It took Alexandra most of the waltz before she began to relax and stop counting off the steps in her head. In fact, she had just decided that she was not likely to miss a step and tread on the well-shod feet of her elegant, bored-looking dancing partner when he said something that nearly made her do exactly that. “Tell me, my dear,” he said in a sardonic drawl, “how have you managed to blossom as you have in the frigid company of the Dowager Duchess of Hawthorne?”
The music was building to a crescendo as the waltz neared its end, and Alexandra was certain she must have misunderstood him. “1—I beg your pardon?”
“I was expressing my admiration for your courage in having survived a full year with our most esteemed icicle— the dowager duchess. I daresay you have my sympathy for what you must have endured this past year.”
Alexandra, who had no experience with this sort of sophisticated, brittle repartee, did not know it was considered fashionable, and so she reacted with shocked loyalty to the woman she had come to love. “Obviously you are not well-acquainted with her grace.”
“Oh, but I am. And you have my deepest sympathy.”
“I do not need your sympathy, my lord, and you cannot know her well and still speak of her thus.”
Roddy Carstairs stared at her with cold displeasure. “I daresay I’m well enough acquainted with her to have suffered frostbite on several occasions. The old woman is a dragon.”
“She is generous and kind!”
“You,” he said with a jeering smile, “are either afraid to speak the truth, or you are the most naive chit alive.”
“And you,” Alexandra retorted with a look of glacial scorn that would have done credit to the dowager herself, “are either too blind to see the truth, or you are extremely vicious.” At that moment the waltz came to an end, and Alexandra delivered the unforgivable—and unmistakable —insult of turning her back on him and walking away.
Unaware that anyone had been watching them, she returned to Tony and the duchess, but her actions had indeed been noted by many of the guests, several of whom lost no time in chiding the proud knight for his lack of success with the young duchess. In return, Sir Roderick retaliated by becoming her most vocal detractor that same night and expressing to his acquaintances his discovery, during their brief dance, that the Duchess of Hawthorne was a vapid, foolish, vain chit and a dead bore without conversation, polish, or wit.
Within one hour, Alexandra innocently verified to the guests that she was certainly excruciatingly foolish. She was standing amidst a huge group of elegantly attired people in their twenties and early thirties. Several of the guests were enthusiastically discussing the ballet they’d attended the night before and the dazzling performance given by a ballerina named Elise Grandeaux. Turning to Anthony, Alexandra raised her voice slightly in order to be heard over the din, and had innocently asked if Jordan had enjoyed the ballet. Two dozen people seemed to stop talking and gape at her with expressions that ranged from embarrassment to derision.
The second incident occurred shortly thereafter. Anthony had left her with a group of people, including two young dandies who were discussing the acceptable height of shirtpoints, when Alexandra’s gaze was drawn to two of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. They were standing close together, but with their backs to one another, and they were both minutely scrutinizing Alexandra’s features over their shoulders. One was a coolly beautiful blonde in her late twenties, the other a lush brunette a few years younger.
Jordan had once remarked that Alexandra reminded him of a Gainsborough portrait, she remembered fondly, but these two women were worthy of no less a master than Rembrandt. Realizing that Mr. Warren had been speaking to her, Alexandra begged his pardon for her lack of attention, and inclined her head toward the two women who had distracted her. “Are they not the two loveliest females you’ve ever beheld?” she asked with a smile of sheer admiration and no jealousy.
The group surrounding her looked first at the two women, then at her. Brows shot up, eyes widened, and fans lifted to conceal amused smiles. By the end of the ball, four hundred people had heard that Hawk’s widow had been admiring two of his former paramours, Lady Allison Whitmore and Lady Elizabeth Grangerfield. So diverting was that tidbit that even Lady Grangerfield and Lady Whitmore—whose friendship had long ago been destroyed by their mutual desire for the same man—heard about it. And for the first time in years, they were seen laughing uproariously together, like the best of friends.
Alexandra was blissfully unaware of her latest gaffe, but she was acutely aware as the evening progressed that people seemed to be laughing at her behind their hands.
On the way home in the coach, she pleaded with Anthony to tell her if something had gone awry, but he merely patted her shoulder and soothingly told her she was “a great success,” while the duchess remarked that she had given “an excellent account” of herself.
Despite that, Alexandra knew instinctively that something was very wrong. During the following week of balls, soirées, Venetian breakfasts, and musicales, the sardonic, sidelong glances directed at her became almost unendurable. Hurt and bewildered, she sought refuge among the dowager’s acquaintances who, although decades older than she, did not seem to eye her as an amusing, peculiar, pathetic creature. Moreover, with them, she could repeat some of the wondrous stories of Jordan’s skill and daring which she’d heard from Hawthorne’s head footman and chief groom, such as the time he saved the head groom from drowning.
It did not dawn on Alexandra that the polite, older people who listened to her glowing accounts were concluding that she had been sadly and ludicrously besotted with Hawthorne—or that these same people might repeat this observation to their younger relatives, who in turn spread the word to all their friends.
On rare occasions, Alexandra was asked to dance, but only by men who were interested in the huge dowry Anthony and the duchess had settled on her—or by men who were mildly interested in sampling the body of the young woman who had been married to one of England’s most notorious libertines. Alexandra sensed, without knowing why, that none of these gentlemen truly liked her and she did the only thing she could think of to hide her confusion and misery: She put her chin up and with cool politeness made it infinitely clear she preferred to remain with the dowager’s set.
As a result, Alexandra was dubbed the Ice Duchess, and the unkind sobriquet stuck. Jokes circulated amongst the ton which implied that Jordan Townsende may have thought drowning was preferable to being frozen to death in his wife’s bed. It was recalled with considerable relish that Jordan had been seen emerging from the lavish lodgings he provided for his lovely ballerina on the very afternoon the announcement of his marriage appeared in the Times.
Moreover, it was remarked upon at length and with much derision that Jordan’s mistress had laughingly told a friend that very same evening that Jordan’s marriage had been one of “Inconvenience” and that he had no intention of breaking off their relationship.
Within two weeks, Alexandra was painfully aware that she was a hopeless social outcast, but as she did not hear the talk, she had no way of discovering why. All she knew was that the ton treated her either with patronization, amusement, or occasionally, outright scorn—and that she had failed Jordan miserably. It was the latter that hurt her most. She spent hours standing in the hall in front of his likeness, trying not to cry, silently apologizing to him for her failure and begging him to forgive her.
* * *
“Can you hear me, Hawthorne? Wake up, man!”
With an effort that nearly sapped his strength, Jordan responded to the whispered command and slowly forced his lids open. Blinding white light poured in through tiny openings in the walls high above, searing his eyes, while pain again sent him plunging into the dark oblivion of unconsciousness.
It was night again when he came around and saw the grimy face of George Morgan, another captive from the Lancaster whom he hadn’t seen since they were taken off the ship three months ago. “Where am I?�
�� he asked and felt blood ooze from his cracked, parched lips.
“In hell,” the American said grimly. “In a French dungeon, to be more exact.”
Jordan tried to lift his arm and discovered heavy chains were holding it down. His gaze followed the chain to the iron ring attached in the stone wall and he studied it in foggy confusion, trying to think why he was chained, when George Morgan was not.
Understanding his bewilderment, his companion answered, “Don’t you remember? The chain’s part of your reward for swinging on a guard and breaking his nose, not to mention nearly slitting his throat with his own knife when they brought you in here this morning.”
Jordan closed his eyes, but could not remember fighting with a guard. “What was the rest of my reward?” he asked, his voice hoarse, unfamiliar to his own ears.
“Three or four broken ribs, a battered face, and a back that looks like raw meat.”
“Charming,” Jordan gritted. “Any particular reason they didn’t kill me rather than maim me?”
His coolly dispassionate tone wrung an admiring laugh from George. “Damn, but you British bluebloods don’t blink an eye no matter what, do you? Cool as anything, just like everyone always says.” Reaching behind him, George dipped a tin cup into a bucket of slimy water, poured off as much of the mold that floated on top as he could, then held the cup against Jordan’s bloodied lips.
Jordan swallowed, then spat it out in furious revulsion.
Ignoring his reaction, George pressed the cup to the helpless man’s lips again and said, “Now I know it don’t have the delicate bouquet of your favorite Madeira, and it ain’t in a clean, genteel crystal goblet, but if you don’t drink it, you’ll deprive our guards of the privilege of killing you themselves, and they’ll take out their disappointment on me.”
Jordan’s brows snapped together, but he saw the other man was joking, and he took a few sips of the vile, dank liquid.
“That’s better. You’re sure a glutton for punishment, man,” he continued lightly, but he was worriedly binding Jordan’s chest with strips torn from his own shirt. “You could have spared yourself this beating if your ma had taught you to be polite when addressing two men who have guns and knives and nasty dispositions.”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep your ribs in one place. Now then, to answer your earlier question about why they didn’t kill you, the Frenchies are trying to keep you alive in case the British capture one of theirs—I heard one of the officers say you was a trump card they intend to use in case they want a trade. ’Course you’re not doin’ your share, which is to stay alive—not when you go around insultin’ a guard and then rudely tryin’ to steal his weapon. From the looks of you, I didn’t do you any favors when I hauled you out of the ocean with me and onto that French frigate that brought us here.”
“How bad do I look?” Jordan asked without much interest.
“I’d say one more beating like this one and you’ll not find your two ladies nearly as amorous as they were when you left.”
Unconsciousness was wrapping its tentacles around him, trying to pull him back into the familiar black pit, and Jordan fought against it, preferring the pain to oblivion. “What ‘two ladies’?”
“I reckon you ought to know better’n me. One’s named Elise. Is that your wife?”
“Mistress.”
“And Alexandra?”
Jordan blinked, trying to clear his fogged senses. Alexandra. Alexandra— “A child,” he said as a dim vision of a dark-haired girl brandishing a pretend sword danced before his eyes. “No,” he whispered in pained regret as his life passed swiftly before him—a wasted life of empty flirtations and debauchery, a meaningless life culminating in his whimsical, impulsive marriage to a bewitching girl with whom he had truly shared a bed only once. “My wife.”
“Really?” George said, looking impressed. “Got a mistress and a wife and a child? One of everything.”
“No—” Jordan corrected hazily. “No child. One wife. Several mistresses.”
George grinned and rubbed his hand across his dirty beard. “I don’t mean to sound censorious. I admire a man who knows how to live. But,” he continued, thunderstruck despite himself, “several mistresses?”
“Not,” Jordan corrected, gritting his teeth against the pain, “at the same time.”
“Where’ve they been keepin’ you all this time? I haven’t seen you since the Frenchies took us off their ship three months ago.”
“I’ve had private accommodations and personal attention,” Jordan sardonically replied, referring to the dark pit beneath the dungeon that he had inhabited between periodic bouts of torture that had nearly driven him insane with pain.
His cellmate stared at Jordan’s battered body with a worried frown, but he tried to keep his voice light. “What did you tell the Frenchies to make them dislike you so much more than me?”
Jordan coughed and gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his chest. “I told them my name.”
“And?”
“And they remembered it”—he gasped, fighting to stay conscious—“from Spain.”
George’s brows drew together in bewilderment. “They’ve done this to you for something you did to them in Spain?”
The semiconscious man nodded slightly, his eyes closing. “And because . . . they think I still have . . . information. About military.”
“Listen to me, Hawthorne,” George said desperately. “You were muttering about an escape plan when you came to a while ago. Do you have a plan?”
Another feeble nod.
“I want to go with you. But Hawthorne—you won’t live through another beating like this one. I mean it, man. Don’t anger any more guards.”
Jordan’s head dropped sideways as he finally lost the battle against unconsciousness.
Sitting on his heels, George shook his head with despair. The Versailles had lost so many men in its bloody battle with the Lancaster that the French captain had fished three men out of the water and used them to supplement his badly diminished crew. One of them had died of his wounds within a day. George wondered if his cellmate was about to become a second casualty.
Chapter Sixteen
BY THE NIGHT of Lord and Lady Donleigh’s ball, during the third week after her debut, Alexandra was so miserable, and so tense, that she was numb inside. She felt as if she would never again laugh with joy or find solace in tears. On that fateftul night, she did both.
At the dowager duchess’ whispered urging, Alexandra had politely, but reluctantly, agreed to dance with Lord Ponsonby, a ponderous, mincing middle-aged fop who affected a lisp, dressed like a peacock, and pompously informed her while they danced that he was regarded as a man of superior intelligence. Tonight he was attired in orange satin knee breeches that swelled over his protruding midsection, a plum satin waistcoat, and a long yellow brocade coat—a combination that made Alexandra think of a large pile of overripe fruit when she looked at him.
Instead of returning Alexandra to the dowager duchess when the dance ended, Lord Ponsonby (who Alexandra had heard was in need of a wealthy wife to offset his substantial gaming debts) drew her firmly in the opposite direction. “You must accompany me to that delightful alcove over there, your grace. The dowager duchess mentioned to me last evening that you have an interest in things philosophical, therefore I shall endeavor to enlighten you a little upon one of the greatest philosophers of ancient times—Horace.” Alexandra instantly realized that the duchess must be desperately concerned about her lack of partners to resort to actually boasting to Ponsonby about Alexandra’s intellect.
“Pray do not alarm yourself,” Sir Ponsonby urged, mistaking the cause of Alexandra’s dismay. “I shall not forget for a moment that you are a female and, as such, unable to understand the complexities and subtleties of logic. You may depend upon me to keep the discussion very, very simple.”
Alexandra was too despondent to be annoyed by his insulting estimation of female intelligence an
d too defeated to feel anything more than mild dejection at being treated this way by a man with no more sense than to attire himself like a tray of fruit.
Wearing an expression of polite interest, she allowed him to guide her into the alcove, which was separated from the main ballroom by a pair of crimson velvet curtains drawn back and held in place with matching velvet cords. Once inside the alcove, Alexandra realized there was another occupant, a gorgeously gowned young woman with a patrician profile and lustrous hair the color of spun gold. She was standing at the open French door with her back partially to them—obviously trying to enjoy a moment of solitude and fresh air.
The young woman turned slightly as Alexandra entered with Lord Ponsonby, and Alexandra recognized her immediately. Lady Melanie Camden, the beautiful young wife of the Earl of Camden had just returned to London earlier in the week from the country, where she’d been visiting her sister. Alexandra had been present at the ball where Lady Camden put in her first appearance of the Season, and she had watched from afar as the crowd of illustrious guests rushed to Lady Camden, welcoming her back with delighted smiles and eager hugs. She was “one of their own,” Alexandra thought rather wistfully.
Realizing they were invading Lady Camden’s privacy, Alexandra smiled tentatively, silently apologizing for their intrusion. The countess acknowledged the smile with a polite nod of her head and serenely turned back to the French door.
Lord Ponsonby either failed to notice the countess, or refused to be distracted by her presence. After helping himself to a glass of punch from the tray on the table beside him, he positioned himself beside one of the marble pillars that were situated in front of the curtains, and then launched into a pompous, grossly inaccurate dissertation on Horace’s philosophical remarks about ambition, but all the while his gaze seemed to be on Alexandra’s bosom.
Alexandra was so disconcerted at being subjected for the first time in her life to visual fondling by a male—even such a comically poor specimen of a male as this—that when he casually attributed a remark of Socrates’ to Horace, she scarcely noticed either the error or the fact that the Countess of Camden had glanced swiftly over her shoulder at him, as if startled.
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