Lady Alexandra's Excellent Adventure: A Summersby Tale (14 page)

She gave a quick nod of consent, gritting her teeth against the pain.

“It looks as though you’ve got a couple of pieces lodged in your right foot, but there’s only one in your left. With a bit of care, I ought to be able to pull them out without causing you too much pain.”

“Well, there’s little sense in wasting time,” she breathed, pasting a brave smile on her face. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Very well,” he muttered.

With the nimblest of touches, Michael set about his work while Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on taking deep, regular breaths. She cursed her own stupidity for not bringing a light with her on her midnight errand. How dimwitted he must think her. She was hardly the vision of grace and sophistication that she’d been hoping to portray two days ago in her smart day dress and Spencer. He’d kissed her with greed in his eyes then, but had made no attempt to do so since. Not once.

Who can blame him?

It was true that she’d been unconscious for half the day yesterday, but still. She flinched as a sharp pain cut through her foot. They were betrothed now, which very likely meant that he’d lost all interest. Well, he’d said he liked her, but hell, people liked their friends and their pets . . . not in the least bit reassuring. Then again, what should she expect? She’d practically thrown herself at him like a harridan of the worst order. How many times had she heard her brothers talk about the “chase” being the most enticing aspect of a relationship—the challenge, so to speak. Well, she certainly hadn’t posed much of a challenge for Michael, had she?

Damnation.

“That should do it,” Michael told her while he gently wiped her feet. “I’ll have to clean the cuts, which will most likely hurt like blazes, but it must be done I’m afraid. I’ll be back in just a moment. Stay right where you are.”

She grimaced as she watched him go. Somehow she’d find a way to escape marrying him. Already, her brain had become a muddled mess because of him, her heart more so. She’d already accepted liking him. What if she fell in love with him? An unthinkable outcome that she must avoid at all cost. Even now, the very thought of it sent her pulse racing as familiar fear clutched at her insides, lacing through her ribs to constrict her lungs. She gripped the seat of her chair in a desperate attempt to gain control.

“Alex?” It was Michael’s voice.

Just focus on his voice, Alex. Easy does it
.

Her breathing slowed.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she gasped. “It’s just my feet.”

He sat back down and opened the bottle of whiskey that he’d brought with him. “They’re about to hurt even more I fear. Time to disinfect the wounds, Alex.”

She looked across at him with wary apprehension. “Tell me about your family,” she told him suddenly. “I understand that you have what, four sisters?”

“Five, actually,” he replied, pouring some of the alcohol over a white towel.

“And you are number?”

“Two,” he told her. “Claire’s the oldest. She’s married to the Duke of Heinsworth. After her there’s me, naturally, followed by Chloe who’s married to Viscount Harrington, Charlotte who’s married to Lord Devon, and finally Caroline and Cassandra who are both yet unmarried.”

Alexandra stared at him for a moment. “Your parents certainly had a liking for names beginning with the letter
C
. I cannot help but ask, why is your name Michael?”

Michael’s eyes held hers for a moment, the alcohol doused towel suspended in his hand. “I have no idea,” he told her plainly. “Though I must admit I’m quite relieved they didn’t brand me with either of the names they initially had in mind, or I would have ended up a Charles or a Cyril. They named me after my paternal grandfather instead, thank God.”

Alexandra snorted. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the sound, but her eyes danced with merriment. “Cyril?” she half choked. Michael frowned at her, which only made her laughter bubble up even higher in her throat. She thought for a moment she might choke on it. “Charles isn’t all that bad—but Cyril?”

She snorted with laughter again.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” she grinned. “But such a name brings to mind a dandy with his nose up in the air.”

“I’ll get you for that.” And before Alexandra could utter another word of insult, Michael pressed the towel against both feet at the same time.

“Yeaow!” she screeched, tears springing to her eyes. “I hate you, Lord Trenton,” she muttered as he set about binding her feet in another linen towel that he’d torn into two equally wide strips.

“I know, my lady, but you will thank me for it tomorrow when there’s no sign of infection.”

Alexandra merely groaned as she pulled her feet out of his lap and placed them carefully on the floor.

“Now, if you do not mind my asking—what were you doing rummaging about in here in the dark anyway?”

“I was unable to sleep,” she muttered miserably. “So I thought I’d have some milk.” She glanced at the bottle that stood on the table. She couldn’t remember putting it there and wasn’t sure if she had, or if Michael had taken it from her and put it there himself.

“I see.” He regarded her for a moment before continuing. “And were you planning to heat it?”

“What? Oh yes, of course, I was.”

“Aha. And you were planning to do so in the dark?”

“I suppose so,” she said cautiously.

“So let me get this straight. You were planning on operating the stove, in the dark—an appliance filled with red-hot coals and putting out an average temperature of four hundred degrees. Is that right?” Alexandra responded with a faint nod. “Are you absolutely mad? You couldn’t even retrieve a mug from the vitrine without injuring yourself. Lord only knows what might have happened if you’d set about such a thing!”

“You really needn’t remind me,” she groaned. “I am clumsy enough as it is. I’m sure you must think me a complete imbecile.”

Michael’s gaze softened marginally, for which she was truly grateful, considering how embarrassed she felt, but he apparently couldn’t stop himself from adding one last thing. “You truly are the most stubborn woman I have ever known, Alex, but I would never think you an imbecile. I wouldn’t have the courage,” he grinned. She sent him a doubtful frown. “I think instead your passionate nature has a tendency to war against your logical reasoning. It forces you to forge ahead despite your better judgment, though your intentions are always noble. On top of that, you won’t allow the dictates of society to control your life. You want something more, though you don’t always consider the consequences that such wants might have.”

Alexandra stared at him in amazement. She felt what he described to the very depth of her soul, but this was the first time that somebody had captured the essence of her being with mere words. Somehow Michael Ashford understood her better than anyone else ever had. It was shocking yet comforting all at once.

“Now then,” he added with a chuckle that instantly lightened the mood. “How about that warm milk?”

“I’ve no idea how to work a stove,” she admitted, not daring to meet his eyes.

“Then it is fortunate that I do,” he said.

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. She was grateful that he didn’t reprimand her further, and so sat quietly on her chair instead, watching him open up the vents and stoke the coals. There was something very domestic about it that warmed her heart.

He found a pot for the milk, and a few minutes later, he placed her cup before her with a smile. He moved the chair he’d been using around to the other side of the table so he could sit across from her instead. “Try it,” he suggested, nodding toward her cup.

She took a small sip, savoring the warmth of the liquid as it flowed down her throat, heating her insides. “Perfect,” she murmured.

“So tell me about
your
family,” Michael prodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, there’s not that much to tell really. I don’t have a very large family, and when Mama passed away nine years ago, it seemed to shrink significantly.” Alexandra stared at the table for a moment, caught up in her own thoughts. “She was awfully good at keeping in touch with everyone, but then she got so terribly sick, and when she finally died . . . well, Papa just didn’t have the energy to host the kind of soirees and house parties she’d been so renowned for.”

“How did she die?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Alexandra grimaced. “From the usual ailment that targets even the healthiest of us.”

“Consumption?”

She nodded and lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I’m so sorry, Alex,” he told her in an earnest voice.

She shrugged, suddenly overcome by emotion but trying desperately not to show it. “It was a long time ago,” she whispered.

“It must have been very difficult for you. You can’t have been more than what . . . twelve?”

“Thirteen, actually.” She rapped her fingers nervously on the tabletop. This was ridiculous. It had been so long and yet she felt those awful tears pricking at her eyes again.

“A difficult age for a girl to lose her mother,” he told her sympathetically.

She nodded slowly before taking another sip of her milk. As she put the mug down, she brushed the back of her hand against the corner of her eye, wiping away the wet spot that had been forming there. “However difficult it was for my brothers and me, I believe it was so much worse for Papa.” Her voice quivered, and she tried to smile, fighting for control. “Children eventually leave the nest in search of their own destinies, but Papa had already found his. He lost it the day she died.

“She was the love of his life, his best friend, his future. She was his shoulder to lean on, the mother of his children, the very epicenter of what he considered to be his family. It broke his heart. The whole ordeal tore us apart . . . he locked himself away in his study, avoiding the world and drowning himself in lament. It took time for him to heal—such a terribly long time.”

“At least you had your brothers.”

Alexandra forced a smile. “Ryan was fifteen and William was seventeen—they both attended Eton and weren’t home much during that time.” She looked across at Michael whose vision seemed to have clouded as if he were trying to picture what it must have been like. She appreciated his efforts, even though he couldn’t possibly understand.

“He eventually recovered though—Papa that is. One day he simply emerged from hiding. He took one look at me and then pulled me into his arms. He kept berating himself for letting me down, for deserting me when I needed him most.

“We spoke for hours that day, but not about my mother. To this day he refuses to talk about her. I think he’s afraid he might cry. He doesn’t want anybody to see that.”

Michael watched as Alexandra stared off into a distant past he couldn’t see. The sense of loss was etched upon her face. There was pain there, but there was something else as well—something much more powerful.

Fear.

“What are you so afraid of, Alex?” he asked her in a soft whisper.

“What?” she darted a panic stricken look in his direction.

“Perhaps I can help. If there’s something you’d like to talk about—”

“No! It’s nothing.” The force of her tone startled him. He suspected he must have touched a raw nerve. Whatever the case, it clearly wasn’t something that she wished to discuss, at least not with him, at this moment. Not over a warm cup of milk anyway.

“I’m going to bed,” she told him as she staggered to her feet in a most inelegant fashion, wincing as she did so.

“My apologies. I . . . Alex, let me help you.” Getting up, he was beside her in a second. He lifted her into his arms, took the lantern and carried her back to her room. “I’m surprised we didn’t wake Mr. and Mrs. Bell with our ruckus. You especially—you’re not very dainty you know.”

She grinned at that, much to his relief. He’d enjoyed their conversation and was sorry to have ruined it for her, though he still wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed it. “They must be sound sleepers I suppose.”

“A valuable piece of information, should we ever decide to raid the larder.” Again she smiled, though she didn’t respond. “Here we are then, my lady, right to your doorstep.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, biting ever so gently down on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry I got upset before, it’s just . . . I can’t talk about it . . . sorry.”

“No worries,” he told her. “I won’t press you. Sleep well, Alex. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Kissing her gently on the forehead, he moved away in the direction of his own room. He cast a quick backward glance just in time to see her door close. With a heavy sigh and a great deal to think about, he then made his way to bed.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

T
he next week flew by in a haze with each day swallowing up the next. Michael had insisted that Alexandra stay in bed and allow her feet to heal, promising to visit her daily to help her pass the time. Alexandra naturally found it ridiculous to remain abed for an entire week. Her injuries really didn’t warrant such fussiness, but she was pleased to find that Michael kept his promise, so she decided to humor him.

Each morning, Michael would arrive at her bedroom door with a fresh bouquet of flowers for her. These varied, though they generally consisted of yellow tulips—which, Alexandra soon discovered, happened to be Michael’s favorite.

Shortly after Michael’s arrival, Mrs. Bell would bring in a tray with tea and biscuits for them to share and would then depart, leaving the door slightly ajar for propriety’s sake. Ryan had been very firm about following this convention.

They talked of everything between heaven and earth during those days, discovering which artists and musicians they each preferred, which books were their favorites, and which places they each dreamed of one day traveling to. Alexandra had made a few sketches on a couple of occasions and when Michael had hesitantly asked if he might have one of the drawings, she’d happily obliged him after scribbling her name in the bottom right hand corner.

Six days after cutting her feet, Alexandra sat propped up against a couple of pillows, leafing through a book of poems by Robert Burns. She couldn’t concentrate on any of the poems however—she was simply too anxious about seeing Michael to be able to focus her mind on anything else. It was already well past ten, she noted as she looked over at the clock for the hundredth time. What on earth was taking him so long? He was never this late in coming to check on her.

She was just about to call for Ryan to come and sit with her for a while when a gentle knock at the door made her stomach flutter.

Each day, her feelings toward Michael increased tenfold. Her heart pounded in her chest whenever he touched her in the slightest way. It terrified her, but it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to ignore her growing feelings toward him. The worst of it was that he clearly didn’t seem to feel the same way. He never gave her more than a peck on the cheek—no doubt he probably regretted the code of honor that presented him with little choice but to marry her. But she had to give him credit for making the most of a situation that he obviously found to be quite undesirable. Not once had he complained about his predicament. Instead, he treated her like a true lady. He brought her flowers, listened to her with interest and treated her with respect. It was clear that he wanted to make her happy.

And she was happy—terrified but happy.

“Come in!” she called out. The door eased open, giving way to Michael’s sturdy frame. Alexandra’s eyes widened. She couldn’t help it. He was just so drop-dead gorgeous that it almost sent her head spinning like a fair ground carrousel.

“Good morning,” he said as he came toward her and dropped into the chair beside her bed. “Sorry I’m a bit late.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed,” she told him, feigning indifference. She hoped her voice hadn’t betrayed her. “In fact, I was quite busy with Burns.”

“I see . . . well . . . er . . . Where is the tea?” he suddenly asked, looking about for the tray.

“I’m sure Mrs. Bell will bring it in shortly. Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” he admitted. “I missed breakfast this morning in order to run an errand of some importance.”

“Really?” her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Something to do with William? Did he send word by any chance?”

“No, no, it’s nothing regarding him. We’ll see him soon enough.” Alexandra stared at him in bewilderment. “Bonaparte’s ball . . . remember?”

“Good grief!” Alexandra exclaimed, slamming her book shut and throwing back her covers. “I’d completely forgotten. I have to decide what to wear, how to do my hair, I—”

“Easy does it,” Michael cautioned her as he put a restraining hand on her arm and eased her back down onto the bed. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

The door opened again and Mrs. Bell trundled in with a tray piled high with a teapot, cups, sandwiches, and freshly baked cookies. “How are you doing, Dearie?” she asked, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Ready to dance the night away this evening?”

“Apparently, everyone seems to have remembered the ball except for me,” Alexandra moaned.

“Just goes to show what a hoyden you really are,” Michael grinned, dodging the punch that Alexandra aimed at his shoulder.

“Now, now,” Mrs. Bell scolded in a lighthearted voice. “There’ll be none of that. His lordship has been very kind to you of late, so you’d best be on your best behavior if you don’t want a scolding, my lady.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes while Michael chuckled. She was well aware that he’d been giving Mrs. Bell flowers too in the course of the past week and could see that he was clearly more than just a little delighted to see his efforts pay off.

“And don’t you worry about what to wear either. I’ll be here to assist you this evening.” A dreamy look filled the older woman’s eyes. “You’ll be the belle of the ball, I assure you.” With a lazy sigh followed by a girlish giggle, she then hurried from the room.

“Well, she certainly likes you,” Alexandra remarked as she leaned over to pour the tea.

“And what reason would she have
not
to? I can be quite charming when I put my mind to it, you know.” He waggled his eyebrows mischievously.

Alexandra ignored this last comment and offered him a sandwich that he greedily accepted. He took a bite and a combination of relief and immense satisfaction flooded his face.

What is it about men and food?

“So, tell me about your sisters,” she said. “How old are they?”

“Well, Claire’s two years older than me, so that would make her thirty-two. Chloe’s twenty-seven, Charlotte’s twenty-three, and the twins—Caroline and Cass—are eighteen.” He picked up another sandwich and wasted no time in sinking his teeth into it.

“So then they must be just about ready to enjoy a busy season—the twins I mean.”

“They were certainly looking forward to it when I left London. In fact, I must admit I was quite relieved to be given this assignment.” He sent her a wayward smile. “It gave me the excuse I needed to escape.”

“Escape?” She looked confused. “Surely it can’t be that bad.”

“You’ve no idea,” he shuddered. “I remember Charlotte’s coming-out ball as if it were only yesterday. Before the season had even begun, the house was overrun by dressmakers, cobblers, and milliners. The parlor was transformed into a fitting room. It was impossible to find the furniture for all the fabric that was forever lying about. And then, once the season
did
begin, the house was suddenly infested by hoards of eager young men vying for Charlotte’s hand in marriage. Not a surface remained without a bouquet of flowers upon it—a myriad of scents all clamoring for attention.”

“It doesn’t sound like much fun at all,” Alexandra said. “Thankfully, it’s not something I had to endure. Besides, it never really caught my interest—all the fuss and being put on constant display. My aunt was very pushy about the whole idea for a while, but that was years ago. Still, I suppose if you truly are in the market for a wife or a husband, then there’s not much choice but to endure the whole menagerie.”

“Most young ladies enjoy it tremendously, Alex. You’re quite the exception, trust me. The trouble is when it comes to Cass and Caroline . . . well, they’re very different from each other, even though they’re twins. They’re not identical, even their personalities are at opposite poles.” It looked to Alexandra as if Michael was mulling something over in his head. He suddenly looked at her with great intensity. “I know Caroline will have no trouble—she’s so refined and delicate. I worry about Cass though.”

“Why? Is there something wrong with her?” Alexandra blurted out before she could stop herself. Her hand came up to cover her mouth just as her eyes grew big with shock at her own words. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to be so rude.”

Michael grinned and shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with her as such, Alex, but the girl can’t even go for a walk in the park without getting grass stains on her dress or mud on her slippers. Her hairpins are forever falling out. She’s a terrible mess and no matter how hard we all try, we just don’t seem to be able to do anything about it.”

Alexandra bit back a smile. “And you’re worried she’ll not attract as many gentlemen as Caroline, and that she’ll be crushed. Is that it?”

“In a nutshell.” He nodded with obvious relief. He’d known she’d understand. After all, she and Cassandra were quite similar in some ways.

“I don’t think you ought to overly concern yourself. I have a feeling your sister Cass has spirit, and if I’m not terribly wrong, then any man worth having is more interested in a spirited wife than a demure one.” She lifted her big blue eyes to stare directly at him from behind her thick, dark lashes. “Isn’t that correct, Michael?”

There was so much meaning in that one question that Michael felt sure he could write a whole book on it. Was she really asking him point blank if, given the choice, he would pick her over a more dispassionate woman? Well of course he would. In fact, he already
had
, but she didn’t know that yet. She thought he was marrying her for the sake of honor. “Yes,” he heard himself say. “Yes, you are absolutely right.”

She sank back against her pillows with a small sigh of what he assumed to be relief. “I’m glad to hear it,” she muttered. “In fact, I’m quite certain Cass will find a husband who will make her very happy.”

“You’re probably right,” Michael agreed as he cleared his throat. The tension eased a bit and he suddenly remembered why he’d been later today than all the other days. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he pulled out a small velvet box.

“I almost forgot. This is for you.” He placed the box in Alexandra’s hand. She stared down at it for a long moment as if unsure of what to do with it.

“Go ahead,” Michael urged her. “Open it.”

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered after flipping back the lid. “They’re beautiful. Oh, it’s too much. You really didn’t have to.”

“No? Very well then.” He shrugged as he reached for the box. “I’ll just have to return it then.”

“Absolutely not, you fiend!” She grinned, snatching the box away from him and keeping it out of his reach. Once again she looked inside at the filigree pendant and matching earrings, each with a bold sapphire in its center.

“I thought you might like to wear them this evening,” he told her. “They’ll bring out the color of your eyes.” Michael barely refrained from rolling his eyes—at himself. When had he ever churned out such romantic drivel before? She’d turned him from a carefree womanizer into a lovesick puppy in no time at all.

“Thank you,” she said on a whisper of breath. “I’ll cherish them forever.”

And then she reached for him, her hand curling about his neck and pulling him ever so gently toward her.

Michael felt his heart stop. Or was it beating so fast that he could no longer feel it? He wasn’t sure. Either way, he was quite certain that he was about to expire from anticipation. She was about to kiss him and as far as he could tell, she wasn’t aiming for his cheek. No, this would be a proper kiss—the first of its kind since they’d been caught by Ryan. He sucked in a breath at the very moment that her lips touched his.

It was as if an explosion of energy burst through him at that very point of contact.

Alexandra began to pull away, but Michael wasn’t about to end their intimate encounter, this gift that she’d bestowed upon him, so swiftly. With lightening speed his arms were about her, pressing her against him as he crushed her lips with his own.

She stiffened, no doubt uncertain, but desire must have finally won her over. At any rate, she clung to him with an almost desperate hunger, as if she planned to gobble him up alive. It thrilled him to no end, filling him with a feverish need of his own. He brushed her lips with the tip of his tongue, begging for entry, and was quickly rewarded with her surrender.

“God, Alex,” he murmured against her mouth.

He knew he was hard for her. Hell, he could feel himself straining against the seam of his breeches. If only they could . . . no, he mustn’t think of it. But it was of the utmost importance that they return to England as soon as possible so that they could get married and end this madness once and for all. How he hoped to survive that long, God only knew, but she was a lady after all—not some hussy he could simply take for a tumble.
Christ!
He had to stop himself from thinking along those lines.

Releasing her swollen lips, he set his mouth against her neck, licking ever so gently while she shuddered and moaned in response. He pulled back to look at her. Oh, there was no doubt about what she wanted. Her eyes were glazed over, her skin pink from blushing and her nipples were impossible to ignore as they puckered beneath her nightgown.

He pulled her against him in a tight embrace, his hands steadying her as he leaned into her. “I want you, Alex. Oh God, if you only knew how much I want you.” She whimpered slightly at the sound of his words. “My blood’s on fire . . . I can’t . . . I can’t think of anything else. Please tell me you feel the same way.”