From the hall came the muted chime of a clock. Lily cried softly and caught her hand to her mouth. "Oh, miss, those be the chimes. Mrs. Barrows will be that angry if I've made you late!" She was already dashing toward the door.
Shadwell, the impassive, slightly stooped butler, was waiting to escort Alexandra to the duke. His lips seemed to tighten for an instant as Alexandra swept from the room. Then he turned and followed her down the richly carpeted corridor.
The sun filtered through the long windows of the Great Hall, lending a warm glow to the gleaming marble and fine old wood. Imperiously, Shadwell led her to the end of the north wing, stopping finally at the last door of the corridor. He knocked once, then entered at the quiet command from within.
A broad-shouldered figure stood silhouetted before the long French windows at the far end of the book-lined study. Slowly, the Duke of Hawkesworth turned, revealing buff breeches molded to muscular thighs. An elegant coat of dark blue superfine encased his wide shoulders perfectly, revealing the touch of a master tailor. His linens were snowy white, their sole adornment one small diamond.
Even from where she stood in the doorway, Alexandra felt this man's raw male power, barely concealed in his exquisitely tailored garments. He did not move, and she could not quite make out his expression, silhouetted as he was against the sunlight. She heard his words clearly, however, and they made her tremble.
"My God," Hawke said roughly. "It is as well that Isobel is not here. If she were, she would claw your eyes out in jealousy, Miss Mayfield."
Chapter Seventeen
By God, the woman was lovely, the Duke of Hawkesworth thought, stunned. Her burnished hair gleamed like molten bronze in the sun, a perfect counterpoint to the rich green of her gown. She looked far more beautiful in the garment than his wife ever had.
The duke frowned, trying to identify the exact differences between them. Perhaps it was her easy grace and the animation of her features. Isobel had always been cold and reserved, and her pride stemmed only from self-importance. But this woman's fire owed nothing to social position or fortune, Hawke decided; it sprang from her strength of mind and her self-possession.
Yes, the two were fire and ice, he decided, unable to tear his eyes from the vision before him. They grazed her creamy shoulders and her bodice. A tiny smile played across his lips as he saw the modest scrap of lace she had somehow secured across the gown's decolletage. Entirely enchanting, Hawke thought. Vitality burned within her fine eyes.
Suddenly recollecting his surroundings, Hawke nodded to dismiss the butler. "Thank you, Shadwell. I shall ring if we require anything further." Hawke watched her eyes travel across the book-lined walls to the desk littered with paper work.
A clear breeze wafted into the quiet room, and a green-winged butterfly floated through the French windows down a bar of late afternoon sunlight. It circled aimlessly for a moment, then settled on Alexandra's outstretched hand. The delicate wings slowed and fluttered closed.
Hawke's breath checked. Was he wrong to hold her longer at Hawkeswish? He'd ruined her already with his recklessness, and it was too late to change that. Yet without his protection, she would be easy prey for Telford.
And here, a mocking voice asked, is she not in greater danger here?
From the lawn came a raucous shriek, and a round shadow darkened the floor.
Alexandra drew closer to the open window but stopped short, out of reach of the motionless man who watched her so intently. Her skin prickled under his scrutiny. She had never known such a man, so potent, so disturbing. He infuriated her. He confused her.
Remember what he has done to you, Alexandra thought bitterly. Remember that he has violated you and would do so again.
On the lawn a peacock fanned open its feathers in a blaze of color. "I might have expected you to own peacocks," she said stiffly, watching the butterfly sail away to freedom.
"I'm afraid you can't lay the blame at my door. The damned creatures were Isobel's sole contribution to Hawkeswish, and they make an infernal racket day and night. I've tried to give them away, but no one will have them."
His eyes were bright as he studied her bodice measuringly. Alexandra's cheeks grew warm with embarrassment beneath his scrutiny.
"You've modified the dress, I see. Such a pity."
Get a grip on yourself, she thought furiously, turning back to the golden room, mellow with fine old wood and glowing leather. On the floor stretched a rich Aubusson carpet in tones of apricot, gold, and smoky crimson. She moved past a huge wooden globe to the claw-footed mahogany desk and lifted a slim leather volume that lay open among the papers.
Her eyes darkened, and she snapped the book closed sharply.
"You are interested in the Vellore mutiny?" she demanded. "Why?"
Hawke raised a questioning brow. "I am interested in many things, among them Indian affairs. I had no idea it was a crime." He moved to the desk, cutting through the ray of sunlight, and took the volume from her numb fingers. "An Inquiry into the Mutiny at Vellore, with a Consideration of the Strange Customs of the Indian Sepoy," he read slowly. "But perhaps you could tell me more than this book."
Alexandra's expression hardened. "Perhaps I could, but you would not care for what I told you."
"And why is that?"
"Because the raw, unvarnished truth is rarely as pleasant as the exotic tales of starry-eyed travelers."
"You intrigue me, Miss Mayfield. Exactly what is your father's position in that country?"
"Was," Alexandra said bitterly. "He's dead now." A wave of regret washed over her, and she turned away, refusing to reveal any emotion to this man. "And I do not choose to discuss this further." Feigning coolness, she lifted a large volume from the bottom shelf of a nearby bookcase and placed it on the desk.
"I shall be delighted to hear your judgment of that particular book," Hawkesworth said silkily.
The face Alexandra raised a few moments later was a rich shade of crimson. "But these are — they show—" she stuttered.
"One of my grandfather's peccadilloes. The work of an obscure Italian genius, I'm told. Very rare. Quite valuable now." The duke's silver eyes glinted with humor as Alexandra thrust the book away from her. "Prinny's offered me a fortune for those prints," he added meditatively, "but I think I must suffer the royal displeasure and deny him. One never knows when they may prove ... instructive."
"Have you no shame, Your Grace!"
"My father taught me that shame is for lesser mortals, Miss Mayfield," Hawke said quietly, suddenly serious. "A duke may count himself safe from such frailties."
"I see you are determined to be impossible. Perhaps it would be better if I returned to my room with a tray."
"Come," Hawkesworth said, an odd light in his eyes, "can't we call a truce? The evening will stretch long without company. And I have yet to offer you anything to drink." He walked to the crystal decanters arranged on a small chest behind the desk. "Will you have something before dinner? Sherry, perhaps? Unfortunately, I have very little in the way of brandy left to offer you," he added dryly.
"This is all a source of vast amusement to you, isn't it?"
The duke's eyes snapped with fury as he swung around. "On the contrary, Miss Mayfield! I am merely trying to make the best of a damnable situation. I suggest you do the same."
Alexandra stiffened. "I do not care to drink, Your Grace. It might be drugged."
"I give you my word as a gentleman that it is not."
"The word of a nobleman, perhaps. But a gentleman ...?" Her voice trailed off suggestively.
"I have called men out for less provocation than that," Hawkesworth said. "If I thought you meant it — but you have nothing to fear from me, Miss Mayfield," he added with soft mockery.
"I am not afraid of you!"
"Then it must be yourself you fear." Amber liquid spilled into a fragile goblet of etched crystal. Hawke held the goblet out to her in a silent challenge.
Alexandra rose to the bait, as Hawke had known she would
. Two spots of color appeared in her cheeks. "A glass of sherry would be delightful, Your Grace," she announced defiantly, reaching for the glass.
The drink was sweet and wonderfully smooth. Immediately, she took another sip and then gracefully drained the glass, never taking her eyes from his face.
Hawke's eyebrows rose in a lazy slant. "You'd better go slowly there. This particular vintage has a deceptive smoothness."
She answered by holding out her glass to be refilled.
"Is it to be pistols at dawn then, Miss Mayfield?" Hawke asked as he poured her more sherry.
"I rather fancy swords, Your Grace. Exceedingly sharp swords."
"We might find better ways to resolve our differences, you know."
"I doubt it." Did his silver eyes narrow for a moment, or was it Alexandra's imagination? Damn the man! she thought, draining her glass rebelliously.
"Liar," Hawke said with soft violence.
"Let me go," she demanded. "That would resolve our differences."
"Impossible."
"I will go where this man Telford can never find me — up north, to Scotland perhaps."
"You have family there?" Hawke's tone was deceptively casual.
"No, but —"
"Then how do you expect to live?"
"What business is that of yours?" Alexandra asked, twisting the empty glass in her hands.
"You have become my business, Miss Mayfield, like it or not. Now, how do you plan to support yourself? Or would you rather not voice your methods aloud," he added cynically.
"As a governess! A decent enough occupation — something you would know little about!"
"Ah, but that is one thing you'll never do, my dear. Not now."
"And why not?" Her whole body was stiff with anger. "I am the daughter of a gentleman, the recipient of a sound education. I shall make an admirable governess, for I've more maturity than most females my age, and I've seen a great deal more of the world."
Hawke's look was lazy, knowing. "Your skills, unfortunately, are not in question. Rather, it is your beauty — and your association with me — that makes you unsuitable for any position as governess or companion. In a decent household, that is."
Alexandra blinked. "What association have I with you? None but Pence and your staff is aware of ..." Her voice trailed off.
"Yes, Miss Mayfield? Do go on. Aware of what? That I kidnapped you, that I drugged you" — his voice hardened — "that I bedded you, believing you to be my perfidious wife?"
"None of them would tell," she whispered.
"But you forget that there is one other who certainly shares this secret. James Telford, a man who misses nothing. The one person more vile than my wife," the duke said with a tone of flat finality.
"But why —"
"I've never told anyone else about those years." Hawke's silver eyes probed her face for a moment, and then it seemed he came to some sort of decision. Without warning he turned and paced the room restlessly, his half-filled glass still in hand. "It's a long story, but I shall try to make it brief. I was at Corunna in 1808, did you know? It was ... a nightmare. We were caught among the high passes in the driving snow. In the end six thousand men died between Astorga and the sea. The memory will haunt me always, I think. Perhaps that is why I agreed to become an unofficial adviser to the War Office upon my return from the Peninsula. In that capacity I often received communications of a strategic nature. Unfortunately, there were other things on my mind at the same time, and I was not as vigilant as I should have been," he added, his voice harsh with self-recrimination.
"Those 'other things' being Isobel, I presume." Suddenly, Alexandra understood a great many things about Hawke, including his obsession for Isobel.
He made her an ironic little bow. "Congratulations, my dear. You are very astute. Yes, as I was slowly being drawn into her web, Telford availed himself of his access to my house and stole military documents, which he sold to the French." Hawke's face was dark and lined, and his hand clenched and unclenched at his side. "When I realized what he had done, I very nearly killed him. As it was, he must have passed a very unpleasant six months recuperating from the beating I gave him." Hawke's eyes shone with savage satisfaction at the memory. "But you still do not understand, do you? I can see it in your eyes. James Telford is Isobel's brother. He has already tried to kill me twice, and he will not stop until he succeeds. I have become his obsession, you see." Hawke's mouth twisted in a mocking smile as he raised his glass. "So let us drink a toast, Miss Mayfield, to a truce and a new beginning. To your long and happy stay in my house. And perhaps, in time, to an end of Telford's meddling."
"I will drink," Alexandra said finally, horrified by the tale he had just told, "but I'll make no truce." With nerveless fingers she raised her glass and drained the sweet spirits, watching Hawke warily.
"Now sit down and tell me about India. I understand that it's worth a man's life to see the sun rising over the Himalayas." In a split second Hawke's mood had changed, and he was the urbane, unruffled host once more.
Stiffly, Alexandra seated herself in a gilt chair of apricot Spitalfields silk. She swirled her glass distractedly as she studied its pale contents. "Sharp colors. Clear light. Yes, they take the breath away," she said at last. "One does not easily forget such things — nor the sight of the sick and hungry in the streets. Yet even those people retain a certain dignity, a calm acceptance of their lot."
"Your parents?"
"Both dead," she said flatly, concentrating on the glass in her hand.
"I'm sorry."
Alexandra did not trust herself to look up then, afraid he would see naked pain in her face. Her fingers tightened on the fragile glass rim, and a moment later, with a high-pitched ring, the delicate crystal shattered in her hands.
Dumbly, she watched blood drip upon the golden flowers. Scattered glass fragments glistened in a bar of late afternoon sun.
Then the ragged glass stem was lifted from her hand. The duke's breath stirred her hair, and she felt his long powerful fingers raise her palm to his mouth and draw off the beads of blood.
Warm lips, she thought bitterly. Hated lips. The lips of her enemy.
A choked cry escaped from her throat. When she tried to pull away, he held her fast, and after a moment he drew a white square of linen from his pocket, pressing it firmly over her thumb.
"It's not a deep wound, fortunately."
How little you know, Alexandra thought. The wound is as deep as my life, and will surely never heal — for when I lost my father, I lost all I value most in the world. He was the best friend I ever had.
She wrenched her hand from his grasp. "Why do you not offer me another glass, Your Grace?" Yes, alcohol might clear her turbid thoughts and rouse her for the battle to come. For there would be a battle between the two of them, she had no doubt of that. He would not let her go without a struggle.
For a moment Hawke did not move. Did the little fool realize what she was doing? he wondered. Seeing her determined look, he offered her a new glass.
Alexandra promptly emptied half, enjoying the pleasant warmth that filled her stomach.
"Where did you make your home in India?"
"Everywhere — nowhere," she answered, unwilling to reveal much about herself. "We moved about a great deal. Later, we settled in the south, where we lived the longest. Sometimes at night I wake and still listen for the cries of the parakeets in the garden. But they do not come, and I—" She stopped abruptly, angry that she had revealed so much.
He stood before the empty grate, one boot upon the fender, studying her thoughtfully. "You miss it dreadfully." It was a statement rather than a question.
Alexandra shook her head, angry that he had seen so much. "It was a long time ago. Another lifetime, it seems now. The Hindus believe we live many lives, did you know, returning over and over, until we perfect our souls. Perhaps it's true — perhaps it would take many lifetimes to accomplish perfection."
The duke's sharp eyes swept across Alexand
ra's face. "So I've heard. It seems a strange way of thinking to me. But I suppose we all must find our own paths."
In spite of herself Alexandra felt a stab of curiosity about her enemy. He was a cold predator one minute and a witty host the next, asking the right questions to trigger a chain of memories. His attention was flattering and even seemed sincere, she thought curiously. Perhaps that was why she found herself answering at greater length than she intended.
She drained her third glass before she quite realized it, and the room began to radiate a hazy golden glow.
"Yes, this is a tolerable sort of room," she said, "even though it lacks punkahs, verandas, and nesting parakeets."
And so it was, Alexandra decided, enjoying the warmth that enveloped her and helped her to forget she was not there by choice.
Before she realized it, Hawke had crossed the room and replaced her empty glass on the silver tray.
His face was deeply lined as he stood above her. "And you are a great deal more than tolerable," he said, an odd tension in his voice.
"While you, as we both know, are an immoral scoundrel and a blackguard," she replied, driven by some inner demon to taunt him, to torment him as he had tormented her.
And at that precise moment Alexandra discovered she was not without weapons in this strange silent war that raged between them. She saw it in the tightening of her captor's jaw and in the fire that leaped into his smoky eyes. "Your eyes betray you," she said mockingly, glorying in the stiff set of his lips, "as does your mouth, for all that your upper lip is fine and correct. It's your lower lip that declares your real character, you see — arrogant and sensual — along with that unruly lock falling across your brow. Yes, bad character will out," she concluded mockingly.
A muscle flashed in Hawkesworth's jaw. "Since I am a scoundrel, I need feel no remorse for what I mean to do next, Miss Mayfield."
Alexandra did not move, lost in the raw passion that flared in his eyes, unaware that the battle lines had subtly shifted.
A discreet cough sounded from the doorway, where Shadwell hovered. How long he had been there, Alexandra could not say.
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