.

Renishaw’s face grew ruddy, and he narrowed his close-set eyes in vexation. Had he whiskers, they would have twitched spastically as would his hairless tail. He’d probably gnash his pointed, yellow teeth too.

“Quite right, Needham.” The look of distaste the duke leveled Lord Renishaw sent a chill clear to Alexandra’s shins.

Clearly not friends—not by any exaggeration.

The Duke of Harcourt offered his elbow. “I’ll claim that promised dance now, Miss Atterberry.”

Chapter 12

Lucan itched to reduce Peterson and Renishaw another peg or two, but the gratitude and relief gracing Alexandra’s face, and the swiftness with which she latched onto his arm, prompted him to remove her from the intrigued bystanders straightaway.

She must be discomfited, indeed, to prefer his company and act upon the fabricated dance promise. They hadn’t exactly parted on the most cordial of terms.

He wanted to applaud the frosty setdown she’d given Peterson, but with the ladies present, he’d been forcibly biting his tongue to keep from telling Renishaw to sod off.

“Mr. and Mrs. Needham, might I steal your niece away for the next dance?” Lucan wouldn’t take no for an answer.

At Mr. Needham’s nod of approval, Lucan turned Alexandra toward the dance floor and the bevy of nosy onlookers.

Several gawkers jerked their attention away, stumbling into one another in their haste, and a gentleman spilt his punch down a debutante’s flat-as-a-washboard chest.

A sharp reprimand from her mother cut short the girl’s strangled screech. Glaring at the hamfisted lord, then at Alexandra, the vexed mama seized her daughter’s arm and dragged her from the room.

Alexandra hummed along to the music, oblivious to the misfortune playing out. Either that or she’d mastered masking her reactions. She reminded Lucan of a child on her first outing to a fair or a confectionary. How vastly different this must be from her humble roots.

He studied her goddess-perfect profile.

Did she enjoy dancing too? Weren’t gypsies quite musical?

Roma gypsies, like Lady Warrick, claimed the trait, but Lucan didn’t know if the black tinkers possessed the same inclination. Given the penchant most Scots had for celebrating, the travellers might very well be as gifted.

He shot a covert glance over his shoulder.

Peterson and Renishaw slithered to a corner, and heads close together, conversed intently. No good could come of that. Lucan would forgo his coffee for a month to know how the two had become acquainted.

The way those culls leered at Alexandra, as if she were a dockside harlot displaying her wares, had him grinding his teeth. He almost wished one would venture too far and give him an excuse to call them out. Especially, since he still fumed about Renishaw’s loathsome bet at White’s.

Fiend seize it. He couldn’t challenge anyone to a duel, and not because they’d been outlawed, either. After Harvey’s death, Lucan vowed to Mother he would never duel, and honorable gentlemen kept their word.

Ought not to make pledges in the first place.

Nonetheless, that wouldn’t prevent Lucan from pounding Peterson and Renishaw senseless. Thrice weekly rounds at Jackson’s kept him fit and able to lay a bounder out. He knew other ways to control rubbish of their ilk too, and he held no qualms about using those means to teach the boors a well-deserved lesson.

Sidestepping rotund Lady Bellowton, Alexandra accidentally brushed her breast against his arm.

Lucan gritted his teeth to stave off the rush of lust her innocent movement caused.

She looked bloody exquisite tonight.

Russet highlights danced among the curls artfully twisted and pinned atop her head, and an intricate amethyst pendant encircled her neck. Her nape beckoned him to rain kisses along its delicate length, then gradually ever lower to her swan-like neck, satin shoulders, and the creamy mounds taunting him above her bodice.

Rather than bow her head in chagrin, she glanced around curious as a kitten, boldly meeting the assembled guests’ stares. Few people—no others he readily thought of—traipsed into a ballroom from the wilds of Scotland and endured the
ton’s
scrutiny without a blink.

Such lack of artifice proved refreshing.

By God, the transformation in Tasara . . . Alexandra, from a wild, exotic gypsy to a sophisticated, exquisite lady, graceful and poised, had caught him unprepared and rendered him almost speechless. His joy upon seeing her once more astounded him as well.

Reentering the stuffy ballroom, determined to dance with a prospective bride or two despite his friends’ admonishments, Lucan feared he hallucinated.

He’d been soundly chastised by Warrick and Bretheridge for his calculated approach to matrimony. Just because they’d found marital bliss didn’t mean he could afford the same luxury. He’d made a vow he fully intended to keep, and his time ran short.

Christmas loomed but a few weeks away, and while Mother’s health appeared to have calmed for now, Doctor Philpott made it clear as crystal, they had no way of knowing when she would, again, take a turn for the worse.

To divert his friends’ harping about his stupidity, Lucan had regaled them with the gypsy wench’s rescue, including her punching him.

Warrick and Bretheridge laughed until tears streamed from their eyes and still chuckled sporadically when they reentered the Rutledge’s crowded ballroom.

“Good evening. Quite a crush, isn’t there?” Alexandra smiled at a quartet. Two turned their backs and whispered furiously. The others exchanged a meaningful glance but offered a partial-tilt of heavily rouged lips.

Alexandra’s smile dimmed, and her grasp on his arm grew tense. “I should have waited to be introduced, shouldn’t I? So many bothersome rules. However do you manage to keep them straight?”

“Never mind that riffraff. Come along.” Lucan tucked her arm closer to his side and patted the hand resting atop his forearm as they wended their way through the throng.

“Thank you for asking me to dance.” Alexandra gave him a bright smile. “I feared Harrison was about to make an ugly scene. I didn’t worry for myself, but for my family. They’ve done much for me. And why rat man thinks it’s his concern is beyond me.”

Lucan choked back a guffaw. “Rat man?”

“Curses. I knew I would commit a
faux pas
.” Crimson swept her face, and she hastily peered around to see if anyone else heard her. “Please forgive me. That was a dreadful thing to say. Childhood habit, I’m afraid.”

“Actually, that’s the most accurate description of Viscount Renishaw I’ve ever heard.” Guiding her past a cluster of young bucks, Lucan grinned. “By God, I like it. Renishaw the Rat, or Ratter Renishaw. Or the Vermin Viscount. Which do you prefer?”

She searched his face, wariness tinging her violet gaze. “None are charitable or kind, Your Grace.”

“I assure you, his reputation is well-earned.” Lucan’s tone hardened, a distinct bite weighted his words. “Believe me,
he
is not a kind man.”

“He did seem most intrusive. Thank you for rescuing me.
Again
.” Alexandra grinned at him, her eyes flashing with mirth.

He chuckled. “I don’t know when I’ve been taken more by surprise. Am I to presume Sethwick’s hunch had merit, Lady Atterberry?”

She inclined her head a fraction, the smooth planes of her face unreadable. “Yes, though I confess, I was as astonished as you, and I’m not a lady yet. There’s something to do with an abeyance that needs to be settled before the title is bestowed.”

“A matter of formality, I’m sure.” Lucan flattened his palm against the small of her back as he steered her along.

They’d reached an opening on the dance floor’s periphery.

“Trust me when I tell you,” she made a circular gesture in the air with her forefinger, “this is a trifle much to take in when one is used to eating outdoors with one’s fingers, bathing in streams, and sleeping in a tent or wagon.”

A vision of her standing in a shallow brook, water dripping from her glorious naked form, and her breasts—nipples puckered and raised to the sky—had him swelling in his breeches.

“And I enjoyed it, truth to tell.” Her last words held a challenge, as if she dared him to judge her upbringing or her.

Not a chance.

She intrigued the hell out of him in a way no
properly
raised miss ever would. He would quite like to brave the outdoors with her. Sleep in a tent. Bathe in a stream.

His groin jerked.

Damnation. Much more of this and you’ll disgrace yourself.

“Do you miss Scotland? The gypsies?” Everything she knew, was accustomed to, she’d left behind. That took tremendous courage.

“Yes.” Huskiness lowered Alexandra’s voice, and her gaze dropped to the floor. “Especially my family . . . and the heather. The hills were blanketed with the flowers when I left, though they were fading.”

Open speculation glinted in several pairs of eyes trained on her. Either she didn’t notice or didn’t care. What freedom it must be to be able to cock a snook in the
haut
ton’s
pretentious face. Alexandra wouldn’t be caged and tamed by society’s dictates, and by God, Lucan couldn’t be more pleased.

He bent his neck and murmured, “How much does Peterson know?”

Her guileless gaze swept the crowd before meeting his. “Enough to cause a scandal, but not the entire truth. Not yet, anyway.”

It wouldn’t take much digging, a few coins greasing a palm or two, and the rest would be uncovered. Lucan expected Peterson would persist until he knew all. Hadn’t the Needhams considered the possibility and the ramifications?

A young woman of quality held captive by a band of renegade Scots for hours, let alone days, was ruined beyond redemption, no matter her social standing or familial connections. The gypsies may view things differently, but amongst the
ton’s
set Alexandra was soiled goods.

She needed to be betrothed or married before the ugliness became common knowledge. The sooner, the better. What a fortuitous coincidence he happened to be in the market for a bride and desired speedy nuptials as well.

Scottish, gypsy, and a compromised heiress.

What would Mother and Genny make of that?

He could almost hear the clucking and scolding already. But they’d included Alexandra on their blasted list, so they couldn’t object overly much. Except they had no idea she’d been raised as a black tinker or held captive by ruthless killers.

Lucan wanted to rub his hands together in glee. He’d found his bride, and the gypsy waif he had rescued from the Blackhall fortress would soon find herself a duchess. If everything went as he intended—and as a duke, they ordinarily did—he would be wed well before Twelfthtide.

How soon could he call on Mr. Needham and request Alexandra’s hand? Best not rush things. Woo her for two or three weeks. Lucan steered her onto the sanded floor. “How is it Peterson knows of your situation at all?”

“He’s my stepmother’s stepbrother.” Her scrunched nose and compressed lips expressed her opinion of the man. “That was her and my half-sister standing behind him. From my understanding, he has resided at Wedderford Abbey since right after my father died.”

She lifted to her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, her hot breath caressing the lucky organ. “He gives me the shivers.”

Lucan’s libidinous desires sprang into a full-on gallop.

She
gave
him
the shivers. Delicious, sensual shudders he longed to further explore. In a tent or stream. He canvassed the room. An alcove or the terrace would do, as well.

“He always leers at my bum and bosoms.” She winked as she settled her heels to the floor.

If Jesus stood beside him, Lucan couldn’t have prevented himself from assessing those same two luscious attributes. His cock’s predictable response would soon have people pointing and snickering if he didn’t command some control over his primal urges.

Think of something else
.

Miss Blankenship’s mustache.

The murderous Blackhalls.

Mother’s failing health.

Father’s infidelity—

That did it.

Lucan’s manhood wilted faster than a water lily tossed onto a Yule log.

No other lady would have mentioned her bum or bosoms to a male acquaintance. That Alexandra did, told him she trusted him. Excellent. Trust between a husband and wife was essential.

Mother trusted Father, and look how well that had ended.

Lucan pelted the thought halfway to next year.

“Did you hear that Isobel Ferguson and the Earl of Ramsbury—he’s the man who rescued her—wed?” Why he thought she’d want to know, he couldn’t say.

“I suspected as much. The way they looked at each other, they had to be in love.” Alexandra gripped his arm and, eyes glowing, gave a sage nod. “They practically devoured one another with their gazes. I’m overjoyed for them.”

Not a jot of envy or insincerity tinged her words.

“They are blissfully happy and honeymooning in Spain, I believe.”

She considered him from the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry I hit you.” Contriteness giving her voice husky depth, she lifted a shoulder an inch. “I was overwrought and not myself.”

“I deserved it, and again, beg your pardon. My behavior was intolerable.” Lucan dipped his head nearer hers, as much to breathe in her essence as to speak privately. “I had a devil of a time explaining how an imp your size managed to blacken my daylights.”

“A most challenging dilemma, to be sure.” Her lips quivered and laughter cavorted in her heather-colored eyes. “Am I forgiven then?”

“I’ve forgotten the incident.” Too bad his friends hadn’t and would continue to taunt him, for weeks.
Months.
“Truce?”

She gifted him a beguiling smile. “I’d like that.”

The first strains of a waltz sounded. Lucan bowed, and after Alexandra curtsied, he swept her into his arms. “Do you know the waltz?”

Wouldn’t matter if she didn’t. He possessed superb dancing skills and could easily lead her.