Julia London (76 page)

Alex had the good grace to put the paper aside and follow her. Halfway down the corridor, he caught her elbow. “Slow down,” he said softly. He opened the door leading onto the terrace, and gestured for her to precede him. Once outside, he slipped her hand through the crook of his arm and led her toward the gravel path wending through the shrubs. They walked slowly, neither speaking. Marlaine’s initial twinge of fear began to give way to anger. Mama had told her about men; she knew of their needs, their roving eyes. Alex was no different, nor did she expect him to be.
Honestly
she did not, but she thought he should have the decency to be properly interested in their wedding, to give her at least
some
measure of interest! Unconsciously, she sighed heavily.

“I hate to see you fret,” he said quietly. She jerked a startled look to him. He smiled down at her, a warm, caring smile. “Your Grandmama is feeling better. Perhaps she will pull through.” His words were so tender that they brought her to the verge of tears. Hastily, she looked away, her insides churning. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted him to understand. She had found the courage to speak her mind once before, but this somehow seemed harder.

She nervously cleared her throat. “Alex, I know about Countess Bergen,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked coolly.

“I mean, I have noticed how you … how you
look
at the countess.”

He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. “What nonsense is this?”

“I am not imagining things,” she said weakly. His green
eyes narrowed uncertainly. “I … I understand, of course. She is very beautiful.”

“Sweetheart, you are quite mistaken—”

“Please do not deny it!” she quickly interjected. “I am not a little girl. I
see
how you look at her.” Alex looked astounded, and it angered her. Did he think she was blind? “It’s all right. I know how men are, Alex. But … but…” She paused, inwardly grasping for courage. Alex reached for her hand, but she shook her head and brought her hand up, stopping him, before raggedly continuing. “I know how men are, but I do not think you have given me a proper chance, Alex. I shall make you a good wife; I swear it on my life. But you must give me the opportunity to show you!”

Stunned, Alex stared at her. Her bottom lip quivered slightly, her brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Good God, what was he doing to her? He felt a surge of remorse as he looked down at the young woman he had determined would make him a good wife two years ago. Serene and quiet, Marlaine had never asked him for anything, yet she was compelled to ask him for the chance to be a good wife.

A deep shame rumbled through him, and he anxiously shoved a hand through his hair. She had never asked him for a bloody thing, had never done anything but be the perfect lady, and he had forced her to ask for his respect. He hated himself for that. He hated the turbulence, the restlessness Lauren had brought him. He was suffering through each day, tormented by thoughts of a dark-haired angel, when all the while a sweet young woman stood by, eager to be his wife. All at once her serene nature seemed so much more desirable, so much
easier
than the turmoil Lauren created in him. What demon had
possessed
him?

“I know I am not as …
lively
, or pretty, but I—”

He grabbed her hand and yanked her into his chest. “Marlaine, you are a beautiful woman, and I should be very
proud to have you as my wife. I am sorry, sweetheart, I am so sorry I have caused you any pain.” Marlaine’s lips parted slightly with surprise; for the first time in at least a month, Alex wanted to taste those lips. “I shall make you a good husband, too, if you will give me the chance,” he said, and impulsively kissed her fully on the lips. Marlaine stiffened in his embrace; her arms dropped to her sides as his hands swept down her spine. Alex gentled his kiss, his tongue sweeping lightly over the seam of her lips. She stood as rigid as a marble statue, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips glued together. He stroked the nape of her neck and caressed her spine, trying to relax her. She did not relax. Rather, she tolerated him. With a kiss to her cheek, he let her go. The poor girl was beet red, quite embarrassed.

“Alex, I … Mama and Papa are just inside!” she whispered.

“It’s all right, Marlaine. It’s quite all right,” he lied.

The tension seemed to leave her body, and she sagged against his chest. “I shall be a good wife,” she muttered. Alex understood. She would be a good wife, all right, dutifully submitting to him like a sheep. In the meantime, she would keep her maidenly virtue intact until she was required by law to submit to him. He sighed and folded her in his arms. There was nothing to be done for it.

   Grandmama slowly improved over the next two days, but the doctor warned the family that she was not yet out of danger. He stressed that she could take a turn for the worse at any moment. So they continued to wait. Alex tried very hard to be a dutiful fiancé, seeing to Marlaine’s welfare. The restlessness had not yet disappeared, but he was hopeful that it would eventually go away. She was, he kept telling himself, a perfectly good match. Someday, he would be grateful she had shown him such patience.

He was in the library searching for something to read
when the Reese family butler found him. “Beggin’ your pardon, your grace, but a messenger has come.”

“A messenger?”

“From London, your grace.”

He nodded. “Send him in.”

The man who appeared in the door of the study had obviously ridden hard. Alex strolled across the room to meet him. “What message?” he asked.

“From Lord Christian, your grace,” he announced, and thrust a grimy, folded parchment at him. “He bid me tell you that you are needed in London.” Alex nodded, fished in his pocket for some coins, and directed the man to the kitchens. He unfolded the parchment and scanned it quickly. Arthur wrote that the issue of Catholic emancipation was expected to pass the Commons on the morrow. But the Lords was a house divided, the members turning on one another over this divisive issue. Alex’s presence was urgently needed if the reform measure had any hope of successfully passing the upper house.

Alex carefully folded the note, trying desperately to ignore the feeling of immense relief, the sense that he had been released from custody. He would not allow himself to think of anything but reform, of what he would say to the Lords. He pivoted on his heel and strode from the salon, in search of Lord Whitcomb.

He would be in London by late afternoon.

Alex could not believe what he was doing. Sitting in a phaeton at Russell Square, an armful of gardenias in his lap, he could not believe he was actually
calling
on her. Good God, he could not even remember the last time he had called on a woman. But he really had no choice—after two increasingly restless days and nights in London, he had determined that he needed to see her and somehow resolve his internal struggle. Or go mad. Assuming, of course, he was not already
completely
mad.

He had been sitting in front of the town house for at least fifteen minutes. When he had first turned onto the square, he had seen the Bavarian coming out of the house with a crate of what looked to be tomatoes perched on his shoulder. Alex despised the handsome giant for being in London, for following her every move. For carrying the bloody crate of tomatoes.

An elderly couple passed and peered curiously at him. With a sigh, he forced himself to climb out of the phaeton. Gathering the gardenias, he walked to the front door and
knocked. A slight man opened almost immediately and eyed him with great suspicion. “Good day, sir. Might I inquire if Countess Bergen is in?”

“Card,” the man stated.

Alex dutifully fished a card from his coat pocket and placed it on the tray the old man thrust at him. The butler glanced at the card, then startled Alex by shutting the door in his face. He shifted uneasily onto one leg, feeling perfectly ridiculous waiting on a stoop like an eager young dandy. Fortunately, the white-haired man soon opened the door again. “Parlor,” he said, and with his head, motioned in the general direction. Alex nodded his thanks and stepped inside. Remarkably, he managed to contain his great surprise as he took in the unusual decor. The only outward deference he gave it was to peer closely at a full suit of armor as he walked to the door the butler had indicated.

He stepped across the parlor threshold and glanced about. Much to his disappointment, Paul Hill was sitting alone in the room. “You must be Mr. Hill. I am Alex Christian, the Duke of Sutherland.”

“I know who you are,” Hill said, and slowly pushed himself from his seat, straightening to attain his full height of about six feet, and limped around to the front of the desk.

Alex self-consciously shifted the gardenia bush he carried. “Might I find Countess Bergen in?” he inquired, chafing at the need to inquire at all.

“No. She has gone out with Lord Westfall,” Hill said icily, and folded his arms across his chest, more for balance, it seemed, than affectation.

Annoyed to learn she was in David’s company again, Alex sighed. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The bitter tone of his voice surprised Alex. “I beg your pardon?”

“My sister is not a sophisticated socialite. She is a simple
young woman, and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you pursue her.”

That was what Alex would call getting to the point. The damned gardenia bush was really beginning to irritate him, and he impatiently shifted it to his other arm. “Excuse me, Mr. Hill,” he answered coolly, “but I am not
pursuing
your sister. I am paying a social call.”

“I will not stand idly by while you toy with her!” Hill announced, his young chest swelling. “There is no earthly reason you should call on her—she is beneath you in social standing, and as you are to be married to Lady Marlaine, I can only conclude you are trifling with her!”

Astonished by the accusation, and moreover, the kernel of truth in it, Alex’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Mr. Hill, I will forgive your unwarranted attack on my character this one occasion. If you think my acquaintance with Countess Bergen requires some social stamp of approval, you are mistaken,” he huffed, and angrily swallowed past the swell of hypocrisy that surged to his throat. “Perhaps I should call at a more convenient time.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the parlor, the damned gardenias still in his arms.

He walked swiftly past the butler busily oiling the hinges of the armor, and suddenly paused. Jerking around, Alex thrust the bush at the diminutive man. He took it without so much as a blink and promptly placed it between the feet of the armor. With an impatient roll of his eyes, Alex marched to his carriage and vaulted onto the seat. He urged the roan to a fast trot, uncertain of where he was going. He caught a bitter laugh in his throat—lately, it seemed, he was uncertain about every goddam thing under the sun.

   At precisely two o’clock the next afternoon, Alex arrived at Russell Square on horseback, dismounted without a moment’s hesitation, and gave a tuppence to a young lad to stable his horse. He walked purposefully up the narrow little
path to the front door and rapped sharply. “Good afternoon,” Alex said when the door was pulled open. “Kindly inform Mr. Hill I have come to call on his sister.
Again.
”

The strange little butler did not bat an eye, but shut the door in his face as he had done yesterday. Alex leaned casually against the door frame until the door opened a few moments later. “Parlor?” Alex drawled. The butler’s stoic expression did not change; he simply nodded and stepped aside. Depositing his hat and gloves on a small table, Alex strode through the foyer, his mind vaguely registering the fact that the armor had changed locations since yesterday.

The parlor was empty, and he noticed for the first time the bizarre mix of furnishings and hunting memorabilia. He was quickly distracted when he heard the clip of a cane on the planked floor of the hallway. “Looking for me?” Hill smirked as he limped through the door. His expression impatient, he moved for an armchair.

“I would prefer your sister, but I have no doubt I will not find her at home,” Alex said as Hill lowered himself into the chair.

He eyed Alex’s neckcloth and tight-fitting waistcoat. “You are correct,” he said.

“Let me guess. Driving with Lord Westfall?”

Smirking, Hill shook his head. “Count Bergen.”

Alex glanced impatiently at the plain ceiling. “I could not have imagined anyone would enjoy driving about the park as much as your sister.”

“What she enjoys is no concern of yours. My sister does not desire you to call.”

“I suppose she told you that?” Alex asked with a sardonic laugh.

“I believe her precise word was
‘cabbagehead.’
If I were in your shoes, I should forget this insanity.”

“You are not in my shoes, Mr. Hill,” Alex said evenly. “And believe me, you would not want to be. As I am, it
appears to me the only thing to do is to wait.” He sat himself on a red settee.

That caught Hill’s attention. “I beg your pardon?” he asked incredulously. “You cannot simply
wait.
”

“And exactly who,” Alex asked quietly, “will stop me?”

Hill froze, his face turning red. “You offend my uncle’s hospitality!”

Alex smiled. “Your uncle is at Wallace House for the day. I should know—my Aunt Paddy complained for a good half hour about that unfortunate turn of events.” Hill’s face grew even darker. Alex shook his head. “I desire to speak with your sister, sir, and short of having to duel that German for the honor, my only other recourse is to wait here for her return.”

“You cannot insinuate yourself into her life when she would not have you there!” Hill insisted.

Oh, but he could. Alex looked at the young man across from him, his uncertainty and discomfort apparent. He was certain Hill had no idea what it was like to have his gut burn with longing, to fight sleep so the dream of a woman’s touch would not come to taunt him. “Is it she who does not want me in her life? Or you?” he asked quietly. Hill’s eyes widened; Alex took a deep breath. “You are a fine man to protect your sister so ardently; she is quite fortunate.”