Heartbreak and Honor (12 page)

“Yes, I learned the steps, but I must warn you.” Lips quivering once more, she peeked at him through thick lashes “I’m a perfectly horrid dancer.”

He pulled her nearer, not enough to be improper, but sufficient to breathe in her perfume. Somewhat musky-spicy, yet soothing too. A lot like her. “Come now, you’re being too harsh on yourself.”

“My dance master said I was his most inept pupil.
Ever
.” Her expression resigned, she sighed. “In three and thirty years. I am his worst.”

Lucan tried to stifle his chuckle. “A graceful, petite woman like you?”

“Your Grace, I’ve never been accused of being graceful.” Alexandra grinned again, her face lighting up. “He was amiable the first time. When I broke a second toe, less so.”

Lucan laughed outright, earning them several inquiring looks, and a few vexed as well. “More than one? What did you do? Stomp the poor fellow’s bare feet with your boot heel?”

“I didn’t tramp on him deliberately.” Her face puckered in concentration, her mouth moved silently as she swayed and counted the steps. And tromped on his foot. Twice.

He hid a wince. For someone petite, she was not light on her dainty, slippered feet.

“You’re not ungraceful.”
Altogether.
“You’re doing splendidly.”
Exaggeration, there, old boy.
“You need practice, that’s all.”
Lots and lots of it.
He bent his head toward her ear. “I’d be happy to give you lessons.”

She gave a little jerk, and he’d lay odds at White’s, coldness hadn’t caused her shudder. Had his breath tickled her, perhaps arousing her?

“I’d be grateful.” She pursed her plump lips, looking thoughtful. “Is it permitted, though? Would we be breaking some rule?”

Absolutely.

“I shall arrange it with your aunt and uncle.”
Another inch and Lucan could kiss her ear, but to do so would surely bring immediate censure. Nonetheless, he needed to make clear his intentions to the hawk-eyed fortune-hunters eager to snare an heiress and the husband-hunting damsels hoping to don a duchess title.

He’d made his selection, even if Alexandra didn’t know it yet. Moving his thumb up and down the curve of her rib, he inched her closer yet. “I assume it’s your aunt and uncle I should speak with and not your stepmother. I shall call tomorrow—”

“Your Grace. I passed my one and twentieth birthday mark while incarcerated at Dounnich House, and I make my own decisions. I would be most grateful for lessons.” She missed a step and trod upon his foot again. A throaty groan escaped her. “I’m utterly hopeless. A blind, increasing, three-legged cow has more finesse.”

Her groan and his vivid thoughts of how conception occurred nearly undid Lucan. Wait two or three weeks to marry? No, far too long. He’d see about a special license tomorrow.

The music ended, and she glanced around as if surprised she’d survived the dance without humiliating herself. She dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Lucan took her elbow, guiding her to her aunt and uncle while launching a series of dark glowers to deter young swains eager to intercept her before she was safely seated. “Propriety dictates I only dance with you twice. I beg you honor me with the supper dance. Then I shall have the privilege of dining with you as well.”

Surprised delight enlarged her pansy-like eyes.

“That would be wonderful. I would be uncomfortable eating with someone I didn’t know.” Color swept her high cheeks. “Not that I’m really acquainted with you, Your Grace, but I’m comfortable around you, because you already know my secrets, and I don’t have to worry you’ll accost me or press your suit.”

Uh oh.

“You want to know another secret?” Mischief sparkled in her eyes, completely enchanting him.

God, please.

“I do, indeed.” He wanted much more than to know her secret.

What would she do if he kissed her? Right there in front of everyone? He’d seal her fate tighter than a bottle of Scotch. She entranced him as no other woman ever had. Nonetheless, instinct told him she’d never forgive him for entrapping her.

“I’ve acquired a freedom and power I never imagined I would have.” Alexandra leaned into him and grinned, seemingly completely unaware her breast brushed his arm. “Despite my stepmother’s prodding and my aunt’s well-meaning designs, I have absolutely no intention of marrying anytime soon.”

Chapter 13

Swallowing her last bite of toast, Alexa patted her mouth with her serviette then scooted her chair back.

Sir Pugsley pawed her slipper.

Little beggar.

She slipped the dog a piece of egg, which he noisily gulped down. Sitting on his haunches, the pug eyed the table.

“No more. You’re too fat as it is.”

Golden sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, patterning the table and floors like giant, saffron doilies. Her jonquil gingham gown matched her sunny disposition this morning.

She hadn’t botched the ball.

That alone called for a celebration, and the day had dawned warm and temperate for October too. “It’s such a mild morning, I believe I shall walk to the Temple of the Muses.”

The bookstore had caught her attention during several outings, but her dervish of an aunt—bustling Alexa to one fitting or social engagement or another—insisted they’d no time to stop.

Uncle Hugo peered above his newspaper. “Take Jules and Bindy with you. He’s a strapping fellow and can carry your books as well as protect you. She’s a chatterbox, but she’ll lend propriety since Katrina is abed yet.”

“Of course, Uncle.” Alexa would take the entire staff wearing nothing but their undergarments if it meant escaping the house this glorious morn.

Morning had always been her favorite time of day, but she hadn’t had a bit of time, let alone an entire morning, to herself since her aunt had descended on Craiglocky like dirt in a dust storm. Accustomed to hours of solitariness, weeks of constant company proved wearing, no matter how much Alexa adored her new family.

A prisoner claimed more freedom.

Nor had she indulged in a rigorous walk either, something she’d done habitually as a traveller. A wonder the
ton’s
ladies weren’t plump as partridges from lack of physical exertion and the many sweets they nibbled.

“Please return by eleven, dear, won’t you?” Aunt Bridget, a crisp invitation in her hand, paused in sorting her correspondence. “From the plethora of bouquets arriving for you and Katrina, I expect a crowd of callers today.”

Several gentlemen introduced at the ball had presumed to send posies, poems, and sonnets, some so silly, Alexa hadn’t been able to finish reading them for fear of bursting out laughing.

Eyes the shade of grape jelly, indeed. Might as well say teeth or skin as white as chalk or hair as black as soot.

Apparently, a fortune paved the way to forgiving an heiress her unorthodox upbringing, at least where the males were concerned.

If
she
held the title the Needhams adamantly maintained rightfully belonged to her. It would be interesting to see what happened to her beaux’s benevolence if her imprisonment at Dounnich house became known, or if she didn’t possess a fortune after all.

The arrival of Viscount Renishaw’s enormous bouquet came as a complete surprise. Perhaps, he meant to make amends for his boorish behavior last evening. Odd, considering the card accompanying his flowers didn’t mention regrets or hint at an apology. Maybe he wished to express his remorse in person.

Jules entered bearing another armful of blossoms. “More flowers for Miss Needham. Where shall I put them, ma’am?”

Aunt Bridget glanced up from her letter. “Anywhere in the garden salon or the drawing room will do.”

The Duke of Harcourt hadn’t sent flowers.

No shock there, yet Alexa’s heart twinged the tiniest bit. She’d counted him as a friend, an ally, a haven from this unfamiliar world into which she’d been cast.

Not that she considered his impudent request for a kiss at Dounnich House acceptable. Or that the velvety touch of his lips upon hers haunted her still—causing her to yearn for a real kiss from his perfect mouth while wrapped in his sinewy arms.

But at least she knew he’d found
her
attractive and not the fortune attached to her position. He made her feel safe, was easy to talk to, and knew her history before she’d acquired her new station—one she didn’t care for, truth to tell.

She didn’t want to abide by
le beau monde’s
stringent rules, nor did she have the makings of a
tonnish
lady. Frankly, she disliked most of what she’d seen in London thus far and couldn’t wait to escape to the Highlands.

Last night, the duke had gone from an engaging, easygoing companion, to a brooding, aloof nobleman, and she hadn’t a fool’s notion why. Mayhap she’d tramped upon his toes one too many times, or her conversation hadn’t been witty or flirtatious enough. Batting her eyelashes, bowing her mouth into coy pouts, or giggling like a featherbrained nincompoop she simply couldn’t manage.

Och, well, whit's fur ye'll no go past ye.
What’s meant to happen will happen.

The duke had become contemplative after their first dance. While they dined, she kept catching him staring at her, as if trying to see inside her head and read her thoughts. He’d left shortly after supper ended.

Alexa bussed her aunt’s cheek. “I told you not to get your hopes up. I’m not interested in being courted.”

Particularly not by a dandy who spends more time preening than a muster of peacocks.

She found vain women difficult enough to stomach, but strutting coxcombs? Most repugnant. Long ago she’d learned vanity didn’t often follow the path of logic, and people overly concerned with their appearance were often self-centered and unreasonable.

“Tish tosh. Every young woman is interested in being wooed.” Aunt Bridget flapped the note she held, and a speculative glint entered her amused gaze. “I wonder if you’d protest as much if a certain, handsome duke paid a call or sent posies round?”

Uncle Hugo lowered his paper a fraction. “Rumor has it Harcourt’s in the market for a wife.”

Alexa sent him a startled glance. His grace hadn’t indicated any such thing to her. “Are you sure? He didn’t seem particularly attentive to anyone last evening.”

That she’d noticed gave her another start.

Uncle Hugo nodded, humor twinkling in the gaze he centered on her. “I know it’s crass to mention it, but there’s a bet at White’s he’ll wed by Yuletide. Something to do with his mother’s poor health. Don’t put much faith in that twaddle myself, but I know there are those who do.”

“Indeed?” Teacup to her lips, Aunt Bridget eyed her husband, and he winked at her. She flicked Alexa a speculative look. “The young lady who snares his grace will be most fortunate.”

“He’s handsome and intelligent. A born leader, well-respected in the House of Lords.” Uncle folded the paper then set it aside. He rested his elbows atop the table, forming his fingertips into a steeple. “Honest too, from what I’ve gleaned from my business associations with him.”

And he’s kind, witty, and has the most delicious mouth.

“He dances divinely, plus, the man’s a Corinthian and top sawyer. Few men seat a horse or drive a team as well as the Duke of Harcourt.” Aunt Bridget clasped her hands to her chest theatrically.

Alexa laughed and shook her head. “Cease, you two. I’m not in the market for a husband, and trust me, his grace wouldn’t consider a woman who doesn’t know which fork to use, let alone one who prefers eating outdoors rather than at a table as I told him last night.”

Eyes bulging, Aunt Bridget gagged on her tea. Coughing and sputtering, she managed, “You told him
that
?”

Alexa grinned naughtily and nodded.

Her aunt’s eyelashes fluttered closed, and her lips moved silently. Counting or praying? She cracked an eye open. “Dare I ask what else you told the duke?”

“That I bathed naked in streams—”

“Oh, dear Lord.” Aunt Bridget slouched in her seat, fanning herself with the letter.

“. . . ate with my fingers, and slept in a tent. And liked it, too.” Alexa shuddered and rubbed her arms. “Not the bathing part. I about froze my—”

“Ahem.” Uncle Hugo rustled his newspaper, the tips of his ears having gone crimson as beets. He smoothed both sides of his graying mustache, probably to cover his ruddy cheeks.

Alexa couldn’t prevent her tickled smile. She’d never seen Uncle disconcerted before. The man was as stoic as a brick.

Red as one, too, at the moment.

An icy creek
did
wreak havoc on one’s nether regions and nipples.

Aunt Bridget coughed into her serviette, her shoulders quaking. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen the duke’s face.”

“I oughtn’t to have mentioned the bathing.” Alexa chuckled in remembrance. “Most unacceptable, to be sure, but the man is self-possessed. He didn’t so much as twitch.”

“You might be surprised what a man of Harcourt’s caliber would find acceptable for his duchess. He’s not a shallow man, Alexa, and he’s known for his devotion to his family.” Uncle Hugo’s words contained the faintest hint of censure.

“I meant no disrespect, Uncle.” Even though she might very well be named a baroness, she honestly had no aspirations to marry a peer, especially a title as elevated as a duchess. The idea quite alarmed her. The expectations and duties of a noblewoman were beyond her knowledge and scope of experience. When she married, it would be to an unassuming man with unpretentious ways.

“Is there anything you have need of while I’m out?” She offered a bright smile by way of apology. He shook his head, so she turned her attention to her aunt. “Aunt Bridget?”

“No, dear. Go along now.” Her aunt cracked the seal on another letter. “Remember eleven o’clock. You’ll need time to change and freshen up.”

Tempted to salute, Alexa grinned instead. “I promise. Eleven straight up.”

“Oh, Alexa, wait. This is from Craiglocky.” Aunt Bridget made a staying motion with her hand as she quickly perused the letter. “Seonaid will be here by Friday, in time for the Lumberton’s
soirée
. Oh, that’s a grand affair.” Beaming, she turned to Uncle Hugo. “Tell her, dear. The
soirée
is always well-attended and promises to be highly entertaining.”

Uncle responded with a noncommittal grunt and a rustling of the newspaper he’d buried his nose in once more.

“I shall have the room next to yours prepared, Alexa.” Aunt Bridget refolded the letter.

Alexa hugged her. “Thank you. For everything.”

Aunt Bridget cupped both sides of Alexa’s face and gave her cheeks a little squeeze. “You are welcome, darling.”

Five minutes later, Alexa ran down the front stoop, her raspberry hued redingote held a mite too high to be proper. A duchess would never permit her ankle to show or run down the stairs, for that matter.

Followed by the burly footman and cheerful maid, Alexa whistled as she strode along, intent on purchasing several volumes at the bookstore. Duchesses didn’t whistle or stride either. They took dainty, mincing steps. She let loose a long, warbling trill, earning her several curious looks and a chuckle from Jules.

If she had time, she planned to inquire about purchasing a violin and paying a visit to Floris’s to select combs for Aunt Bridget, Katrina, and Seonaid. She wasn’t sure how far the perfumery lay from the bookstore, however.

Marching past a milliner’s, she pulled a face at the bonnets displayed in the window. Some poor peafowl must have sacrificed its entire plumage for the blue atrocity the size of a small skiff. Why would anyone wear something so preposterous? Almost as heinous as the garish puce and pea-green parasol Minerva toted the other day when she called to snoop about Alexa’s nuptial plans.

Outside the Temple of the Muses, practically pressing her nose against the windowpane in her excitement, Alexa paused to admire the impressive array of books within. Choosing three or four amongst the mass of volumes could take several wonderful hours.

“I say, Miss Atterberry, is that you?” A lanky gentleman whose name she couldn’t recollect hurried her way.

She did recall he’d talked, at length,
about various poisonous floras native to England. His detailed descriptions of the consequences of such poisonings quite put her off her food.

His hat slid frontward until it rested on his nose, but he didn’t lessen his pace, just held the brim in place as he scurried forward. “Beg your pardon for shouting. Did you receive my flowers? I thought the irises matched your lovely eyes
.”

Shoving his hat back into place, he sketched a bow, so eager to please, he reminded her of Uncle Hugo’s pug. Alexa dipped into a curtsy.

Irises. Irises. Who sent irises
?

Ah, Mr. Mortimer, the amateur botanist-biologist. He quite enjoyed dissecting things. Rather revolting. “Yes, Mr. Mortimer. They are lovely and one of my favorite blooms.”

“Dare I hope you’ll be receiving visitors today?” He beamed broadly, his ears scooting up the sides of his narrow face, as if she’d granted him a duchy.

“I believe Aunt Bridget is expecting a houseful.” Alexa’s bonnet’s ribbon flitted across her lips. She brushed it aside, and as she did so, her attention fell on Viscount Renishaw conversing with a couple of coarsely attired men across the street.

That was all she needed—for him to see her and make a pest of himself. “I must be off. I’ve errands to complete if I’m to return home on time. I shall see you later.”

Mr. Mortimer’s face fell. “Ah, yes, but of course.” He doffed his hat and bowed again. “I quite look forward to chatting with you.”

With a smile and a wave, she escaped into the bookstore’s interior, fully aware he watched her bum until the door swung shut. Why were men so fascinated with women’s behinds? She’d never once caught a woman ogling a man’s posterior.

She grinned. Well, not so brazenly.

Alexa dashed to a pillar, and from behind its protection, scanned the street. Mr. Mortimer paused to chat with Viscount Renishaw. Pray God he didn’t mention he’d met her. The viscount rubbed her the wrong way. Something peculiar about the man.