Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

O liver reluctantly let go of his wife’s hand. While he loved every moment with her—dancing, mingling, and basking in the way the ton received them—his energy was drained.

Alexandra was right. He was more used to a certain kind of company—something darker, living on the fringes of society.

He hated any kind of pretense and hated himself for making it feel that way for his wife. He could swear there was an attraction there, too. She seemed to take him in the way he did her. But it could simply be the heat of the moment. The act. The excitement.

After the dance and the applause, he felt the anger that had blazed inside him earlier when he saw several lords watching his wife with a hunger he recognized. If the women were thrilled by the romance, some of the men thought they could have a chance with her.

The thought made him want to punch something—or someone.

But what if…?

Thoughts of John Prescott crept into his mind. The man was in no way bolder than some of the lords in attendance. Yet, he brought out some of Oliver’s insecurities.

Did women really want him because they liked him, or did they like his money and title more?

The gossiping hens were right. He had not looked at any woman the way he looked at Alexandra. But was she looking at him in the same way?

He could still remember her excitement and nervousness upon seeing Prescott at the opera, and he did not like the gnawing pain in his chest.

The orchestra played another song after they had danced—proof that the world would continue turning even after he and Alexandra had decided to part ways once more.

The new music that was played was strange and unfamiliar. For some reason, it went straight to Oliver’s heart, like a flying arrow finding its target.

He saw his wife, who was only a small distance away from him, stop in her tracks when the tune began. He noticed that she gave it her rapt attention, and narrowed his eyes as the fingers at her sides began tapping in rhythm to the music.

“Who is the composer of this song, Elliott?” he asked the lord who walked past him. “I usually know the music they play at balls, but this one is unfamiliar to me.”

“Oh, that is from a new composer—J. Lewis, I believe. Some say that he is using a pseudonym. Apparently, he does not want to be known, just like that painter, Eric Westback. Many even say that he is from London.”

Oliver thanked the other man for the piece of information. Then, he made his way back to his wife.

“What is it about this mysterious composer?” he muttered, leaning closer to her. “It’s cowardly to hide behind a pseudonym. Is he waiting for the praise to come first before he reveals himself?”

Alexandra’s eyes opened as his voice jolted her out of her little daydream. The soft look on her face disappeared. “Perhaps his anonymity gives him freedom. Perhaps he does not want his talent to be tied to his real identity.”

“I disagree. I believe that a man worth listening to must also be worth knowing. Or perhaps the mystery appeals to your romantic nature?”

She blushed, further piquing Oliver’s curiosity. A burning question was niggling at him.

Why did this composer seem to captivate his wife? He’d seen the flash of indignance and passion in her eyes when she defended the unknown composer. It was almost as if she knew the man. Or perhaps, a voice in the back of his head added, she was merely being difficult.

Still, the mention of J. Lewis seemed to have a strong effect on his wife, and her reaction had a strong effect on him.

Oliver felt he had to distance himself from her, but he continued to watch her from across the room as she continued to listen to the mysterious composer’s piece.

Alexandra’s heart was pounding. She felt that if Oliver had asked more questions, she would have revealed her secret. With him giving her space, she thought she would have time to relax and appreciate her composition. However, her peace was short-lived.

She opened her eyes to meet the harsh gaze of her father, Lord Hartwell.

“Father,” she greeted, inclining her head.

Her stomach churned when she saw the expression on his face. She knew that he was about to tell her something she would not like.

“Alexandra. You’re playing the part of Duchess well enough,” he bit out. “All it did was make you more arrogant and parade around in finery. Otherwise, I see no real benefit from your time here in London. You simply wasted your time with the ton .”

The accusation landed sharply. Alexandra clenched her hands in her skirts. She realized the extent of the vitriol in her father’s heart. After having insulted her in public and taking her money, he still believed it was her responsibility to get him out of trouble.

At that moment, she could feel the burden he had placed on her shoulders. It was certainly ironic that she was the room’s center of attention and the wife of a wealthy duke, but still could not meet her father’s demands.

She felt a swirling mix of shame and resentment.

“You had made it clear that I was nothing but a useless chit. A failure,” she reminded him, a new edge to her voice. She was glad her voice did not waver.

“You were raised to understand your duty, Alexandra. There will be consequences if you fail to do it,” her father warned in a low voice and then sauntered away.

Alexandra could not believe that her own flesh and blood could not show her any sign of affection. The urgency in his words made her burden heavier, cornering her further. Putting her on the edge.

She could not believe that her sensitive mother had fallen in love with such a cruel man.

Alexandra had thought herself a strong woman, but in front of her father, she found herself nodding like a child. It was an automatic reaction to a man who did not deserve her obedience. She had always strived to be the best daughter, but he only responded with cruelty and judgment. However, this time, something in her was beginning to boil. Itching for a fight.

With her father’s dismissal still stinging, Alexandra felt small and alone. The heights that her mood had reached after her dance with Oliver and hearing her composition played at the ball crashed. Evaporated.

When she turned her head slightly to the right, though, relief washed over her.

There stood John Prescott.

Alexandra walked toward her former music instructor, who was smiling at her kindly. He had the power to immediately soothe her frayed nerves, just like the music they shared.

“Mr. Prescott, how lovely to see you here at the ball,” she said.

“Likewise, Your Grace,” he returned, giving her a slight bow.

With John, her walls were ready to crumble. With him, she was simply a woman. A musician. She did not have to suffer the weight of expectations that she felt everywhere else.

“I can tell you heard your latest composition,” he continued in a low voice so that only the two of them could hear.

“Yes. I am thrilled to hear the ton’s positive comments on the piece. I’d spotted some pleasantly surprised music patrons,” she said, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. “Thank you, Mr. Prescott, for the opportunity.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Grace.” Again, John gave her a polite bow.

The orchestra began playing a new piece. Caught in the moment, Alexandra did not think of the consequences of what she was about to say.

“Would you like to dance, Mr. Prescott?”

The instructor hesitated for a moment. “Dance with you, Your Grace? I, er, do not know if it would be proper. I am no lord, and?—”

“Yes, they might say it’s inappropriate. Whatever the case may be, you were my teacher. You are my friend, and we both love music. So, let us dance—the ton be damned,” she insisted.

“Your Grace, I… I do not…” John mumbled.

“Come on, John. Please. It’s just a dance.”

John sighed. “All right. If you say so.”

She smiled at him as he led them to the dance floor.

Alexandra let herself be swept away by the waltz. She was comforted by the music. For a moment, she felt like everything would be all right. She was free from her father’s demands and the strain in her marriage.

With her eyes closed to focus on the music, she was unaware of a pair of eyes watching her intently.

“Your eyes betray you, Brother. Perhaps the ton is right. A woman has finally ensnared the Duke of Westgrave,” Catherine teased.

Oliver was delighted to see his sister at the ball. However, he was distracted by the sight of Alexandra dancing with John.

The genuine happiness on her face irritated him. It should not. It just should not be directed at someone else—a man like John Prescott, the music master.

He did not like how the dance was making him feel—vulnerable and angry. The smile that his wife was giving John was something that he had not seen from her. Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

“There is no truth in that,” Oliver scoffed. “I am merely treating her like a puzzle that needs to be disassembled. She is an infuriating woman.”

His idea of unraveling the puzzle that was his wife entailed heading straight to her and her dance partner.

John Prescott was light on his feet, graceful, and far too close to her. A pang of something dangerously close to jealousy twisted in Oliver’s chest. It was irrational—after all, he had no claim to her heart. But it felt as though a piece of his heart had been stolen.

“Are you listening, Brother?” Catherine’s voice broke through his thoughts. Her teasing smile dropped as she noticed the way his eyes tracked Alexandra’s movements. “Good heavens, Oliver. You look as if you’re about to march over there and challenge Mr. Prescott to a duel.”

Oliver clenched his jaw. “It’s nothing of the sort,” he lied, though even he could hear the irritation in his voice.

Catherine arched an eyebrow. “Oh, is that so? Then what exactly are you planning to do?”

“I am going to cut in,” he stated simply, already moving forward, not even waiting for his sister’s response.