“Perhaps. If you would, Douglas, try to prepare everyone for my wife. It might prevent duels and I would appreciate it.”
“She’s already been there for a Season. They’re all prepared.”
“No, there is a difference this time. She is more . . . sympathetic now, more sensitive, and thus more vulnerable. Prepare them, Douglas. She’s now a human goddess. You’ve seen her wrinkle her brow.”
“All right, I’ll tell everyone that you’ve trained her.”
“Don’t forget the discipline, my dear fellow.”
Douglas laughed and punched his cousin in his arm. There was humor toward his cousin now, not the outraged bitterness of even the previous week. Alexandra felt a flood of hope. She was also relieved that Melissande hadn’t heard this exchange. She would have broken Tony’s arm.
They stood on the wide front steps of Northcliffe Hall until the last of the carriages bowled down the drive.
“Well,” said the Dowager Countess of Northcliffe, “we are a small group again and will doubtless be downcast.”
“Not I,” said Douglas, looking down at his wife.
“Oh dear,” said Sinjun, “stop looking at her like that, Douglas. I had hoped you would like to go for a ride.”
“Not I,” said Douglas again. “At least for a while.”
“Well, I never!” said Douglas’s fond mama, as she watched him grab his wife’s hand and race into the hall.
Douglas heard Aunt Mildred say, “Now, Lydia, we all want an heir. Douglas is just doing his duty. He is a good boy.”
He pulled her up the stairs to his bedchamber. He made love to her twice, quick and hard both times, and not once did he think about an heir. He stared down at her when he’d finished, breathing hard, his heart still pounding fast, but said nothing. He shook his head, dressed, and then immediately left her to go riding.
Alexandra stared up at the ceiling, not moving for fifteen minutes before she finally rose to pull herself together. As she bathed and dressed, she thought of the stunned look on his face when she said into his mouth just at the moment of his release, “Ah, Douglas, I lust for you so very much.”
He’d snarled at her.
Douglas didn’t come to her that night. Alexandra suspected he was brooding about lust and such in the library, at least she hoped so. She fell asleep in her own bedchamber. It was in the middle of the night when the darkness was heavy and thick when she awoke completely and very suddenly. She didn’t move, not understanding. She simply knew she wasn’t alone.
Then she saw her. The young woman she’d seen before, all white and floaty, her hair lustrous down her back, so blond it was nearly white, framing an exquisite face. She looked so sad and her hands were held out toward Alexandra.
“Who are you?”
Goodness, was that her voice, all thin and wispy with fear?
The figure didn’t move, just stood there not three feet from the bed, her body shimmering as if she weren’t really standing on the floor but rather hovering over it, her arms held out to Alexandra.
“What do you want? Why are you here?”
Again, the figure remained just as it was.
“I know you’re called the Virgin Bride because your new husband was killed before you could become his wife. But I am not a virgin. My husband didn’t die. Why are you here?”
Then the figure made a soft deep sound and Alexandra nearly leapt off the bed in fright.
Suddenly, everything was as clear as if the figure had spoken. Alexandra knew why she was here. “You want to warn me, don’t you?”
The figure shifted subtly, deepening the lights and shadows.
“You’re worried that something will happen to me?”
The figure shimmered softly and Alexandra suddenly wasn’t certain whether or not it was her, no, not her . . . or was it? She was losing her mind, she was guessing a ghost’s intentions. It was madness.
“What the hell is going on here? Alexandra, who are you talking to?”
The figure shuddered, gave off a soft glittering light, then simply faded into the wainscoting.
Douglas came through the connecting door. He was quite naked.
“It’s all right. I was just entertaining my lover. But now you’ve chased him off.”
She didn’t realize her voice was shaking, that she sounded as if she were about to be shoved off a precipice, but Douglas did. He came across the room and looked down at her for just an instant before coming into bed with her. He drew her tightly against him, felt the shudders of her body, and simply held her. “It’s all right, it was just a nightmare, nothing more, just a nightmare.”
“Oh my,” she said finally, her face buried into his shoulder. “It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare, I swear it to you. Goodness, Douglas, I not only saw her but I also spoke to her. I started thinking I understood her.”
“It was a dream,” he said firmly. “That damned ghost is a collective figment. You dreamed her up because I wasn’t here to love you until you were exhausted.”
“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”
“Naturally not. I am not a silly twit of an empty-headed female.”
“You have seen her, don’t lie to me, Douglas! When? What was the circumstance?”
He kissed her temple and hugged her more tightly to him, pressing her face into his shoulder. When she spoke again, her warm breath fanned his flesh. “I told her that I wasn’t a virgin and that you weren’t dead; I asked her why she was here. She was warning me but I’m not sure it’s me who’s in danger . . . maybe it isn’t, but then you came in and she left.”
“Yes, I can just imagine it. She floated away, her shroud wafting romantically around her.”
“I want to know when you saw her.”
Douglas kissed her temple again, but his thoughts were on that night when Alexandra had run away from him yet he’d heard her crying in here and he’d come in and seen her . . . not Alexandra, but her, that damned ghost. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No.”
He stiffened then. “My God, do you realize that I’m not attacking you? I haven’t got you on your back? We’ve actually spoken together for at least three minutes, and we’re here naked and—” She turned up her face then, and he felt her warm breath on his mouth and he kissed her.
“Well, damn,” he said, and swept his hands down her back until they were cupping her buttocks and he was turning to face her, his sex hard and thick against her belly. Her arms were tight around his neck and she was kissing him wildly. It was difficult but he managed to get off her nightgown.
He was breathing hard and fast and when he knew that it was going to be closer than he’d thought, he lifted her leg and came into her. She gasped with the surprise and pleasure of it, and then she did more than gasp because his hands and his fingers were caressing her woman’s flesh as his mouth was hot on her breast.
“Douglas,” she said, and climaxed with a choking cry.
He pushed her onto her back to come more deeply into her and when she lifted her hips to draw him deeper, he cried out, tensing over her before pounding into her, his seed spewing inside her.
“Oh Douglas,” she whispered against his neck. “She did sort of float.”
“Blessed hell. She wasn’t here, it was a silly dream. You were susceptible because you hadn’t had me—like a tonic—before you fell asleep. You won’t see that damned ghost any more tonight. Now be quiet.” He pulled her on top of him, arranging the blankets over them as he did so. “All you’ll think about is me. You understand?”
“Yes,” she said, kissing his throat, his ear, his shoulder. “Just you and the wonderful lust you give me. Isn’t it nice that we’re leaving for London in the morning? Perhaps that’s what she was trying to tell me. There were so many more men for me to lust upon.”
“You are as amusing as a boil on a backside.”
She laughed and kissed the spot behind his ear.
Douglas stared grim-faced into the darkness even as his hands stroked down her
back and molded around her hips. He finally fell asleep with her breath against his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, her heartbeat soft and steady against his.
The Sherbrooke town house was a three-story mansion on the corner of Putnam Place. It had been built sixty years before to grand expectations of an Earl of Northcliffe with more groats than good taste. Still, the Greek columns were inspiring to some—those in their cups, Douglas would say with a snort—and the interior with all its niches for statuary were filled now mostly with flowers and books, the abundant Greek statuary exiled to the attic. It was the same earl, Douglas told Alexandra, who had filled the Northcliffe gardens to overflowing with Greek statues. “So I have pleased myself,” Douglas said, as he pointed to exquisite crimson brocade drapes that were drawn in the large central drawing room. “I expect that my heirs just might think I’m short in the upper works and do something else.”
He frowned then, saying, “Perhaps you will wish to make alterations. I did nothing to the countess’s rooms.”
“All right,” Alexandra said, still so dazed and overwhelmed by their actually being in London, a city of grace and wealth and poverty and excitement—and the smells—that she would have agreed to anything he said. He had pointed out everything to her and she’d gawked through the carriage window. Douglas grinned down at her. “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”
She nodded, touching her fingertips lightly to a lovely Spanish table.
“You will grow accustomed soon enough. As for the house, Mrs. Goodgame will show you everything. Burgess, our plump London butler, is as efficient as Hollis. You can trust him. We will remain in London for two weeks, enough time for you to be fitted for new gowns and bonnets and the like and to meet society. Do you wish to rest now or can we visit Madame Jordan?”
Madame Jordan was genuinely French, born and raised in Rennes. She had six shop assistants, an impressive establishment in the heart of Piccadilly, and a doting eye for the Earl of Northcliffe. Alexandra stood there, an unimportant member of Douglas’s entourage, listening to Madame and her husband discussing what was to be done with her. She was measured and clucked over. When she was to the point of screaming at Douglas that she wasn’t invisible and she did have good taste, Madame suddenly splayed her fingers over Alexandra’s bosom and went off with a salvo of rapid, intense French. Ah, Alexandra thought, grinning at Douglas, whose face was closed and hard, she wants my bosom to be fashionable. “I agree with Madame,” she said loudly, and Douglas turned on her, a wonderful target for his ire. “Be quiet, Alexandra, or you will go sit in the carriage! This has nothing to do with you!”
“Ha! You want me to look like a nun and Madame disagrees, as do I. Give in, Douglas, and stop being strange about it. I am a woman like every other woman on the face of this earth, and all women are built just like me. No one will care, no one. If you insist that I be covered to my chin, why everyone will wonder if I have some sort of horrible deformity!”
“I agree with the countess,” said Madame Jordan in perfect English. “Come, my lord, you are too possessive of your bride. It isn’t at all fashionable to wear your heart on your sleeve.”
“I’m not,” Douglas roared, slamming his fist on the glossy painting of a woman at least seven feet tall draped in willowy garments, as wispy and insubstantial as the ghost’s had been. “It’s just that she’s too innocent and doesn’t realize what men want and—” He ground to a stop. He was furious and felt impotent. He was outnumbered and outgunned and he knew it. Both women were regarding him with tolerant scorn. He had reason on his side, surely he did, only he sounded ridiculous. “Blessed hell! Do as you wish!” And he stomped out, saying over his shoulder, “I will await you in the carriage. Lower every bloody neckline to your bloody waist, I don’t care!”
“Ah, I love a passionate man, don’t you?” said Madame Jordan fondly, smiling after the earl.
“Oh yes,” Alexandra agreed. “Your English is superb, Madame.”
Madame nodded, not one whit affected by the contretemps. “I also speak German and Italian and a bit of Russian. I have a Russian count who is my lover, you know? He is probably as wild and possessive a lover as your husband, a wild man and he keeps my heart racing.”
That sounded wonderful to Alexandra.
Before the afternoon was over, Alexandra was so weary she could scarce stand. She was also the proud owner of six new gowns, two riding habits, nightgowns, chemises. Goodness, the list went on and on. Douglas regained a proper mood after they left Madame Jordan’s. Then he bought her bonnets and shoes and handkerchiefs and stockings and reticules, even an umbrella.
He was still a fount of energy when at last he handed her into the carriage. He shoved a stack of boxes away on the seat. Alexandra was so tired she didn’t care if she was in London or in the Hebrides. Her head fell against his shoulder and he squeezed her against him, dropping a kiss on top of her head.
“It has been a long day. You did well. I was proud of you. For the most part anyway. I still am displeased by your necklines.”
Alexandra wasn’t about to touch that topic again. She chewed her bottom lip, then burst out, “You know everything about clothes. You and Madame Jordan were obviously well acquainted. Have you bought clothing for many women?”
CHAPTER
19
DOUGLAS LOOKED AT her thoughtfully, then shrugged. “It’s really none of a wife’s affair what a husband does, but I see no harm in educating you. Yes, it’s something all females appreciate. I realized when I was no more than a very charming lad of nineteen years that I should gain expertise in the area of fashion and so I did. If a man wishes to maintain a constant supply of women, why then, he must adapt himself to their little vagaries.”
“It sounds rather cold-blooded to me.”
“Aren’t you the least bit grateful for my generosity today? Six new gowns . . . two new riding habits. In addition, I even allowed you and Madame to have your own way. Won’t you reward me suitably?”
It was very strange, she thought, and rather predictable that men always seemed to remember things differently. Alexandra sighed. “I am perfectly willing, but you never give me the chance to reward you, Douglas. You are all over me before I have a chance to do anything, and thus it is I who get all the rewards, and I never buy you anything.”
“That is an interesting way of looking at it. Most women and men would consider you an oddity, that or a woman of immense guile.” He frowned at her, as if uncertain of something, then said, “You still have the thirty pounds?”
“Yes. You mean, to have a constant supply of men I need to adapt myself to their little vagaries?”
“It doesn’t work that way. Men are always in constant supply. Men are excessively easy to attach. Men won’t ever simper or play the tease or make excuses.”
“Come, Douglas, I may not have much experience, but what experience I have convinces me that the goose and gander apply here. The thirty pounds won’t go very far. It wouldn’t do for the mythical men to feel slighted, no matter how eager they are. Perhaps I could purchase several dozen of a single item and give them out as I go along. What do you think?”
“I think you’re pushing me and it isn’t wise. I think you need to be beaten. I think your humor needs silence and reflection. You are being impertinent and I won’t allow it. Be quiet, Alexandra.”
“Perhaps watch fobs,” she said in an idle voice against his shoulder. “And I could have my initials engraved next to theirs on each one. Personalized, you know.”
He said calmly, his voice controlled and cold, “If you provide me quickly with an heir, all the money I have spent on you will have been worth it.”
Oh dear, she thought. She had pushed him and his retaliation was swift and rather brutal.
“If you tell me you don’t mean that, I will be quiet and forget about the watch fobs and the humor.”
“I won’t tell you anything. Now, London is thin of company this time of year. However, there are still adequate amusement
s. The Ranleaghs’ ball is tonight and it will suffice for your debut. You will wear the ball gown you wore at Northcliffe Hall. I have asked Mrs. Goodgame to assist you.”
That evening, just after eleven o’clock, at the Ranleaghs’ magnificent mansion on Carlisle Street, Alexandra came face to face with a woman who obviously knew Douglas well and wanted him still.
She was eavesdropping and she felt only a dollop of guilt. But in matter of fact, she was far more furious than guilty. They were speaking French and she couldn’t understand a bloody word.
The woman was too pretty for her own good, slight, very feminine with her large eyes, in her mid-twenties, Alexandra thought, and her white hand was on Douglas’s sleeve. She was standing very close to him, and leaning even closer, her breath doubtless warm on his cheek, the way Alexandra’s was when she was kissing his face. Her voice was low and vibrant with feeling. Douglas was patting her hand, speaking very quietly, his French as smooth and fluent as could be.
Why had her father insisted she learn Italian? It was worthless. Ah, the woman looked so serious, so intent, so interested in Douglas. Who was she? Had Douglas bought her clothes? Was she offering him a reward?
Douglas turned at that moment and Alexandra pulled back behind a curtain that gave into a small alcove. A couple were there, passionately kissing, and Alexandra blurted out, “Oh, do excuse me!” She fled.
Since she had met nearly fifty people and remembered no one’s name, she was quite alone. She saw Lady Ranleagh but that good lady was in close conversation with a bewigged gentleman who looked very important and somewhat drunk.
Since she had no choice, Alexandra stood on the edge of the dance floor, watching the couples dance a charming minuet. They performed flawlessly; they were all beautiful and rich and sophisticated and she felt like an interloper, a provincial with her gown a half-inch too high. At any moment, they would turn and point at her and yell, “She doesn’t belong here! Get her out!”