His expression remained disappointingly impassive as he read. She recalled her thoughts of him this morning, in the church. He was handsomer than Mr. Cust, she decided. Even if one preferred blonds, Mr. Cust was merely . . . pretty. But Alex’s face was all angles, as though some mad sculptor had hacked him in a few strokes from a block of wood. His jaw was sharp, his chin squared off, his nose high-bridged but perfectly straight, save the slight thickening in the middle. The last bit didn’t look quite so well on Belinda and Caroline, but since it counterbalanced the way his face winnowed beneath his cheekbones, it made Alex deadly.
His mouth curved. “This is quite . . .”
“Oh!” She sat forward. “Which line?”
He shook his head.
“No, really, you must tell me!”
He made a shooing gesture, as if she were some bothersome six-year-old.
She sat back again, irritated. How useful for him that he happened to be handsome. After all, a rake without looks would require charm, and Alex had none whatsoever.
Rake. She turned the word over in her mind, curious. His reputation had always seemed to her a sort of dreadful affliction, as unnerving as terminal illness or disfigurement, albeit far more distasteful because he had chosen to acquire it. Bel agreed, of course, but Caroline defended him. She said the women with whom he consorted had no interest in marriage. Artists, actresses, and suffragettes, Caro had told her over tea one day. Radicals. And then, in a whisper: Do you know, I think I would prefer it if he seduced the debutantes! Then perhaps some marriage-minded girl would trap him.
Remembering her own titillated shock, Gwen felt irked. Three years ago, now. How smug she’d been, with her wedding to Lord Trent scheduled and the invitations dispatched. How inevitable marriage had seemed to her, then. She’d decided that the women Alex entertained must be unnatural for not wanting to marry—and that, in turn, Alex was unnatural for admiring them.
Now she wondered if these women didn’t have something to teach her. At any rate, none of them would have agreed to marry either of the swine she’d picked.
Alex cleared his throat and refolded the note. “This is . . .” His lips folded together briefly, as if he were biting back a smile. “Not what I expected, shall we say.”
“Oh? What did you expect?” It might be instructive to learn what he thought her capable of doing. He’d visited Heaton Dale last autumn to say farewell to his sisters before leaving for New York, and once or twice she’d caught him looking at her quite peculiarly—as though expecting her at any moment to do something awful, like burst into a cancan.
Learn to cancan! That was an excellent addition to her list of things to do now that she no longer cared what anybody thought of her. Better yet, Paris was the place to try it.
“Does it matter?” Alex gave a one-shouldered shrug as he slipped the letter into his jacket. “I suppose I assumed it was a plea for him to return to you. But bully for you, Gwen. You certainly gave him what-for.”
The praise might have encouraged her had it not dripped with condescension. She frowned as he straightened off the window frame. The reddening sunlight spread down the length of his body, and she felt her temper sharpen. Drat it. Her criticism of Thomas had not been nearly as comprehensive as she’d hoped. He prided himself on his height, but Alex was taller. His shoulders had been adequate, but Alex’s shoulders were broader. Indeed, their breadth seemed all the more striking for the slimness of Alex’s waist and hips.
She supposed his odd athletic habits must account for that. Everybody knew that he spent an hour each morning hopping about and kicking things like a maddened rabbit. In France they apparently considered this a proper sport of some sort, but then, Frenchmen were an odd lot. Alex was probably one of ten people on the entire island who gave the nation credit for anything besides its wine. At any rate, she did not recall encountering other similarly shaped gentlemen among English society.
The rarity suddenly struck her as regrettable.
He was speaking. “—stay right here and stand your ground. Although the decision is yours, of course.”
She opened her mouth, but her reply fell away as she noticed something: he’d unbuttoned his jacket at some point between lobby and library, and it had fallen open. His belly beneath his dark waistcoat was perfectly flat. How had she never noticed that before? Katherine Percy, her horse-mad bridesmaid, would have likened him to a good racehorse, all height and lean muscle.
He was certainly a serviceable specimen.
“Gwen,” he said. “Are you all right?”
She blinked. He lifted a brow in question. A hot feeling prickled over her, alarm and excitement at once. She’d been ogling him like a trollop. Alex Ramsey, London’s most dedicated bachelor. Astonishing to behold how one was blinded by his lack of eligibility. Bohemian ladies must be positively gleeful that no respectable lady got a crack at him!
“I’m perfectly well,” she replied. She felt very well, as if an electrical charge had gripped her. What other new things would she see, now that she no longer cared to be virtuous? “May I have the letter back?”
“I’m afraid not.” He put a hand on his hip, knocking his jacket back farther. “You can’t post this, you know.”
The temptation was too much to resist. She took another quick glance downward. “Why not?” Good heavens, ogling was addictive. How did one ever stop once one formed the habit? One might go on ogling for days, there were so many points of interest. His lips, for instance! What a long, well-formed mouth he had. She had noted that before, of course. Thomas’s lips were quite thin.
His lips spoke. “Several reasons,” they said. “Surely you can deduce them. First and foremost, you have no idea what he’d do with this note.”
Alex would know how to kiss properly. Bohemian women would not endure slobbering. Only ladies determined to marry would tolerate such indignities.
Not that she would kiss him, of course. The very idea made her feel itchy. He seemed so old, although in fact he was only four years her senior, and—why, two years younger than Thomas! Thomas seemed so young, in comparison. He had not traveled so widely, though. He’d never done nothing awful or extraordinary (until today, of course). He had not made piles of money (although his family required it more than the Ramseys did), or visited Argentina, or courted suffragettes who had no intention of marrying. Such wide and varied experiences probably made the prospect of kissing a respectable girl only a fraction more interesting than staring at a wall.
Besides, what of her view on kissing Alex? He’d been so close with her brother that it would be like kissing her brother!
Well, not really. But probably Alex would think kissing her was like kissing one of his sisters.
She felt nervous, suddenly. Which was silly. It was only Alex—rude, amused, and condescending as usual.
“Gwen,” he drawled. “Do try to attend. Shall I speak more slowly?”
“I heard you,” she said. “You asked what he would do with the note. I expect he’d read it.”
“And share it with friends,” he said dryly, “and then sell it to the papers, no doubt. God knows he needs the money, and the sale of private correspondence is nothing so shocking as dirtying one’s hands through actual work.” He paused to smirk. “Indeed, I expect it would fetch a pretty penny. Certain of the details you included, such as the—” He cleared his throat. “The—” His smirk now twisted into a grimace. He averted his face, and his shoulders jerked.
She had the panicked thought that he was having some sort of attack—his lungs, the old boyhood ailment—and she leapt forward to take his arm. “Are you all—”
“Oh, good God,” he said rapidly, and burst into laughter.
Her hand fell away. A fit might have astonished her less. He had laughed at her before, certainly, but this was true laughter, low and husky and unrestrained. She backed up a pace, beginning to smile, too; his hilarity was somehow infectious.
He put a fist to his mouth, and after evident struggle,
seemed to grow calmer. “The—” He cleared his throat. “The terrier,” he managed, but when she nodded, this prompted him to snort, which turned into another peal.
She surrendered to laughter as well. Gratification spread in a warm, heady rush. Finally, he acknowledged it: the terrier bit had been brilliant!
After a ragged breath, and another, he finally calmed. Clearing his throat, he met her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said hoarsely, and wiped the corner of his eye with a knuckle. “You really do have quite a way with—” The corner of his mouth kicked up; he pressed his lips together and drew an audible breath through his nose. “Quite a way with words. I confess, I didn’t suspect it.”
“Thank you! But you see, for that very reason, Thomas would never let the letter become public. It’s clever and rude. And he’s very vain.” She paused, eyeing him. “Although I can’t understand why.”
He grinned. “Ah, from the mouths of babes,” he said. As if he were so much older! “And perhaps you’re right, but it’s a calculation, you see. And in this case, the risk wouldn’t be worth the possible profit.”
She frowned. “What risk?”
He pushed a hand through his hair. All the Ramseys had such wonderfully thick hair. Lord Weston’s was graying, but Alex’s was a pure, glossy chestnut. “Don’t mistake me; I’m hardly of the mind that you need to go begging for good opinion. This morning was unfortunate, but it won’t do any lasting harm to your marital prospects.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her chest felt tight of a sudden. “Of course my prospects are damaged!”
He dropped his hand and studied her. “I’ll be blunt, shall I?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Indeed, the novelty might impress you. Half these nobs are broke, so your wealth makes you a very attractive candidate for marriage. Above and beyond that, you’ve the usual retinue of feminine charms.” He looked her over, as though suddenly doubtful, and then gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Yes, I think most men will overlook this scandal.”
Good heavens. He might be right. She was London’s bosom friend, after all, the nicest girl in town. Her reputation was brilliant. Combined with three million pounds, it might survive this, the tarnish of her first official jilting. Eligible suitors would continue to hound her.
She sank into a chair. She had the distinct sense of sinking, of growing more leaden. A sour feeling stirred in her gut—her exhilaration, finally curdling. What a fool she was! She should have known it could not last. But it hurt, in her stomach, to surrender all the possibilities that ruin had made visible. For a brief time, she had felt so . . . exhilarated.
Alex made an impatient noise. “Good God. Don’t sit there sulking. You’ve worked quite hard to achieve your popularity. Enjoy the fruits, at least.”
He was right. It had taken a great deal of work.
And now she would have to go through all of it again.
To be angelic to every eligible gentleman who paid notice.
To snag one, and reform her hopes to match what he offered.
Then, the preparations. The endless fittings for yet another gown, another trousseau. Everybody’s good wishes, despite their knowledge of what had happened the last time, and the time before that. Countless speculative whispers, sly looks, conversations that abruptly ended when she approached, the occasional dim-witted drunkard who would clap her on the back and inform her in jolly tones that the third time was always the charm—
And after all that? To church again, for the longest and most agonizing wait of her life!
“Gwen.” The proximity of his voice made her startle; she looked up and found him crouched before her. “Don’t look so glum,” he said evenly. “You’ve had a bad run of it. But it’s no fault of yours.” He paused. “Well, you could work on your taste in men, of course. But apart from that—bad luck.”
A violent wave of embarrassment swept through her. She must be worse off than she’d thought if Alex was being solicitous.
She averted her face, for tears suddenly pricked her eyes. She simply could not do this again. One was meant to learn from one’s history, no? And fate seemed determined to show her the futility of the course she’d set. She wanted a family? Nobody stuck. Not her parents, not her brother, not two fiancés. Forcing herself through another attempt would be . . . grotesque!
I will not do it, then.
The thought acted like a tonic. It felt like revelation. A profound calm settled over her. She straightened in her seat. She had no need to marry! Other women could not fund an independent living, but she had oodles of money. Indeed, what couldn’t she do?
She would consider her options, she decided, after she’d retrieved the ring.
“Fine,” Alex said curtly. “I’ll take an active hand in it. Retrieve the ring, find you a match. Will that cheer you up? We’ll have it done by autumn.”
What?
Oh, no.
She shot to her feet. “Goodness, Alex, that is . . . very kind of you, to be sure, and I’m certain my brother would have appreciated it, but—and while I do thank you on his behalf—no! Please don’t. That is—I discharge you of that promise you made! You’ll note he did not ask you to see me married, only to see me comfortably settled. And I am comfortable. I assure you. That tapestry on the wall is Boucher! And this carpet is an Aubusson. So you see, I’m very comfortable. You’ve done quite enough!”
“Good God.” He stared at her, evidently appalled. “This carpet is not an Aubusson.”
“What?” She looked down with a frown. “No, I’m quite certain of that. I had it last year from the Crombley auction. Only look how threadbare it is!”
“What a terrible businessman you’d make.” He sounded sympathetic now. “Someone’s taken a pumice stone to the nap, darling.”
She waved this off. “No matter. I can buy another. The point is—”
“That I’ve done almost nothing,” he said patiently. “Won’t be difficult to make amends. I’ll draw up a list. We’ll make it an economical process. You can give me a general idea, if you like: hair color, eye color—”
“None!”
“None? Bit of a tall order, there, Gwen. Aristocracy lacks for albinos.”
“I’ve decided not to marry.” She waited for his reaction. He merely lifted a brow. More firmly, she restated it: “I’m not going to marry. I’ve decided it. I’m going to do—more interesting things.”
“God knows there are several,” he said easily. “Such as?”
“Gardening,” she said.
He sighed. “Oh, Gwen.” Like a master despairing of his pupil.
“What? What’s so wrong with that? I’ve always wished to study botany. I’ll travel to collect strange plants, just as Linnaeus did—to the Hanging Gardens! To all manner of foreign places, as you do!”
“As I do?” He laughed. “You do realize there are no couturiers in most of the ports I visit? And flowers are not always pretty. Some of them try to eat you.”
“I don’t even favor flowers,” she said. “I don’t have an interest in little box gardens, Alex; I am thinking of landscapes. I have a talent for designing them, I think—you should see Heaton Dale at present; it’s brilliant! Why—”
She fell abruptly silent. He was looking at her with an expression of mild, tolerant incredulity.
“Well,” she said. “The point is, I’m done with the conventional routine.”
His head tilted just a fraction. “So. No need to make that list, then. Yes?”
“Exactly right,” she said encouragingly. “You may keep doing absolutely”—she flapped her hand—“nothing. It quite suits you! In regard to me, that is. Of course you do a great deal, generally speaking.”
“I see,” he murmured. “Well, that’s a relief. I must say, I wasn’t relishing playing the matchmaker.” After a brief pause, and another curious inspection of her, he added, “The day has been inordinately taxing, so I suppose I should leave you to rest. Let’s revisit this conversation another time, shall we?”
Her stomach sank.
She’d been feeling encouraged, but this last remark did not bode well at all. “No,” she said. “I told you to keep doing what you always do! And may I remind you, only once in a year do you make plans to converse with me. Otherwise, we meet only by accident, generally at the holidays, and we exchange nothing so substantial as might be counted conversation!”
His answering smile was benign. Not a trace of mockery! “True enough, Gwen. I will bid you good afternoon, now.” And then—horror of horrors—he bowed to her.
Dear God! There: she had taken the Lord’s name in vain, and the occasion well deserved it. Alex was playing the gentleman.
He did not believe her in the least. He still planned to make that list.
It could not stand.
As he turned for the door, she said sharply, “Alex, I mean it. I am not joking.”
He glanced back over his shoulder as he laid his hand to the door latch. “Splendid,” he said mildly. “Be as wild as you like. God knows I’m no advocate for the straight and narrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I really must be—”
“Could I go to Paris with you, then?”
Slowly he turned back, his expression frozen into comical dismay. “Paris,” he said. “With me. Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “You could show me the sights!”
His laughter sounded openly disbelieving now. “Show you the sights. Take you on a tour of the Louvre, do you mean? Oh, wouldn’t that be smashing. Perhaps we could have a tea party in the Tuileries afterward, and press flowers into our scrapbooks.”
She pulled a face. “The Tuileries is nothing original, and museums aren’t my aim. That is—I want to give Pennington what-for! And after that, well, I’ve seen all the proper bits already. The Opera, the Exhibit, that new tower they put up—it sways in the wind, utterly ghastly. But I didn’t see any of the fun bits. The bits that proper girls never see!”
His hand slipped away from the door. “You’re a heathen,” he said. “The Eiffel Tower’s a miracle of engineering. As for the rest—I’ve no idea what bits you mean. The fish market, say? The workhouses?”
Wicked Becomes You Page 7
