Something Wonderful

by Judith McNaught

  Sighing at her interruption, Mr. Gimble laid down his quill, but he was not proof against her sunny smile. “I shall make it a point to ask God about that when I see Him.”

  The idea of her grandfather dying made Alexandra instantly somber, but the sound of a carriage drawing up before the cottage caused her to leap to her feet, running to the open window. “It’s Papa!” she burst out joyously. “Papa has come from London at last!”

  “And about time it is, too,” Mr. Gimble grumbled, but Alex didn’t hear. Clad in her favorite garb of breeches and peasant shirt, she was racing through the doorway and hurtling herself into her father’s reluctant arms.

  “How are you, little gypsy?” he said without much interest.

  Mr. Gimble arose and went to the window, watching with a frown as the handsome Londoner helped his daughter up into his fancy new carnage. Fancy carriage, fancy clothes, but his morals were not fancy at all, thought Mr. Gimble angrily, recalling how his daughter, Felicia, had been blinded by the man’s looks and suavity from the moment he had arrived at their cottage one afternoon, his carriage broken down in the road in front of it. Mr. Gimble had offered to let the man spend the night and, late in the afternoon, against his better judgment, he had yielded to Felicia’s pleading and allowed her to walk out with him so she might “show him the pretty view from the hill above the stream.”

  When darkness fell and they had not returned, Mr. Gimble struck out after them, finding his way easily by the light of the full moon. He discovered them at the foot of the hill, beside the stream, naked in each other’s arms. It had taken George Lawrence less than four hours to convince Felicia to abandon the precepts of a lifetime and to seduce her.

  Rage beyond anything he had ever known had boiled up inside Mr. Gimble and, without a sound, he had left the scene. When he returned to the cottage two hours later, he was accompanied by his good friend the local vicar. The vicar was carrying the book from which he would read the marriage ceremony.

  Mr. Gimble was carrying a rifle to make certain his daughter’s seducer participated in the ceremony.

  It was the first time in his life he had ever held a weapon.

  And what had his righteous fury gotten for Felicia? The question darkened Mr. Gimble’s features. George Lawrence had bought her a large, run-down house that had been vacant for a decade, provided her with servants, and for nine months following their marriage, he had reluctantly lived with her here in the remote little shire where she had been born. At the end of that time Alexandra arrived, and soon afterward George Lawrence went back to London, where he stayed, returning to Morsham only twice each year for two or three weeks.

  “He is earning a living in the best way he knows how,” Felicia had explained to Mr. Gimble, obviously repeating what her husband had told her. “He’s a gentlemen and therefore cannot be expected to work for a living like ordinary men. In London, his breeding and connections enable him to mingle with all the right people, and from them he picks up hints now and then about good investments on the ’Change, and which horses to bet on at the races. It’s the only way he can support us. Naturally, he would like to have us with him in London, but it is dreadfully expensive in the city, and he would not dream of subjecting us to the sort of cramped, dingy lodgings he must live in there. He comes to us as often as he can.”

  Mr. Gimble was dubious about George Lawrence’s explanation for preferring to remain in London, but he had no doubt why the man returned to Morsham twice each year. He did so because Mr. Gimble had promised to seek him out in London—with his borrowed rifle—if he did not return at least that often to see his wife and daughter. Nevertheless, there was no point in wounding Felicia with the truth, for she was happy. Unlike the other women in the tiny shire—Felicia was married to “a true gentleman” and that was all that counted in her foolish estimation. It gave her status, and she walked among her neighbors with a queenly air of superiority.

  Like Felicia, Alexandra worshiped George Lawrence, and he basked in their unquestioning adoration during his brief visits. Felicia fussed over him, and Alex tried valiantly to be both son and daughter to him—worrying about her lack of feminine beauty at the same time she wore breeches and practiced fencing so she could fence with him whenever he came.

  Standing in the window, Mr. Gimble glowered at the shiny conveyance drawn by four sleek, prancing horses. For a man who could spare little money for his wife and daughter, George Lawrence drove a very expensive carriage and team.

  “How long can you stay this time, Rapa?” Alexandra said, already beginning to dread the inevitable time when he would leave again.

  “Only a week. I’m off to the Landsdowne’s place in Rent.”

  “Why must you be gone so much?” Alexandra asked, unable to hide her disappointment even though she knew he, too, hated to be away from her and her mother.

  “Because I must,” he said, and when she started to protest, he shook his head and reached into his pocket, extracting a small box. “Here, I’ve brought you a little present for your birthday, Alex.”

  Alexandra gazed at him with adoration and pleasure, despite the fact that her birthday had come and gone months before, without so much as a letter from him. Her aquamarine eyes were shining as she opened the box and removed a small, silver-colored locket shaped like a heart. Although it was made of tin and not particularly pretty, she held it in her palm as if it were infinitely precious. “I shall wear it every single day of my life, Papa,” she whispered, then she put her arms around him in a fierce hug. “I love you so much!”

  As they passed through the tiny sleepy village, the horses sent puffs of dust up into the air, and Alexandra waved at the people who saw her, eager for them to know that her wonderful, handsome papa had returned.

  She needn’t have bothered to call their attention to him. By evening, everyone in the village would be discussing not only his return, but the color of his coat, and a dozen other details, for the Village of Morsham was as it had been for hundreds of years—sleepy, undisturbed, forgotten in its remote valley. Its inhabitants were simple, unimaginative, hard-working folk who took immeasurable pleasure in recounting any tiny event that occurred to alleviate the endless sameness of their existence. They were still talking about the day, three months ago, when a carriage came through with a city fellow wearing a coat of not just one cape but eight. Now they would have George Lawrence’s wondrous carriage and team to discuss for the next six months.

  To an outsider, Morsham might seem a dull place populated by gossipy peasants, but to thirteen-year-old Alexandra, the village and its inhabitants were beautiful.

  At thirteen she believed in the inherent goodness of each of God’s children and she had no doubt that honesty, integrity, and cheerfulness were common to all mankind. She was gentle, gay, and incurably optimistic.

  Chapter Two

  THE DUKE OF HAWTHORNE slowly lowered his arm, the smoking pistol still in his hand, and gazed dispassionately at the crumpled figure of Lord Grangerfield lying motionless on the ground. Jealous husbands were a damned nuisance, Jordan thought—almost as troublesome as their vain and frivolous wives. Not only did they frequently leap to totally unwarranted conclusions, but they also insisted on discussing their delusions at dawn with pistols. His impassive gaze still resting on the elderly, wounded opponent, who was being tended by the physician and seconds, he cursed the beautiful, scheming young woman whose relentless pursuit of him had caused this duel.

  At twenty-seven, Jordan had long ago decided that dallying with other men’s wives often resulted in more complications than any sexual gratification was worth. As a result, he had long made it a practice to restrict his frequent sexual liaisons to only those women who were unencumbered by husbands. God knew there were more than enough of them, and most were willing and eager to warm his bed. Flirtations, however, were a normal part of life amongst the ton, and his recent involvement with Elizabeth Grangerfield, whom he had known since they were both children, had been little more than that�
��a harmless flirtation that sprang up when she returned to England from an extended trip of more than a year. The flirtation had begun as nothing more than a few bantering remarks—admittedly with sexual overtones—exchanged between two old friends. It would never have gone further, except that one night last week Elizabeth had slipped past Jordan’s butler and, when Jordan came home, he found her in his bed—all lush, naked, inviting woman. Normally, he would have hauled her out of his bed and sent her home, but that night his mind was already dulled by the brandy he’d been imbibing with friends, and while he deliberated over what to do with her, his body had overruled his sluggish mind and insisted he accept her irresistible invitation.

  Turning toward his horse, which was tethered to a nearby tree, Jordan glanced up at the feeble rays of sunlight that streaked the sky. There was still time to get a few hours of sleep before he began the long day of work and social engagements that would culminate late tonight at the Bildrups’ ball.

  * * *

  Chandeliers dripping with hundreds of thousands of crystals blazed above the vast mirrored ballroom where dancers attired in satins, silks, and velvets whirled in time to a lilting waltz. Pairs of French doors leading out onto the balconies were thrown open, allowing cool breezes to enter —and couples, desiring a few moments’ moonlit privacy, to exit.

  Just beyond the furthest pair of doors, a couple stood on the balcony, their presence partially concealed by the shadows of the mansion itself, apparently unconcerned with the wild conjecture their absence from the ballroom was creating among the guests.

  “It’s disgraceful!” Miss Leticia Bildrup said to the group of elegant young men and women who composed her personal retinue. Casting a ferociously condemning look, liberally laced with envy, in the direction of the doors through which the couple had just exited, she added, “Elizabeth Grangerfield is behaving like a strumpet, chasing after Hawthorne, with her own husband lying wounded from his duel with Hawthorne this very morning!”

  Sir Roderick Carstairs regarded the angry Miss Bildrup with an expression of acid amusement for which he was known—and feared—by all the ton. “You’re right, of course, my beauty. Elizabeth ought to learn from your own example and pursue Hawthorne only in private, rather than in public.”

  Leticia regarded him in haughty silence, but a telltale flush turned her smooth cheeks a becoming pink. “Beware, Roddy, you are losing the ability to separate what is amusing from what is offensive.”

  “Not at all, my dear, I strive to be offensive.”

  “Do not liken me to Elizabeth Grangerfield,” Leticia snapped in a furious underbreath. “We have nothing in common.”

  “Ah, but you do. You both want Hawthorne. Which gives you something in common with six dozen other women I could name, particularly”—he nodded toward the beautiful red-haired ballerina who was waltzing with a Russian prince on the dance floor—“Elise Grandeaux. Although Miss Grandeaux seems to have gotten the best of all of you, for she is Hawthorne’s new mistress.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Letty burst out, her blue eyes riveted on the graceful redhead who had reportedly bewitched the Spanish king and a Russian prince. “Hawthorne is unattached!”

  “What are we discussing, Letty?” one of the young ladies asked, turning aside from her suitors.

  “We are discussing the fact that he has gone out on the balcony with Elizabeth Grangerfield,” Letty snapped. No explanation of the word “he” was necessary. Amongst the ton, everyone who mattered knew “he” was Jordan Addison Matthew Townsende—Marquess of Landsdowne, Viscount Leeds, Viscount Reynolds, Earl Townsende of Marlow, Baron Townsende of Stroleigh, Richfield, and Monmart— and 12th Duke of Hawthorne.

  “He” was the stuff of which young ladies’ dreams were made—tall, dark, and fatally handsome, with the devil’s own charm. Amongst the younger females of the ton, it was the consensus of opinion that his shuttered grey eyes could seduce a nun or freeze an enemy in his tracks. Older females were inclined to credit the former and discard the latter, since it was well-known that Jordan Townsende had dispatched hundreds of the French enemy, not with his eyes, but with his deadly skill with pistols and sabers. But regardless of their ages, all the ladies of the ton were in complete agreement on one issue: A person had only to look at the Duke of Hawthorne to know that he was a man of breeding, elegance, and style; a man who was as polished as a diamond. And, frequently, just as hard.

  “Roddy says Elise Grandeaux has become his mistress,” Letty said, nodding toward the stunning, titian-haired beauty who appeared to be oblivious to the Duke of Hawthorne’s departure with Lady Elizabeth Grangerfield.

  “Nonsense,” said a seventeen-year-old debutante who was a stickler for propriety. “If she was, he certainly wouldn’t bring her here. He couldn’t.”

  “He could and he would,” another young lady announced, her gaze glued to the French doors through which the duke and Lady Grangerfield had just departed, as she waited eagerly for another glimpse of the legendary duke. “My mama says Hawthorne does whatever he pleases and the devil fly with public opinion!”

  At that moment, the object of this and dozens of similar conversations throughout the ballroom was lounging against the stone railing of the balcony, gazing down into Elizabeth’s glistening blue eyes with an expression of unconcealed annoyance. “Your reputation is being shredded to pieces in there, Elizabeth. If you have any sense, you’ll retire to the country with your ‘ailing’ husband for a few weeks until the gossip over the duel dies down.”

  With a brittle attempt at gaiety, Elizabeth shrugged. “Gossip can’t hurt me, Jordan. I’m a countess now.” Bitterness crept into her voice, strangling it. “Never mind that my husband is thirty years older than I. My parents have another title in the family now, which is all they wanted.”

  “There’s no point in regretting the past,” Jordan said, restraining his impatience with an effort. “What’s done is done.”

  “Why didn’t you offer for me before you went off to fight that stupid war in Spain?” she asked in a suffocated voice.

  “Because,” he answered brutally, “I didn’t want to marry you.”

  Five years ago, Jordan had casually considered offering for her in the distant, obscure future, but he hadn’t wanted a wife then any more than he did now, and nothing had been settled between them before he left for Spain. A year after his departure, Elizabeth’s father, intent on adding another title to the family tree, had insisted she marry Grangerfield. When Jordan received her letter, telling him she’d been married off to Grangerfield, he’d felt no keen sense of loss. On the other hand, he’d known Elizabeth since they were in their teens, and he had harbored a certain fondness for her. Perhaps if he had been around at the time, he might have persuaded her to defy her parents and refuse old Grangerfield’s suit. Or perhaps not. Like nearly all females of her social class, Elizabeth had been taught since childhood that her duty as a daughter was to marry in accordance with her parents’ wishes.

  In any case, Jordan had not been here. Two years after his father’s death, despite the fact that he hadn’t produced an heir to ensure the succession, Jordan had bought a commission in the army and gone to Spain to fight against Napoleon’s troops. At first his daring and courage in the face of the enemy were simply the result of a reckless dissatisfaction with his own life. Later, as he matured, the skill and knowledge he acquired in countless bloody battles kept him alive and added to his reputation as a cunning strategist and invincible opponent.

  Four years after departing for Spain, he resigned his commission and returned to England to resume the duties and responsibilities of a dukedom.

  The Jordan Townsende who had returned to England the year before was very different from the young man who had left. The first time he walked into a ballroom after his return, many of those changes were startlingly evident: In contrast to the pale faces and bored languor of other gentlemen of his class, Jordan’s skin was deeply tanned, his tall body rugged and muscular, his movements br
isk and authoritative; and, although the legendary Hawthorne charm was still evident in his occasional lazy white smile, there was an aura about him now of a man who had confronted danger—and enjoyed it. It was an aura that women found infinitely exciting and which added tremendously to his attraction.

  “Can you forget what we’ve meant to each other?” Elizabeth raised her head, and before Jordan could react, she leaned up on her toes and kissed him, her familiar body willing and pliant, pressing eagerly against his.

  His hands caught her arms in a punishing grip and he moved her away. “Don’t be a fool!” he snapped scathingly, his long fingers biting into her arms. “We were friends, nothing more. What happened between us last week was a mistake. It’s over.”

  Elizabeth tried to move against him. “I can make you love me, Jordan. I know I can. You almost loved me a few years ago. And you wanted me last week—”

  “I wanted your delectable body, my sweet,” he mocked with deliberate viciousness, “nothing else. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. I’m not going to kill your husband for you in a duel, so you can forget that scheme. You’ll have to find some other fool who’ll purchase your freedom for you at the point of a gun.”

  She blanched, blinking back her tears, but she didn’t deny that she’d hoped he would kill her husband. “I don’t want my freedom, Jordan, I want you,” she said in a tear-glogged voice. “You may have regarded me as little more than a friend, but I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen years old.”

  The admission was made with such humble, hopeless misery that anyone but Jordan Townsende would have realized she was telling the truth, and perhaps been moved to pity her. But Jordan had long ago become a hardened skeptic where women were concerned. He responded to her painful admission of love by handing her a snowy white handkerchief. “Dry your eyes.”