Something Wonderful

by Judith McNaught

  When Alexandra merely stared at her in visible relief, Mrs. Lawrence lost control. She grabbed Alexandra by the shoulders and shook her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done,” she screamed. “Do you? Then I’ll tell you— you’ve disgraced yourself beyond recall. Gossip has stretched everywhere, and people are talking about you as if you were a slut. You were seen being carried into an inn in a state of undress and you occupied a bedroom alone with a man. You were carried out of that same inn a half hour later by the same man. Do you know what everyone thinks?”

  “That I was tired and needed to rest?” Alexandra suggested sensibly, more alarmed by her mother’s pallor than her words.

  “You fool! You’re a bigger fool than I ever was. No decent man will have you now.”

  “Mama,” Alexandra said with firm quiet, trying to reverse their roles as she had needed to do so often in the past three years, “calm yourself.”

  “Don’t you dare use that condescending tone on me, miss!” her mother shouted, her face only inches from Alexandra’s. “Did that man touch you?”

  Growing increasingly alarmed by her mother’s hysteria, Alexandra said matter-of-factly, “You know he did. You saw him carry me in here and—”

  “Not that way!” Mrs. Lawrence cried, positively shaking with rage. “Did he put his hands on you? Did he kiss you? Answer me, Alexandra!”

  Alexandra actually considered defying the principles her grandfather had ingrained in her, but before she could open her mouth to lie, her mother had already spotted the telltale flush blooming brightly in her cheeks.

  “He did, didn’t he!” she screamed. “The answer is written all over your face.” Mrs. Lawrence reared back and stood up, pacing frantically back and forth in front of Alexandra’s bed. Alexandra had heard of women who became so overwrought that they tore at their own hair, and her mother looked on the verge of doing just that.

  Swiftly climbing out of bed, she put her hand out to stop her mother’s aimless pacing. “Mama, please don’t upset yourself like this. Please don’t. The duke and I did nothing wrong.”

  Her mother almost ground her teeth in rage. “You may not understand that what you did was wrong, but that low, conniving, corrupt degenerate knew it. He knew. He waltzed in here as bold as brass, knowing you were too naive to understand what he’d done. God, how I hate men!”

  Without warning, she pulled Alexandra into her arms in a fierce hug. “I’m not the blind fool I used to be. I let your father use us for his own amusement and then discard us, but I’ll not let Hawthorne do that to us. He ruined you, and I’ll make him pay, you’ll see. I’ll force him to do what’s right.”

  “Mama, please!” Alexandra burst out, pulling free of her mother’s suffocating embrace. “He did nothing wrong, not really. He only touched my limbs, looking for broken bones, and bade me farewell by kissing my forehead! That can’t be wrong.”

  “He destroyed your reputation by taking you to a public inn. He’s ruined any chance of your making a decent marriage. No other man will have you now. From this day forward, wherever you go in the village, scandal will follow you. For that he must pay, and dearly. When he returned to the inn last night, he gave the doctor his direction. We shall go after him and demand justice.”

  “No!” Alexandra cried, but her mother was deaf to all but her own inner voice that had been screaming for vengeance these three long years.

  “I’ve no doubt he’ll be expecting us to call,” she continued bitterly, ignoring Alexandra’s pleas, “now that we’ve learned the whole truth of last night’s debacle.”

  Chapter Five

  THE DOWAGER DUCHESS of Hawthorne regarded her grandson with a stern smile on her lips and an attentive expression in her hazel eyes. At seventy, she was still a handsome woman with white hair, regal bearing, and the aloof, unshakable confidence and poise that comes from living a thoroughly privileged life.

  Despite the stony dignity that characterized her every gesture, she was no stranger to grief, having already outlived her husband and her sons. Yet so rigid was her self-control that not even her closest acquaintances were certain she had loved them in life or that she was aware they were dead— and so enormous was her consequence among the ton that none of them ever dared to ask.

  She betrayed no sign of alarm now as she serenely listened to her eldest grandson, who was sitting on one of the sofas in her drawing room, a booted foot propped upon the opposite knee, casually explaining that he was delayed because two highwaymen had tried to kill him last night.

  Her other grandson, however, made no effort whatsoever to conceal his feelings about his cousin’s explanation. Lifting his brandy glass to his lips, Anthony grinned and said drolly, “Jordan, admit it—the truth is you wanted another blissful evening with your beautiful ballerina. Er, your pardon, Grandmama,” Anthony added belatedly when the dowager duchess sent him a withering look. “But the truth is, there were no highwaymen, and no twelve-year-old girl came to your rescue. Right?”

  “Wrong,” Jordan said imperturbably.

  The duchess watched the by-play between the two cousins. They were as close as brothers and as different as night and day, she thought: Jordan was more like her, reserved, cool, detached, while Anthony was easy to know and incurably good-natured. Anthony had two doting parents who loved him; Jordan had never known real affection from either of his. She approved wholeheartedly of Jordan’s demeanor, she disapproved of Anthony’s easygoing ways. Disapproval—in varying degrees—was the only emotion the dowager duchess permitted herself to display.

  “It happened exactly as I said, although it wounds my pride to admit it,” Jordan continued wryly as he stood up and walked to the sideboard to replenish the port in his glass. “One moment I was staring down the barrel of a pistol and the next moment there she was—charging straight into our midst atop a swaybacked nag, with her visor down, brandishing a lance in one hand and a rifle in the other.”

  He poured more of the Portuguese port he especially preferred into his glass and returned to his chair. In a voice that was matter-of-fact rather than critical, he continued, “Her armor was rusty and her house is straight out of a bad gothic novel—complete with cobwebs on the beams, faded tapestries, creaking doors and damp walls. She has a butler who’s deaf as a post, a blind footman who walks into walls, an old sot of an uncle who calls himself Sir Montague Marsh . . .”

  “Interesting family,” Anthony murmured. “No wonder she’s so . . . ah . . . unconventional.”

  “ ‘Conventionality,’ ” Jordan quoted dryly, “ ‘is the refuge of a stagnant mind.’ ”

  The dowager, whose entire life had been religiously and scrupulously dedicated to the precepts of convention, glowered. “Who said such a ridiculous thing?”

  “Alexandra Lawrence.”

  “Very unconventional.” Anthony chuckled, studying the almost fond smile upon his cousin’s rugged face as he spoke of the girl. Jordan seldom smiled, Anthony knew—unless the smile was seductive or cynical—and he rarely laughed. He had been brought up by a father who believed sentimentality was “soft,” and anything that was soft was abhorrent, forbidden. So was anything that made a man vulnerable. Including love. “What does this extraordinary female look like?” Anthony asked, anxious to discover more about the girl who’d had such an unusual effect on his cousin.

  “Small,” Jordan said as a picture of Alexandra’s laughing face danced across his mind. “And too thin. But she has a smile that could melt rock and a pair of the most extraordinary eyes. They’re the color of aquamarines and, when you look at her, they’re all you see. Her speech is as cultured as yours or mine, and despite that morbid house of hers, she’s a cheerful little thing.”

  “And brave, apparently,” Anthony added.

  Nodding, Jordan said, “I’m going to send her a bank draft—a reward for saving my life. God knows they can use the money. Based on things she said—and things she was careful not to say—I gathered that the responsibility for the entire outlandis
h household rests on her shoulders. Alexandra will undoubtedly be offended by the money, which is why I didn’t offer it last night, but it will ease her plight.”

  The duchess sniffed disdainfully, still irked by Miss Lawrence’s definition of conventionality. “The lower classes are always eager for coin, Jordan, regardless of the reason it’s given. I’m surprised she didn’t try to wheedle some sort of monetary reward last night.”

  “You’ve become a cynic,” Jordan teased blandly. “But you’re wrong about this girl. She’s without guile or greed.”

  Startled by this announcement from Jordan, whose opinion of the female character was notoriously low, Tony suggested helpfully, “In a few years, why don’t you have another look at her and set her up as—”

  “Anthony!” the duchess warned in tones of direst disapprobation. “Not in my presence, if you please!”

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking her from where she is,” Jordan said, completely inured to his grandmother’s ferocious scowl. “Alexandra is a rare jewel, but she wouldn’t last a day in London. She’s not hard enough or brittle enough or ambitious enough. She—” He broke off and looked inquiringly at the butler, who had coughed politely to obtain recognition. “Yes, Ramsey, what is it?”

  Ramsey drew himself up ramrod straight, his face contorted with distaste, his eyebrows positively levitating with ire. Directing his remarks to Jordan, he said, “There are three persons here, your grace, who insist upon seeing you. They arrived in a cart that defies description, drawn by a horse which is unworthy of the name, wearing clothing which no person of any merit would be seen in—”

  “Who are they?” Jordan interrupted impatiently.

  “The man claims to be Sir Montague Marsh, and the two ladies with him are his sister-in-law Mrs. Lawrence and his niece Miss Alexandra Lawrence. They say they’ve come to collect upon a debt owed by you.”

  The word “debt” caused Jordan’s eyebrows to snap together into a frown. “Show them in,” he said shortly.

  In an uncharacteristic lapse from her normal hauteur, the duchess permitted herself a satisfied, I-told-you-so glance at Jordan. “Miss Lawrence is not only greedy, she’s pushing and encroaching. Imagine, calling upon you here and claiming you owe a debt.”

  Without replying to his grandmother’s undeniable assessment of the situation, Jordan walked over and sat down at the carved oaken desk at the far end of the room. “There’s no reason for either of you to sit through this. I’ll handle it.”

  “On the contrary,” said the duchess in a glacial voice. “Anthony and I shall be present as witnesses in case these persons should resort to extortion.”

  Keeping her eyes focused on the back of the butler, Alexandra followed reluctantly in the wake of her mother and Uncle Monty, her entire being engulfed in mortification, her misery increased a thousandfold by the magnificence of Rosemeade.

  She’d expected a duke’s grandmother to occupy a grand home, but nothing in her imagination or experience had prepared her for the sight of this gigantic, brooding place set amid acres of gardens and lawns. Until they arrived here, she’d clung to the vision of the duke as he had seemed the other night—friendly and accessible. Rosemeade, however, had banished that absurd notion from her mind. He was from another world. To him, Rosemeade was “a small country home.” Instead, it was a palace, she thought miserably, as her feet sank into thick Aubusson carpet, a palace that made her feel even smaller and more insignificant than she already felt.

  The butler swept open a pair of carved oaken doors and stepped aside to admit them to a room lined with paintings in ornate frames. Repressing an urge to curtsy to the stiff-backed servant, Alexandra walked forward, dreading the moment when she would have to confront her newfound friend and see what she knew would surely be contempt written all over his features.

  She was not wrong. The man seated behind the richly carved desk bore little resemblance to the laughing, gentle man she’d met only two days ago. Today, he was an aloof, icy stranger who was inspecting her family as if they were bugs crawling across his beautiful carpet. He did not even make a pretense at politeness by standing or by introducing them to the other two occupants of the room. Instead, he nodded curtly to Uncle Monty and her mother, indicating they should be seated in the chairs before his desk.

  When his gaze finally shifted to Alexandra, however, his granite features softened and his eyes warmed, as if he understood how humiliated she felt. Coming around his desk, he drew up an additional chair especially for her. “Does the bruise cause you much pain, moppet?” he asked, studying the bluish mark upon her cheek.

  Absurdly flattered by his courtesy and concern, Alexandra shook her head. “It’s nothing, it doesn’t hurt a bit,” she said, immeasurably relieved because he didn’t seem to hold her in aversion for invading his house in this brassy manner. Awkward in her mother’s ill-fitting gown, Alexandra sat down on the edge of the chair. When she tried to wriggle demurely backward, the skirt of her gown caught on the velvet nap of the chair and the entire gown tightened until its neckline jerked at her throat and the high collar forced her chin up. Trapped like a rabbit in her own snare, Alexandra gazed helplessly up into the duke’s inscrutable grey eyes. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, straight-faced.

  “Quite comfortable, thank you,” Alexandra lied, morbidly certain that he was aware of her predicament and was trying hard not to laugh.

  “Perhaps if you stood up and sat down again?”

  “I’m perfectly fine as I am.”

  The amusement she thought she’d glimpsed in his eyes vanished the moment he sat back down behind his desk. Looking from her mother to her Uncle Monty, he said without preamble, “You could have spared yourselves the embarrassment of this unnecessary visit. I had every intention of expressing my gratitude to Alexandra by means of a bank draft for £1,000, which would have been delivered to you next week.”

  Alexandra’s mind reeled at the mention of such an enormous sum. Why, £1,000 would keep her entire household in relative luxury for at least two years. She’d have firewood to waste, if she wished, which of course she didn’t . . .

  “That won’t be enough,” Uncle Monty announced gruffly and Alexandra’s head jerked around.

  The duke’s voice turned positively glacial. “How much do you want?” he demanded, his dagger gaze pinning poor Uncle Monty to his chair.

  “We want what’s fair,” Uncle Monty said and cleared his throat. “Our Alexandra saved your life.”

  “For which I am prepared to pay handsomely. Now,” he said, and each word had a bite, “how much do you want?”

  Uncle Monty squirmed beneath the icy gaze leveled at him, but he persevered nonetheless. “Our Alexandra saved your life and, in return, you ruined hers.”

  The duke sounded ready to explode. “I did what?” he grated ominously.

  “You took a young lady of good breeding to a public inn and cohabited in a bedroom with her.”

  “I took a child to a public inn,” Jordan bit out. “An unconscious child who needed a doctor!”

  “Now, see here, Hawthorne,” Uncle Monty blustered in a surprisingly strong voice, “you took a young lady to that inn. You took her up to a bedroom with half the villagers looking on, and you carried her out thirty minutes later—fully conscious, her clothes in disarray, and without ever having summoned the leech. The villagers have a moral code, just like everybody else, and you publicly breached that code. Now, there’s a huge scandalbroth over it.”

  “If the righteous citizens of your little backwater can make a scandal out of a child being carried into an inn, they need their minds laundered! Now, enough caviling over insignificant details, how much do you—”

  “Insignificant details!” Mrs. Lawrence screeched furiously, leaning forward and clutching the edge of his desk so tightly her knuckles whitened. “Why, you—you vile, unprincipled lecher! Alexandra is seventeen and you’ve ruined her. Her fiancé’s parents were there in the salon when you carried her into our home, and
they’ve already broken off marriage negotiations. You ought to be hanged! Hanging is too good for you—”

  The duke seemed not to have heard the last of that; his head turned sharply to Alexandra and he studied her face as if he’d never seen her before. “How old are you?” he demanded as if her mother’s word was not good enough.

  Somehow Alexandra managed to drag her voice through the strangling mortification in her chest. This was all worse, much worse, than she’d dreamed it could be. “Seventeen. I—I will be eighteen next week,” she said in a weak, apologetic voice, then she flushed as his gaze swept over her from the tip of her head to her small bosom, obviously unable to believe her dress concealed a woman fully grown. Driven to apologizing for her deceptively boyish shape, she added miserably, “Grandfather told me that all the women in our family bloom late, and I—” Realizing that what she was saying was inexcusably crude, not to mention irrelevant, Alexandra broke off, blushed furiously, and shot an anguished glance at the two unknown occupants of the room, hoping for some sort of understanding or forgiveness. She saw none. The man was watching her with a mixture of shock and amusement. The lady looked as if she were chiseled out of marble.

  Alexandra’s glance skidded from them back to the duke, and she saw that his expression had become positively savage. “Assuming that I made such a mistake,” he said to Alexandra’s mother, “what is it you want of me?”

  “Since no decent man will marry Alexandra after what you’ve done, we expect you to marry her. Her birth is unexceptionable and we are connected with an earl and a knight. You can have no objection to her suitability.”