“Do any of your ladybirds like to be spanked?”
“Alexandra!”
“And how do you know so much about the lurid side of London?”
“I am a man,” he repeated. He had no intention of telling her more. His words hadn’t acted as a deterrent; they had only made London, with all its debauchery, seem more fascinating. He eyed her warily. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish like running away and—”
“And taking a lover?” she teased.
“Alexandra!”
“Would you explain why the thought of an unmarried female taking a lover is shocking, while society turns a blind eye and considers it perfectly acceptable for a married woman to do so?”
Nick, realizing she had only an eccentric grandmother to guide her, told her the unvarnished truth. “A lady must be virgin when she marries, so that a man’s firstborn and heir is legally legitimate. After that, paternity isn’t quite as important.”
It was Alexandra’s turn to be shocked. “I should have known it was connected to wealth and inheritance. To me, that’s obscene. In my eyes, it is more acceptable for an unmarried woman to have a lover, for she is not committing adultery, nor hurting her husband by breaking her sacred marriage vows. In fact, it’s nobody’s business but her own. Someday, it will be an accepted practice, you’ll see,” she declared loftily.
“Not in my lifetime,” Nicholas said flatly.
Alexandra decided to take pity on him. “Of course I won’t run away, at least not until after your birthday. I wouldn’t dream of missing the weekend house party at Hatton Hall. I intend to write about the guests’ foibles and peccadilloes. Please keep your fingers crossed for something scandalous.”
“Hellion.” He reached out to ruffle her hair, suspecting that she was teasing him unmercifully, and he hoped that beneath those bright curls, Alex had a sensible head on her shoulders. “Have another glass of champagne and we’ll go and find Rupert.”
As Nick held open the door of the summerhouse for her, he felt it suddenly wrenched from his hand. His father stood before him in a towering temper. Nicholas smelled the brandy fumes and saw the ugly look of accusation on his face. Swiftly, he ordered Alexandra to leave, and was immensely thankful that for once she obeyed him.
“You filthy lecher! You lured her down here to seduce her! Stay away from Alexandra Sheffield—you know damn well I intend her for Christopher. That’s the big attraction isn’t it, you young swine? You covet everything that is his!”
Suddenly Nicholas was in a blind rage. The injustice of his father’s accusations smote his integrity. He had never allowed his heart to become involved in his feelings for Alexandra, never dared to consider her, let alone covet her. Nick’s jaw clenched and he balled up his fist, fighting the violence that rose up inside him.
Henry Hatton looked pointedly at the empty champagne bottle. “You were trying to get her drunk so you could take her virginity—or am I too late?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
It was too much for Nick. He swung the bottle, hitting his father with a glancing blow to the temple. Lord Hatton dropped like a stone and lay sprawled on the grass, motionless.
A sudden hush fell over the horrified onlookers who had gathered. Finally someone asked, “Is he dead?”
“Dead drunk,” Nick muttered with contempt, then he walked swiftly away from the distasteful scene.
The following morning, when Nick Hatton called at Longford Manor to reassure Alexandra that all was well.
Dottie Longford raised her lorgnette to examine the handsome devil before her. “Are you the heir or the spare?”
“It’s Nicholas, my lady,” he replied with amused tolerance for her blunt enquiry.
“Mmm, I might have known it wasn’t the heir paying his addresses.” She straightened her black wig. “I’d offer you breakfast, but I dismissed the cook this morning. Servants—can’t abide ’em!” she confided. As Alexandra arrived in the morning room, Dottie prepared to leave. “I’ll be in the kitchen, cooking myself a kipper. Who needs riffraffy servants anyway?”
Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Eccentric as a bandicoot.”
“I prefer a bandicoot to a mad bull. I’m sorry about last night, Alexandra.”
“Why was he so angry with you?”
“I never did find out,” Nicholas lied with a reassuring smile, “and Father doesn’t remember a thing about it this morning. A faulty memory is the sole advantage of drinking too much. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t upset by the incident.”
“I’ve seldom seen Lord Hatton when he wasn’t angry with you. How do you tolerate him, Nick?”
“He’s always worse around our birthdays—it’s the pain of losing our mother,” Nick explained, to excuse his father’s behavior.
“He’ll be sorry when he recognizes himself in my roman à clef!”
Nick laughed. “Come early on Saturday, and pack some old riding clothes. You’ll find me in the stables.”
“Where else?” she asked, her fond gaze lingering on the open collar of the linen shirt that displayed so temptingly his strong neck. “I’ll bring my sketchbook too,” she declared, knowing exactly what she wanted to draw.
When Nicholas departed, Dottie came out of the kitchen carrying a frying pan that held a burned kipper. “I adore that boy—ah, if only I were ten years younger, I’d give the gels a run for their money with that Adonis.”
Alexandra almost choked. If Dottie were ten years younger, she’d still be past fifty! Still, she had to admit, Nicholas Hatton certainly made a female long for a lover, no matter her age. She was becoming excited about the upcoming weekend. “I must think of a costume for the masquerade ball.” She had almost decided to disguise herself as a young man, since the guests would be less guarded with what they said in front of a male. “What about you?”
“Oh, I shall go as a nun, of course. It will fool people into thinking I’m celibate.”
This time Alexandra did choke, then had to pretend it was the smell of the burned kipper that made her gasp for air.
“The young people today have no imagination. They are a wishy-washy, namby-pamby lot! Don’t ye know that fancy-dress balls were devised as a delicious excuse to wear inadequate, indecent garments? When I was younger, I wore the most scandalous costumes; one so daring it earned me the nickname Godiva.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “I wonder where that long, silvery-blond wig got to? Probably in a trunk in the attic. You could rummage about up there for a costume, Alexandra.”
“I think I just might … after I’ve cooked you another kipper.”
“Thank you, darling. You are an angel.”
Later that morning, Alexandra carried an array of costumes to her bedchamber, while Dottie clutched an old ear-trumpet as if it were a priceless, lost treasure. “Pox take it, I shall have one of the most entertaining weekends of my life with this contraption!”
Alexandra eyed Dottie warily. “As a poking device?”
“No darling, as a provoking device! I shall pretend that I’ve suddenly been struck deaf. The party won’t be boring, after all!”
On Friday, July 21, the day before his birthday, Christopher Hatton was pleased when a large wooden box was delivered, marked JOSEPH HEYLIN, CORNHILL, LONDON. Heylin was the maker of the finest holster pistols in England and Christopher guessed his birthday gift had arrived. Kit had a fine gun collection and was eager to add to it. He had dropped numerous hints to his father about the pair of sterling silver-mounted officer’s holster pistols he’d seen in Heylin’s workshop in Cornhill, and apparently the seeds he’d planted had borne fruit.
It wasn’t until after dinner that Lord Hatton stood up from the table and announced, “Well, Christopher, if you’d like your birthday present, you’d better come out to the stables.”
For a moment Kit wondered why the stables, then it dawned on him that he was most likely getting a new pair of leather saddle holsters to go with the pistols. Kit winked at his twin as they followed
their father out to the stables. “I love surprises.”
And surprise was what Christopher got when his father presented him with the savage black Thoroughbred stallion. An unpleasant surprise. A bolt of fear akin to lightning shot through him as he stood rooted to the spot, reliving his tenth birthday. Until then, the twins had been mounted on ponies they’d had since they were three and which represented no threat. Then Hatton decided that at ten years old, his heir was ready for a spirited black hunter.
The animal had terrified Kit, and he wished with all his heart that the docile gray filly presented to Nicholas could be his instead. He remembered how he had avoided going close to the hunter for two days, until his father had demanded to see him ride. He had crept up upon the great beast with a saddle over one arm and a riding whip clutched in his sweating palm.
The hunter didn’t make his move until Kit was well into the stall, then suddenly he bared vicious teeth and lunged for him. Kit lashed out wildly with the whip, but this only put the black in a frenzy. He reared up with flailing hooves, ready to trample the boy who was lashing out at him.
That was the day his twin, Nicholas, saved his life.
“Don’t whip him!” Nick cried, snatching up a pitchfork and gently backing the animal into a corner of the stall. “Quick, run!” Nick cried, but Kit was paralyzed with fear. As the hunter again reared and screamed, Nick dropped the pitchfork, darted in, grabbed his brother, and rolled with him from beneath the flailing iron-clad hooves. That was the day Christopher Hatton decided his twin loved him far more than his father did.
But saving him was only half the story. Nick had donned Kit’s clothes and ridden the black hunter under their father’s critical eye. Later, Nick explained that the horse too had been driven by fear, and only kindness and a firm hand could win him over. It had taken a whole year before Christopher could ride the hunter without being drenched in perspiration, and another year before he could ride him with the nonchalant, hell-for-leather horsemanship that came naturally to Nicholas.
Kit again felt the familiar trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades, and the miasma of horse-lant, straw, and leather rose up to nauseate him, but he had learned never to show weakness before his father. “He has magnificent lines; how does the name Renegade strike you?” Kit drawled.
Henry Hatton smiled with satisfaction and turned to Nicholas. “There’s a fine pair of guns up at the house for you, my boy. If you apply yourself and practice, you may someday achieve Christopher’s skill at marksmanship.”
The minute their father was out of earshot, Kit cursed, “Christ Almighty, why is he so fucking obtuse?”
Nicholas put his arm across his brother’s shoulders. “He isn’t obtuse, Kit. He is well aware that I have a passion for horses, and you have a passion for guns.”
Kit clenched his fists impotently and swore between his teeth. “I hate the son of a bitch, don’t you?”
Nick’s gray eyes darkened as they stared after their father. He shook his head slowly. “No, Kit, I don’t hate him. I pity him.”
Because Lady Longford, Alexandra, and Rupert arrived on Saturday before the rest of the weekend guests and were old family friends, they were given their choice of bedchambers. Alexandra had a special request for Mr. Burke, the majordomo, and asked for the room that was directly above Nicholas Hatton’s. She remembered once, when they were children, she had caught Rupert and Christopher spying on Nick through a peephole in the floor. Alexandra hoped the hole was still there, because she had plans to put it to good use.
As she opened the tall window that overlooked the ornamental lake, the sight of the wooden punt floating at the lake’s edge evoked happy childhood memories. She spotted Christopher Hatton on the far side and remembered that today was his birthday, while Nick’s was still two days away. She knew it was Kit because, even from this distance, she could see the easel and canvas. She decided to join him and picked up her sketchbook.
“Happy birthday, Kit. You’ve come out here to avoid your guests, so naturally I couldn’t resist disturbing your peace and tranquility.”
“Hello, Imp. How did you know I was avoiding them?”
“Your birth sign, of course. I know everything about you—your fluctuating moods, how you hide from things like a crab withdrawing into its shell. You are a well of secrecy, with a sensitive soul.”
He was painting a still life of a pair of pheasants that he had shot earlier. The game lay on the ground beside a hunting rifle he had propped against the bole of a tree. Though his subject of dead birds was rather morbid, the variegated colors of the feathers in the painting were exact.
Alexandra would have preferred that he paint live pheasants, but she could not deny his talent. “You are a true artist, Kit. I wonder if you really do hide a sensitive nature beneath your brash exterior?”
“No, my brash exterior hides a brash interior.” He lifted amused gray eyes to watch her laugh. “Why the devil did you chop off your hair?”
“I’m amazed you noticed; you’re usually far too self-absorbed,” she teased, drawing closer to admire his work. “Perhaps you should give the painting to Dottie. I noticed two Thomas Lawrence works of art missing from the walls of the formal dining room this morning. When I asked her where they were, she said she put them in the attic because she couldn’t stomach the simpering females Lawrence portrays.”
“If she prefers me to Lawrence, she’s more than eccentric,” he said with unusual humility.
Alexandra kicked off her slippers, which were damp with dew, curled her long legs beneath her, and took up her sketchbook. “Open your shirt at the neck, Kit. I want to draw you.”
“Is this to be one of your cruel caricatures?”
“Of course not! You are one of the handsomest men I’ve ever laid eyes on. You endlessly fascinate me.”
Kit Hatton was accustomed to women reacting with fascination when they looked at him, but he didn’t welcome it in Alexandra. Though he found her beauty dazzling, he never allowed it to show. She was the only female safe from his lechery in three counties, and the reason for this was simple: If he had even looked askance at her, his father would have had them betrothed, and the trap of marriage was the last thing Kit Hatton desired at twenty-one. “I only fascinate you because I’m a twin.”
“Most probably,” she admitted. “At least, that’s part of it.” Alexandra had decided to sketch both Nicholas and Christopher, then study their discernible differences. Nick usually brushed his dark hair straight back, while Kit had a curl that fell forward on his forehead. It puzzled her that though the two magnificent males were physically identical, only one made her weak with longing.
Within a quarter of an hour, Rupert arrived on the scene. “So this is where you two are hiding yourselves. Come on, Kit. We have to lay out a racecourse. Hart Cavendish has arrived and he insists we race our horses this afternoon.”
“You don’t mean Lord Hartington, the Duke of Devonshire? How the devil do you know him?” Alexandra demanded. William Spencer Cavendish was the son of the late infamous Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, and he had come into his father’s dukedom last year.
Rupert said casually, “We were all at Harrow together when we were ratty schoolboys.”
“Oh, I want to have a good look at him,” Alexandra declared. “He’s the one who had a fit of hysterics when his cousin Caroline Ponsonby wed William Lamb, because he thought of her as his wife!”
“I’ll bet he was bloody glad Caro was William Lamb’s wife when she caused the scandal with Byron, who by the way was another school chum!”
“Oh, Kit, why did you never tell me?” Alex was wildly curious about Caro Lamb, who was reputed to be unstable and had sent George Gordon, Lord Byron, a lock of her pubic hair. “Do you know the ins and outs of that affair?” Alexandra asked with avid interest.
Kit rolled on the grass with laughter. “Ins and outs! Christ, Alexandra, you have a sly way with an innuendo.”
Alexandra blushed and pretended her witty r
emark had been quite intentional. She gathered up her sketchbook and charcoal and hurried back to Hatton Hall. Young Lord Hartington—here indeed was material for one of her cruel caricatures!
Chapter Three
By lunchtime, more than half the guests had arrived, and though Alexandra knew the people who were neighbors, there were many unfamiliar faces present. Her grandmother introduced her to her friend Lady Spencer, and it was only when a tall, attractive young man with fair hair and deep blue eyes took her fingers to his lips that she realized who they were. Hart Spencer Cavendish was the grandson of Lady Spencer, her grandmother’s friend.
“I cannot believe my eyes, Dottie. Alexandra is the image of my daughter, Georgiana. At seventeen she was just such a tall, slender beauty, with the same brilliant red-gold curls.”
“Then it is no wonder my father fell in love with her,” Hart Cavendish said gallantly. He openly gazed at Alexandra, unable to hide the fact that the long-legged redhead had bedazzled him and caught his fancy. “Would you allow me to join you?”
“With the greatest pleasure, Your Grace.”
“Please, you must call me Hart. I had no notion Rupert had such a ravishing sister.”
Alexandra wanted to ply him with a million questions. Here was a young man who must have had an erratic childhood, growing up at infamous Devonshire House with that rag-tag assortment of children simultaneously sired by his father upon Georgiana and his mistress, Elizabeth Foster. The scandalous ménage à trois utterly fascinated Alexandra. She gazed at Hart Cavendish hungrily, not seeing him as a man but as a rich lode of unmined scandal and gossip; more than enough to fill a book. The things he must know about his mother and His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales!
“Will you come and watch us race this afternoon?” Hart invited.
Alexandra had had every intention of joining the race herself and wearing breeches to boot, but now she realized she didn’t wish to appear to be an incorrigible hellion to Hart Cavendish, at least not quite yet. He had been surrounded by such females all his life. He obviously admired her and wanted to be friends, and Alexandra realized the wisdom of nurturing the friendship of a duke of the realm. Here was her entrée to the beau monde.
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