Alexander felt his stomach, his heart, and his soul crush together in a single drop down to his very feet. He had made Charlotte cry?
“All of her servants, myself included, have had quite enough of you.” Mr. Hudson turned, rudely giving him his back, and stepped into the house, fanning the door toward him.
No! Alexander shoved his shoulder and body into the remaining open space of the door and pushed at it, crushing his roses against his arm and chest in the effort. The door bumped his top hat from his head and sent it rolling down the front stairs.
“I must see her,” he growled out, forcing the door farther open with his weight. He’d been needlessly rude, and his proposal had been outright cold and damn blunt. So unworthy of what she deserved. “Allow me to apologize to her! She deserves an apology!”
Mr. Hudson grunted as he desperately tried to force the door back against him. “Kindly…move…away…from…the door!”
“No! Now…kindly…let…me…in!” he yelled, adjusting his grip on the edge of the door and pushing it more forcefully. The muscles in his arms and legs quaked as they continued to meet great resistance. Shit! For an old man, Hudson had the hold of an elephant! He gritted his teeth. Why the blazes couldn’t he—
The door suddenly fell wide open and Alexander stumbled inside, sending him and his flowers down onto the floor in a flurry of rose petals. Alexander scrambled up to his feet and swiped his shambled roses back up.
At last! What was Charlotte feeding the old man anyway? He straightened, then froze as Harold stepped toward him, his massive frame blocking his view of the candlelit hall.
Hell, now he knew why he couldn’t get the door open.
Alexander blew out a breath and stepped closer to Harold, knowing that he might very well be taking his life into his hands. Despite his own noteworthy build, he had no doubt Harold could pop him in two and ferret him away to a nice little resting place in the tunnel. “Harold, you seem like the reasonable sort. Let me talk to her.”
Harold crossed his mutton arms, bumping Alexander’s chest purposefully in the process. “Before Madame’s apoplexy, she informed me that you were no longer a student and therefore no longer welcome. And that was before you did what you did to Lady Chartwell. I suggest you leave. Before I hammer your head into the floor like a nail.”
What the devil had Charlotte been telling her servants anyway? There appeared to be only one way to go about this.
“Obviously, I am not welcome here. Good night.” Alexander spaced his words evenly in an effort to remain calm, his hold tightening on the stems of the roses. The thorns bit through the leather of his glove. He turned, pretending to head toward the door that Mr. Hudson had promptly reopened. After taking several more firm steps, he quickly swung around and bolted around Harold and straight for the stairs.
“You son of a bitch!” Harold’s large hand grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him violently back.
“Release him, Harold.” Charlotte’s exhausted voice echoed from somewhere up above. “Whatever are you doing, Alexander?”
Harold grudgingly released his coat, but not before giving him a good, solid push.
Alexander glared back at the ox, then tugged down his waistcoat and jacket in a dignified manner with the one hand that wasn’t holding the roses and looked up toward Charlotte, who stood at the top of the stairs.
His breath quickened as his eyes met hers.
She was dressed in a simple brocaded, green robe and matching slippers. The white cotton of her nightgown peered out at the bottom edges of her robe, and her dark hair was bundled up into a silk white cap, as if she was preparing for bed.
He held up the roses in his hand. “I brought these for you.”
“Oh?” She tartly observed him. “They look mangled.”
He paused and surveyed the flowers in his hand. The red petals on several of the roses were missing, and those that did have petals were drooping miserably, and those that weren’t drooping had broken stems that were causing them to fall off to the side.
They were downright pathetic. And looked exactly how he felt at that moment. “Forgive them,” he murmured, not knowing what else to say. “I assure you, they were not like this when I first came to the door. I simply came to apologize.”
He glanced up at her from the distance she continued to keep between them. “Charlotte. Since my father’s death, I felt inclined to take on a certain role for my family, only to find myself struggling between who I am and who society expects me to be. It’s no excuse, I know, but my overall behavior toward you, toward everyone this past year, has been a result of my frustrations in trying to define the role I must play.”
He quickly got down onto his right knee and held out the flowers as best he could. “Charlotte. I am asking you to be my wife. Not because of what happened that day, or because I am trying to uphold a reputation, but because you want to be my wife. And because I want you to be my wife, too.” He paused and waited for her response.
Charlotte sighed dramatically, came down the length of the stairs, stepped toward him, and snatched the flowers out of his hand, causing petals to fly everywhere. She then marched back up the stairs. “It will take more than flowers to convince me that you are sincere,” she called out from over her shoulder. “Now, whatever you do, don’t call on me or write any more of those pathetic letters describing my fair beauty. Any man can do as much.” She then disappeared into the darkness of the hallway somewhere upstairs.
Alexander jumped to his feet. “But if you won’t see me or read any of my letters,” he yelled up impatiently after her, “how else am I to bloody prove myself?”
After a few moments of silence, Charlotte reappeared with his mangled flowers still in hand. She met his gaze and then said to him in a low, mysterious tone, “I am certain that the man I fell in love with will find a way. Good night, Alexander. And thank you for the beautiful flowers.” With that, she disappeared again into the darkness of the hallway.
Alexander stood there for a stunned moment, suddenly feeling unusually light-headed and, simply put…not like a man should. Because he suddenly wanted to skip. Like a little girl.
By God. How could he not have seen it? How could he not have known? The utter fool that he was, he’d actually been blind, thinking he was the only one harboring all of these feelings. He’d wallowed in so much self-pity, he’d fooled himself into believing that no one, especially her, could ever love him for more than the pleasures he had to give. Amazing.
Alexander grinned, feeling as though he could strap the world onto his back, and spun toward Harold and Mr. Hudson, who were both staring at him.
Alexander hit his chest soundly. “You heard her. She loves me.”
“Yes, women sometimes say those types of things to those they feel sorriest for,” Hudson supplied. “Now out with you.” He jabbed his thumb toward the door.
Alexander laughed, held up a finger, and wagged it at them as he strode past. “No, no. She loves me. And as such, you both better damn well believe you haven’t seen the last of Lord Hawksford.”
“Harold will be ardently awaiting your return,” Mr. Hudson said satirically.
Full of renewed hope and energy, Alexander hopped down onto the doorstep outside and into the darkness of the night, still grinning like an idiot. Even as the door slammed shut behind him.
So. She didn’t want flowers. Jewels were definitely too superficial. Sex was obviously out of the question, and he’d already taken care of the Court of Chancery for her. What more was a man to do?
This was indeed a dilemma. But one he intended to overcome. He quickly made his way down the steps, then looked up toward the top windows of the house. Toward whichever window was hers. Though they were all closed and there was not a single light to be seen in their glass, he could sense she was watching him.
He grinned and turned, about to head back to his waiting carriage, when he noticed his top hat lying sideways on the pavement before him. He snatched it up and d
usted it off. Tapping it onto his head, he finally allowed reality to seep in. Exactly how did a man prove his worth to a woman who wouldn’t see him or accept gifts?
Damn, but he was going to need a miracle. Although one had clearly already happened. Charlotte loved him. She actually loved him.
Lesson Twenty-Three
If you try to lead your life according to your heart, I promise it will give you strength to attain a new start.
—The School of Gallantry
If there was one thing Alexander knew, it was this: it was going to take a bloody miracle to get Charlotte back. After all, what more did he have to do to prove his love?
He’d already composed three sonnets and sent them over along with a year’s supply of chocolate rolls and champagne. Hell, he’d even arranged for the King’s own choir to sing outside her door. And yet, she continued to refuse him. Continued to deny him permission even to call on her.
Though he had never been one to believe that a man had the innate ability to create a miracle, he had no choice but to believe. What else was there left to do?
Now, as with all great miracles, one had to relentlessly work toward it. One devoted prayer at a time. Or as in his case…one devoted bribe at a time.
So first, and immediately, he wrote identical letters to all the students of the school. Banfield, Brayton, and yes, even Caldwell.
He explained to them not only the tragedy that had befallen Madame de Maitenon, but that as her students they all had a duty to send an obscene amount of flowers and an obscene amount of letters to the address he was enclosing. An address he had received from his own mother, who from past dalliances with Madame de Maitenon knew exactly where she lived. Whoever knew his mother’s own indiscretions would prove to be helpful in his time of need.
Sending a ridiculous amount of flowers and letters to her door was not only the right thing to do, but the only thing to do. For it would show Madame de Maitenon that she did in fact matter to her students. It would also prove to her damn snot of a granddaughter that Madame de Maitenon mattered more to them than she would ever know. And that none of them were about to relinquish their grasp on the naughty woman.
In return for following his requests, Alexander promised each and every one of them any favor in return. Well…except for Caldwell. Caldwell damn well owed him whatever he asked for, considering he’d spared both his life and his bollocks. And he intended to collect on it every step of the way.
Once his letters had all been hand delivered by his own servants, Alexander sent an additional twenty pounds’ worth of orchids and roses to the woman’s door. For good measure. He hoped the entire household grew deliriously giddy from the perfume he was going to create.
And that was but the beginning. Caldwell and Lord Hughes, who were both in deep debt to him because of Caroline, marked another part of his plan by securing and arranging certain invitations.
He had even arranged for a midnight visit with Madame de Maitenon to see to yet another part of his plan, courtesy of the same balding butler, Mr. Clive Adams, who had earlier denied Charlotte entrance. For he and Mr. Adams shared a little secret.
Once upon a time, Mr. Clive Adams liked to dress in female clothing. Actually, the man still liked to dress in female clothing. And not just any female clothing. Madame de Maitenon’s clothing, to be exact.
Of course, it took a little over twenty pounds in investigative fees and three people to watch both the front and back door of Madame de Maitenon’s townhouse twenty-four hours of the day for an entire week to divulge that bit of scrumptious news.
It appeared Mr. Adams rather fancied making midnight outings in Madame de Maitenon’s best evening gowns. Other than that, however, the man had proven to be a very pleasant and understanding man who simply did not want his fancy, little midnight outings made known.
Oh, yes. Charlotte may not have told him what it would take to get her to marry him, but she was about to discover that escaping Alexander Baxendale was simply not an option. He would force her to breathe the same air as he, and take pleasure in it. He would force her to live in the same space as he, and take pleasure in it. He would force her to engage in the same activities as he, and take pleasure in it until she finally gasped with the realization that she needed him and loved him as much as he needed and loved her.
Then she, he, and all of his sisters—and, yes, even his blasted mother—would all live excessively and happily ever after. The way a Hawksford damn well should.
Madame de Maitenon’s butler glanced over his shoulder, down the long corridor behind them, then turned back to Alexander and whispered, “She is waiting, Lord Hawksford.” He gestured stiffly toward the closed door. “In there.”
Alexander nodded his thanks to the balding man, who insisted on keeping watch in case the granddaughter decided to make an appearance. He slipped into Madame de Maitenon’s room and closed the door behind him, stripping his hat from his head. Lilac perfume permeated the warm air of the candlelit bedchamber.
“Lord Hawksford,” Madame de Maitenon’s playful, accented voice cut into the silence of the room. “What have I done to deserve this glorious honor?” She smiled coyly. “Aside from nearly dying.”
Alexander hesitated, then made his way toward the large mahogany bed where Madame de Maitenon lay resting atop a mountain of linens and pillows. Despite the merry tone of her voice, it was obvious she had been affected by the stroke. Her usually bright features appeared pale and sickly, and her silver hair, which she always kept bundled up and away, cascaded around her face and shoulders in unkempt waves.
He paused beside her bed, and, although he knew Madame de Maitenon would not have wanted him to pity her, he couldn’t help himself. “How are you feeling, Madame?”
She shrugged and sat farther up against her pillows. “As a woman my age should, I suppose.” She patted the space beside her. “Sit. Tell me why you are here.”
He nodded and sat down on the edge of her bed, setting his top hat beside him. “Lady Charlotte worries a great deal about you, Madame.”
Madame de Maitenon shook her head. “I do not think she worries as much as she first did. She and I have exchanged many letters since that day, and in each letter I receive from her, she assures me she worries less. All she asks is that I keep writing. And so I do. She is remarkable considering all that she continues to do for me. She forwards all my correspondence from the school, ensures Harold is not lonely, and sees to it that my little desk in the classroom does not acquire dust. I hate dust. It makes everything feel so unused and unloved.”
Alexander leaned toward her. “Have you allowed her to call upon you yet? Last I saw her, she was upset about not being allowed to do so.”
She sighed. In the way only a Frenchwoman could. “I am not allowed to have visitors. Maybelle is very insistent that I rest. Though very sweet, she is also very fierce at heart and just as persuasive. Like me. What is more, I do not think it wise Lady Chartwell see me like this. She will see me in due time. When I am more presentable. Now.” She reached out and patted his gloved hand, a flirtatious smile curving her lips. “What are you really here for, Lord Hawksford? Hmm? I know it is not for this bit of gossip about my health.”
Alexander leaned back, shifting on the edge of the bed, and inwardly chanted that, yes, even the King of England needed assistance at times. “I am asking for permission to attend your school.” He paused. “When and if it reopens.”
Her brows rose. “Oh? What for?” She paused, as if answering the question for herself, then shifted toward him. She smiled. “Ah. Lady Charlotte has seized the ship and removed the sails, has she?”
Alexander let out an amused chuckle. “Yes, she has indeed. What is worse, she isn’t allowing the captain to board.” He cleared his throat. “It is my intention to marry her, Madame. The sooner, the better.”
“Marriage is one thing, Lord Hawksford, but love is quite another. Do you love her?”
“Yes. I do.” Although it didn’t seem real and prob
ably wouldn’t feel real until she was officially his.
“Bien.” She patted his hand again, only with a bit more affection. “Knowing that, I will assist. Between you, your five sisters, and your mother, I know that she will be very happy.” She eyed him for a moment. “The only condition I will set, however, is that you attend class for the rest of the Season. I am not interested in going through the complications of placing another student. Agreed?”
He grinned. “Agreed.”
“Your return will come at a good time. I have finally found all of the girls for the pleasure room and have even added an unexpected new student.” She beamed. “My granddaughter will also be teaching until I am able to make a complete recovery.”
“Your granddaughter?” he drawled. “You mean the same one that I’m bloody trying to avoid? The same one who turned Charlotte away from the door and disapproved of your school from the very beginning?”
“The very same.” She winked up at him. “You will find Maybelle to be quite entertaining. I ask that you arrive at the school next week, Monday. Though earlier than the usual seven o’clock. About six-thirty. I want all the men to arrive before my granddaughter does so that no introductions are missed. Oh. And bring your nightshirt.”
He quirked a brow. “My nightshirt? Whatever for?”
“Maybelle will be hosting a lecture and will be offering valuable advice on bedside manners.”
Alexander choked on a laugh. Hell, a man couldn’t pay enough for the sort of entertainment she was offering. Although, he intended to personally ensure that Maybelle de Maitenon’s first day at school was as memorable for her as his had been for him. As a gallant nod toward the unnecessary suffering Charlotte had endured that day when she’d been turned away from Madame’s door. “I will gladly bring my nightshirt in for observation.”
“Bien. In turn, I will ensure everything is in place for you to attend. So that you will be able to board your ship, put up all your glorious sails, and head out to sea. Where you belong.”
Lord of Pleasure Page 21