He’s not worth it!
Peering up at the night sky, she noted that the stars appeared to be completely obscured, not a single one remaining to be wished upon—not that she had wishes to make, mind you.
None beyond the simple fact that she wished her father wasn’t such a scoundrel and that her life wasn’t such a mess. But, really, where to begin?
If there were but one thing she could have undone… what would that be?
Shivering under her pelisse, she wandered through the garden, distracting herself with the flower beds.
Most of the beds were filled with roses and heliotropium—fine, fine choices, particularly during the heat of summer because the scent was bound to conceal even the worst from the Thames. In full bloom, the heliotropium would give off a nice vanilla-almond-scent that attracted butterflies en masse. Smiling, she fingered the necklace, taking pleasure in the thoughtful gift.
This time of the year the flowers were already spent—looking as brittle as she felt. And yet, like dabs of hope against a mantle of gloom, some of the roses were still blooming, peppering the garden with a smattering of pink and white blooms. Drawn instead to one of the heliotropium plants, she wondered if it had any medicinal properties. Most plants did, and she wished she had her notepad with her so she could sketch this particular leaf. That’s what she enjoyed best: sketching flowers, putting notations on the pages. Someday, she might like to bind them, and maybe publish her efforts. Brushing her thumb across the edge of the serrated leaf, considering an appropriate nom de plume, she wondered how many women published in secret…
If not that, what was she supposed to do with her life from here forth? Certainly, she would visit Meridian, but she didn’t wish to move there, nor had Claire even proposed such a thing. In fact, Alexandra had never felt more disconnected from Claire in her entire life.
At some point, she could descend upon her mother in Shropshire. But wouldn’t that be cozy?
She snorted inelegantly over the very notion, although, at some point, she really must make amends. Only considering that her mother hadn’t been very forthcoming, Alexandra supposed she must be the one to make concessions. Lady Eveline was her only remaining blood relation, aside from a few distant cousins she didn’t know well, but, Lady Eveline wasn’t the most forgiving woman. Nor was she very warm.
It might help if Alexandra were already wed by the time they came face to face. But, in truth, no one was good enough for her mother—neither titled nor monied. A gentleman must have both money and title, and it was no wonder that Lady Eveline had pressed her to meet Prince Merrick, only to fume so miserably when he’d dismissed her out of hand. Only a royal prince had ever piqued her mother’s interest—and, if Alexandra could be honest with herself, that, too, had been yet another reason she’d wept so bitterly over Merrick’s unintended insult. She was left stung by her mother’s unvarnished disappointment, and entirely hopeless to make amends for something she’d had no means to change.
Really, she loathed to think what her mother would say if, like Prince Merrick, she chose to marry a commoner. But there again, he was a man, as well as a Prince, and no doubt empowered to do whatsoever he pleased.
Sadly, she’d suffered her father’s scrutiny no less. Unlike her mother, Lord Huntington hadn’t cared overmuch about the financial wellbeing of any particular suitor, but he was incessantly concerned over titles—not that he ever had a chance to obtain a shred of nobility in his wife’s estimation. And now… there wasn’t a soul in London who would raise Lord Huntington above the villain he was.
Really, for all practical purposes, Alexandra had been alone for much of her life. The only bright spots had ever been Claire… and Ben…
Don’t think about him!
Cursing beneath her breath, she plucked a frost-bitten leaf, dreaming about a design for her new conservatory. She should get rid of that stupid ballroom once and for all. She hadn’t a taste for balls anymore. There was more than enough room for a conservatory, and what was more, that particular room overlooked the garden. It would be perfect... and then she could design a parterre like…
Alexandra never heard the footfalls approach. “You,” said Ben, and the single word felt like the pointy end of a dagger.
Alexandra spun to face him, the look on his face openly contemptuous, as though someone were holding a stinker beneath his nose. “Yes, it’s me,” she said flatly. “What do you want, Ben?”
“Not a bloody damned thing,” he said. “Gad! Don’t you have some gown to press, or something?”
Alexandra tilted him an affronted glance, lifting a hand to her breast, crushing the heliotropium leaf. “I was here first,” she pointed out. “Really, Ben, don’t you have some other poor soul to delude?”
In answer, he lifted his brow, drawing forth a cheroot from his coat pocket and putting it between his lips, though he didn’t light it. Alexandra eyed the cigar with open distaste. Before Ben’s sweep through the Gaming Hells, he had never smoked a day in his life—not so far as Lexie knew. And regardless, the Benji she had grown to admire would never have dared smoke in front of a lady, nor would he speak to her so rudely.
“When did you become such an ash mouth?”
His dark brow lifted higher, and he offered Lexie a wintry smirk. “What concern is it of yours, Alexandra?” —Alexandra, not Lexie!— “Despite all the bloody mistletoe hanging about, you’ll never be troubled by my ash mouth… never again.”
His green eyes glinted, and she knew… oh, yes, she knew… he was as tormented by that kiss as she was. Something about that gave her immense satisfaction. And, furthermore, if he thought for one second that she was going handle his effrontery the way she had Prince Merrick’s—with tears—he was sorely mistaken. She was not that sweet, little innocent girl any longer. It might not be a butterfly that had emerged from her chrysalis—only a common, ugly moth—but she was still ready to fly away.
He searched for and found his striker, ferreting it out of his pocket, offering Alexandra a thin smile, as though to spite her. He struck it once, putting the flame to his cheroot, inhaling deeply as he lit the foul-smelling cigar. The tip glowed bright red against the darkness, lighting his face red, and he drew it away from his sinfully beautiful lips, exhaling a stink that lingered like a frost cloud in the air. Alexandra waved it away before it could venture near, and said, “I hope you won’t be indulging during our travels, or at least in my presence.”
His stark green eyes, so like Claire’s, glittered fiercely. “Ah, yes… your presence… something I intend to suffer as little as possible, I assure you.”
Suffer?
Alexandra had had enough. She tossed away her leaf very indignantly. “Really, Ben, if you didn’t wish to escort me to Meridian, why would you agree to it?”
In answer, he shrugged, taking yet another puff and once again pulling the cheroot from his lips, ever so slowly. There was something not quite civil about the way he blew out the smoke in the shape of an O. “Because Claire asked,” he said, “And, as you must realize by now, I am quite fond of my little sister.”
“Yes, well. So am I,” Alexandra reminded him.
“Naturally. So there you have it. I agreed for the very same reason you agreed, Lexie.” He eyed her coolly. “And yet… this is why you came running to Highbury with apologies… because you care?”
His accusation stung because it was true… she had been so overcome with grief and so self-involved after her father’s arrest that she hadn’t dared go to Claire…
“For Claire,” he said. “I would walk through flames… especially since she did so for me… thanks to your father.”
And there it was.
He blamed her. He blamed her very, very much. But for all his blame, did he ever bother to take any for himself?
Injured by his words, nearly as much as she was by his animosity, Alexandra stamped her foot, and spun on her heels, bolting away before he could spy the angry tears forming in her eyes, even against her will. She hur
ried into the house, past the parlor, past the laughter, past Claire and her new friends—
“Lexie!” shouted Claire. “There you are! Alexandra!”
Alexandra didn’t stop. She hurried toward the paneled stairwell, but Claire rushed into the hall to catch her before she could flee.
“We’re singing,” she said brightly. “Please, please, please… come join us. You’re the best!”
Alexandra shook her head. “I really shouldn’t…”
“Please,” begged Claire, smiling such an irresistible smile that Alexandra couldn’t possibly say no.
Like Ben, there wasn’t very much in this entire world she wouldn’t do for Claire.
“For me,” she begged, and what could Alexandra do but surrender. Pasting on a brave smile, she cast one last glance toward the door from whence she’d come and then followed Claire into the parlor.
He watched her go, utterly disgusted with himself.
The truth was that he hadn’t the first clue why he was driven to bedevil her.
He knew that none of his travails were Lexie’s fault. But her father was such a shiftless, heartless bastard—a wastrel, a blackguard.
And nevertheless… so was he. He had put himself into a position to be done up by impost takers. He, himself, had given Huntington the means to beggar him, and that was neither Alexandra’s father’s fault, nor was it hers. It was his. The problem was… he couldn’t look at Lexie without remembering that bit of truth.
Nor did he wish to fall back into his old ways, enabling a child, consoling her tears.
He was no longer quite so glib as he one was, no longer so beetle-headed, nor… respectable.
Ash mouth.
He plucked the cheroot from his lips, lifting it to his nostrils for a sniff.
Bloody vixen.
Ash mouth.
As he stood contemplating Alexandra and his sister’s meddling, snow began to fall, and that too was an oddity for these parts.
A cold day in Hell.
That’s what this was.
It was a cold day in Hell and Ben rather suspected he understood why he was so vexed by Alexandra’s company. She made him recall things he didn’t wish to recall… lost youth, lost opportunity, lost repute.
Some part of him desperately longed for simpler days when he could be lost in her sweet laughter, those sweet, amber-flecked eyes. But she wasn’t the same anymore either. In fact, there was something about Alexandra that was distinctly different, something he couldn’t put his finger to…
Counting all the weeks he’d spent in Fleet, it had been nearly a year since he’d last seen her, much less spent any time in her company. And, in truth, he hadn’t seen her much before that terrible night—not since before his father died. As soon as he’d discovered the state of their finances, he’d set himself the task of restoring their good fortunes—a lot of good he’d done. He’d gambled away the last of their legal tender, and then he’d made himself a fool…
He stared a long, hard moment at the doorway through which Alexandra had fled. He had, indeed, spied her out here, in the garden, and damned if he wasn’t drawn to her like a moth to a flame. No matter that his anger was simmering too near the surface, he had longed for her company, and yet he’d approached her with enmity—why?
In fact, he had always suspected there was more to Lexie than what she allowed people to see… a certain something that called to his spirit. And really, there must be some reason she was drawn to Claire.
More to the point, there must be a reason he was drawn to her…
Only now he feared what he saw in the depths of Alexandra’s eyes… sadness—a sadness she generally hid with good humor and frivolity. Only now that he understood its root cause, he wasn’t entirely certain she would ever heal.
And worse, perhaps Ben was a cause for it.
Or perhaps he still feared she was too much like her father—and yet no… that wasn’t it at all.
It was this: He loved her. He still loved her madly; he just didn’t like her anymore—no more than he liked himself. And that was the rub, he supposed. Alexandra was too much like him, and he hadn’t recognized that before because there was no shade put upon his life. His parents had loved both their children deeply, and if their father had left them without funds or options, it wasn’t because he was a bounder. He’d spent every penny caring for his family and tending to their ailing mother. His father had had only noble intentions… but… Ben had not.
For a while, he must confess, here and now… he had enjoyed that life for a moment… smoke curling in the air, bosoms heaving near his face… glasses clinking on the table…
Now… well… he was changed… and not for the better… and all because of Alexandra’s father.
Snow fell harder, leaving white specks on his dark frock coat, and nevertheless, he didn’t stir himself to go back inside… there was nowhere to walk in there without standing within five feet of damnable mistletoe—and if Lexie so happened to be standing anywhere near a sprig, he might be tempted beyond reason to find out if she still tasted the way he remembered…. sweet and fresh, with just a hint of spice.
Gods bones. Even now… he was hard as stone over the memory… and what was worse, he knew she was plagued by those memories as well, and the blush in her cheeks… it made him yearn to give her another reason to burn.
Damn it, Claire.
The sound of music reverberated from within, and he tossed down his cheroot, stamping it out, realizing he couldn’t hide forever. It was bloody cold, and already, the snow was growing thick enough to cover the stone path. Blast and damn! It was going to be a long, long week, and if they ended up being housebound, he was going to go mad.
Chapter 6
Rule No. 6:
On Obligation.
Whatever you do, do NOT run away if you are asked for a kiss. Although you may, indeed, take strategic action to avoid it, once caught beneath a sprig, and a kiss has been requested, you simply must comply, or you will risk never receiving a marriage proposal for the duration of the year—worse yet, you might risk the fate of becoming a spinster! Remember, ladies: Every Season counts!
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter’s night that was so deep…
It was true: Alexandra might still be impaired by the spirits she’d drunk, though it didn’t help matters very much that it had been so long since she’d practiced her piano—really, what was the point in practicing when there was no one about to entertain?
And regardless, no one seemed fazed by her blundering, and the more joyous everyone sang, the testier she became.
This was all Ben’s fault.
How dare he speak to her so rudely!
How dare he make her feel as though she were the one to blame for all his ills!
He was the one who’d courted ruin. Ben did—not her! He was the one who’d put himself at her father’s disposal.
Blast and damn. Alexandra didn’t feel like singing nor making merry, not even when Mr. Cameron and the brothers joined the chorus, belting out the words with voices that were perfectly in harmony. Their joy should have been infectious, but Alexandra felt only like shouting, bah, humbug!
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell
Born is the King of Israel!
Her emotions simmering just beneath the surface, she tapped out the keys, when, really, what she longed to do was give in to a rare fit of temper and pound angrily upon the keyboard. Bloody damnation! Ben had done this to her. He had made her feel like an undesirable—once again! Precisely the way she’d felt that night when Prince Merrick discarded her so rudely at her mother’s side. The disgrace of it all nearly choked away her breath and it didn’t help matters at all that she was still jug-bitten besides.
Together, they all sang…
…drawing nigh to the northwest,
O'er Bethlehem town took its rest;
But in Alexandra’s livid mind, she heard:
…drawing that nasty cher
oot with his fingers.
Why, oh, why did I linger…
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell
Born is the King of Israel!
“Huzzah!” said Chloe.
“Beautiful,” said Claire.
And then the entire lot clapped generously despite all the many ways Alexandra’s piano playing must have sorely offended their ears.
One man clapped louder than the rest: Ben.
Rosy-cheeked from the weather, he’d come in from the garden, and was now standing beneath the arched entry, beneath a miserable sprig of mistletoe. Eyeing Alexandra very purposefully, he reached up, popped a drupe from the sprig, inspected it with disgust, then lifted a brow and tossed it away.
In that instant something mad came over Alexandra. Everyone faded from the room, and there was only her and Ben—miserable rotten cad that he was—and she longed so desperately to tell him exactly how she felt.
She hardly knew what possessed her, but whatever it was, it was a long, long time coming—every time she’d said yes when she’d rather say no, every smile she ever gave when she preferred to weep, every heartbreak she ever knew came rushing to the moment.
“I know a song!” she said sweetly. “An oldie but goodie—Welsh, I believe. Taught to me by my mother. Nos Galan. Here it is…” And before she could stop herself, she tapped out the keys, playing the pianoforte as loudly as you please, and then, tipsy though she was, she began to sing…
Cold is the man who cannot love
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
“I don’t believe I know that one,” said the entirely too delightful Lady Morrissey.
“Oh, Lexie,” said Claire, perhaps recognizing the New Year’s carol from their youth, warning of bills that followed the holidays and spending more than what was earned—a cautionary tale for wastrels, a jab from her mother to her father. And what better manner of delivery than to employ one’s own daughter to deliver it! Alexandra ignored everyone, desperate to sing the next verse.
The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 47
