Chapter 11

Eleven

A urora stumbled into the cab of the waiting carriage, ignoring the offer of assistance from the startled footman standing by the steps. It was not until the door was latched shut and the horses began to move that she allowed the tears that had been welling in her eyes to fall.

This was absurd, she thought with a watery sniff. Had the plot unfolded on the pages of one of Robbie’s horrid novels, she would have laughed herself silly, dismissing the author as guilty of possessing either a overly vivid imagination or an overfondness for the brandy bottle. Perhaps both, for on second thought, she would have considered it impossible that any sane person could have contrived such a story unless under the influence of strong spirits. Or drugs.

Indeed, she had felt as addled as an opium addict on hearing the distinct baritone voice behind her. Her first thought had been that she was hallucinating. Her second thought had been that she was going mad. Her third thought had been that if any solid object, such as a vase or marble bust, had been close at hand, the Earl of Woodbridge would have had a rather large lump on his head.

Drat the man! How dare Alex Woodmore—or Fenimore or Woodbridge or whatever his deuced name really was—appear back in her life, just when her heart was beginning to recover from the bruising of his lies. He had lied, in spirit, if not in word, and somehow that had made the betrayal seem even worse. She had allowed herself to be seduced by the thought that Alex might have cared for her, when in truth their liaison had been just another casual flirtation for him. It had been the frisson of danger that had heated his blood, not her in particular, and his admission after their lovemaking had merely been a none too subtle reminder that time together was at an end. He would move on to another mission. And another mistress.

A righteous anger helped stem the tide of emotion flowing down her cheeks. She would never have fallen in … bed with him had she known he was no better than all the other philanderers the Sprague Agency for Distressed Females were used to investigating.

And how dare he imply that the unfortunate interlude in Scotland should have the least effect on the original offer that he had made to his nominal wife. A deal was a deal. This was purely business, and she wasn’t about to let yet another quirk of male pride wreak havoc with her life.

Somehow or another, this charade of a marriage was going to be put to an end. And she, for once, was going to reap some reward for having uttered those vows such a long, long time ago.

Aurora gave another sniff and stared out the small window at the bustling scene on Bond Street. An assortment of smart carriages and phaetons vied to squeeze past the drays and wagons, while on either side of the cobbled way richly dressed ladies and natty gentlemen strolled past ornate shop fronts. She supposed she should have been captivated by all the new the sights and sounds before her, but in truth it was impossible to dwell on aught but an entirely different picture.

The raven locks, though still long, had been neatly trimmed, and his cheeks were smoothly shaven rather than covered with a rough stubble. Fine linen and tailored melton wool had replaced the rough garments of a nondescript laborer and an intricately knotted cravat covered the spot where once an intriguing bit of dark curls had peeked through his open shirt.

She sought to stifle a sigh. The first notes of his deep baritone voice had caused her insides to melt, and for an instant it had been not anger and hurt that had quickened her pulse but rather joy and desire. Lord, she had wanted nothing so much as to fling herself into his arms and feel the reassuring warmth of his broad chest, the firm strength of his muscled shoulders ….

The hardening of her mouth turned the sigh into more of a snort.

It was true that Alex was a very attractive man. But he was also a lout and a liar. And a practiced lecher, she reminded herself with some heat. The skill of his kisses and his intimate caresses made it quite clear that he had a good deal of experience in more than the art of warfare. She blinked on recalling a certain book among his things. Tactics and training, indeed! The major was well schooled in storming the strongest of defenses. And obviously well used to coming out on top.

Wretched man! Using such sentiment like a piece of ice to cool the heat flaring up in her very core, Aurora flung herself back against the squabs. She would cease to think about the sensuous curve of his lips and the strong line of his jaw. Nor would she dwell on how his sapphire eyes sparkled with the rich intensity of two precious jewels, for in reality they was only paste, a mocking imitation of something of real value.

Just like the rest of him.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the townhouse on Half Moon Street, it was no longer the trace of tears that marred her countenance but a ferocious scowl.

“Oh, dear,” ventured Miss Robertson, on looking up from the book she was reading as Aurora stalked into the cozy sitting room. “I take it that one or two complications arose during the meeting?”

“Complications?” Aurora threw her reticule down onto the nearest chair, resulting in the muffled sound of breaking glass. “That, my dear Robbie, could be the understatement of the century.”

The bang of the door still reverberated in his ears as Alex regarded the waxed panels with a mixture of anger and exasperation. She was right. His last statement had hardly been a very gentlemanly—or a very wise—thing to say, given what he knew to be her sentiments on the relationship between men and women.

It had been cruel to speak as if what had taken place between them had been purely physical. Though he had yet to unravel the tangle of her emotions, he sensed that she had suffered a loss of more than her maidenhood that fateful night. The fact that she had fled, without so much as confronting him was a mark of how deeply she must have been hurt. There were not many situations, he mused with a flicker of a smile, that would put Aurora Sprague—or rather Fenimore—to flight. Had she been frightened as well as wounded?

But why?

Hell’s Teeth. It was not as if she had been less secretive and tight lipped about her past. She had no right to accuse him of subterfuge when she was as guilty of disguising the truth as he was.

Still, he should have tempered his cynical response. However, the truth of the matter was that he had not exactly been thinking clearly. Indeed, he had not been thinking at all, for his brain had suddenly refused to function properly the moment she had first turned around.

It still wasn’t.

Aurora was his wife.

Surely he was dreaming! Or foxed. Or insane. His hand raked through his locks, as if searching for some other plausible explanation. But no, fingers scraping scalp forced him to admit he was unfortunately awake, and unfortunately sober. His sanity, however, was still in question.

A timid knock came from the other side of the polished oak. His gruff reply caused it to open a fraction, allowing a pair of anxious eyes to peer in.

“Milord ….”

With a harried sigh, he motioned for Perkins to enter.

“Lady Woodbridge insisted on signing the papers, saying that should you wish to amend any of the first pages, she, er, had no objections.” He cleared his throat with some nervousness. “You made quite clear that you wished to settle this matter as quickly as possible. Shall Seymour and I see that the relevant parts are revised and petition filed today?”

Alex stared at the sheaf of documents in the other man’s hands. “Leave them with me.”

“But sir?—”

“I said, leave them.”

A certain young lady might be impervious to his tone of command, but it seemed to have the desired effect on others. The papers immediately dropped to the table with a thud. “Yes, milord!”

Alex was still looking at them a short while later as they lay beside him on the seat of his carriage. Wrapped neatly within a binder of leather, they looked to have been shuffled, squared and put well in order. He wished he might say the same for his thoughts. His mind felt as jolted and jostled as the wooden wheels flying over the cobblestones.

Aurora was his wife. He repeated to himself again, though the words still seemed as incomprehensible as a passage of the Sanskrit.

Contemplating the almost farcical turn things had taken only caused his brooding mood to grow worse. By the time his butler threw open the front door of his imposing townhouse he was in the blackest of humors, and his polished Hessian beat an angry tattoo down the checkered marble floor as he stomped to his study. Scowling, he tossed the package containing the annulment papers on his desk, took a cheroot from his humidor and struck up a light. Then, as a plume of smoke rose up toward the painted ceiling, he paused for an instant, catching sight of his reflection in the gilt mirror over the mantel.

He wiggled his brows. The left corner of his lip moved up and down.

Ridiculous. He did not make a face, odious or otherwise.

Another series of wafting rings drifted through the air. Damnation , he fumed, drawing so hard on the tightly rolled tobacco that the tip glowed a fiery orange. He had every right to be burning with anger. Any husband would be in a foul temper on discovering that the female who, above all others, was supposed to accord him unquestioning respect was obstinate, willful, disobedient and possessed of a tongue like a saber.

Not to mention having a mind of her own that was just as sharply honed. How dare she refuse the protection of his name, however meager the benefits had been. How dare she risk her neck—and name—in dangerous exploits. How dare she make it so plain that the idea of him as her husband was a horrible one.

Alex swore again and began pacing before the banked fire. Aurora had entirely too many radical notions to make a proper, biddable wife. He should be delighted with the notion of ending the marriage now that he knew to whom he was legshackled.

Hmmph. With a grunt of satisfaction, he tossed the half-finished cheroot into the hearth and took a seat at his desk. His eyes fell once again upon the legal documents. The sooner they were filed, the sooner he would be free to choose a docile, well-mannered young lady from among the highest circles of the ton to be his countess. Someone who would not dream of voicing her own opinion or contradicting his orders.

The package was shifted to the corner of the desk. He would deliver them back to Perkins once he had a chance to make a few final adjustments to the details of the monetary settlements. But first, there were a number of other pressing matters that needed his attention.

For the next several hours Alex forced himself to pore over a sheaf of papers concerning his various estates and investments. Finally, he threw down his pen in frustration, realizing that he hadn’t been paying the least heed to what he had been reading. What the devil was wrong with him? On countless nights, in countless dreary surroundings, he had fallen asleep dreaming of what it would be like to have a real home of his own. Now fate had dealt him a lucky hand and he should be chafing at the bit to make the most of it. Much as he had pretended otherwise over the years, he cared deeply for his ancestral lands and looked forward to the challenge of building a stable, meaningful life for himself.

So why was his mind wandering so far astray that it might well have still been in India?

The ledger in which he had been writing snapped shut. A glass or two of fine brandy would no doubt help settle the strange agitation affecting his thoughts. He rose and walked in the direction of the formal drawing room, his steps echoing through the deserted hallways. A lone maid peeked out of the music room, then ducked back inside. Two footmen carrying a settee out of the morning room scurried toward the back stairs, neither daring to venture a glance at the new earl. Trying to ignore the sense of malaise that continued to grip him, Alex picked up his pace, determined to loosen its hold with as much of the aged French spirits as was necessary.

Once he had poured a stiff drink, he sought to relax, but his eyes couldn’t stop from roaming around the ornate space, taking in the gilt chairs, the brocade sofas, the perfectly creased draperies, all of which looked to have been undisturbed for months, if not years. Lord, he hadn’t realized that Woodbridge House was so empty. Chillingly empty. With a stab of fierce longing, he found himself missing the warmth of companionship, the heat of a shared smile, the spark of soft laughter.

His gaze fell on the classical painting above the fireplace. It depicted the Goddess Diana in full hunting regalia. Bow at the ready, eyes alert, chin tilted in youthful confidence, she looked fearless and undaunted by the dangers that might be lurking in the woods around her. Alex stared at the lovely profile, struck by how the artist had captured both vulnerability and strength in the feminine features.

All at once, the glass of spirits shattered against the marble of the hearth.

Women!

He had never allowed any female to pierce the armor of his indifference with her arrows, but it seemed that all the recent upheavals in his life had caused a momentary chink in his defenses. Even so, he should have been far too experienced in dodging danger for the barb to have found its mark.

His teeth clenched at the sight of the amber liquid dripping down the veined marble. It wasn’t as if any real blood had been spilled. The wound was no more than a mere prick, he assured himself. Why, he had only to retreat to his club and the familiar camaraderie of fellow men for the discomfort of it to be quickly forgotten. The shuffle of cards and the savoring of a good claret would in no time banish any lingering rawness caused by thoughts of a certain young lady.

Turning away from the shards of glass buried among the embers, Alex rang for his butler and gave orders for the carriage to be brought around. His hat and greatcoat soon appeared, along with his elegant gloves and walking stick, and within minutes he was off.

There was no discernable change in White’s from ten years ago. He handed his things to a grizzled porter who had undoubtedly served his father, then made his way to one of the gaming rooms, fully intent on falling into an evening of deep play and equally deep cups. It was a blessed relief to see nothing but male faces, he thought on regarding the various tables. The gravelly tones and bawdy comments of the masculine voices sounded just as familiar here in Mayfair as they did in Bombay and Lisbon. It should prove a most satisfactory way to while away the hours until dawn.

A second glance around the room caused him to hesitate. For the most part, the crowd was made up of strangers. There were several men whom he vaguely recognized, but each of them was too engrossed his own game and his own friends to notice the figure at the door. Alex shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, strangely loath to approach any of the groups. In glum silence, he listened to the soft slap of cards, the rattle of dice and the murmured exchanges of triumph and disgust.

“I say, Woodbridge, is it?” A gentleman seated at the nearest gaming table looked up as one of his companions shuffled the deck in preparation for dealing a new hand.

Alex nodded, trying to match the beaked nose and wavy blond hair combed straight back from a high forehead with an actual name.

“Thought I’d got it right. Heard Ainslie greet you the other day as you were leaving Weston’s. Newly arrived from the Peninsula to take up the title, eh? Word has it you have seen action in all manner of exotic locales during your years away from English soil.”

A ghost of a smile played on Alex’s lips. “It appears you are remarkably well informed, sir.”

“Surely you haven’t forgotten how quickly every bit of gossip and all the latest ondits make the rounds about Town,” replied the other man with a hearty laugh. He gave a wave of his hand. “Come, join us. I’m Uxton.” His gesture swept to the others gathered around the green baize. “And this is Foxcroft, Hartsleigh, Cresthill and Grenville.”

They all exchanged polite nods as room was made for another chair. Alex sat down, telling himself he should feel quite gratified that things were going according to his plan. He would soon be trading jovial banter and gibes with new friends, and listening with detached amusement to good natured asides about other members of the ton . Several bottles of claret were ordered and he settled in to enjoy his companions and a long night of play.

Their conversation soon caused his spirits to plummet. The observations were shallow, the comments vacuous. They appeared interested primarily in chipping away at the reputation of others in order to build up their own stature, rather than engage in any meaningful talk. All at once he found himself wishing he could hear Aurora’s assessment of the present company. It was her sage judgment and forthright opinion that he valued above all these others. He knew all too well how her sharp insight would cut right through the pompous pretension and self-important smugness he could see firmly entrenched on the five faces circling the table.

Damnation. It made no sense at all. He was furious with her, and yet he missed the sound of her voice, no matter that the words were more often than not saying something outrageous. More than that, he had to admit that what he really missed was the feel of her slender fingers entwined with his. Her touch was what would help soothe the cursed chill of loneliness from his bones.

The contents of his glass disappeared in one swallow, and with it went all desire to remain where he was. Somehow the idea of gaming and drinking no longer held any appeal when it was Aurora’s face he saw on every card and the memory of her sweet embraces that had him growing more intoxicated by the moment ...

His chair push back abruptly. “I’m afraid you gentleman will have to excuse me.” Ignoring the startled looks from all around, he folded his hand and stood up. “I must be off.”

“Deucedly odd behavior,” muttered one of the players as Alex retreated toward the front hall. “Must come from spending so much time away from civilization.”

Odd did not begin to describe the way he was feeling. Nothing was making any sense! If a warm caress was what he needed to chase away his dark mood, why the devil was he mooning over Aurora, who now held him in nothing but contempt? He was very angry with her, too, and well within his rights to feel such sentiments.

Enough of the plaguey female! If intimate companionship was what he needed, then he would seek it out now. There were plenty of other willing women who possessed more beauty, more charm and certainly more knowledge of how to give pleasure to a man. A few words were exchanged with the porter, along with a coin or two, and the address of the most exclusive madam in Town was passed along.

The coach rolled to a halt in front of a small but elegant townhouse tucked away on a small side street of the fashionable neighborhood. A sliver of honeyed light shone from a small gap in discreetly drawn red velvet draperies at the front windows. It cast a warm glow over the white marble stairs leading up to the door, beckoning with the sensuous promise of sultry delights hidden within.

His boot was halfway to the ground when suddenly he yanked it back with a scathing oath directed at his own head. The door slammed shut and, still muttering under his breath, he rapped on trap and ordered the confused coachman to spring the horses for home.

Giving up all pretense of trying to sort out his tangled emotions, Alex dismissed his valet and stripped off his finely tailored clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the thick carpet. Not bothering with a nightshirt, he slipped between the sheets of his large tester bed. A very large and very lonely bed. Tucking one of the eiderdown pillows under an arm he turned on his side and closed his eyes. A number of minutes passed before he stirred and tugged the covers over his chin. Then he tossed. And turned again, willing sleep to come.

But despite all his efforts to the contrary, deep, dreamless oblivion proved elusive. Not so were haunting thoughts of ... his wife. He rolled onto his back and let out a muffled groan, imagining the feel of her skin, the texture of her hair, the sweetness of her lips and the innocent rapture of her response to his lovemaking. He swore, but could not banish the image of her molten green eyes, or the endearing tilt of her chin when she was roused to anger. As heat pooled in his groin, the anger in his breast burned down to a flicker of remorse.

Perhaps he was more to blame for what had happened that afternoon than he had admitted. His hasty words had been what had caused tempers to flare, and cutting insults to be exchanged. So it was only right that he should consider apologizing for the breach in behavior. It was what honor demanded, he assured himself, and not because it would afford him another chance to meet with her.

On further thought, there seemed to be no reason they could not, as rational adults, both agree to be civil to each other until things were settled. After all, it would soon be over and then they would both be free to do as they pleased. In the meantime ….

It suddenly occurred to him that Aurora and her companion had never been to London before. He could at least make an attempt to show himself a true gentleman by offering to show them the sights while they were here.