A Stolen Heart (11 page)

The awful thing, she had to admit to herself, was that despite all that, no matter his arrogance or his ordering her about, she was still all aquiver from those moments when they had kissed. His kisses had stirred her in ways she had never known before, and even now she felt hot and jittery—and if he walked in the door this instant, she would have to struggle to keep from running to him to kiss him again! How could a man infuriate her so much and at the same time make her want him so? Alexandra would not have thought it possible.

Her aunt bustled in. “Has he left?” Her eyes searched Alexandra’s face carefully.

“Yes. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know—as if you are searching for something.”

“No. It’s only…I’ve never seen you look at someone that way.”

“What way?”

“The way you looked at Mr. Thorpe.”

“Lord Thorpe.”

“Of course.
Lord
Thorpe.” Her aunt rolled her eyes. “These Englishmen and their infernal love of titles. As if that makes any difference to what the man is.” She paused. “Alexandra, do you…have feelings for this man?”

“Feelings?” Alexandra could feel heat rising in her face, and she hoped the light was dim enough that her aunt could not see. “Don’t be absurd. He’s an egotistical, overbearing—” She made a noise of frustration, then said, “If I have any feeling for him, it is one of dislike.”

“Oh.”

“And don’t give me that look. I am going to bed now,” Alexandra went on grumpily.

“I think that’s an excellent idea for all of us,” her aunt agreed.

Alexandra stalked upstairs and got ready for bed, finally dismissing her maid, who kept chattering about the attack and asking Alexandra excited questions until she was ready to scream. She finished brushing her hair herself, which she preferred, anyway.

She didn’t know when she had ever felt this strange, this jangled and puzzled and uncertain, even scared. Why had that man attacked her tonight? No matter what Thorpe said, she was certain he had told her to leave. Why would anyone threaten her like that? Why would anyone care whether she stayed or went home? It made the whole thing seem somehow much more frightening than if the man had been a common thief.

Adding to her mental turmoil were thoughts of Thorpe. She didn’t understand her feelings for him, and she also didn’t know how she could possibly get to sleep with this yearning still bubbling through her. And, finally, she could not get out of her head this evening’s meeting with the Countess. She had thought about it ever since, her mind returning like a tongue to a sore tooth, and she was still no closer to an answer than she had been in the beginning. The Countess, whom she had never seen before in her life, had looked at her almost with horror. What had she thought? What had she felt? Alexandra could not see how the Countess’s reaction could have anything to do with
her.

And most unnerving of all, why had the Countess called her Simone?

A shiver ran through Alexandra. For the first time since she had been in London, she got up and turned the key in the lock of her door.

A
LEXANDRA WOKE THE NEXT MORNING
feeling vastly better than she had when she went to bed. She got up, unlocked her door and retrieved the tray of tea and rolls that the maid had left there upon finding her door locked. Alexandra wondered what the girl had thought—no doubt that she was shivering in fear after her attack. Alexandra grimaced. She hated anyone to think that she was hiding in her room like a coward.

Last night, she told herself, had been an aberration. She was not going to live in fear just because some madman wanted her to leave England. It was absurd, and that was exactly the way she was going to treat the incident. She rang for her maid and got dressed, putting on her most attractive day dress. She had considered not going with Lord Thorpe to the Countess’s, just to show him that he could not order her about. However, her curiosity had finally won out over her righteous indignation. Even if it meant that Thorpe would assume she was obeying him, Alexandra knew that she had to meet the Countess and find out what the woman had meant the night before when she called her by a strange name. She would have to teach Lord Thorpe that she was an independent woman in some other manner.

As for the way she had felt about him last night, Alexandra resolved that the most easily. She had acted the way she had because she was in turmoil. She had been frightened and confused, as was only natural when one was attacked, and so she had clung to him. Her feelings had been all stirred up, and she had thought that it was because of him. But it was simply an aftermath of her scare. She could see that now, in the clear light of day.

So Alexandra was ready and waiting for Thorpe when he drove up to the house the next afternoon in a sporty curricle. Her aunt, of course, deplored the vehicle, saying it was ridiculous, but Alexandra was thrilled. She had seen several of them since she had been here, and she had wanted very much to ride in one. Shushing her aunt, she tied on her chip straw hat and sallied forth with Thorpe.

The Countess’s house was smaller than the one she had visited the evening before, but very graceful in its lines and much warmer and more intimate. The butler showed them into a drawing room, an elegant room done in tones of blue, and said that he would inform her ladyship that they were here.

Alexandra looked around the room. When she walked in, she had thought it was empty, but as she turned toward the sofa, a middle-aged woman popped up from behind it. Her hair was brown, streaked with gray, and she was a trifle plump. She wore an unremarkable brown merino gown, and in her hand she held a skein of yarn.

“Excuse me, I was just—” She stopped in midsentence, staring at Alexandra, her mouth forming an
O.
“My goodness.” One hand went to her heart. “Her ladyship said you were a likeness, but I never imagined—”

“I beg your pardon?” Alexandra said politely. Whatever was the matter with everyone? Obviously she must resemble someone, but why did the fact strike them all dumb?

“I’m sorry. You must forgive me. I’m so silly—I shouldn’t really be here. I mean, be the first to talk to you. That is the Countess’s place, of course. I am, well, I am only living here because the Countess is such a good, kind woman. Certainly I should not be taking her place in greeting you. You see, I remembered that I had dropped my yarn in here yesterday, and I thought I would simply slip in and retrieve it, but I hadn’t expected anyone to come in. I mean, I knew you were expected, but—”

“It’s perfectly all right, Miss Everhart,” Thorpe broke in, stopping the woman’s flow of words. “I am sure no one will think badly of you for fetching your yarn from the drawing room, least of all the Countess.”

“Oh, yes.” The woman beamed. “She’s such a dear, good woman.”

“Miss Everhart, allow me to introduce you to Alexandra Ward. Miss Ward, this is Willa Everhart, the Countess’s cousin.”

“Only second cousin,” Miss Everhart added, ever deprecatory. From her words and manner, Alexandra deduced that she must be a poor relation, living with the Countess on her charity and acting as a companion to her. Alexandra thought that the Countess must be charitable indeed. Ten minutes of this woman’s undiluted company would, she thought, drive her straight out of the room.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and an older woman’s voice saying, “Really, Ursula, I do not need to lean on your arm. For pity’s sake, I do not have one foot in the grave yet.”

“No, Mother, of course not. But you shouldn’t tax yourself so. After last night…”

The Countess came into the room. Slender and tall, with a regal carriage, she looked every inch a Countess—or even a Queen, Alexandra thought. Snow-white hair was coiled elegantly on her head. A strand of pearls glimmered at her throat, a lovely contrast to the tobacco-brown silk gown she wore. A huge diamond ring and a smaller ruby one winked on her fingers. Behind her came the squarely built Lady Ursula, accompanied by the plain girl who had been with them the night before. The plain girl, once again dressed in an unbecoming white gown, looked at Alexandra with interest from behind her spectacles. Lady Ursula frowned fiercely.

“Miss Ward. How kind of you to come.” The Countess went to Alexandra, her hand outstretched. Alexandra took her hand, and the Countess held it for a moment, looking into Alexandra’s face. The older woman’s expression was sad, almost longing, and Alexandra thought she saw a shimmer of tears in her eyes. The Countess managed a tremulous smile and let go of Alexandra’s hand with a squeeze.

“I am the Countess of Exmoor, Miss Ward.”

“Exmoor?”
Wasn’t that the name of the man she had met last night, the one whom both Nicola and Thorpe disliked?
“I’m sorry. I find these titles somewhat confusing. Are you related to the Earl of Exmoor?”

“He is a distant cousin,” the Countess said coolly. “He inherited the title from my late husband.”

“I see,” Alexandra replied, although she did not really understand—except that this woman seemed to dislike the Earl as much as everyone else did.

“I see you have met my cousin, Miss Everhart,” the Countess continued.

“Yes. She made me feel quite comfortable.” Alexandra smiled at the woman, as did the Countess.

Miss Everhart launched into an apologetic ramble, which Lady Ursula soon brutally cut off. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, Willa, do be quiet. No one begrudges you for being here, and you know it. Of course you’re interested in seeing Miss Ward. We all are.”

The Countess raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “My daughter, Lady Ursula,” she told Alexandra. She turned toward the plain girl, smiling, “And this is her daughter, Miss Penelope Castlereigh.”

Everyone made their polite hellos as they sat down. The butler brought in a tea tray, and some time was spent in the ritual of dispensing tea. The Countess, stirring her tea, smiled at Alexandra.

“Sebastian tells me you are visiting here from the United States, Miss Ward.”

“Yes, we’ve been here for two weeks now.”

“Ah, you are traveling with your family?”

“My mother and aunt.”

“I wish you had brought them with you,” the Countess said. “Sebastian, you should have told me. I would like to meet them.”

“My mother doesn’t get out much. She—England doesn’t seem to agree with her.”

“The damp, no doubt. Still, I should love to meet her. Perhaps some time when she is feeling well…”

“Of course,” Alexandra answered politely.

The Countess smiled. “I am sure you must be wondering why I asked you to call on me today. I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night.”

“There’s no need for apology,” Alexandra assured her quickly.

“You must have thought me very strange,” the Countess went on wryly. “No, don’t deny it.
I
would have thought my behavior very strange if I had witnessed it. I wanted to explain to you. And I—frankly I wanted to see you again. To make sure that my eyes had not deceived me.”

“Mother, there is no need to go into all—”

“Ursula, please.” The Countess’s modulated voice hardened, and she shot her daughter a glance that shut up even that formidable woman. “I wish to explain it to Miss Ward.” She turned to Alexandra. “You see, as you must have guessed, I thought you were someone else when I saw you last night. In the candlelight, you looked almost exactly like her. Even now, the resemblance is startling. Of course, it is impossible that you could be she. She would be Ursula’s age now, not a young woman. But you looked so much as she did when I last saw her, over twenty years ago.”

The Countess paused for a moment, then went on. “You resemble my daughter-in-law, my son’s wife, Simone. She died twenty-two years ago. She and my son and their three children.”

Alexandra drew in a quick breath. “Oh, my lady! I am so sorry.”

“Thank you.” The Countess sighed. “It was a terrible time. My son, Emerson, and his family had gone to visit Simone’s parents. My husband grew ill and died while they were gone, and we sent for them, but then all that rioting broke out. I don’t even know if they ever got the message. The mob killed them. It didn’t matter to them that Emerson was English. They were staying with Simone’s parents, obviously aristocrats.”

A chill ran through Alexandra. “The mob, ma’am? Where were they?”

“They were in Paris when the revolution broke out. The mob stormed their home and dragged them all out and killed them. Even the children.”

“Paris?” Alexandra repeated in a stifled voice. “But that’s—”

“That’s what, dear?”

“That is where I was born.”

The Countess stiffened, one hand going to her throat. “You—you lived in Paris?”

Alexandra nodded. “Yes. My father was an American diplomat at the Court.”

“When was that?” the Countess asked intently. “When were your parents in Paris?”

“At the time of the Revolution. I was born about a year and a half earlier. They left during the rioting and returned to the United States. That is, my mother did. Unfortunately, my father caught a fever and died on the passage over.”

“I’m sorry.” The Countess paused. She was paler than she had been, her eyes brighter. “Were you—could you be related to Simone’s family? The de Viponts?”

“No. Both my parents were Americans. Rhea and Hiram Ward.”

“This is so peculiar,” the Countess murmured.

Thorpe frowned in concern and went to the Countess. He knelt beside her chair and took her hand in his. “Please, you mustn’t get upset over this. I understand that the resemblance must be quite striking. But it’s merely a strange coincidence. The fact that Alexandra was born in the same city where your son, Lord Chilton, and his family died doesn’t mean that—”

Lady Ursula gasped.

“What!” The Countess went paper-white, and she stared at Thorpe. “What did you call her?” She swung on Alexandra. “What is your given name?”

“Alexandra.” She looked at the older woman worriedly. “Please, my lady, don’t upset yourself.”

“But that is one of my grandchildren’s names! John, Marie Anne and Alexandra. She was the baby.”

There was a long moment of silence while all the occupants of the room stared at Alexandra and the Countess. Finally Lady Ursula broke the silence, saying in a crisp voice, “This is nonsense, Mother. It’s utterly impossible. She could not be Chilton’s child.”

The Countess swung on her fiercely. “Don’t you remember how Allie looked—those rosy cheeks and big brown eyes! That curly black hair! Her coloring was exactly like her mother’s.”

“My lady!” Alexandra exclaimed. Her stomach felt as if it had dropped to her feet. “Are you suggesting that
I
am your granddaughter?”

“You are the right age. You look like Simone. You were in Paris when they were.”

“It’s impossible,” Lady Ursula said flatly, shooting Alexandra a dark look. “Thorpe, tell her. It’s absolutely absurd.”

“I don’t see how she could be your granddaughter, my lady,” Thorpe agreed, gazing worriedly at the older woman, whose cheeks were aflame with color. “They were all killed by the mob, weren’t they? That’s what I have always heard.”

“They were,” Lady Ursula agreed heartily.

“How do you know?” the Countess demanded. “We never received their remains—any of them!”

“Of course not. They burned the whole place down,” Lady Ursula said with brutal frankness. “There weren’t any remains. But several witnesses saw them killed. Bertram Chesterfield testified to it in court. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember. I’m not senile yet,” her mother snapped. “But I also know that Bertie Chesterfield is a fool.”

“He may be a fool, but he’s a gentleman. He wouldn’t lie about such a thing.”

“Perhaps not, but he could exaggerate. Or be mistaken. Or make a false assumption.”

“Wait,” Alexandra interjected. “I couldn’t be your granddaughter, my lady. I don’t see how it’s possible. I am Hiram and Rhea Ward’s daughter, their only child.”

“That’s right,” Thorpe agreed. “How could Chilton’s baby have wound up in America, the daughter of some other couple?”

“I don’t know. But how could a young woman named Alexandra, like my grandchild, bear such an uncanny resemblance to my grandchild’s mother
and
have been in the same place at the same time and it be mere coincidence?” the older woman countered. “I’m not in my dotage, Sebastian. I realize that it is exceptionally strange, and I do not understand it. But look at her!”