“How delightful,” said Melanie, more pleased than before. “Hawthorne is in for the shock of his life when he realizes it.”
A brief flare of amusement stirred in Alexandra’s eyes, then abruptly dimmed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, yes, it does!” Melanie laughed. “Only consider this: For the first time in his life, Hawthorne has competition— and for his own wife! Think how Society will relish the spectacle of England’s most practiced libertine, trying without early success to seduce and subdue his own wife.”
“There’s another reason why it won’t work,” Alexandra said firmly.
“What is that?”
“I won’t do it. Even if I could accomplish it, which I can’t, I don’t want to try.”
“But why?” Melanie burst out. “Why ever not?”
“Because,” Alexandra declared hotly, “I don’t like him! I do not want him to love me, I do not even want him near me.” So saying, she walked over to the bellpull to ring for tea.
“Nevertheless, it is still the only and best solution to this coil.” Snatching up her gloves and reticule, Melanie pressed a kiss to Alexandra’s forehead. “You’re shocked and exhausted, you aren’t thinking clearly. Leave everything to me.”
She was halfway across the room when Alexandra realized that Melanie seemed to have a specific destination in mind and that she was in some haste to get there. “Where are you going, Mel?” she asked suspiciously.
“To see Roddy,” Melanie said, turning in the doorway. “He can be depended upon to make certain Hawthorne is informed at the earliest possible moment that you are no longer the naive, unsophisticated country mouse he may think you are. Roddy will adore doing it,” Melanie predicted cheerfully. “It’s exactly the sort of rabble-rousing he most enjoys.”
“Melanie, wait!” Alexandra burst out tiredly, but she did not particularly object to this part of Melanie’s plan—not at this moment when exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm her. “Promise me you won’t do anything else without telling me.”
“Very well,” Melanie said gaily and vanished with a wave.
Alexandra leaned her head back and closed her eyes as drowsiness began to overcome her.
The clock chiming the hour of ten, combined with the incessant arrivals of callers in the main hall downstairs, finally brought her fully awake. Leaning on an elbow, Alexandra blinked her eyes in the candlelit gloom of her bedchamber, surprised that she had somehow fallen asleep on the settee at what was normally considered a very early hour of the evening. She listened to the commotion downstairs, the constant opening and closing of the front door, and she sat up, groggily wondering why the entire haute ton seemed to be arriving on their doorstep. . . . And then she remembered.
Hawk was back.
Evidently everyone thought he was here, and they were too eager to see him and speak to him to follow their own precepts of decorum, which would have required them at least to wait until tomorrow to call.
Hawk must have anticipated this, Alexandra decided irritably, as she got up and changed into a silk peignoir and climbed into bed. That was probably why he had chosen to spend the night at the duchess’ house, leaving the rest of them here to try to deal with the furor of callers.
Her husband, she had no doubt, was blissfully in his bed, and enjoying a peaceful night.
Chapter Twenty
ALEXANDRA WAS WRONG on both counts. Jordan was not in bed and he was not enjoying his evening.
Seated in the baroque drawing room at his grandmother’s town house, with his legs negligently stretched out in front of him and a bland expression upon his face, he was with three friends who’d come to welcome him home, as well as Roddy Carstairs, who’d apparently come to regale him with “amusing” stories about Alexandra’s escapades.
After listening to Carstairs’ tales for nearly an hour, Jordan was not mildly exasperated, nor somewhat irritated, nor very annoyed. He was livid. While he had been lying awake at night, worrying that his adoring young wife would be out of her mind with grief, she had been setting London on its ear. While he rotted in prison, Alexandra had been carrying on a dozen widely publicized flirtations. While he lay in chains, “Alex” had evidently pursued victory in a race at Gresham Green, and fought a mock duel with Lord Mayberry while wearing tight-fitting men’s breeches that reportedly so distracted her opponent that the famous swordsman lost the match. She had gallivanted about at fairs and participated in some sort of havey-cavey assignation with a vicar at Southeby, who Jordan could have sworn was at least seventy years old. And that was not the half of it!
If Carstairs were to be believed, Tony had apparently received six dozen offers for her hand; and her rejected suitors had taken first to arguing over her, then quarreling, and finally one of them, Marbly, had actually tried to abduct her; some young fop named Sevely had published a poem in praise of her charms called “Ode to Alex”; and old Dilbeck had named his new rose “Glorious Alex” . . .
Leaning back in his chair, Jordan crossed his long legs at the ankles, raised a brandy to his lips, and listened to Carstairs’ voice drone on, his features carefully showing only mild amusement at his wife’s antics.
It was exactly the reaction his three friends expected of him, he knew, for amongst the Quality it was understood that husbands and wives were free to do as they wished—so long as they behaved with discretion. On the other hand, among the close-knit fraternity of gentlemen, it was also understood that a man was to be informed by his closest friends—in as delicate a fashion as possible—when his wife’s antics threatened to cross the line of acceptability and cause him embarrassment. Which, Jordan suspected, was why his friends had not tried harder to silence Carstairs tonight.
If Carstairs hadn’t chanced to arrive tonight simultaneously with Jordan’s friends, he would never have been admitted to the house. To Jordan, he was nothing but a distant acquaintance and an irritating gossip, but the other three men in the room were Jordan’s friends. And even though they had repeatedly tried to force Carstairs to talk of something else besides Alexandra’s antics, it was obvious from their carefully neutral expressions that what Carstairs was saying was mostly true.
Jordan glanced speculatively at Carstairs, wondering why he had bothered to dash over here so quickly to regale Jordan with his stories. The entire ton knew that Jordan had never regarded women as anything other than amusing bedwarmers. He was the last man on earth they might have suspected of losing his senses over a pretty face or voluptuous body. They would have been amazed had they known he’d lost his head over an enchanting, dark-haired moppet, and long before she had shown much sign of becoming a real beauty.
The four men in the drawing room on Gloucester Street would have been equally dumbfounded to know that as Jordan languidly listened to Carstairs, he was seething inside. He was furious with Tony for letting Alexandra get out of hand and angry with his grandmother for not exerting some sort of control over her. Obviously, the fact that she was the Duchess of Hawthorne had enabled her to do as she pleased with relative impunity. Jordan could not change the past; however, he could drastically alter her future. But it was not Alexandra’s antics that actually made him the angriest, or even her flirtations.
Irrationally, the thing that infuriated him the most was that they called her “Alex.”
Apparently everyone called her Alex. The entire population of the ton seemed to be on the most intimate terms of friendship with his wife—particularly the male population.
Jordan glanced at the footman hovering in the doorway and imperceptibly shook his head, indicating that his guests’ glasses were not to be replenished. Waiting until Carstairs paused to draw a breath, Jordan lied curtly, “I know you’ll excuse us, Carstairs. These gentlemen and I have business matters to discuss.”
Roddy nodded amiably and stood up to leave, but not before he got in one more verbal thrust: “I’m happy to have you back among us, Hawk. A pity for poor Tony, though. He’s as mad for Alex as Wilston, Gresham, Fites
, Moresby, and a few dozen others . . .”
“Including you?” Jordan speculated coolly.
Roddy’s brows lifted imperturbably. “Of course.”
As Roddy strode off, two of Jordan’s friends, Lords Hastings and Fairfax also arose to leave, looking apologetic and embarrassed. Lord Hastings, casting about for something to say to diffuse the tension, seized on the subject of the Queen’s Race, a two-day steeplechase event, which all the nobility traditionally either participated in or attended. “Do you mean to ride that black stallion of yours in the Queen’s Race in September, Hawk?” Lord Hastings asked.
“I’ll ride one of my horses in it,” Jordan said, simultaneously trying to control his raging ire at Carstairs and call to mind the reckless joy of riding in the most important steeplechase of the year.
“Knew you would. My money’s on you, if you decide to ride Satan.”
“Aren’t you entering it?” Jordan asked without interest.
“Naturally. But if you ride that black brute, I’m betting on you, not me. He’s the fastest devil I’ve ever seen.”
Jordan’s brows snapped together in confusion. Satan, the prize foal of Jordan’s stables, had been an evil-tempered, unpredictable three-year-old when Jordan was impressed a year ago. “You’ve seen the black run?”
“Indeed! Saw your wife race him in—” Hastings broke off in horrified chagrin when Jordan’s jaw hardened with granite displeasure.
“She . . . er . . . handled him quite well and didn’t press him too hard, Hawk,” Fairfax put in desperately when he saw Jordan’s reaction.
“I’m sure your duchess is merely high-spirited, Hawk,” Lord Hastings inserted in a bluff voice with more volume than conviction as he clapped Jordan on the shoulder.
Lord Fairfax nodded instantly. “High spirits, that’s all it is. Tighten her rein just a bit, and she’ll be docile as a lamb.”
“Docile as a lamb!” Lord Hastings concurred promptly.
Outside, both men who were avid horse-breeders and inveterate gamblers, paused on the steps to exchange dubious, looks. “Docile as a lamb?” Lord Hastings’ repeated his friend’s words incredulously, “If Hawk but tightens her rein?”
Lord Fairfax grinned. “Of course—but first he’ll have to get the bit between her teeth, and to do it he’ll have to hobble her. She’s going to fight him when Hawk tries to tame her to his hand, you mark my word. She has more spirit than the average female—and, I suspect, more pride.”
Hastings closed his eyes in amused disagreement. “You’re discounting Hawk’s extraordinary effect on women. In a few weeks, she’ll be doting on him. By the day of the Queen’s Race, she’ll be tying her ribbon on his sleeve and cheering for him. Young Wilson and his friend Fairchild have already placed bets on exactly that The odds in the book at White’s are already four to one in favor of Hawk wearing her ribbon.”
“You’re wrong, my friend. She’s going to give Hawk a devil of a time.”
“Not a chance. She was besotted with him when she came to town. Have you forgotten what a complete cake she made of herself over him a few weeks back? Since Hawk walked into church this morning, that’s all everyone’s talking about.”
“I know, and I’ll wager she hasn’t forgotten it either,” said Fairfax bluntly. “I’m acquainted with Hawk’s duchess and the lady has pride—her pride will prevent her from falling easily into his arms, you mark my words.”
With a challenging lift of his brows, Hastings declared, “I have £1,000 that says she’ll give Hawk her ribbon to wear in the Queen’s Race.”
“You’re on,” Fairfax agreed without hesitation, and they headed off to White’s to relax and gamble in that exclusive gentlemen’s club—but not to record this particular bet. It would be kept private, out of respect for their friend.
When Fairfax and Hastings were gone, Jordan walked over to the side table and refilled his glass. The anger he had carefully concealed from the others was evident now in the tautness of his clenched jaw as he glanced at his closest friend, John Camden. “I sincerely hope,” he drawled with biting irony, “that you haven’t remained here because you, too, know of some further indiscretion of Alexandra’s, which you perhaps feel compelled to repeat to me privately?”
Lord Camden gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Hardly. When Carstairs was speaking of your wife’s race in Hyde Park and her duel with Mayberry, he distinctly mentioned the name ‘Melanie.’ I believe he indicated that Melanie was cheering your duchess on to victory in both cases.”
Jordan took a swallow of his drink. “So?”
“Melanie,” John declared, “is my wife.”
The glass in Jordan’s hand stopped en route to his mouth. “What?”
“I’m married.”
“Really?” Jordan dourly replied. “Why?”
Lord Camden grinned. “I couldn’t seem to help myself.”
“In that case, permit me to offer my belated congratulations,” Jordan said sardonically. He lifted his glass in a mockery of a toast, then checked himself as years of good breeding came to the surface. “I apologize for my rudeness, John. At the moment, marriage is not high on my list of reasons for celebration. Is your Melanie anyone I know? Have I met her?”
“I should hope not!” John declared with laughing exaggeration. “She made her bow just as you left town, which is all to the good. You’d have found her irresistible, and I’d have had to call you out now that you’ve returned.”
“Your reputation was not a great deal better than mine.”
“I was never even in your league,” John joked, making an obvious attempt to lighten his friend’s spirits. “If I cast an appraising eye over an appealing Miss, her mama summoned an additional chaperone. When you did it, every mama in sight fell into spasms of terror and violent hope. Of course, I didn’t have a dukedom to offer, which accounts for part of their anxiety and eagerness.”
“I can’t recall that I ever dallied with virtuous innocents,” Jordan said, sitting down and staring into his glass.
“You didn’t. But if your wife and mine have enough in common to become friends, I can only assume they’re much alike. In which case, you’re in for a life of torment.”
“Why?” Jordan asked politely.
“Because you won’t know from one day to the next what she’s going to take it into her head to do—and when you do find out, it will scare the hell out of you. Melanie told me this afternoon that she’s with child, and I already have the liveliest fear she’ll misplace the babe when he’s born.”
“She’s forgetful?” Jordan asked, trying without success to appear to be interested in his best friend’s new wife.
John raised his brows and shrugged. “She must be. How else could she have forgotten to mention, when I returned from Scotland late today, that she and my best friend’s wife—whom I haven’t yet met—have been involved in several imbroglios together?”
Realizing his attempt to make light of Jordan’s predicament was less than successful, John hesitated and then he said gravely, “What do you intend to do about your wife?”
“I have several choices and right now they’re all appealing,” Jordan said curtly. “I can wring her neck, put her under guard, or send her to Devon tomorrow and keep her there, out of the public eye.”
“Good God, Hawk, you can’t do that. After what happened in church today, people will think—”
“I don’t give a damn what people think,” Jordan interrupted, but in this case it was not the truth and both men knew it. Jordan was becoming increasingly furious at the idea of being made to look like a public laughingstock who couldn’t control his own wife.
“Perhaps she is merely high-spirited,” Lord Camden ventured. “Melanie knows her and likes her very well.” Standing up to leave, he said, “If you’re in a mood for it, join us at White’s tomorrow evening. We’re convening there to drink a toast to my impending fatherhood.”
“I’ll be there,” Jordan said with a forced smile.
; When Camden left, Jordan stared unseeing at the landscape framed above the mantel, wondering how many lovers Alexandra had taken to her bed. He had seen the loss of innocence, the disillusionment, in her eyes when they were alone in the drawing room this afternoon. Once, her magnificent eyes had been candid and trusting and soft when she looked at him. Now their radiance was dimmed with cold animosity.
Anger raged through Jordan like wildfire as he contemplated the reason Alexandra had treated him with such wary hostility today: She was sorry he wasn’t dead. The artless, adoring child he had married was angry now because he was alive! The bewitching young girl he had wed had turned into a cold, calculating, beautiful . . . bitch.
He considered a divorce for a few minutes, then discarded the idea. Aside from the scandal, a divorce could take years to obtain, and he wanted an heir. The Townsende men seemed to be cursed with short lifespans, and even if Alexandra proved to be as lacking in virtue and decorum as she now seemed, she could still bear his children for him—in seclusion if necessary, to make certain the children she gave him were his, not someone else’s.
Leaning his head against the back of his chair, Jordan closed his eyes and drew a long, harsh breath trying to bring his temper under control. When he finally managed to do that, it occurred to him that he was condemning Alexandra and deciding her future on the basis of common gossip. He owed his life to the artless, unspoiled girl he believed he had married. Surely, he also owed her the right to defend herself.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would confront her openly with the things he had heard from Carstairs tonight and give her a chance to deny them. She was entitled to that, provided she was not fool enough to lie to him. But if it became clear that she was indeed a scheming opportunist or voluptuous little wanton, then he would tame her with the ruthlessness she deserved.
She would either bend to his will, or he would break her to it, but either way she would learn to behave herself like a good and dutiful wife, he decided with cold resolve.