“Have a drink, Jordan,” John Camden said grimly and unceremoniously snatched a glass of Madeira from the tray of a passing footman, thrusting it into Jordan’s hand.
With a faint, puzzled smile at Camden’s odd behavior, Jordan handed the Madeira back to the footman. “Whisky,” he said succinctly and, excusing himself, he started toward the betting book. “What sort of nonsense are the young bucks betting on these days?” he asked. “No more pig races, I hope.” Six men abruptly blocked his path, fanning around the betting book in a semicircle and all six simultaneously burst into agitated conversation. “Odd weather we’re . . . Devil of a time you had . . . Tell us about . . . How’s Lord Anthony? . . . Is your grandmother well?”
Unseen by Jordan, John Camden shook his head, indicating the futility of their human blockade of the betting book, and the loyal band of sympathetic husbands trying to block Jordan’s path all stepped awkwardly aside.
“My grandmother is fine, Hurly,” Jordan said as he strolled through their midst to the book. “And so is Tony.” Bracing his hand on the back of the chair, Jordan leaned slightly forward, flipping backward through the pages as he had flipped backward through old copies of the newspapers earlier today, bringing himself up to date with the world. There were bets on everything, from the anticipated date of the next snowstorm to the weight of old Bascombe’s firstborn child.
Eight months ago, Jordan noted derisively, young Lord Thornton had bet £1,000 that his young friend Earl Stanley would take to his bed with a stomach ailment two months later, on December 20. On December 19, Thornton had bet Stanley £100 that he couldn’t eat two dozen apples at one sitting. Stanley won that bet. But he lost £1,000 the next day. Jordan chuckled, glancing up at his friends, and remarked dryly: “I see Stanley is still as gullible as ever.”
It was traditional, this remarking upon the betting follies of the younger set by the older, wiser, more worldly set The fathers of the six men gathered around the betting book— and their fathers before them—had all stood there, doing exactly that.
In the past, Jordan’s remark would have caused his friends to reply with amusing stories about other bets, or with good-natured reminders about some of his reckless foibles. Today all six men gave him uneasy smiles and said nothing.
With a puzzled, encompassing glance at them, Jordan returned his attention to the book. Stillness descended on the entire club as the gentlemen at the gaming tables ceased their play, waiting. A moment later, Jordan felt certain he knew the reason for the peculiar atmosphere all around him—throughout all of May and June, page after page of the betting book was suddenly covered with wagers on which suitor—and there had been dozens of them— Alexandra would ultimately choose to wed.
Annoyed but not surprised, Jordan turned the page and saw bets cropping up about the race on Queen’s Day and whether Alexandra would tie her ribbon on his sleeve.
He was, he saw as he glanced idly down the names in the book, a vast favorite to succeed . . . although, near the bottom of the page, there were a few names betting against him: Carstairs, Jordan noted wryly, had bet £1,000 against him earlier that day. Typical!
The next wager was also against him—a large one in a very odd amount—£2,017.3—guaranteed by Carstairs but placed on behalf of . . .
Rage exploded in Jordan’s brain as he straightened and turned to his friends. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he bit out in a soft, murderous voice, “I have just remembered that I have another engagement tonight.” Without a glance at anyone else, he stalked out.
The six men surrounding the betting book gazed at one another in helpless consternation. “He’s going after Carstairs,” John Camden said grimly, and they all nodded agreement.
They were wrong. “Home!” Jordan snapped at his driver as he flung himself into his carriage. Idly slapping his gloves against his thigh, Jordan endured the ride to No. 3 Upper Brook Street in a state of deadly calm as he contemplated a variety of highly gratifying methods of teaching his outrageously willful, errant wife a badly needed, unforgettable lesson.
He had never been tempted to strike a woman in his life, yet now he could think of nothing more satisfying than the impending prospect of walking into Alexandra’s bedchamber, jerking her over his lap, and paddling her until she could bear no more. It was, he decided, an eminently suitable punishment for what had been an eminently childish act of public defiance!
And after that, he decided, he would toss her onto the bed and put her to the use God intended her for!
In the mood he was in, he might well have done exactly that. But—as Higgins informed him when he stalked past the butler and headed up the staircase—Alexandra was “not at home.”
A moment ago, Jordan would have sworn he could not have been angrier than he already was. The news that Alexandra had openly defied him by going out, when he had specifically ordered her to stay home, sent his blood to the boiling point. “Get her maid down here,” Jordan demanded in a voice that made Higgins press backward against the door before scurrying off to do as he was bade.
Five minutes later, at ten-thirty, Jordan was en route to the Lindworthys’.
* * *
At that same moment, the Lindworthy butler was loudly proclaiming the arrival of: “Her grace, the Duchess of Hawthorne!”
Airily ignoring the swiveling heads and searching stares, Alexandra walked gracefully down the grand staircase in the most daring ensemble she had ever appeared in. It suited her perfectly—she felt wonderfully, independently daring tonight.
Partway down the staircase, she glanced casually over the packed ballroom, looking either for Roddy, Melanie, or the dowager duchess. She saw the duchess first, standing with a group of her elderly friends, and Alexandra headed toward her—a shimmering, glowing vision of youth and poise, her eyes shining as brightly as the jewels she wore, as she occasionally paused to nod regally at an acquaintance.
“Good evening, dear ma’am,” Alexandra said gaily, pressing a kiss to the duchess’ parchment cheek.
“I see you’re in high spirits, child,” her grace said, beaming at her and clasping Alexandra’s gloved hands in her own. “I’m equally happy to see,” she added, “that Hawthorne took my excellent advice this morning and removed his foolish restriction against your going out into company.”
With a mischievous smile, Alexandra dropped into a deep, respectful curtsy that was a miracle of grace, then she raised her head and jauntily declared, “No, ma’am, he did not.”
“You mean—”
“Exactly.”
“Oh!”
Since Alexandra already knew where the duchess stood on the matter of her marital obligations, that unenthusiastic reaction to her rebellious behavior didn’t dampen Alexandra’s spirits in the least. In fact, in the mood she was in, she didn’t think anything could dampen her spirits. Until a scant minute later, when Melanie rushed over to her, looking positively panicked. “Oh, Alex, how could you do such a thing!” she burst out, too overwrought to care that the dowager was standing right there. “There isn’t a husband here who wouldn’t like to wring your neck—including mine when he hears of it! You went too far, it’s beyond what is pleasing! You can’t do—”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Alexandra interrupted, but her heart was beginning to pound in automatic reaction to her usually imperturbable friend’s wild anxiety.
“I’m talking about the wager you had Roddy place in your name in the betting book at White’s, Alexandra!”
“In my name—” Alexandra exclaimed in panic-stricken disbelief. “Oh dear God! He wouldn’t have!”
“What wager?” the dowager gruffly demanded.
“He would and he did! And everyone in this ballroom knows about it.”
“Dear God!” Alexandra repeated faintly.
“What wager?” the dowager demanded in a low, thunderous voice.
Too shaken and angry to answer the dowager, Alexandra left that to Melanie. Plucking up her skirts, she whirled around, searching for
Roddy. What she saw was dozens of inimical male faces watching her.
She finally saw Roddy and bore down on him with murder in her eye and pain in her heart.
“Alexandra, my love,” he said, grinning, “you look more smashing than—” He reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it away, glaring at him with angry, accusing eyes.
“How could you do this to me!” she burst out bitterly. “How could you write that wager down in some book and put my name on it!”
For the second time since she had met him, Roderick Carstairs lost momentary control of his bland expression. “What do you mean?” he demanded in a low, indignant voice. “I did what you wanted me to do. You wanted to demonstrate to Society that you are not going to fall at Hawk’s feet, and I placed the wager for you at the best place to make your feelings public. And it was no easy task,” he continued irritably. “Only members of White’s are allowed to record wagers there, which is why I had to put my name over yours and guarantee your—”
“I wanted you to place a wager for me in your name, not mine, which is why I asked you to do it!” Alexandra cried in a voice raw with anxiety. “A quiet, confidential, unwritten gentlemen’s wager!”
Roddy’s brows snapped together as anger replaced his righteous indignation. “Don’t be a nitwit! What could you possibly hope to gain from a ‘quiet, confidential’ wager?”
“Money!” Alexandra exclaimed miserably.
Roddy’s mouth dropped open. “Money?” he repeated uncomprehendingly. “You made that wager because you want money?”
“Of course!” she naively replied. “Why else would anyone wager?”
Looking at her as if she were some curious specimen of humanity completely beyond his ken, Roddy informed her, “One wagers because one enjoys winning. You are married to one of the richest men in Europe. Why should you need money?”
That question, although logical, would have required Alexandra to discuss intentions that were entirely private. “I can’t explain,” she said miserably, “but I’m sorry for blaming you.”
Accepting her apology with a nod, Roddy stopped a passing footman and took two glasses of champagne from his tray, handing one of them to Alexandra. “Do you suppose,” she said eagerly, after a moment, oblivious to the pregnant hush suddenly creeping over the huge room, “there’s a chance Hawk may not discover my bet?”
Roddy, who was rarely oblivious to anything, glanced curiously about him and then upward, following the direction of everyone’s gazes.
“Not much,” he said wryly and, with a blasé motion of his hand, he directed her attention to the upper balcony at the same moment the Lindworthy butler announced in a booming voice . . .
“His grace, the Duke of Hawthorne!”
Jolts of shock and anticipation roared through the crowd and Alexandra’s head snapped up, her eyes riveted in alarmed horror on the tall, daunting figure clad in stark black, who was stalking purposefully down the stairs. The staircase was less than fifteen yards from Alexandra, but when Jordan neared the bottom step, the giant sea of people in the ballroom seemed to press forward in a huge wave and an explosion of greetings erupted into a deafening cacophony of sound.
He was taller by half a head than nearly everyone, and from her corner, Alexandra saw him smile slightly as he seemed to listen to what people were saying to him, but his eyes were casually scanning the crowd—searching, Alexandra feared, for her. Panicked, she downed her champagne and handed the empty glass to Roddy, who then gave her his own. “Drink mine,” he said dryly. “You’re going to need it.”
Alexandra looked around like a fox searching for a bolt-hole, her glance skidding to a stop in every direction that might inadvertently put her in Hawk’s line of vision. Helpless to move, she pressed back against the wall and unthinkingly lifted Roddy’s glass to her lips, just as her eyes encountered the dowager duchess off to her right. The duchess sent her an odd, quelling look, then turned and spoke rapidly to Melanie. A moment later, Melanie was wending her way around the crowd surrounding Jordan, moving toward Alexandra and Roddy.
“Your grandmother says,” Melanie said in an urgent voice as soon as she reached Alexandra, “to pray not choose tonight of all nights to overindulge for the first time in your life, and not to worry because she says Hawthorne will know exactly how to act when he realizes you’re here.”
“Did she say anything else?” Alexandra begged, desperately needing reassurance.
“Yes,” Melanie said with a vigorous nod. “She said I am to stick to your side like glue and not leave you, no matter what happens tonight.”
“Dear God!” Alexandra burst out. “I thought she said there was nothing to worry about!”
Roddy shrugged mildly. “Hawk may not know of your wager yet, so don’t look so overwrought.”
“I’m not worried solely about the wager,” Alexandra informed him darkly, watching Jordan, trying to anticipate in which direction he would ultimately move when he disentangled himself from the large crowd around him, so that she could slide in the opposite one. “I’m worried he’ll discover I’m—”
Someone on Jordan’s right said something to him and he turned his head; his gaze sliding swiftly, searchingly along the wall where Alexandra stood . . . past Melanie, past Roddy, past Alexandra . . . and then slashed back, leveling on her like a pair of deadly black pistols. “—here,” Alexandra finished weakly, while Jordan looked straight at her, impaling her on his gaze, leaving her in no doubt that he intended to seek her out at the first possible moment.
“I think he’s just discovered it,” Roddy teased.
Jerking her eyes from Hawk’s, Alexandra looked around for a safe place to conceal herself until he moved out of her only path of escape—somewhere where it would not seem to anyone she was hiding. The safest thing to do, she decided quickly, was simply to stroll into the midst of the seven hundred guests and try to melt into the crowd until Jordan lost sight of her.
“Shall we ‘mingle,’ my dear?” Roddy suggested, obviously arriving at the same conclusion.
Slightly relieved, Alexandra nodded, but the idea of “mingling” lost its appeal a few minutes later when she passed by Lord and Lady Moseby and Lord North, who were all standing on the sidelines near the mirrored wall that ran the width of the ballroom. Lady Moseby held out her hand, detaining Alexandra as she said in a laughing voice tinged with admiration, “I heard about your wager, Alexandra.”
Alexandra’s polite smile froze on her face.
“It—it was merely a jest,” Melanie Camden put in, materializing at Alexandra’s side, in accordance with the duchess’ earlier instruction.
Regarding Alexandra with a disapproving look, Lord North said stiffly, “I wonder if Hawk will find it amusing.”
‘I wouldn’t, I assure you,” Lord Moseby darkly informed Alexandra, then he took his wife’s arm and, with a curt nod, firmly guided his lady away from Alexandra, with Lord North right beside him.
“I’ll be damned!” Roddy said softly, glowering at the men’s rigid backs. After a long, thoughtful moment, he slowly transferred his gaze to Alexandra’s stricken face, regarding her with a combination of contrition, annoyance, and irony. “I fear I’ve done you a grave wrong by placing that wager at White’s,” he said. “I naturally expected a few of the more prudish of my sex to frown on our little wager. Regrettably, I failed to consider that in openly defying your husband with that wager, you would outrage every other husband in the ton.”
Alexandra scarcely heard him. “Roddy,” she said hastily, “you’re very sweet to stay by my side, but you’re quite tall and—”
“And you’d be less easily spotted without me at your side?” Roddy guessed, and Alexandra nodded. “In that case,” he said contritely, “I shall take myself off.”
“Thank you.”
“Inasmuch as I feel inadvertently responsible for part of your dilemma, the least I can do is make myself scarce so you can escape it for now.” With a brief bow, he strode into the crowd, headin
g in the opposite direction from Alexandra and Melanie.
Five minutes later, standing with her back angled toward the ballroom, Alexandra looked anxiously at Melanie. “Do you see him?”
“No,” Melanie said, after casting a surreptitious look over the crowded room. “He’s no longer by the stairs, nor in your path.”
“In that case, I’m going to leave now,” Alexandra said quickly, pressing a brief kiss to Melanie’s cheek. “I’ll be fine—don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow if I can—”
“You can’t,” Melanie said unhappily. “My husband does not think the London air suitable for my condition. He’s bent on taking me back to the country, and staying there until the baby comes.”
The thought of having to face the near future without Melanie to confide in made Alexandra feel positively miserable. “I’ll write to you,” the promised, wondering dismally if she would ever see Melanie again. Unable to say more, Alexandra plucked up her skirts and began making her way toward the staircase. Behind her, Melanie called out her name, but the roar of laughing conversation in the crowded ballroom swallowed the warning as Alexandra walked quickly, staying close to the wall.
Without stopping, she bent to put her champagne glass on a table, then stifled a scream as a hand clamped cruelly onto her forearm and spun her around. At the same instant, Jordan stepped in front of her, neatly isolating them both from view of the ballroom guests. Bracing his hand high on the wall behind her, he managed to imprison her with his body and yet look to all appearances like a relaxed gentleman engaging in somewhat intimate conversation with a lady.
“Alexandra,” he said in an ominously calm tone that belied the leaping fury in his eyes, “there are approximately four hundred men in this room, most of whom believe it’s my duty to set an example for their wives by dragging you out of here in front of everyone, and then to take you home and beat some sense into you—which I am perfectly willing, no—anxious—to do.”
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