“The Fishbourne excavation? Bah! Nothing there but an old palace and scores upon scores of mosaic floor bits. Stuff and nonsense!” he expostulated. Leaning closer to her ear, he whispered, “If you really want to hear about an exciting find, come back next month. I shall be giving my talk about Pompeii.”
He said the city's name with reverence. “Pompeii. Aye, there's an archaeological find. I just returned from there not three months ago,” he continued.
“Really?” Alaina's ears instantly perked up. Since the site was only discovered in 1763, Ian Boggs had seen the city in its pristine state—give or take some damage by a few treasure hunters.
“Aye, and I'll be showing my beauty, an altar I uncovered at the House of Menander. ‘Tis a bas-relief of the she-wolf and the twins.”
She instantly understood the legend he referred to. “Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome and the wolf that found and nurtured them! This is fantastic! Yes, of course I'd love to hear your talk.”
This would delay her departure but it would only mean a month longer in London.
“By Zeus, so you are interested in old bones, aren't you? Romulus and Remus indeed! I suspected you were roasting me. Come, I must introduce you to some of my colleagues.”
“Um, no. I'd prefer not to. I'd like to, um, remain in the background."
“Uncomfortable among these tabbies, eh? Can't say as I blame you. Some of these old goats get my bile up too! Tell you what, the meeting's about to begin. Let's grab us a seat.” Ian Boggs offered her his arm.
She gladly accepted his escort; Mr. Boggs was ideal company. Seated in back of the large hall, she had an excellent view of the proceedings. The Society conducted several business items before the main event. She watched Richard sitting up on the dais, waiting to be introduced—he seemed perfectly at ease. His light grey tail coat, lined in black, was a striking contrast for his curly black hair. Even at this distance, the cream-colored trousers showed the contours of his muscular legs.
She couldn't help sighing.
Mr. Boggs caught her staring. “Young Saybrooke's a handsome chap, eh?” He correctly interpreted her gaze. “No dull old dog about him! Ho, he's about to start.”
Her stomach twisted in nervous knots. It was torture being there, wondering what Richard was thinking. It also would have been torture waiting at home, wondering the same thing.
He began his talk extemporaneously, relating how he found conditions at the site in Fishbourne and the troubles he experienced with the locals. It was when he referred to his papers that Alaina could notice a slight hesitancy and a frown.
But the speech went well. Several in the audience murmured agreement on some of his theories and, in general, the Dilettani Society members digested his every word. At the conclusion, a resounding applause rewarded Richard, and smiling, he resumed his seat.
Ian Boggs gave his vote of approval. “Demmed good fieldwork on Saybrooke's part. Never thought mosaic tile could be so gripping! Thorough research too.”
At the adjournment, he rose. “Must give my compliments to the Earl. Be happy to introduce you to him.”
“No, thank you, I must leave. But you can count on me to be here next month for your lecture, Mr. Boggs.”
They exchanged farewells and she left the area. She planned to escape as fast as she could but the hall and the entrance room rapidly filled with Dilettanis. Excusing herself as she inched through the crowd, she realized that having a full gown hampered progress. Many tried to chat with her, but she just shook her head and refused to stop.
Finally spotting the exit, she was about to walk into the fresh air when an arm halted her. “Alaina! I'm demmed glad I caught you. You forgot your hat and gloves.”
Mr. Boggs, of course. Alaina turned to thank him but the words stuck in her throat. Standing by Mr. Bogg's side was the most recent speaker of the Society: the Earl of Saybrooke.
“This is the young lady I was telling you about, Saybrooke—a nonesuch in the field of Roman archaeology.” Mr. Boggs blithely continued, unaware of the tension in the air.
“Richard Cransworth, this is Alaina—sorry m'dear, I didn't catch your last name.”
Her stomach threatened to revolt. What in blue blazes was she going to do? What could she do? And why on earth was she so unlucky? Tongue-tied, she stood before Richard.
“Alaina, is it?” He stressed the pronunciation of the middle “a.” Then he turned to Mr. Boggs. “Don't trouble yourself, Ian. This lady and I are already acquainted.”
Mr. Boggs shook his head with obvious admiration. “Leave it to you to ferret out the most attractive, and I might add, intelligent lady in London. I should have known! No hope for me in that quarter—she turned me down flat! Maybe if I shave my mustache....” he mused.
“Now you're the one teasing me, Mr. Boggs,” Alaina laughed. The man had a knack for letting her forget her problems. “Um, thank you for my bonnet and gloves. I'd best be heading home.”
If Richard wasn't going to acknowledge the connection, then neither was she.
But he wasn't ready for her to leave for he took a firm hold of her arm above the elbow, pinching the skin. “Stay awhile...Alaina. I am sure you will find the members’ impromptu talks enlightening, especially in view of your life-long passion for ancient Rome.”
He guided her to an alcove away from the noisy gathering. If his intention was to be alone with her, it failed miserably since not only did Mr. Boggs follow them, but so did half a dozen other scholars. The others engaged Richard in a lively debate while Alaina looked on as an unwanted third party. It was clear none of the men tolerated a woman's views on any of the subjects.
Ian Boggs managed to maneuver back to her side. “Can it be that the lovely lady feels her presence to be de trop?” he asked sympathetically.
Gratefully for his support, she admitted that was the case. “It's hard on one's ego to be so pointedly ignored.”
The older man patted her hand gently. “Why is it that I have the feeling any opinion of yours is worth two of these gents? I fear you must have cast a spell on my poor self. Now, now, don't go blushing on me, m'dear. Save those maiden eyes for Saybrooke—that's the way the wind blows, eh?” He tucked his finger under her chin.
Gosh, what a predicament she was in. Biting her lip, she tried to explain. “Richard is ... well, he is my—”
Richard unexpectedly stood before them. “The lady is up to her old tricks, I see.” He pulled her to the right, causing Mr. Boggs’ hand to fall away from her face. “We must be leaving...Alaina.”
Richard propelled her through the crowd, toward the exit. Ian Boggs’ bushy eyebrows drew together, most likely in disbelief as he followed them. “Ho, laddy. You've no cause to order the lady around. If you treat her like that, I've a mind to escort her home myself.”
Now would be a wonderful time for the floor to open up and swallow her. “Um, Mr. Boggs, it's all right. Richard is my—”
Richard, scooping up her hat and gloves, nudged her through the doorway. “Don't mistake this for a damsel in distress, Ian,” he called back over the room's din. “This lady is my wife.”
The revelation left Mr. Boggs scratching his mustache.
Alaina waited until they were inside Richard's carriage before letting loose. “I can't believe how rude you were. Your behavior is contemptible. I don't see how I can ever face Mr. Boggs again.”
“Developed a tendre for the man, have you?” Richard settled in opposite her. “You surprise me—Boggs is not your usual style, Alaina. He is old enough to be your father.”
“Hardly,” she replied. Mr. Boggs was probably in his late forties. “And, for your information, I used the name ‘Alaina’ as an alias. I thought you would be embarrassed if you knew I had attended."
By Richard's body language, he was ready to explode. Jaw clenched tightly, thinned lips, stony glare. Ouch.
“By the way,” she added to apply some honey, “that was an awfully good presentation. Everyone was impressed.”
> “I will not tolerate your flattery or your changing the subject. When were you planning to take up with Boggs? Charles will be disappointed you could not wait for him.”
Her mouth dropped. “Charlie? What do you mean?” she asked cautiously.
Richard gazed back at her with his heavy-lidded eyes. “I never took you for a slowtop, sweet Alicia.”
Alaina groaned; she couldn't help it. So Richard had seen his brother leave her room that night. “Listen, Richard, the last thing I want to do is cause trouble between you and your brother. I know how it must've looked but nothing happened that night.”
He stared out the window, enabling her to study his handsome but grim profile. “I know you don't believe me ... maybe I wouldn't either, if I were in your place. You must ask Charlie, he has to be the one to explain it to you.”
She wasn't getting through to him. “Don't you see, everything is fine with Charlie now? Lucy and he have patched up their differences. Before you condemn me, ask Charlie.”
He gave no visible sign of having heard her. Sighing loudly, she sat back in her seat. “I give up. Think what you want to."
Right then, another coach swerved into their path causing the carriage to teeter-totter rock. Without warning Alaina was flung across the cushions and landed face down on top of Richard's knees. Her grey skirt wrapped around her legs, exposing her lower limbs. Cripes! Caught in such an inelegant position did in no way improve her foul mood.
He gently raised her up so that she was eye-level to his broad shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, but then flinched. The movement unexpectedly did hurt.
Brushing back her skirt to cover the white frills of her chemise, he lifted her onto the seat and sat beside her. “Are you certain you are all right?” Concern was heavy in his voice.
“Yes, just a little sore.” Her pride hurt more than her body.
“Wait here. I shall return shortly.” After he left the carriage, Alaina rested against the cushions. What a mish-mash of a day.
~*~
Richard took stock of the resulting traffic tangle. He barked out orders to the coachmen to report the irresponsible driver to the constable, but the other coach had quickly departed from the scene. Evidently, upon learning the owner of the tottering carriage was a lord of the realm, the coward took the easy way out.
After ascertaining that no harm had come to any pedestrians, or the barouche, horses, or servants, Richard reentered the carriage to continue the trip home.
Finding his wife quietly rubbing her neck, he commanded, “Let me.”
He bypassed the high collar and the crêpe frill of her gown to seek the softness of her bare skin. Expertly he massaged away the pain.
This time his wife must not have feared his hands on her neck for she leaned against him.
Thus pleasurably employed, the Earl inhaled her sweet fragrance and savored the feel of her velvety skin. He could not help but be glad the accident had occurred for it enabled a truce to be called. A temporary truce, to be sure, but now all he wanted was to continue stroking and caressing her. He also desired to take these actions to their logical conclusion but he would have to be satisfied with this. Too soon the barouche would arrive at Hanover Square. Alicia and he would be at odds again, the accident forgotten.
Alicia ... or Alaina. Alaina ... it was a pretty name. Why did he think it suited her better than Alicia?
Suddenly she stiffened and pulled away. Following her gaze, he saw the townhouse ahead. Before he had a chance to speak, she politely thanked him for his ministrations, and hurried into the house.
Richard stared at his hands, reliving the pleasure that they had so recently felt. An emotion, so foreign, so strange, filtered down into the very core of his being. May the Lord help him, but he loved the woman, more than he ever had in the past. With every blasted breath in his body, he loved her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At dinnertime, Richard anticipated an interesting tête-à-tête with his wife for her protests of innocence concerning her and Charles had the ring of truth. Indeed, her flawless behavior coupled with Richard's desire to end this breech separating them urged him to believe her every word.
But he also was a confessed cynic. Straightening his cravat in the looking glass outside the Dining Room, he noted the deep lines around his mouth and eyes. Suspicious lines. If only the past could be erased. If only he knew if she was playing him false ... once again. Had she evinced interest in archaeology just to please him? How the devil could he discover what was actually going on?
Nodding to the footman, Richard clenched his fists and walked into the Dining Room.
“Richard!” the Dowager called out from her position at the table. “Gracious! We had no idea you would be joining us for dinner, did we, Isabel? I heard tell you have been absent from the nightly meal for many a day."
Cousin Isabel wobbled her head. “No idea, Ma'am. No idea at all. Just so."
One diner was conspicuously absent—the one he was most curious about. Frowning, he took his place at the head of the table. “Cousin Isabel, Mother, it is good to see you both.” He lifted his spoon to partake of dinner's first course. “Mother, I must say your improved health is a relief to me."
“Yes, I am so thankful that I have had Isabel and Alicia to keep me company.” The Dowager daintily dabbed at her lips with her napkin.
He waited, but neither woman explained Alicia's absence. He'd have to bring it up. But first, a subterfuge. “So, where is Nigel this night?"
“Visiting some friends. He said he might go to Vauxhall Gardens,” his mother replied.
Still nothing about Alicia. Richard drank a measure of wine. “And my wife?
Isabel's voice shook with sympathy. “The dear Countess has a crushing megrim. Terrible, simply terrible! She does not wish to be disturbed, of course."
Blast. Finishing his glass, he poured another. Alicia eluded him again.
During the course of the meal, the Dowager's idle chatter failed to cheer him. He remained preoccupied with thoughts of his wife. Indeed, his black mood must have been obvious to his companions; the only sustenance he took at the table was in liquid form.
When it was time for the Dowager and Isabel to leave, they exchanged mysterious glances as they walked by him. Probably thought he would be drinking himself into a stupor.
To his shame, he did. How could he not with the tumultuous whirl of emotions plaguing him? Each drink fed the flames of jealousy, desire....and lust.
He staggered to his bedchamber in the dead of night and, for the first time in years, tried the connecting door to his wife's room. It was locked.
Blast. In a raucous voice, he ordered, “Open the door, Alicia. Open it now!"
Total silence was his reply.
May the Lord help him, his reason vanished as if it had never been. Pounding on the door, he yelled out every lurid name in the book—all directed at her.
Still nothing.
Some time in the wee hours of the morning, his memory ended. At last he succumbed to the arms of sleep.
~*~
“The devil!” Richard sat up from the floor and grimaced in pain. His head throbbed with the force of Wellington's army stomping their path through Europe.
Leaning his elbow on his knees, he groaned once again—not only because of his headache, which rivaled the roar created on Waterloo's battlefield, but because of his inexcusable conduct toward his wife.
He gingerly got to his feet and stumbled over to the bellpull. After requesting a pail of icy water, he sank down on a chair. Had he truly behaved like Attila the Hun last night?
Yes. The sad truth of the matter was that he had.
When the water arrived, he dunked his head into it. The shock of a thousand stinging needles cleared his befuddled mind.
If he was to have any peace in this life, he had to confront his wife as soon as possible. He could think of a myriad of questions and only she could supply the answers.
And
if she refused to see him again, a locked door would be no protection against his determination.
He smiled grimly. “The day of reckoning is at hand, Alicia.”
Finishing certain business matters later in the morning, Richard sent word for his wife to join him in the Blue Salon. He deliberately chose that room over his Library for he would brook no competition from Augustus Caesar.
Alicia did not keep him waiting long. Good. He was in no mood to enact a scene so she would dance attendance on him. Entering the room, she glided as Aphrodite might, poised and confident in her beauty. She wore a simple gown with ivory ruffles high on the neck. Matching ruffles encased her slim wrists. As always, she looked exceedingly lovely and feminine. Indeed, she appeared as if she passed a restful night. Would that she had passed it with him.
For some reason, a knot developed in his throat. Clearing it, he indicated a seat next to him on the settee. “Have a seat, Alicia."
To be contrary, she chose a straight-backed chair.
Words seemed to escape him. Realizing he was in the wrong made matters even more difficult. “Alicia, I must beg your pardon for my behavior last night. I was a trifle disguised.”
“Disguised? What does that mean?” She fussed with the folds of cloth at her wrists, refusing to look at him.
Devil take it, he longed to shake the indifference from her. She was not making it easy for him to apologize. “Foxed, one sheet into the wind, bosky, feeling the tipsy ... does that explain it?”
“Oh, drunk,” she said with understanding.
Unable to contain himself, he jumped up and forcibly pulled the ivory frills from her fingers. “Keep your hands still, damn it and pay attention.”
She lifted her gaze to meet the cold of his eyes. “You wanted to apologize, I believe,” she said calmly.
“I just did,” he answered through gritted teeth. “Now with that matter behind us, I demand to know what you were doing at the Dilettani meeting yesterday.”
He turned his back to her and walked over to the fireplace. Picking up a useless bric-a-brac from the mantle, he continued, “The rules you were to obey forbid attending any such event.”
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