JMcNaught - Something Wonderful (43 page)

"I'm sorry, Roddy," she said, instantly contrite. "I wouldn't want to do anything which might cause you difficulty with—"

"I was concerned for
you
, my sweet child, not myself. I'm in no danger. Hawk won't call me out—He and I are much too civilized to stoop to a public display of unconstrained tempers, which is what dueling actually is. On the other hand," Roddy added bluntly, "I feel sure he will soon be looking for any opportunity to privately rearrange my face for me. Never fear," he added with supreme nonchalance, "I can handle myself with my fists. Contrary to what you may have thought, there's a man beneath these fine clothes I wear." Pressing a gallant kiss to the back of her hand, he said dryly, "I shall search you out at the Lindworthy ball tonight."

When Roddy left, Alexandra wrapped her arms around her middle, laughing as she looked heavenward. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she called to God, to fate, and to the ornate ceiling. Roddy had answered the first part of her problem by showing her a source of money, and now she had hit upon the solution to the second half: Jordan Townsende, she had observed during the last two days, was a man who was accustomed to, and demanded, unquestioning, instant obedience from everyone around him, including his wife. He was not a man who was accustomed to being defied by man, woman, or servant.

Therefore, Alexandra gleefully decided, defiance was obviously the key to her freedom. Several immediate and flagrant defiances were called for—ones that would cut up his peace, laugh at his dictatorship, and, most important, illustrate to him in the clearest possible way that he would be far more comfortable with Alexandra out of his way and out of his life.

"His majesty," Filbert disrespectfully declared, "ain't goin' to like yer betting against him or goin' out tonight." With a worried little frown, he said, "I was eavesdroppin' and I heard him say you couldn't."

Alexandra burst out laughing and hugged the concerned old man. "He'll never know about the bet," she cheerfully declared. "And if he doesn't like my going out, I suppose he can"—heading for the door she announced jubilantly—"send me back to Morsham! Or give me a divorce!" Humming a gay, lilting tune, she strolled jauntily down the hall and up the long staircase. In two months' time, when she collected her winnings, she would be able to simply walk away from Jordan Townsende as a wealthy woman by Morsham standards. Equally delightful was the knowledge that she had made the money using her own wit—and that Jordan would never know how she got the funds. In the doorway of his study, where he was about to bid his visitors goodbye, Jordan paused and turned, watching her as she walked jauntily up the stairs, a faint smile touching his lips. Alexandra, he realized, had a very pretty voice. A beautiful voice. Also an inviting sway to her hips. Very inviting.

The confidence that had buoyed her up all afternoon was higher than ever as Alexandra stood before her dressing table, her head turned toward the clock on the mantel. An hour and a half ago, when Jordan had entered the master bedchamber which adjoined hers, she had heard him tell his valet he was going to White's tonight. Twenty-five minutes ago, he had left.

White's was only a short distance from the Lindworthy mansion, and rather than risk the slightest possibility that Jordan might have lingered downstairs, or that she might encounter him en route, she thought it best to give him plenty of time to arrive at his destination before she left for hers.

By now, he surely ought to be there, she decided, and turned to the middle-aged French maid whom the duchess had hired for her. "Will I do, Marie?" she asked brightly, but Alexandra knew she had never looked better.

"You will leave them speechless, your grace," Marie declared with smiling certainty.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Alexandra chuckled ruefully as she glanced in the mirror at the breathtakingly gorgeous lemon chiffon gown that was gathered at the shoulders into tiny pleats that crossed her bodice on a diagonal and emphasized the enticing swell of her breasts and plunged at the neckline into a daringly low V. A wide band of horizontal pleats hugged her narrow waist, then fell into an airy drift of swirling chiffon skirts.

Long matching gloves encased her arms to well above the elbows, and diamonds flashed at her throat and peeped from beneath the soft tendrils at her ears. Her shining hair was twisted into an elegant chignon at her crown, with a rope of diamonds artfully woven into the wide coil.

The stark simplicity of her coiffure set off her finely sculpted features, giving her a more sophisticated appearance to offset her youth and complement her dramatic gown to perfection.

Picking up her little beaded reticule, Alexandra said gaily, "Don't wait up for me, Marie. I'm spending the night at the home of a friend." It was not quite the truth, but Alexandra had no intention of letting Jordan Townsende make love to her again, and for tonight at least she had a plan to prevent it.

White's, the most exclusive private gentlemen's club in England, looked exactly as it had when Jordan had last walked past its wide bow windows more than a year ago. And yet, the moment he walked into its hallowed confines, he was aware that something was subtly different tonight.

It was different, yet everything was the same: Comfortable chairs were still grouped around low tables so a man could lean back and relax while casually losing or acquiring a fortune on the turn of a card. The large book where bets were recorded—a book as sacrosanct to the gamblers of White's as the Bible to a Methodist—was still in its usual place. Except tonight there was a much larger crowd than normal gathered around it, Jordan noted as he strode forward.

"Hawthorne!" a hearty voice exclaimed—too heartily, and the group of men at the betting book lurched erect, then hastily started forward in a group. "Good to have you back, Hawk," Lord Hurly said, shaking Jordan's hand. "Wonderful to see you, Hawk," someone else said as his friends and acquaintances pressed around him, all eager to welcome him back. A little too desperately eager, Jordan thought…

"Have a drink, Jordan," John Camden said grimly and unceremoniously snatched a glass of Madeira from the tray of a passing footman, thrusting it into Jordan's hand.

With a faint, puzzled smile at Camden's odd behavior, Jordan handed the Madeira back to the footman. "Whisky," he said succinctly and, excusing himself, he started toward the betting book. "What sort of nonsense are the young bucks betting on these days?" he asked. "No more pig races, I hope." Six men abruptly blocked his path, fanning around the betting book in a semicircle and all six simultaneously burst into agitated conversation. "Odd weather we're… Devil of a time you had… Tell us about… How's Lord Anthony?… Is your grandmother well?"

Unseen by Jordan, John Camden shook his head, indicating the futility of their human blockade of the betting book, and the loyal band of sympathetic husbands trying to block Jordan's path all stepped awkwardly aside.

"My grandmother is fine, Hurly," Jordan said as he strolled through their midst to the book. "And so is Tony." Bracing his hand on the back of the chair, Jordan leaned slightly forward, flipping backward through the pages as he had flipped backward through old copies of the newspapers earlier today, bringing himself up to date with the world. There were bets on everything, from the anticipated date of the next snowstorm to the weight of old Bascombe's firstborn child.

Eight months ago, Jordan noted derisively, young Lord Thornton had bet £1,000 that his young friend Earl Stanley would take to his bed with a stomach ailment two months later, on December 20. On December 19, Thornton had bet Stanley £100 that he couldn't eat two dozen apples at one sitting. Stanley won that bet. But he lost £1,000 the next day. Jordan chuckled, glancing up at his friends, and remarked dryly: "I see Stanley is still as gullible as ever."

It was traditional, this remarking upon the betting follies of the younger set by the older, wiser, more worldly set. The fathers of the six men gathered around the betting book—and their fathers before them—had all stood there, doing exactly that.

In the past, Jordan's remark would have caused his friends to reply with amusing stories about other bets, or with good-natured reminders about some of
his
reckless foibles. Today all six men gave him uneasy smiles and said nothing.

With a puzzled, encompassing glance at them, Jordan returned his attention to the book Stillness descended on the entire club as the gentlemen at the gaming tables ceased their play, waiting. A moment later, Jordan felt certain he knew the reason for the peculiar atmosphere all around him—throughout all of May and June, page after page of the betting book was suddenly covered with wagers on which suitor—and there had been dozens of them—Alexandra would ultimately choose to wed.

Annoyed but not surprised, Jordan turned the page and saw bets cropping up about the race on Queen's Day and whether Alexandra would tie her ribbon on his sleeve.

He was, he saw as he glanced idly down the names in the book, a vast favorite to succeed… although, near the bottom of the page, there were a few names betting against him: Carstairs, Jordan noted wryly, had bet £1,000 against him earlier that day. Typical!

The next wager was also against him—a large one in a very odd amount—£2,017.3—guaranteed by Carstairs but placed on behalf of…

Rage exploded in Jordan's brain as he straightened and turned to his friends. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he bit out in a soft, murderous voice, "I have just remembered that I have another engagement tonight." Without a glance at anyone else, he stalked out.

The six men surrounding the betting book gazed at one another in helpless consternation. "He's going after Carstairs," John Camden said grimly, and they all nodded agreement.

They were wrong. "Home!" Jordan snapped at his driver as he flung himself into his carriage. Idly slapping his gloves against his thigh, Jordan endured the ride to No. 3 Upper Brook Street in a state of deadly calm as he contemplated a variety of highly gratifying methods of teaching his outrageously willful, errant wife a badly needed, unforgettable lesson.

He had never been tempted to strike a woman in his life, yet now he could think of nothing more satisfying than the impending prospect of walking into Alexandra's bedchamber, jerking her over his lap, and paddling her until she could bear no more. It was, he decided, an eminently suitable punishment for what had been an eminently
childish
act of public defiance!

And after that, he decided, he would toss her onto the bed and put her to the use God intended her for!

In the mood he was in, he might well have done exactly that. But—as Higgins informed him when he stalked past the butler and headed up the staircase—Alexandra was "not at home."

A moment ago, Jordan would have sworn he could not have been angrier than he already was. The news that Alexandra had openly defied him by going out, when he had specifically
ordered
her to stay home, sent his blood to the boiling point. "Get her maid down here," Jordan demanded in a voice that made Higgins press backward against the door before scurrying off to do as he was bade.

Five minutes later, at ten-thirty, Jordan was en route to the Lindworthys'.

At that same moment, the Lindworthy butler was loudly proclaiming the arrival of: "Her grace, the Duchess of Hawthorne!"

Airily ignoring the swiveling heads and searching stares, Alexandra walked gracefully down the grand staircase in the most daring ensemble she had ever appeared in. It suited her perfectly—she felt wonderfully, independently daring tonight.

Partway down the staircase, she glanced casually over the packed ballroom, looking either for Roddy, Melanie, or the dowager duchess. She saw the duchess first, standing with a group of her elderly friends, and Alexandra headed toward her—a shimmering, glowing vision of youth and poise, her eyes shining as brightly as the jewels she wore, as she occasionally paused to nod regally at an acquaintance.

"Good evening, dear ma'am," Alexandra said gaily, pressing a kiss to the duchess' parchment cheek.

"I see you're in high spirits, child," her grace said, beaming at her and clasping Alexandra's gloved hands in her own. "I'm equally happy to see," she added, "that Hawthorne took my excellent advice this morning and removed his foolish restriction against your going out into company."

With a mischievous smile, Alexandra dropped into a deep, respectful curtsy that was a miracle of grace, then she raised her head and jauntily declared, "No, ma'am, he did not."

"You mean—"

"Exactly."

"Oh!"

Since Alexandra already knew where the duchess stood on the matter of her marital obligations, that unenthusiastic reaction to her rebellious behavior didn't dampen Alexandra's spirits in the least. In fact, in the mood she was in, she didn't think anything could dampen her spirits. Until a scant minute later, when Melanie rushed over to her, looking positively panicked. "Oh, Alex, how could you do such a thing!" she burst out, too overwrought to care that the dowager was standing right there. "There isn't a husband here who wouldn't like to wring your neck—including mine when he hears of it! You went too far, it's beyond what is pleasing! You can't
do
—"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Alexandra interrupted, but her heart was beginning to pound in automatic reaction to her usually imperturbable friend's wild anxiety.