The girl seemed a bit uneasy. Whether she stole the horse or not, he would acquire her identity and gain the connection she claimed to Carmichael. If he were to acquire the answers he sought, some of his ducal charm might be called for.
He climbed down from his horse to be on equal footing. “Forgive me. Mr. Carmichael invited me to his plantation. My name is Giles Litscomb.” He removed his hat and gave a slight bow. A female was a female, whatever the clothing, and his aristocratic heritage demanded he behave in a gentlemanly fashion.
The chit blushed. “I . . . I know who you are.”
“You do?” he asked in a bored voice, but his curiosity prickled.
“I’m Alex. Alexandria.”
He waited, giving her the opportunity to explain her connection. When she offered no further explanation, he prodded.
“And?”
“James Carmichael is my father.”
Well, well. That explains a lot.
So this was the heathen? He remembered the youngest Carmichael was a girl. He had a devil of a time hiding his surprise. Alex? Short for Alexandria. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Miss Carmichael. It is my pleasure to meet you. I must apologize for my earlier handling of your person. My honor as a gentleman demands I beg your forgiveness.” He recalled firm young breasts. He cleared his throat. “Although, for the sake of uprightness and clearing any misunderstanding, in the urgent decision making of what appeared to be a critical situation, I thought you needed help. I was completely unaware of your . . . umm . . .”
Seeing her face flame anew, he had best steer clear of her female—or childlike—significance. “Your . . . riding capabilities.”
“Oh.” Air puffed from her cheeks. Her gaze fastened on Gent. “Where did you get this fella?”
“I acquired him at Hudson’s auction.” He watched as, palm up, she waited for the golden giant to draw near.
“Hey, fella. Haven’t see you around here before.” The horse nudged Alex’s shirt pocket. A tinkling giggle floated on the light breeze. She shoved her hair over one shoulder, drawing Giles’ attention to her female attributes. The greedy horse nuzzled one blossoming breast, which caused immediate speculation on the age of the girl.
Gentleman, my arse. Upon deliberation, he conjectured the steed’s real name was likely ‘Knave.’
“What have you got tucked away in your pocket?” His voice came out a bit more hoarse than intended.
“Sugar.”
“His previous owner did not tell me Gent had an uncontrollable sweet tooth.”
“I have an apple in my other pocket.”
He quickly shifted his gaze to her other breast, expecting to see a huge bump. No apple there. Which damned pocket—?
She reached closer to her waist, procuring the red fruit.
“More to my liking.” He gave a slight sigh.
“You want the apple?”
“No. I’d rather Gent not have the sugar.”
“My brothers don’t like me giving sugar to the horses, either.”
“I take it you do so without their knowing.”
“Blackie.” She grimaced. “The black stallion. I wanted to make quick friends with him.”
“That black does not need any added stimulus. He is spirited enough, and from what I have seen, needs nothing to exhort more speed.”
“I’m surprised you caught me, though Gent’s speed is remarkable.” She patted the horse’s nose. “Will you help me find Blackie?” A distasteful moue turned down the corners of her mouth at the name.
“For one who owns such a striking animal, you cringe when you say ‘Blackie.’”
“I hate his name. He deserves one better.”
“Then give him one.” Giles lifted his shoulder in a shrug.
The delightful expression covering her face put a twinge in his gut. An urchin, but a beautiful one.
“You agree? I’ve thought of several, but I haven’t decided.”
“You’ll find one which suits him just right. For now, I suppose I should take you home. If Bla . . . the black goes to the stables without you, your family will be concerned for your safety.”
“Ben was in the paddock when I left. He expects me to take care of myself.”
“An animal such as this stallion, new to your stables, would be enough to cause alarm. Even if your brother is completely aware of your riding skills, there is always a possibility of an accident.”
“How do you know Ben is my brother?”
“I met your family at the auction. Your father and your brothers. I garnered an idea of your love for horses from them. And I saw your father purchase the black.”
“You bought the last sale of the day. Also a black stallion. Why aren’t you riding him?”
“He needs a bit more gentling.”
“If the stallion is too much for you, bring him to our plantation. I’ll show you how to gentle a horse.”
The cheeky minx. Too young to realize her taunt could be considered coquettish. Shrugging, he concluded her lightheartedness stemmed from her age. How old was the chit anyway?
While holding the reins to Gent, he put one foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Staring at her from his height, a smile threatened. No sense asking if the girl rode astride. He held a hand out to her and she grabbed hold. He hefted her at the same time she jumped, and she landed behind him.
With no urging, she snuggled against him and slid both arms around his middle.
Chapter 5
Alex always looked forward to Aunt Cornelia’s visits. Being a lady of English nobility, Cornelia accepted her brother’s American ways, but the one thing she insisted on while residing in James’ American home was her usual habit of afternoon tea. Mama, most happy to acquiesce her husband’s sister’s wishes, set forth a light repast of tea and crisp little cakes, which became a daily occurrence.
On this very afternoon, unaware of the duke’s arrival, Cornelia and Mama settled in the parlor for their tea. While Papa greeted the duke, Alex hurried upstairs and dressed in a gown more becoming of a female. As she descended the stairs, she met a kitchen maid with a steaming pot and a tray of freshly baked biscuits.
Cornelia glanced up as Alex’s blue taffeta skirts rustled through the doorway.
“Alexandria,” she cooed. “You look lovely, my dear.”
Alex traipsed across the room and plopped in the chair directly across from her aunt.
“We will need to work on that.”
“On what?”
“Harrumph. Every tongue in London would be wagging if you walked about like a man intent on—”
“Dearest, please,” Mama interrupted. “I think Alex hears more than she should on the matter of society and English ways. She isn’t familiar with certain . . . particulars.”
Cornelia patted her strawberry blond tresses streaked with grey. Mama poured tea from the steaming pot. Then tasted one of the tiny cakes. Alex could pick up three or four with one hand. She grabbed a biscuit and stuffed the thing into her mouth.
Alex watched as Cornelia picked up a delicate china cup. Immediately her aunt’s smallest finger lifted into the air as if aiming an arrow.
Guess all the ladies in London drink their tea with such gestures.
Being well versed in etiquette and proper decorum, Cornelia regaled stories from England. Alex hung on every word, seeing the glittering city of London and the fashionable aristocracy through her aunt’s eyes. Cornelia divulged a buzzing tale of a nobleman hosting a ball presenting his daughter into society.
“Of course I gave her mama the name of my modiste to design the girl’s coming out gowns. The poor chit had to tie her stays so tight, she had no bosom to speak of.”
Not so of Aunt Cornelia. Her br
easts were so big, Alex would be jealous if she weren’t afraid she’d tip over from the added weight.
“Even so,” her aunt continued, “she had a lot of admirers. Dandies had their sights set on a prize. After all, her papa was a marquis.”
Which must be someone very important, as on earlier visits her aunt had explained the lineage of the aristocracy. And Alex knew a duke was well up in the social standing on the elitist hierarchy. But how could she introduce a particular duke into their conversation?
“What’s a dandy?” Alex asked.
“A gallant man who places particular importance upon his physical appearance, and considerable emphasis on his image. Giving airs, self-import. His demeanor suggests refined language, and leisurely hobbies, often imitating an aristocratic lifestyle despite coming from a middle-class background. Really, he is no more than a clothes-wearing man.”
“Don’t all men wear clothes?”
“Alex, dear girl.” Cornelia placed her tea cup on the saucer with a dainty click. “Picture in your mind a peacock strutting about the yard with his colorful tail-feathers spread wide. That is a Dandy.”
The men she knew only dressed in their Sunday finest when going to church or some special event. Even Papa wore what he called his work clothes every other day, mostly brown, and plenty dirty by suppertime. She couldn’t imagine her brothers in anything resembling ‘Dandy clothes.’ As for strutting? Sam strode around in front of girls like a rooster sometimes.
Alex licked crumbs off her fingers. “Mama, Papa has a guest.”
“A guest? Do you know who?”
“The man he met at Hudson’s auction. He’s here.” Since no one mentioned his identity, Alex wouldn’t let on like she knew he was a duke.
“Now?” Mama banged her cup in its saucer and jumped from her seat. “Why didn’t you say so? I must make sure everything is in readiness.” With a whirl of her skirts, she hurried from the room.
Alex grabbed the last two cakes. She tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa.
“Are you quite comfortable, dear?” Aunt Cornelia raised a brow and peered down her nose.
“Oh yes, very,” she mumbled with her mouth full of the sugary morsels.
“Alexandria. A lady does not speak with food in her mouth. And where are your shoes? A lady does not prop her feet on the sofa.” Aunt Cornelia shook her head.
“Yes ma’am.” Alex sat up straight and arranged the ruffles of her dress.
“That’s better.”
“Will you tell me more? You were speaking of dandies.”
“Very well. Let’s see, now. Two such men used a sonnet as they fought over who would win a certain debutante’s heart. Each gentleman wrote an ode to pledge his eternal love.”
“An ode?”
Cornelia spread one hand over her large bosom and held the other aloft. “Your eyes are like blue bonnets. Your lips like cherries.” She waved her extended hand dismissively. “Some such drivel.”
Alex chuckled. “Who won?”
“They were still putting pen to paper when I sailed.”
Alex rose from the settee, cradled her arms, and pretended the duke held her. Barefoot, she danced and twirled on the braided rug. “How do I look, Aunt Cornelia?”
“Pucker your lips like you’ve just eaten a sour lemon and you’ll look perfect.”
Alex fell to the carpet in a peal of laughter.
“Oh my child, it wouldn’t do at all for a lady to crumple to the floor. Necklines are cut so low, a young maiden’s bosom is in danger of toppling right out the top of her gown.”
An image popped into Alex’s mind, causing her eyes to bulge. She glanced down at her own gown. With nothing to enhance her bosom, she supposed her breasts were adequate. But she refused to wear a contraption that squished the breath out of her. It was bad enough she had to give up her breeches. Still, she needed Aunt Cornelia’s advice on how to dress if she were to win her duke.
“Fashion dictates what a lady should wear. And the ton adheres to fashion.” Aunt Cornelia took a deep breath for emphasis. “It’s a wonder any man could hold his gaze above a lady’s neck with so much flesh exposed.”
“I wish I could go to such parties and balls. See the elegant gowns, and watch the ladies dancing on a handsome man’s arm.”
“Well dear, you’re all of seventeen now. I should think your papa would allow you to journey home with me.” Cornelia clapped her hands as if confirming a decision. “Actually, I think that’s a fine idea. I shall ask him.”
How long would the duke visit America? Alex mentally calculated the length of her aunt’s visit to compare.
“Alex.” Her aunt’s tone suggested she’d called her name more than once.
“Yes, Aunt Cornelia?”
“I asked if you were sure. You’d be away from your mama and papa a long time.”
Her brain fogged and her pulse sped up. She’d either have her duke or follow him to England.
“Yes, I’m sure. You must convince Mama and Papa. But we have time, don’t we? You’ve just arrived. You’ll be here for weeks yet.”
Time enough for her to pursue the duke.
The Carmichael family observed many of the English customs, such as dressing for dinner. Whether due to James’ sister visiting from England, Giles didn’t know. Or perhaps this was a normal occurrence in the home. Thankful he’d packed a more formal suit of clothes, he gave a patrician smile and studied the group before him. Expecting a ‘haute’ dame,’ Cornelia had instead been surprisingly pleasant and likable. Once she discovered his title, she demanded the others address him with proper respect. Discomforting, since he’d hoped to present a lower profile.
But James had imparted the truth to his wife, and of course she passed the knowledge on to his British sister. If the woman acquainted herself with the upper crust of the ton, she recognized his name. He gave the appropriate nod and resumed the role expected in the drawing room. How quickly he slipped in and out of character.
How his life had changed. From the angry lad who rebelled against his father, to accepting the responsibilities that came with being a duke. For several years he’d lived for thrill and risk, without a care for his own safety.
Yes, he’d done his job, with vengeful abandon. And made a lifelong friend in the bargain. Another lost soul bent on destruction who was set for his own style of dark vengeance. Maybe they had saved each other. Who knew? When his good friend returned home to accept his title as an earl, Giles could do no less than accept the life that had been prearranged for him since birth.
No one would associate his past transgressions with the man he was today. Mrs. Cornelia Hargrave would develop apoplexy if she were to find the duke anything resembling a scandalous villain.
Giles redirected his thoughts, noting Carmichael’s sons. The two younger brothers strolled in, Ben giving Sam a slap on the back as he laughed. The youngest boy’s ears burned with indignation. The only member of the family missing was the urchin.
James pulled his fob out of his pocket. “Where is that girl?”
Cornelia lifted a gloved hand over her mouth and gave a lady-like, “Uh-hm.”
“What is it, Cornelia?”
“A young lady needs time to make a respectable appearance.”
“Well, she’s been at it long enough. While you’re giving my daughter instruction on proper etiquette, you can educate the girl on how to tell time.”
“James, please.” Mrs. Carmichael twisted her hands in slight discomfort. “We have guests.”
Giles was only an outsider. He’d not wanted his bloody title to stress the woman, or designate ceremonial goings-on other than her normal evenings.
“Our guests are hungry, too.” James’ boots echoed as he stomped into the foyer. Heading for the bottom of the stairs, he glanc
ed up and came to a sudden stop.
Lounging to the side of the entryway, Giles had a good view. Alex stood at the top of the stairs in a gown with all the alluring qualities of a woman. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
What a transformation. The lovely vision was enough to put a hitch in his breathing.
As Alex descended the stairs, her gaze remained on her father. The man’s face expressed surprise. Surely he’d seen his daughter in a dress before, had he not? At the bottom of the staircase she turned, locking her eyes with his. A coy smile curved her lips while that small chin of hers hinted to willfulness.
The chit had been handed everything on a silver platter, probably from the day she’d been born. One corner of his mouth lifted at the admirable change from the girl he’d caught wearing lad’s breeches.
Giles studied her features. High cheekbones, full lips, and striking molasses eyes. Silver combs pinned strands of her hair, swirled high on the sides of her head, in an intricately coiled coiffure. Wisps clung softly along her temples with a few curls hanging in front of her delicate ears. A burnished gold chain around her throat held a chocolate jewel. Golden flecks glistened, matching the shimmering sparkles in her striking eyes.
She wore a light blue creation. The gown covered her shoulders, yet exposed a good amount of creamy skin. The lines of her slender, graceful neck drew his gaze lower to the jewel resting on a swell of cleavage . . .
Giles’ fist covered his mouth as he cleared his throat.
Not only must he submit to Alex’s beauty, but he had to keep in mind the girl was an adolescent.
“Lo and behold, Alex. Is that you?” Sam’s eyes bulged and his mouth hung open.
“That’s not Alex,” Ben said. “That’s a girl.”
“Can’t be her,” Sam sputtered. “Alex is a child.”
Fire flashed in her eyes and her cheeks burned red. If the girl’s complexion was any indication of her thoughts, murdering her brothers topped the list.
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