by Lauren Smith
“Langley is the brother to a woman named Hilary Clifford. She married a man named Marshall Clifford a few years ago.”
The name Marshall Clifford was a renewed staff to her heart.
“Marshall is involved?” she asked.
Both Ambrose and Darlington turned toward her.
“You know him?” Darlington asked. When she nodded, he continued. “It seems that Marshall has upset his wife by mentioning you too often—old loves fade slowly—and well, she complained to her brother, Gerald Langley. He seemed to think it would please his sister to destroy Lady Alexandra’s reputation for being a paragon of virtue and grace.”
Stunned, Alex took too long to react as the identity of the man who’d begun the wager sank in. This had been about Marshall and his wife.
“He wanted her ruined because Marshall Clifford was too much of a fool to marry Alex when he had the chance and it upsets his current wife to know that?” Ambrose growled.
“Yes, that about sums it up,” Darlington said. “Nasty man, Langley, and Clifford sounds like a fool.”
“He is,” Ambrose said. “I’ve met Hilary. She’s an ugly woman who believes her position and money entitle her to just about everything. She bought herself a husband but couldn’t buy his heart. Foolish creature.”
“I should like to go home now.” Alex’s voice came out barely above a whisper, but both men heard her.
“I’ll summon the carriage,” Darlington said and met Alex’s gaze. “I offer my apologies, Lady Alexandra. I know you have no obligation to forgive me, but I beg for it nonetheless. If there had been another way to save you from the wager, we would have chosen that course of action.” Darlington, for once, seemed entirely sincere, which, given his reputation, left Alex feeling strangely conflicted as she watched the impoverished viscount leave them alone.
“Ambrose, I’m ready to leave. Please, let’s go,” she begged.
“Come on,” he said gently and escorted her downstairs and into the waiting coach.
The streets were just beginning to fill with people, and if they did not reach her mother’s townhouse soon, she would be spotted in her nightgown with Ambrose. Then again, what did it matter? The damage was done. Her life was destroyed, and her heart lay in crystalline shards at her feet.
*****
Ambrose’s arms hurt with a longing to hold Alex. She sat across from him in Vaughn’s private coach, her face cold and her eyes downcast. It was as though something had broken inside her—he could see it in the hollow expression on her face and the thinness of her lips. His beautiful, wild Alex was broken.
I broke her.
“Alex…” he began more than once, but she never looked up, and he never continued. The words were trapped inside his head and his heart. They created a pain just behind his eyes and at the back of his throat.
Nothing had ever hurt like this. It was like someone had plunged a dagger into his chest, and with each passing second the invisible blade was twisted deeper.
The coach stopped on Audley Street, and he held up a hand.
“Wait inside the coach. Let me tell them you’re here. I don’t want you to have to wait outside.” He climbed down the coach stairs and then walked up to the townhouse and rapped the lion-headed knocker. It took only a minute for the butler to answer, but Lady and Lord Rockford were right behind him.
“Worthing! Thank God! Is she here? Is she all right?” Rockford demanded.
“Yes, I’ll fetch her.” He returned to the coach and tried to assist Alex down. She ignored his reaching hands and braced herself against the walls of the coach and then stepped down. She brushed past him without a backward glance and rushed into her mother’s arms. Rockford looked between his daughter and Ambrose.
“What happened?”
“We were forced to satisfy the wager—at least in appearance only. She’s unharmed, but Gerald Langley, the man who started the wager, will spread the news of her ruination by nightfall.” Ambrose held his hat in his hands, awkwardly trying to catch a glimpse of Alex, who was still with her mother in the entryway.
“Come in, Worthing.” Rockford waved him in, his gaze somber. “I suppose we ought to discuss the matter of…well…marriage. I assume you are offering yourself after what happened?”
“Absolutely.” A day before he would have said no. But now, how could he not? He had helped put her in this situation, his name would always be linked to hers and scandal, and he loved her. Standing there, his hat in his hand, he would beg her to say yes.
“No.” Alex spoke up, shocking him and her father. She’d pulled away from her mother’s arms and raised her chin proudly.
“What?” Rockford asked.
“I won’t marry him, Papa. He came to Lothbrook with the intent to seduce me. He’s as guilty of my ruination as Langley and Darlington. I won’t marry him. Exile me to the country forever, but I will not marry him.”
Rockford turned his stunned gaze toward Ambrose, and the earl’s disappointment wounded him anew. “Is this true?”
Ambrose swallowed and then nodded heavily. “Yes—”
“Get out. Get out of my house!” Rockford snarled and lunged toward him. Ambrose stumbled back. It was almost as though the older man had struck him. He moved backward until he stood on the steps of the townhouse, and with one last withering look of disappointment and anger, Rockford slammed the door in his face. It smacked into the frame hard enough that the door knocker rattled.
Ambrose didn’t move for several minutes. He simply stared at the knocker, his heart pounding and bleeding inside. She didn’t want him. Wouldn’t have him as her husband. She didn’t want him in her life or her heart.
What was he going to do now?
“Sir, would you like me to take you back to his lordship’s house?” the driver of the coach asked.
Ambrose nearly said no but thought better of it. He was in a wretched mood, crushed, despondent, and strangely he didn’t wish to be anywhere else and certainly not alone.
“Yes, that would be good.” There was only one person he could stand to be around right now, and that was Vaughn.
They really were damned.
Chapter 15
“Alex, sweetheart, you haven’t left the house in days,” Lady Rockford said as she entered the small sitting room that faced the street.
Alex was tucked up in the window seat, her slippered feet peeping out from her purple gown. Her cheek rested against the windowpane as she watched the street full of passing carriages and people. Life had gone on outside, just as she known it would, despite her own world crumbling down around her. Talk of her ruination had spread like wildfire the following day. Her mother and father had dealt with the flood of inquiries from friends and acquaintances as well as the withdrawal of invitations from dinners and balls. Their family had become social pariahs in less than a few days.
“Alex, are you listening to me?” Her mother came deeper into the room and put the back of her hand against Alex’s forehead. “You’re still too pale, but you feel fine.”
Alex gently brushed her mother’s hand away. “That’s because I am fine, Mama.”
“Then why not go out with Perdita? You could go riding on Rotten Row or attend the opera.” Her mother, still a beauty at age forty-one, couldn’t seem to understand why Alex didn’t want to go out and enjoy life. But that’s because her mother loved parties and people. Alex had always liked quiet evenings at home with a friend, or two at most.
“And endure the looks? The whispers? Mama, you think I am unaware of how much this has cost you? Even Papa has felt the sting of my disgrace. He went to White’s today and not one of the men would talk to him. Not one.” Alex’s eyes blurred with tears and she sniffed, hating the wave of self-pity that overcame her. She’d never liked that particular emotion, but the last week had been unbearable. She’d begged her parents to let her go home, but her mother had said she mustn’t run, not from the ton. It ought to be faced proudly with one’s chin held high. It was much easier sai
d than done.
“Oh, my poor child.” Her mother joined her on the window seat and cupped her chin to make Alex look at her. “Now it’s time for you to listen. I let you hide when Marshall Clifford broke your heart. That was a mistake. I thought you had too much of your father in you, but I know there is a bit of me in you somewhere. That part of you knows that what those cruel men in the club did was not your fault. You cannot let them shame you. You are my daughter too. Do you understand? You will stand tall and proud. Anyone who gives you the cut direct for this is not a friend, and they will not be treated as such.”
Alex stared at her mother, and her heart, which seemed to be shredded to pieces in the last week, felt a tiny bit mended. She loved her mother, but until this moment she hadn’t really known how much. They were so different and she’d never felt that close before, but now she felt her mother’s love burning through her, warming her up.
“Oh, Mama.” She hugged her mother.
“There, there, sweetheart,” her mother soothed. “Why don’t you go riding with Perdita? She’s visited every day since you both arrived. I daresay she’s quite lonely. I sent a note over an hour ago, hoping you’d go riding. She should be here soon.”
“Very well.” Alex let go of her mother and went upstairs to change into a riding habit. Her mother might be right. She did feel better at the thought of riding with her friend. By the time she came back down, she found Perdita was waiting for her, looking fine in a blue velvet riding habit.
“Alex.” Her friend beamed at her. “The weather is perfect.”
And sure enough it was. Alex noted this with wry amusement as she and Perdita rode their horses through Hyde Park. The weather was sunny and not overly warm, and a gentle breeze stirred the ringlets of her hair against her neck like the fingers of an invisible lover. There were quite a few people on Rotten Row, as gentlemen escorted ladies. The elegant and intricate dance of courtship was being played out in the park. Alex tried not to focus on the happy couples whispering words of love under the watchful eyes of chaperones.
“Alex, how are you?” Perdita asked as they paused to let their horses rest a good distance away from the crowds.
“I—”
“And be honest, please. We’ve been friends far too long for lies, even well-meaning ones,” Perdita said.
Alex stroked her gloved hands along the sleek, muscled neck of her gelding before she spoke.
“Sometimes it’s hard to breathe. I think about him and—”
She looked up as she spoke, and to her shock she saw Ambrose and Lord Darlington riding down the path toward her and Perdita. The two men had noticed them and pulled their horses to a stop as if trying to decide whether they should continue or turn back.
“Perdita, let’s go,” Alex snapped, but it was too late. The gentlemen had made the decision to come their way and were riding hastily in their direction.
Alex went rigid, jerking her horse to a hard stop. There was no way to escape this. Ambrose reached them first, his horse nuzzling hers. The affection between the beasts made the phantom pain inside her surge back to life. She wanted no friendliness, no intimacy, not even between their horses.
“Lady Alexandra,” Ambrose greeted, his voice low and respectful. She suspected that he was trying to be soothing, but she was not a mare that needed gentling.
She only answered with a stiff nod. That was all he was entitled to and nothing more.
“Lady Alexandra,” Darlington greeted. “Miss Darby.”
“Good afternoon, Lord Darlington,” Perdita said, then frowned when she saw Ambrose and merely nodded at him.
“Alex,” Ambrose said, then ducked his head, shaking it, and tried again. “Lady Alexandra, could I have a moment to—”
“No.”
“But—”
She didn’t give him another chance. She pulled her horse away, and in a frantic, completely unladylike way, she battled her horse. She bolted her mount away from the group and rode briskly back the way she’d come. She wanted to glance over her shoulder, make sure she wasn’t being followed, but she didn’t want to give Ambrose the satisfaction of knowing she cared.
“Alex?” An entirely different male voice cut through her panicked thoughts.
She blinked and glanced around. Her heart leapt into her throat. She saw Marshall astride a fine black gelding. He looked the part of a leisurely gentleman with his well-tailored clothes and his immaculately folded cravat, but he didn’t elicit anything in her except sorrow for the innocent young woman she had once been. The fool who thought falling in love was romantic and wonderful.
“Marshall, who is this?” The sharp feminine voice intruded on Alex’s memories.
Alex saw a petite woman with a sour face riding sidesaddle on a rather plump brown horse. The woman was glaring at Marshall, and then she turned that glare on Alex.
“Well? Who is she?” the woman demanded.
“She’s…” Marshall’s face reddened slightly as he struggled for words.
“I’m no one important,” Alex replied stiffly, her chin raised as she backed her horse up yet again. What else could go wrong today? She’d run into the last two men in all of England she’d ever wanted to see. At this point, she simply couldn’t find it in her to care anymore.
“Wait…Alex? This is Lady Alexandra that you…” The woman was not staring at her curiously anymore, but there was no mistaking the mean glint in the woman’s eyes.
Alex snapped. “That he had an understanding with? Yes. He threw me over to marry you for your money. Is that what you wish to hear, Mrs. Clifford?” Her voice was terribly shrill, but she couldn’t shake the anger that this woman and Marshall had provoked in her.
Other people riding in Hyde Park nearby were now watching them, including Ambrose, Darlington, and Perdita.
“Well!” Mrs. Clifford scoffed, her cheeks flushing. It was obvious she had nothing to say to that. So she changed tactics. “It’s good then that he threw you over. I hear you’re quite the trollop, spending nights in Viscount Darlington’s townhouse but in bed with Mr. Worthing, a known rakehell.” Hilary smiled cruelly as she announced this loudly enough for the growing crowd to hear.
Alex stared at the other woman for several long seconds, feeling each beat of her heart racing a dozen times between each second. It took her a moment to compose herself.
“Mrs. Clifford, I’m no more trollop than you. As to my ruination at Darlington’s house, well, that was orchestrated by none other than a man named Gerald Langley, your brother, I believe. You might ask yourself why he went to such trouble to demean my character and reputation.”
“What does she mean by that, Marshall?” Hilary demanded sharply.
Alex didn’t wait a second longer to escape. She urged her horse into a quick canter, escaping the gasping, shocked crowd. By the time she reached the townhouse, she was unable to stop the tears. She tossed her reins at the stunned groom who met her by the mews before she raced inside the townhouse and fled to her room.
She flung herself on her bed and buried her face in her pillow, doing her best to quiet the heaving sobs that escaped. It was a long while later when she finally had cried hard enough that she couldn’t shed any more tears and her throat was aching.
She gazed at the window, bleary-eyed and exhausted. She decided upon one thing. She was not going to stay in London. She had faced the worst of it. And now she would go home to the only place she’d ever belonged.
Love be damned.
*****
Ambrose Worthing stood on the front steps of a townhouse on Curzon Street, his hat in his hands as he lifted the knocker and let it drop against the wood. His heart was racing, but that was to be expected. He was about to meet one of the most infamous women in London. The enigmatic Lady Society, the author of the society column in the Quizzing Glass Gazette. Lady Society had been penning the most explosive exposés on London society for the last few years. She was ruthless, but she was always true. And he was hoping she could help him—or
rather, help Alex.
It had been Vaughan’s idea after watching Alex suffer in Hyde Park a week before when she’d faced the sister of the man who’d ruined her over jealousy. She’d fled London and returned home to Lothbrook. The ton’s murmurings had been like a hive of bees for the seven days that followed.
Lord Rockford’s daughter’s name had been on everyone’s lips. And it was time they faced the truth. A good, innocent woman had been ruined because of the greed and jealousies of the ton. It was a disgrace, and Ambrose was ashamed of being a part of it. But that was going to change, and he was going to give Alex the justice she deserved.
The day after Alex left him brokenhearted and defeated in the park, he began to fall apart, and only Vaughn had gotten him out of his dark tailspin. He suggested Ambrose make an appeal to the one woman society would listen to. So he had to do some investigating, and it had cost him a bit of coin to convince the printer for the Gazette to tell him where the columns came from, which led him to a small boy in a bit of a questionable dive. He tracked down two more people, a baker, a modiste, and finally he got to this address. The house on Curzon Street. Of course he hadn’t been given a name or a promise—just an address. And even that address he’d only gained after the modiste had him write a letter to be given to Lady Society about his request. The letter from Lady Society came the next day—apparently he’d written the right things—along with instructions to come to this address and bring the letter as proof he was who he said he was.
He wasn’t familiar with the man who owned the townhouse on Curzon Street, but he’d known of him. It belonged to a viscount only a few years older than himself. Ambrose was certain that the man was not Lady Society, which begged the question of just whom he would be meeting with.
The door opened, and a young man with reddish hair and brown eyes answered.
“Yes sir, may I help you?” His voice lilted with an Irish accent.