by Dawn Ireland
She unlocked the door and opened it. With her chin held high, Alex faced the staff. Silence descended as they cleared a path for her. With graceful movements, she passed through them and ascended the stairs.
Declan unrolled the sleeves of his shirt, while trying to decide what to say to the onlookers. He couldn’t tell them the truth. Even if he were believed, there was her reputation to consider. He shrugged into his coat, favoring his injured arm, and headed to the door. The astonished gathering watched him expectantly.
Damn. He’d thought Alex a menace as a child, but the woman promised to be much worse.
Chapter 2
“I hope you don’t have any more accidents, my lord.”
Declan eased out of his coat and laid it over the back of a chair. “I’ll try to avoid them in future.” Which might prove difficult, now that he was dealing with Alex.
Richards’s eyes widened when he beheld the blood-soaked fabric, a frown of disapproval on his pale, thin face. “This shirt is beyond repair.” The servant crossed to the mahogany wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom, then returned with fresh clothing.
Declan tensed as his valet briskly removed his shirt with no care for his wound. Obviously Richards felt a little pain was proper penance for destroying a fine garment. Declan sank onto the big poster bed to allow the servant to take off his boots.
A blond strand of hair escaped from under his valet’s powdered wig. Richards was becoming lax, after less than twenty-four hours in the country. It was an edifying sign. In London, his servant never allowed anything on his person to be out of place.
He understood why his aunt had insisted he hire Richards. The man was a gem of the first water when it came to his position as a valet. But he could have done without a servant who felt an earl needed to be dressed appropriately at all times. Testing his mobility, Declan rotated his shoulder, then stretched. His injury ached now that the shirt had been removed and the wound was bleeding again. “Have a maid bring up something to clean and bind this scratch.”
“When I heard you’d had an accident, I took the liberty of doing so, my lord.”
“Perhaps you should see what’s keeping her.” He gave his servant a small smile. “We wouldn’t want me to bleed all over another shirt, would we?” Declan reached for the clean garment that had been laid out on the bed. Richards grabbed it and hurried from the room.
At any other time, he might have laughed. Threatening to damage clothing was a sure way to get Richards to move quickly.
Declan laid back on the bed. He would be slightly stiff in the morning, the wound sore, but in his twenty-eight years, he’d had much worse. The greatest injury was to his pride.
Members of the Ton would have months of entertainment, at his expense, if they ever found out he’d been wounded while fencing with his ward. He rubbed his sword arm, loosening the muscles, and closed his eyes.
Morgan, his glib-tongued friend, would be more amused by the fact that Alexandra didn’t seem to be enthralled by Declan’s looks or wealth. He’d probably say it would do Declan good, “teach him a bit o’ patience”—if he ever stopped laughing.
The big Irishman could be a trial, but there was no one he’d rather have at his back in a fight. Just to play it safe, he wouldn’t mention the little fencing incident when he returned to London.
Richards reappeared with a pretty little blonde in tow. Declan grimaced as he sat up, then waited for the woman to clean his wound. She stood there, her basin of water in hand, staring at his naked chest as though she’d never seen one before. Richards gave her a nudge, and she stepped forward to begin her task.
The cool water stung like hell. Declan clenched his teeth and focused on keeping his breathing even. In very short order, she bound the wound and rinsed the cloth, then using slow, sensuous stokes, she cleansed the dried blood that had trickled down his chest.
“My lord, I was to tell you dinner will be ready at six.” The maid dropped the rag in the water and caressed his upper body with her damp hands as if checking for other injuries. She stopped, palms flat, at the base of his neck. “There now, I’m thinking they’ll be hardly any scar. If you’ll be needing anything, anything at all, just ask for Molly. I’m more than willing, day or night.” She picked up her basin and gave him a saucy smile.
“Thank you, Molly, I’ll remember that.” Declan returned her smile, and she missed the door as she backed out of the room. Blushing a pretty pink, she turned and exited.
Declan shook his head. Ever since he was sixteen, every woman he’d met had acted like that around him. Every woman, that is, but Alex.
The memory of her bold challenge wove itself into his thoughts. He probably shouldn’t find her brashness amusing, but he did. No other woman had tried to injure him, at least physically. She was direct, he’d give her that, but what to do with her?
“May I suggest the black velvet coat with gold embroidery for dinner, my lord?”
“Mmm?”
“The black coat, my lord?”
“Oh, yes.” He would have preferred just his waistcoat. He suspected Alex wouldn’t care, but Eleanor was another matter. “The black is fine.”
“Perhaps a little powder for your hair, just for propriety’s sake?
“No.”
“But, my lord.”
“You’re well aware I hate powder.” Declan adjusted his cravat in the mirror. He didn’t dare let Richards do it, or he wouldn’t be able to breathe for the rest of the evening. Richards felt a knot just wasn’t proper unless it choked the life out of you. “Try to remember, I’m not comfortable with frills.”
“I try to make allowances, my lord.”
“I know you do.” Declan tugged at his wide cuffs as he headed for the door. “Oh, and Richards, I’ll be riding very early in the morning. You won’t be required.”
“But, my lord—”
Declan turned and held up his hand. “I’m more than capable of dressing myself.” With a sour look, his valet nodded and turned away.
Amused, Declan headed toward the dining room. Richards could be difficult, but at least he knew when to back down. Declan doubted the same could be said for Alex. From what he remembered, “giving up” wasn’t in her vocabulary.
Alex slammed her brush against the polished wood of her dressing table, causing several crystal perfume bottles to dance. One flower-etched vial teetered on the edge, then crashed to the floor and shattered into a myriad of pieces. Hell and damnation, was nothing going right today? She bent to gather the larger pieces, trying to avoid the sharp edges. At least it hadn’t been the special vanilla fragrance she favored. She straightened and searched for a place to put the shards of glass.
Her cousin Eleanor burst into the bedroom. “What have you done?” The peach gown on her willowy form hung askew, her panniers having slipped off center. Small wisps of golden hair escaped the normally tidy bun.
Alex gave her childhood friend a rueful smile. “I knocked a bottle off my dresser. I’m afraid my room is going to smell like roses for the next week.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Eleanor let out a long breath as she tried to straighten her panniers. “How could you? The household is in chaos. There’s no telling what Lord Worthington will do now. You promised to at least sit down and discuss matters with him.”
“Talking wouldn’t have done any good.” Alex placed the broken pieces on her dressing table, then searched her wardrobe for rags to mop up the mess. She found several, closed the door, and leaned back against the solid wood. “Lord Worthington’s given name is Declan Deveraux.”
Eleanor stopped her attempt to right her clothing and looked up. “Not your Declan.”
“Yes.” Alex knelt by the spill and selected a rag from the pile, then laid the others aside. Mindful that there might be glass remnants, she vigorously scrubbed the spot where the oil had soaked into the moss colored carpet.
“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said softly. “Did your grandfather know how you felt about th
e man?”
Alex straightened and rested her backside on her heels. “He knew. I’d told him how Declan turned my father’s men against me. I don’t care if I was twelve. That didn’t justify coercing Paddy into mixing laudanum in my tea so Declan could bring me here. My guardian took me away from the only home I’d ever known.” Her throat felt tight. She wasn’t sure she could bear her grandfather’s betrayal on top of everything else.
Eleanor closed the door and turned toward her. “What happened in the library?”
She looked down at the outline of the spot, still visible amongst the pattern of the carpet. “I challenged him to a duel.”
“Oh, Alex. Not again. It was bad enough that you tried to stab the man when you were twelve.”
“I wasn’t going to kill him. I simply needed to make it clear that he isn’t wanted here.”
“When will you learn that diplomacy is often the better weapon.”
Diplomacy? With Declan? Not bloody likely. She looked up at Eleanor who had restored her dignity and stood gazing at her with sorrowful blue eyes. “I had to do something.” She returned to scouring the remainder of the spill.
Eleanor crossed the room, leaned down, and laid a hand on Alex’s arm. “You should call a servant to take care of that.”
If Grandfather were alive, he would have told her the same thing. Alex stopped and shut her eyes. She would give anything to hear the gentle chiding of his voice again. Wetness gathered in the corners of her eyes. She opened them and took a deep breath to gain control. Crying wouldn’t solve anything.
She shrugged off Eleanor’s hand, straightened, and snapped the used rag in the air with a force she hadn’t intended. Her cousin backed up, attempting to avoid the spray. “The servants have other duties. They don’t need to be cleaning up my mess.” She dropped the rag to the floor and sighed. “You just don’t understand.”
Since her arrival here, her family had been unable to fathom her discomfort at having things done for her. But then again, her grandfather and cousin had been born to a life of privilege. She had not.
Over the years, the staff at Oakleigh had become accustomed to what they called her “uncivilized ways.” In spite of that, she loved them. They were her life now—her responsibility. Fear trembled in her chest, making it hard to breathe. She could lose them, just as she’d lost the people she’d loved on The Merry Elizabeth.
She yanked a dry rag from the pile and continued cleaning. “It’s 1783. God’s teeth, at twenty I shouldn’t be stuck with a guardian if I don’t want one.” With each word, she rubbed a little harder at the stain, ignoring her stinging hands. They wouldn’t be lily-white, but there wasn’t anyone she was endeavoring to impress. She paused and glanced at Eleanor. “Do you think he’d leave if I explained to him I’d been running the estate for Grandfather the last three years?”
“Even if you could convince him, what difference would that make?” Eleanor fidgeted with her pearl necklace, twisting the triple strands. “Alex, we’ve been over this again and again. You’ve spent hours pouring over your grandfather’s will, and the answer is always the same. He left the estates and your care to Lord Worthington.” Her cousin gave her a patient look. “You’re going to have to find some way to get along with him.”
“But the man is impossible.” Alex stood, put the rags on the dressing table with the broken glass, and started to pace.
“Your grandfather knew what he was doing.” Eleanor’s voice held a note of conviction. “You must believe that.”
Alex rolled her shoulders and glanced down. The last few weeks had not been kind to the Aubusson carpet. She’d worn a path from the dressing table to the bed. All those hours of worry, and she still didn’t know what to do. If only she’d been some minor nobility, then she might have been overlooked. But as her estates were wealthy and extensive, there was no hope of that. “Damn Queen Elizabeth’s dispensation.”
“Stop swearing.” Eleanor’s automatic response made Alex gaze heavenward. Even at a time like this, her cousin worried about lady-like behavior.
“Without the queen’s edict, I wouldn’t be forced to marry.” Alex shook her head. What good did it do to be the Countess of Lochsdale if she couldn’t control her own life? “I’ll wager Grandfather thought someone needed to approve my choice. That’s why he appointed a guardian. As if I didn’t have the sense to find a husband on my own.”
“You don’t really mean that. Without the dispensation, you’d be at Luther’s mercy.” Eleanor hugged her arms to her body. Eyes wide, she whispered, “Imagine being in his power? I, for one, think it is fortunate Queen Elizabeth’s decree was very specific that the title and lands could pass to a female, but only through direct descent. Since you’re the only direct descendant left, it fell to you.” She shivered. “Without her edict, who knows what might have happened.”
“Luther’s never forgiven me for being born.” Alex gave a dry laugh. “The irony is, if I hadn’t, everything might have reverted to the crown. King George would have decided on any claim made by Luther. I know there are whispers about the king’s illness, but I doubt he’d allow Luther to inherit.”
“Thank God.”
“I don’t need a guardian to choose whom I shall marry and when.” She glanced at Eleanor. “Grandfather told me I could make the decision. After my dreadful Season in London, he realized I wasn’t ready. I’m still not.”
Alex sat on the edge of the bed and tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. “I’ll find a husband, eventually, but right now I’m needed here. I can’t go traipsing off to London. Even after months of dinner parties and balls during my first Season, I still hadn’t met one lord I could respect, let alone love.” She lay back on the counterpane with her hands behind her head. “Do you remember all those hopefuls falling over themselves at the ball we hosted?”
“Of course. Their ardor was quite comical. How many glasses of champagne did they bring you?” Her cousin smiled and settled beside her on the bed, fanning her skirts in a futile attempt to avoid wrinkles. “When you refused to choose a husband, I could feel the outrage in the room.”
“I swear, if I hadn’t promised Grandfather I’d behave, I would have challenged Lord Duprey at that ball.” Alex sat up. “Did you know he kissed me?”
Her cousin’s shocked expression made her want to laugh. Someday Eleanor would discover that not everyone lived by Society’s rules.
“When?” Eleanor brought the tip of her fingers to her lower lip. “I thought you were well-chaperoned.”
“I was, but I’d stepped out to the garden for some air, and he came up behind me. He’s lucky I didn’t have my dagger. If kissing is the reason men and women marry, it’s most assuredly overrated.”
Her cousin laughed, a joyous sound, so incongruous with the refined woman she presented to the world. “Maybe he’s as poor at kissing as he is at everything else. As I recall, he only excelled in arrogance.”
Alex got up, crossed to the dressing table, and tried to run a brush through her curls. Why couldn’t she have Eleanor’s wavy golden hair instead of auburn tresses that couldn’t be tamed? Before she could do any more damage, Eleanor joined her and took the brush away.
“Here,” Eleanor said, “sit at the dressing table. Be still. I can’t arrange your hair if you keep fidgeting.”
She tried not to move, gazed in the mirror, then stuck her tongue out at her reflection. “I wish I’d been born poor.”
“Now if that isn’t the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard you say. Most women would be thrilled with your station in life.” Eleanor stopped the brush in mid-stroke. “What prompted this?”
“Thinking about the past.” Alex rested her chin in her palm and caught Eleanor’s gaze in the mirror. “On The Merry Elizabeth, it didn’t matter what I looked like or who my family was. Now I constantly have to remind myself to act like a countess.” She turned away and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in the dresser scarf. “I guess I’m just missing the old days.”
Eleanor’s voice held amusement. “See, Lord Worthington did you a service. If you’d stayed on board ship, you never would have met me, and wouldn’t that have been a shame?”
Grinning at Eleanor’s reflection, Alex raised an eyebrow and tilted her head. “Do you mean to tell me you liked the snakes I put in your bed? I didn’t even know I had a cousin. If you’ll recall, I made a vow to hate you after we met.”
“You hated a lot of things when you first arrived, but look how well it turned out.” Eleanor patted a curl into place. “Why, I’ll wager you’ve even become accustomed to those dresses we made you wear.”
Alex joined in Eleanor’s laughter. They both knew she wore her silk shirt and breeches whenever possible. She needed to fence and ride astride. Those activities made her feel truly alive, and they couldn’t be done readily in dresses. Grandfather had understood, even if the rest of the world didn’t. God, she missed him.
Eleanor tugged some curls loose around Alex’s face and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “There, you look like a princess. Now all we have to do is pick out your dress for this evening.” She crossed to Alex’s wardrobe, opened the doors, and shook her head. “You really should have more dresses made.” Eleanor studied the meager selection. “Why don’t you wear the green silk? It looks so nice with your hair and eyes.” She removed the gown and laid it on the bed.
“Fine.” Alex didn’t want to think about tonight, it made her head ache, but she couldn’t think of anything else. If she didn’t keep control of her estates, what would become of Eleanor and the others? They were her responsibility.
Did Declan think he could put in an appearance and usurp her place? This was her home. Not his. She’d kept the ledgers, instructed the servants, and decided on expenditures. He didn’t know the first thing about Oakleigh Manor. Or her, for that matter, yet he would be allowed to choose her husband.
At best, he’d let her continue as before. At worst, he might force her into marriage with a man who could destroy the home she loved.
