Chapter Fifteen

Over coffee and scones the following morning, Alexandra handed to Magnus the trousers he'd left on the floor next to her bed.

He took them wordlessly, and laid them over the chair.

They settled in at the table across from each other.

He poured her coffee and passed the sugar.

He was still in shirtsleeves. His forearms were on display. Alexandra watched his hands—strong, rough, long-fingered—as he

poured her coffee.

Those hands that had loaded countless muskets and emptied slops had touched her in gloriously, skillfully intimate ways.

And they had trembled as they showed her the secret pleasures of her body.

Her mind blanked for an instant, her thoughts momentarily replaced by what felt like sparkles and sunset colors.

"Dot brought the newspaper up."

His voice was still graveled from sleep.

She shook herself from her reverie.

He pushed the newspaper over to her.

She glanced down at it.

Carriage Incident a Prank, Says Brexford

Lord Thackeray is a free man after a series of errors incorrectly resulted in his detention for carriage theft.

Apologies have been made to Lord Thackeray by both the arresting authorities and the Duke of Brexford.

All parties are satisfied that the incident resulted from a miscommunication, particularly with regards to the name of his

alleged accomplice, who was misidentified as Mrs. Brightwall.

All parties indicate that no hard feelings remain.

The sheer, cool brilliance of it. What it didn't say was more important than what it did say. It was yet another strategic

little lie that wasn't a lie.

A warm, radiant gratitude took her breath away.

She did not quite trust herself to look up yet. "That can't have been easy for you."

She meant logistically and emotionally.

She looked up in time to catch his rueful, faint smile. "Oh, it wasn't."

"That's where you were yesterday? Sorting this?"

"For much of it," he confirmed.

They were smiling at each other now.

"Thank you," she finally said. Fervently. Almost shyly.

He nodded.

"He's... sound?" She meant Thackeray.

He nodded again.

She sighed in relief. She adored her stupid cousin.

"I don't know how Mrs. Cuthbert will take the news that I was never actually in prison when she reads the article," she mused.

"Part of me hopes she never discovers it. I'm having a little too much fun with it. She thinks you took me on in order to

reform me."

His smile began slowly and spread. "She said this last night? What else did I miss?"

"Mrs. Cuthbert swooned when Dot imitated the sounds of a ghost, which were apparently actually the sounds of Mrs. Dawson in

the throes of passion, although Mrs. Dawson told Dot she was merely having silly fun with her husband. Then Mrs. Hardy and

Mrs. Durand passed around sherry, and we all discovered that Mrs. Cuthbert is entertaining when she's tipsy. She voluntarily

launched into song."

His eyes went wider and wider as this recitation went on.

"Damn," he swore softly and fervently. "I wish I'd been there."

She laughed. After a moment, she said, "I thought of you." Softly. Tentatively.

It had felt risky to say such a thing aloud.

But suddenly the air fair shimmered with heat as their eyes met.

He ducked his head. A little silence followed as he applied himself to their breakfast-before-breakfast.

"These scones..." he murmured, with a head shake.

". . . are heaven," she confirmed. "Their cook is named Helga, I'm given to understand."

"Mmmm."

She refreshed their cups of coffee.

"I think my preparations for my move to New York are complete," she offered casually.

She sipped her coffee as he took this in.

They fixed each other with thoughtful, unreadable gazes.

"Very well." He nodded politely. His voice, however, sounded somewhat frayed.

They ought to open a gaming hell, she thought. The two of them had brilliant game faces.

"I'm sorry to have missed dinner here last night. The food here is delicious. How was it?" he said finally.

"Eel pie, potatoes, and peas with a treacle tart. All delicious. Mr. Delacorte sped through his potatoes the way Shillelagh

sped around that track."

Magnus went still, his eyes briefly misty, imagining it.

"Good man, Delacorte. I'm sincerely sorry we'll have to miss tonight's dinner, too. As you no doubt recall, we've the banquet

and reception at the Earl and Countess of Scottsbury's home this evening. Followed by musical entertainment, I'm given to

understand. A soprano of some sort, again."

"Hopefully she won't be warbling about yearning."

His smile was slow and brilliant and for the second time this morning her mind filled with what felt like sparkles and nothing

else.

"I'll wear my pearl-colored satin," she finally said.

As far as Dot was concerned, the world was made of magic. How else to explain how she'd been promoted to lady's maid for the Duchess of Brexford, after her own mother, the previous lady's maid, had run away with a footman? Magic! And surely it was thanks to magic that she'd been hired by the tremendously kind Lady Derring, now Mrs. Hardy, when the duchess had fired her. It was magic when Lady Derring had kept her on as a lady's maid, even after she'd accidentally burned and dropped so many things.

And it was magic that Dot had been present the moment Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand had decided to turn a tumbledown building

by the docks into The Grand Palace on the Thames—right after they'd lost their other home forever. Magic had happened on the

heels of terrible trouble so often in her life that she never missed an opportunity to wish on things: stars, dandelions,

ladybirds. And now she mostly wished that things would stay precisely the way they were, because she'd never felt happier

than she was answering the door and bringing the tea and meeting new and lovely people, and she'd thought she'd never want

another thing as long as nothing changed.

And then Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand had gone and hired Mr. Benjamin Pike.

She had inadvertently done violence to Mr. Pike twice: she had trod on his foot in a race to the door (which was why he always wore boots in the house now) and on another occasion she had hurled her fist into his jaw and knocked him to the floor. But that was when he'd sneaked up on her in the kitchen because he'd known she would think he was a ghost. And though she'd been filled with crippling remorse and he had been too filled with admiration

for her aim to be too outraged, he'd been remorseful, too, and they both agreed the whole business was mostly his fault, and

it remained their secret.

He had also held her hand very gently as he'd inspected her knuckles for bruises. She remembered well the feel of her stinging

fingers resting in his big warm palm, the pain contrasted with a sort of tender care that made not just her face but the entirety

of her being fleetingly warm.

He'd gotten his revenge, however inadvertently. Because when Mr. Delacorte had said the night before as they walked back to

the carriage, I wonder if Pike brought his sweetheart , it had felt as though someone had punched her in the heart.

Which had been quite a shock. Because as much as she appreciated handsome men—honestly, who didn't?—she hadn't decided whether

she was able to actually like Mr. Pike, given that he was her rival. She'd somehow failed to imagine he might have a life outside of The Grand Palace on

the Thames, even though imagining things was what she did best. Which made her realize how large he had come to loom, in every

sense of the word, in her life in so short a time.

She was a great believer in signs and portents, too, and she'd always thought the word "fate" implied magic, too; she'd always considered it a romantic, triumphant sort of word. And it was jarring to discover she might have been wrong about it. Because even though Shillelagh had won the race, which had seemed very much to prove her assumption about fate, when Mr. Delacorte had said, I wonder if he brought his sweetheart , the night had seemed to take an almost sinister turn.

She didn't know whether Mr. Delacorte knew something she did not or was merely idly wondering aloud, and there seemed no way

of discovering this.

All of this was all disturbing to her peace of mind, and she realized she hadn't anyone in which she dared confide—the other

maids were amusing, in their way, but a bit silly, and not nearly as conscientious about their work as she was. They were

not thinkers like Dot.

She would need to turn to her journal and write about it.

She suddenly realized she'd just nearly marched all the way to the third floor, toward her room where her journal was, when

she was meant instead to be replacing the flowers in the vase in the sitting room. So she turned around.

On her way downstairs she encountered Mr. Pike himself, doing what he was hired for: effortlessly putting new candles into

the sconces, because he could reach them, because he was so very tall and useful , which was in part what Delilah and Angelique appreciated about him.

He turned and smiled at her. "Well, good morning, Dot. It's the oddest thing, but I could have sworn I heard you in the crowd the night before. And I thought, surely not. It's not her night off, and... well, it was a donkey race."

"I don't know how you could have possibly heard me," she said stiffly. "There were so many people there."

"I suppose it's because the only person I could imagine shouting ‘Oh my good heavens! It's fate I knew it was fate!' at a

donkey race... is you."

It was a revelation to hear that Mr. Pike had formed ideas about what she might say, which suggested Mr. Pike was thinking

about her when she was not around.

She wondered what his sweetheart would have to say to that, if she knew.

If he indeed had a sweetheart.

As if she cared.

"Anyone might have said that," she said quellingly.

He shook his head. "No one sounds like you, Dot." He paused, as though he was considering what to say next. "I suspect that's

because there is no else like you."

He said this so carefully it was impossible to know whether he considered this a compliment. She didn't know whether she was

pleased to hear it. She did suspect it was the truth. She had never considered herself in this light before, and so Pike had

just given her a gift of sorts, something to ruminate upon. She generally considered herself the heroine of her own story,

and this observation seemed to confirm it.

But Mr. Pike seemed to be searching her face for something. And his eyes, which were often full of amused glints when he talked to her, were somber. Even a little uncertain.

This uncertainty made her heart pang with sympathy, though she could not have quite said why. He seemed the last person on

earth who would need it.

Her cheeks began to warm.

"Also, you're remarkably loud when you want to be," he added. Wickedly.

She sighed. She had indeed shrieked BOLLOCKS! without meaning to when he'd surprised her in the kitchen. Before then, she'd never cursed aloud in her life. She blamed

him for this, too.

"I've been told it's a useful skill," she replied loftily. Their former guest Mr. Christian Hawkes had told her she could

lead armies into battle with her screams, which he'd heard when he'd toppled bleeding through their door.

Then again, Mr. Hawkes was how Mr. Pike came to be hired at The Grand Palace on the Thames, thereby introducing a note of

turmoil into the sprightly tune that had previously been Dot's life. "And I thought we agreed we wouldn't discuss that anymore,

Mr. Pike."

He cheerfully ignored this. "What made you decide to go to the donkey races?"

She was a bit embarrassed to tell him now, given that her belief in fate had been shaken. But then she recalled what Mrs. Brightwall had said, about how things like ponds and trees transform even when they stay in the same place. And she wondered whether fate was like that. Whether a donkey race might indeed have been fate, but the kind of fate that would unfold a bit at a time. Beginning with the journal she'd been able to purchase with the money she'd won on Shillelagh.

And then on to the startling knowledge that she could not bring herself to ask whether Pike might indeed have a sweetheart,

because, like punching Mr. Pike and then surrendering her hand for gentle inspection, it might be both too painful and too

pleasurable to know.

Leading next to that uncertain expression on Mr. Pike's face that made Dot's heart twinge.

Fate might in fact have as many plot twists as The Ghost in the Attic.

"Because I liked the word ‘shillelagh.' And I knew it was fate," she told him, with great dignity. "Exactly as I said."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I see," he said gravely.

"I've work to do, Mr. Pike, and I expect you do, too."

She swept past him to replace the draggled flowers in the vase downstairs.

"You must be overjoyed to be reunited with your husband, Lady Montcroix. More champagne?"

Lady Scottsbury was an attentive, and perhaps strategic, hostess. The free-flowing champagne loosened tongues. Gossip was currency, entertainment, and nourishment for the ton, and parties like this one were like watering holes.

Her dark eyes were sharp and merry, her dress was stunning green velvet and silk, and her breath smelled of champagne when

she leaned ever closer to Alexandra to speak to her.

It seemed to Alexandra that every time she turned away from her glass it had been magically refilled, and she realized this

before she was good and drunk, but not before she was a trifle tipsy.

"Oh thank you, I think not," she said to the footman hovering behind her.

"The separation was not easy for either of us," she told the countess, "but as usual he considered me above all other things,

he made the gallant sacrifice in support of what was best for me and my family."

Every bit of this was, on the face of it, true. Over the past few days she had, in fact, become adept at telling truths that

weren't precisely true. And at first it had been an interesting challenge, a test of her social dexterity.

But the more champagne she drank, and the more times she repeated this, the more it abraded her soul as though she'd a pebble

in her shoe.

"I recall the years when the newspapers sometimes referred to him as Brightwall the Bachelor Beast! All those lovely ‘B's together—the gossip sheets seem to revel in that sort of thing, don't they? I have been featured there more than once," Lady Scottsbury shared. "Both before and after I married Scottsbury."

"I'm sorry you endured it, or happy if you benefited from it," Alexandra said, which made Lady Scottsbury smile. "They do

love their alliteration. I hope you noticed the article in the newspaper in which they called him the Magnificent Montcroix."

She considered that little article a triumph. Well done , Magnus had said to her this morning over the newspaper, amused. It was just a few paragraphs suggesting London citizens

might like to pay a visit to the new statue of the Magnificent Montcroix, but it was clearly progress on the reputation restoration

front.

Alexandra had been dropping this little alliteration into conversation every chance she got tonight. She enjoyed seeing the

eyebrow flicks and widened eyes that meant her conversational partners would be repeating it.

"Oh yes, I can imagine both you and Montcroix would prefer that to Mr. and Mrs. Beast." She loved the way Lady Scottsbury

had so casually said "Montcroix," as if Magnus had been born an earl, and it was what he'd been called his entire life. "When

those funny little pictures in the newspaper appeared, featuring his wife grappling with the army and whatnot, I confess I

thought—surely it's all an invention. That dignified man can't have married a woman who is mad enough to steal a carriage from a duke... that is, if he's truly married at all. He was so very discreet about it! We all eventually heard that he'd married, of course, indirectly, and then there were a few little gossip items in the newspaper over the years... but we never really saw any... proof. We were beginning to think you were a myth. You've certainly kept to yourself."

Lady Scottsbury lazily fanned her bodice, which was no doubt meant to call attention to either her bosom or her diamond necklace.

Alexandra thought both were enviable. As was her subtlety, even if it was a trifle barbed. Alexandra understood this sort

of person, and sometimes even rather enjoyed them for the challenge they presented. It was interesting to hear her refer to

"we"—she meant the ton at large, as if they were a single organism.

"My goodness," she said sympathetically. "Did you indeed think I was a myth? Surely you're not suggesting anyone seriously

believes my husband is the sort of man who traffics in fairy tales?" Alexandra's eyes were wide with wounded innocence. "Or

that he would lie to the populace?"

Lady Scottsbury froze. "Oh, my dear, no. I just..."

Alexandra's eyebrow was an arrow shooting upward.

Lady Scottsbury leaned closer. "I've always thought that it was a pity, in truth, if it was indeed not true. I cannot help

but take note of everything that could use a little spiffing , as it were—from homes to clothes—and it always seemed to me that Brightwall needed a wife to take him in hand. A bit of domestication. He's such an impressive man, but he wasn't raised like you or I, my dear. He was born a ruffian. The hair, for instance. Good heavens, there's such a lot of it. Now that he's an earl, perhaps you can influence his choices."

"Oh, I don't know," Alexandra said with offhand cheer. Her temper was stirring on behalf of Magnus. "I thought it would be

more efficient to take a husband who is perfect exactly the way he is. That way, instead of attempting to improve him I can

instead simply enjoy his company. The hair, by the way, on the statue recently dedicated to him in Holland Park, is positively

immaculate."

Lady Scottsbury's head went back a little, which was how Alexandra realized her delivery had been a bit vehement.

Finally, her hostess smiled fondly at her. "It sounds as though you are very proud of him, and rightly so. The whole of England

is grateful to him, not the least for saving the life of General Blackmore."

Alexandra suddenly felt deflated, as if she'd spent the last of her bravado. These moments in particular had begun to wear

on her. She was proud of him; she felt she hadn't the right to her pride, reflected or otherwise.

And yet she was saying it over and over again this evening, just as she had the previous evening. And the more time she spent with him, the more she viscerally understood his genuine greatness, even if, between the two of them, they had managed to bungle their marriage. Ought she to have understood this five years ago, and been merely grateful to marry such a man? Did his greatness negate completely what she might have wanted, or dreamed of, for herself? Did her feelings matter at all, did she matter at all, in light of this? What sort of selfish madwoman kisses another man on the day of her wedding to a national

hero?

The champagne was again blurring her reasoning.

Because if she'd had the keeping of him for the past five years, as a wife naturally would, she would have done it brilliantly.

And still she might have never stopped resenting him.

"I cannot take any credit for his accomplishments. I am confident in saying they arise wholly from his stellar character.

But it is an honor to bear his name," she said shortly.

"But surely you are a comfort and an inspiration to a man who has borne such weighty responsibilities. He must be proud of

you as well."

She could not reply. Her throat suddenly felt tight.

Alexandra whirled at a movement at the edge of her vision.

It turned out to be Magnus and the Earl of Scottsbury. She wondered how much of this conversation Magnus had heard.

Scottsbury was a handsome fellow, gone a bit gray in the hair and ruddy in the face, suggesting he loved both the outdoors

and his liquor.

"Good Christ, Brightwall, I suppose all one has to do to get such a pretty piece for a wife is win a war or two. Ha ha!"

Alexandra went rigid with astonishment.

Lady Scottsbury's tight, studiedly blank expression made Alexandra's entire being contract in sympathy. She would warrant

it wasn't the first time Lady Scottsbury had needed to disguise some sort of pain or embarrassment caused by her husband.

Magnus looked ready to split the man in two.

Which was alarming, because she thought him fully capable of it.

Alexandra laid a gentle hand on Lady Scottsbury's arm. Magnus clearly had things he wanted to say to the Earl of Scottsbury

that couldn't be safely uttered in front of ladies.

"I wondered if you would show me the way to the withdrawing room, Lady Scottsbury. Your taste is so exquisite, and I should

like to ask your advice about modistes. I've heard Madame Marceau is gifted, but she is always so very busy. I wondered if

you might have some secrets you'd be willing to impart about where to find a wonderful seamstress."

Lady Scottsbury's face softened into gratitude. She looped her arm through the lady's and they strolled off together.

Magnus understood men. He understood liquor.

But an actual screen of red had dropped down over his eyes when the earl had spoken to Alexandra that way.

Magnus slowly turned to the earl. "I comprehend you are foxed, Scottsbury. But I wonder if you would find it sobering to imagine the consequences if I ever hear you referring to my wife as a ‘piece' again, or as anything other than Lady Montcroix. Why don't you take a moment to do that now."

All the blood fled Scottsbury's complexion as he obliged Magnus by looking at him and accurately reading his expression.

"Nod if you understand me," Magnus demanded.

The earl's head bobbed. "Good God, Brightwall. I apologize. No need to go beastly on me."

Magnus's jaw set. "For God's sake, Scottsbury. You know better. I don't care if you're foxed. Please stop."

Scottsbury sighed. "You're right. I'm very sorry. I will apologize to your wife, as well. I'm foxed and I'm sorry. I suppose

I'm envious. You seldom took your eyes from her all during the dinner, old man, and now you look ready to do murder because

I called her ‘pretty' a trifle too casually, and again, I'm sorry. What was it Byron said about love being more dangerous

than the measles when it comes late in life?"

Magnus went silent. He was genuinely nonplussed and not at all pleased to hear that he'd been so obvious. He hadn't had a

clue. About that, or Byron.

It was just that it was such a pleasure to watch her. So why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't anyone? The laughter that rose up around her when she was in the center of a conversation, her bright head gleaming in the candlelight, the flash of her eyes as she aimed a conspiratorial glance in his direction and fulfilled her part of their bargain.

All night, as they had mingled with guests, together and apart, old acquaintances had complimented him on her. He'd witnessed

young ladies unconsciously mirroring her gestures when she spoke to them. He'd seen the admiration, both overt and covert,

in the eyes of men, and the soft approval in the eyes of dowagers. The slyly probing ones had been put in their place so gently

he was certain they'd scarcely even noticed.

He wished Alexandra understood how impressive she truly was. Her nimble social gifts arose from a genuine pleasure in the

company of other people, and from her warmth and compassion. From her willingness to like them and make them comfortable, even as she saw them clearly.

Did she seem him clearly?

What did it mean for the two of them, if she did?

And yet. He could still not reconcile all of the admirable things he knew her to be with the young woman who had passionately

kissed another man on her wedding day.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Scottsbury," was all Magnus said finally. Conciliatorily. Dryly.

Scottsbury actually gave him a sympathetic pat. Together they moved on to other guests, and Magnus continued performing his duty as guest of honor, bestowing attention and words and moving on.

But as the minutes wore on, he became aware of what could only be called a gathering panic on the edges of his awareness,

for no other reason except that he couldn't see Alexandra anywhere in the reception room.

He knew his sense of unease wasn't quite rational—she had simply gone to the lady's withdrawing room, and was probably merrily

chatting there.

But it seemed to him she'd been gone an inordinate amount of time. Or perhaps it merely felt that way. Perhaps time behaved

differently when he was with her, paradoxically standing still and moving too fast. Perhaps it was because the difference

between a room with and without her in it was like the difference between a meadow and a cell.

It seemed to him this empty panic was a foreshadowing of the rest of his life without her.

And he immediately, almost abruptly excused himself from his conversation.

In the withdrawing room, Alexandra and Lady Scottsbury had fussed with their hair and cordially talked of modistes as other

ladies came and went. They didn't talk about their husbands.

But they were alone, for now, apart from the attendants, a pair of young maidservants wearing shy smiles.

And in the lull, Lady Scottsbury studied Alex andra, her expression indecipherable. It was a bit as though she was struggling to decide whether or not to say something.

Finally she leaned forward and began soothingly, "I just wanted to tell you, dear, that it's all right if you have one of

those modern marriages. I won't tell a soul."

Alexandra froze. "I beg your pardon?"

"Marriage for love is a bit of a fairy tale they try to feed to young women," Lady Scottsbury said frankly. "Almost no one

of the upper classes ever does it. You've made a splendid if unorthodox match, but even so, some couples cannot simply abide

with each other and that's the way things are. But you are doing a marvelous job tonight—and it's a job, isn't it? Marriage

to a man like that?—and he's no doubt proud of you. It's our lot in life, isn't it, to look after these men? To endure their

foibles?"

Alexandra was speechless.

Inwardly, she was reeling.

It was a bit like the nightmare she'd once had where she'd entered a full ballroom wearing her slippers and nothing else.

She felt as though Lady Scottsbury had whipped aside her social defenses.

"Oh, but I don't. My... my marriage isn't modern," she stammered. "I'm afraid you are mistaken."

But this was just another social lie and she heard the moment her ability to sound convincing defected.

Lady Scottsbury tipped her head sympathetically. "My dear, one of you is sailing to America in a few days. I heard through Scottsbury's niece, who is related to a gentleman who is related to the ship's captain, that the name Brightwall is on the passenger rolls. There is probably only one Brightwall in all of England. He is so lately returned from Spain, and yet off again to America? It doesn't seem so; I'm given to understand he is preparing to undertake his duties in parliament. So it must be you who is off. I know your charming brother and father are currently in New York. Both are missed at White's, or so my husband tells me. And I thought, it seems very clear that the Brightwalls are not people who are pining for each other."

Alexandra was bludgeoned by an epiphany: everything Lady Scottsbury said was true, and it horrified her.

Because after days of trying to convince herself otherwise, she realized she desperately wanted it not to be true.

Infuriatingly, she could think of nothing socially deft to say, and her silence felt like a self-indictment.

Lady Scottsbury smiled knowingly, ruefully, not unsympathetically. Satisfied she had imparted wisdom to the younger woman, she gave one last pat to her hair. "Don't worry. We haven't told anyone else, and we won't. My husband is fond of your husband. Scottsbury isn't all bad when he isn't in his cups. And lovers are an even tual compensation—for both partners. Remember that. I best get back to him lest he get himself murdered for saying something he doesn't mean. As I said, it's a job." She winked and departed, leaving Alexandra's composure in tatters.

Alexandra wondered how many of the people downstairs were entertaining the same kinds of thoughts about her and Magnus.

And just like that, she felt denuded of defenses. She could not yet imagine returning at once to a crowd of people who insisted

she must be proud of her husband, and he must be proud of her. She didn't trust her eyes not to betray her inner turmoil.

And she was so accustomed to smoothing things over for everyone else, to rationalizing and enduring and finding her equilibrium

in the midst of upheaval, it was a shock to realize she had no idea how to settle or comfort herself. She could not quite

get a purchase on the reason she was so thoroughly upset.

What she wanted was a few moments entirely alone to gather her composure.

Reflexively, she climbed a flight of marble stairs and wandered a bit until she found a little alcove likely normally used to display statuary or ferns. It was about the width of three people standing side by side, and half as deep, but it was currently empty save for a tall, spiky-leafed plant in a pot. If she craned her head one way, she could just about see the top of the stairs. If she craned it the other way, she could look out a large arched window into an endless black night. Clouds obscured the stars. There was no clarity to be found anywhere tonight, it seemed.

In a room somewhere nearby, billiard balls collided on a table to the accompaniment of the murmur of voices and laughter.

Below, she faintly heard the orchestra tuning, in preparation for this evening's soprano entertainment.

She stood for a time like a statue and waited for Lady Scottsbury's particular form of jaded kindness to stop stinging.

Presently, Magnus appeared at the top of the stairs.

Her heart gave a painful leap. She jerked it back like a dog on a lead.

His head swiveled about. He was looking for her, she would warrant. He looked genuinely, nakedly worried.

This, paradoxically, brought her an absurd stab of happiness.

"Magnus," she said softly. To relieve him of his worry.

He pivoted swiftly.

Relief flashed across his features. He approached her slowly. "Why are you standing in a dark alcove like a statue of...

Aphrodite?"

"Aphrodite, is it? My goodness. I wished I'd thought to say ‘Aphrodite' when Mrs. Pariseau was quizzing us about statues.

That's better than a fountain."

He didn't reply. He scrutinized her instead.

"Alexandra. Is aught amiss?"

"No," she lied. "Just... admiring the view."

He made a show of looking behind him. "Given that I'm currently the view, I'm skeptical."

With a blinding epiphany she realized that he was her favorite view. She was momentarily struck dumb as a shy child.

The implications of this frightened her.

She stared at him for all the world like a looby for an instant before she rallied.

"Well, considering I can also see myself in the silver buttons of your waistcoat..."

He had one dimple that came into view when he smiled and it was bloody delightful.

She tried to smile, too, but she could not quite get the corners of her mouth to commit to it.

"You should wear that plum-colored waistcoat often," she said.

Which is when she realized she was, indeed, a trifle drunk. As a result, the boundaries of her control had gone dangerously

porous. Thoughts that would in other circumstances never graduate into spoken words were launching into the world.

He glanced down at his waistcoat, then back at her, puzzled.

"Because it makes your eyes seem very blue, and very bright. Almost as bright as your buttons."

Charmingly flustered, he looked down again. When he looked back up at her, his expression was carefully composed and uncertain.

Did no one ever compliment him? She felt irrationally furious at this oversight on the part of the world. He was bloody magnificent.

"I can see your eyes all the way across the room. Like a beacon. When you're watching me and you don't think I'm noticing."

Was she brazenly flirting with her husband? Champagne was a menace.

Magnus had gone very still. But he was watchful. Wary. No doubt a bit like that boy he'd been who'd always expected to be hurt.

Oh, it slashed her, to see it. And yet she exulted, too. It was better than his cool control.

This uncertain Magnus was one she was positive no one else ever saw.

Finally his smile was slight, speculative.

"So why are you hiding?" he finally asked bluntly.

She gave what she hoped was an insouciant laugh. "What makes you think I'm hiding?"

He snorted softly.

They were quiet a moment.

"Magnus... I'm sorry you feel compelled to say that you're proud of me."

She was discovering how alarmingly easy it was to be honest when one was drunk.

His eyes flared in genuine surprise. "Is this what's bothering you?"

Her silence clearly answered the question for him.

He was quiet a moment. Then he gave a soft, stunned laugh.

"Alexandra... in a single evening, you have either mildly terrified, captivated, or put into their places, sometimes all at once, most of the titled of the ton. From what I've heard from other guests, the younger women are ready to fall at your feet, as though you're Aristotle and can teach them your ways. All the men are envious and claim to be baffled by why a woman like you would marry a brute like—"

He pressed his lips together.

They both knew why she'd married a brute like him.

"I once said you would have made a fine general, Alexandra. You may have noticed I'm not in the habit of making frivolous

statements."

She managed to smile at this. It felt wobbly on her lips.

"That is kind of you to say. And I am still proud," she reflected, somewhat puzzled. "That is, I still have pride. I don't

know what the use of pride is to me. I feel at times I haven't the right to any at all. That's all just to say, Magnus, that

I'm not proud at all of what I did on our wedding day." Her voice was hoarse now. "Not at all."

"Alexandra..." Her name was cracked in the middle with emotion.

And also something like impatience.

She stared at him.

She realized, then, how seldom his voice betrayed any vulnerability at all. He was so fiercely guarded.

And so.

It seemed her husband was fraying, too.

"You are..." He gave a soft, almost despairing laugh.

"You are formidable," he finally said quietly. Tenderly.

Almost resignedly. As if this was something so very clear, anyone could see it.

As if she was the conqueror.

As if he was trying to explain to her that he'd never had any choice but to take her however he could get her.

His voice had gone thick.

She could feel some realization struggling to come into focus on the periphery of her awareness. Something she could not quite

grasp hold of.

Her skin was all but singing from his nearness. Like all those sirens whose job it was to lure sailors to their doom.

Touch me.

Don't you dare touch me.

These thoughts battled over her.

In this moment she was two girls. The one who had known him only two months, who would have been obliged to submit to him

in bed on her wedding night.

And the woman who wanted desperately for him to touch her now.

The first girl had been frightened and innocent. Resentful and grateful. And resentful at the need to be grateful. She had

spent her wedding day in a polite fog of unreality, her lips fixed in a remote smile. His hand had rested so often proudly,

lightly on her elbow. For five thousand pounds he'd bought the rights to touch her whenever he chose.

This man in front of her would have willingly bedded that frightened girl.

The second girl was tempted to slip her hand right into his trousers to hasten being taken quickly. Now.

The second girl was quietly, furiously angry at the possibility that he'd known something about her, about him, about the two of them together, before he'd proposed. That he, with his vision, his gift

for seeing the details about people, his superior experience and wisdom and maturity, had somehow known how incendiary, how

satisfying, how right it would feel to be together. And he'd never said a word. Had not trusted her with his thoughts or feelings. He had not asked

for hers. He had merely included her in part of a bargain, the way he was buying a house on Grosvenor Square.

Would they be here now if he had said anything? Would they have hurt each other then?

She didn't know. She didn't know.

I wanted you in my bed , he'd said to her. She was certain that was as true then as it was now.

She didn't think that was the whole truth.

For instance, there was a ribbon scrap in a box that suggested otherwise.

But wasn't it different for men? Didn't they view sex the way Mr. Delacorte had described potatoes the other night, necessary

and delicious, to be consumed hastily whenever available?

What man wouldn't take advantage of the circumstances if he was certain a woman wanted him? No doubt it was easy enough for a man to want a woman and still despise her.

Perhaps he'd touched every woman he'd ever made love to that way.

She didn't really believe so.

He'd likely discovered as he moved closer, ever closer, that she was quivering. Her breathing quickened. But still he didn't

touch her.

"I don't feel as if I've the right to be proud of you, Alexandra." His voice was graveled. "Or proud because of you. But I

am."

She studied him. It was quite an admission.

"Well, that's because you've impeccable judgment."

One corner of his mouth quirked.

Touch me.

She was a little worried that thought would escape her mouth in a moment.

It frightened her that she wanted him so much, because every time he touched her she lost a little more of herself to him.

Or perhaps, in truth, she gave a little more of herself to him. They were unraveling each other a bit more each time they

made love.

And he was going to send her away.

This would be her punishment. It was only fitting. She could imagine even now that tearing sensation in the area of her heart

as she left.

Oh, but it would be worth it if only he touched her now .

No doubt he felt her rib cage jump with the hitch of her breath when he rested his fingertips against her waist.

The moment his lips brushed hers her blood seemed to travel a slow, hot path straight down through the center of her to pulse

in that aching place between her legs.

They watched each other like inquisitors.

And her eyes wanted to close; her body, greedily, wanted to isolate itself with sensation.

But she watched him, as he watched her.

She wanted to see if she could ascertain some sort of truth. To discover what, if anything, he would reveal to her when he

touched her.

Perhaps he merely intended to revel in watching her slowly go mad with need.

She hadn't known that kisses could be so infinitely nuanced. That his mouth merely feathering across hers could light tiny

bonfires across her nerve endings everywhere in her body.

And as his mouth distracted her with chaste things, his fingers were intent on overtly carnal ones. They glided slowly up

her torso, and his thumbs deftly hooked the top of her bodice to drag it down far enough for him to draw his knuckles lightly,

teasingly, over her bead-hard nipples. She saw the surge of triumph in his eyes before her head fell back from the onslaught

of pleasure. Her breath snagged on a moan.

But he allowed her to see that he was in thrall. His expression was so fiercely, joyfully possessive in response to whatever

he saw in hers that it made her knees feel boneless.

And she could feel the lust tense his every muscle; his grip tightened on her.

He kept the pace stately as a minuet. Torturously, dangerously, erotically slow. Laughter drifted in from the ballroom as

he furled up her dress. Like a coconspirator, he transferred the folds of her skirt to her to hold so he could unbutton his

trousers. A moment later she felt his hard cock press against her belly.

Together they evolved their kiss into something hungry and searching, a clash of teeth, a lascivious duel. She loved the rich,

dark taste of him; she reveled in taking as much as he did, in knowing she was driving him mad, too. Below, in the wet heat

between her legs, his fingers mimicked the skillful stroke and plunge of his tongue, rhythmically, until her hips were circling

against him, until her head thrashed away from him on a surfeit of pleasure, and white heat raced over her skin.

The clack of billiards disguised her muffled cry as her release broke over her with a burst of light behind her eyes.

He guided his cock into her to the sound of billiard balls colliding.

They were locked as closely as two people could be, in this narrow space, behind a spiky plant. His hips moved in deep, languorous

thrusts. He scooped his hands under her buttocks, gripping her, lifting her up so he could drive himself deeper. The wall

was cold against her bare skin.

She watched a gleam of sweat gather on his brow. Their mingled breath was hot and ragged between them, a storm. Her hands were knotted in the waistcoat she'd just complimented. His eyes were fierce then distant, as his release came upon him.

And she knew when he was close by the shallow, swift sway of his back with his breath. She pressed his head to her shoulder

with her hand. His groan vibrated against her neck.

She held him as his great body quaked.

The clack of billiards. The distant echoing laughter of a party. The shockingly close voices of partygoers. All of this was

proof.

Sex in a dark alcove at a crowded affair seemed reckless, and dangerous, and absolutely avoidable for anyone, let alone a

venerable, famous colonel, and now an earl. One who cared so much about his reputation, and hers.

That was how she knew.

He was not in control of this, either.

They held each other. His cheek pressed against her hair. He murmured something soft and unintelligible, and yes, if she was

not mistaken, loving.

And finally she let go of him, because she feared if she didn't do it now she never would be able to again.