Alex's Angel

by Natasha Blackthorne

  Suddenly uneasy under the other woman’s steady gaze, Emily turned back to the mirror and pretended to examine herself in the beautiful pelisse. How could Alex have turned his back on his family like that? What could a father possibly say that would be so terrible a son would rather pretend to be dead than to write home even occasionally? What had happened between Alex and Green to cause such discord between them?

  Nancy related a neat, tidy story.

  But Emily couldn’t forget the pain etched into Alex’s face.

  Algeria…Yes, something about Algeria. Alex hadn’t been in Paris, at least not the entire time. He’d been in captivity. Tortured. Forced to endure—no, she wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t bear to…

  “You seem like a kind-hearted person,” Nancy said in a tone that told how certain she was of the validity of her own opinions. “You should know that Alex is, uh…very fickle in his romantic attachments.”

  Emily drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. “I don’t cherish any romantic attachment to him but I thank you for the warning all the same.”

  She didn’t have to force the chill into her tone. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone to ponder this new information. But Nancy didn’t seem likely to leave any time soon.

  She glanced over at Emily’s night table and picked up the little box that sat there. She plucked the lid off, then looked up at Emily over her spectacles and arched a coal black brow. “French plums?”

  Before Emily could respond, Nancy popped one into her mouth. “Umm.” Chewing then swallowing, she narrowed her eyes speculatively. “No—it’s candied apricots.” She chewed for a few more moments. “Turkish, no less, if I am not mistaken. A present from my dear cousin, I presume?”

  “He sent those simply to thank me for the dinner party.” Emily struggled to keep the snappishness out of her voice. Was she on trial or something?

  Nancy rolled her eyes, tossing the box back onto the night table. The she appeared to freeze. She gasped loudly.

  Oh, damn. Why didn’t I hide that necklace?

  Nancy picked up the necklace and jumped to her feet. She danced excitedly over to the window, holding the pendant up to the light. It glittered with fiery light.

  “Goodness,” Nancy breathed. She turned to Emily, her sapphire eyes wide. “A pigeon’s blood ruby. Perfect clarity.”

  Her voice sounded almost accusing.

  “It’s merely paste—surely it’s paste,” Emily said shakily, suddenly dumb with disbelief.

  “No—it’s real and of the highest quality. My dearest friend’s father is a jeweller. He taught us all about precious stones.” She laid it back down on the night table with reverence.

  Emily wanted to just die.

  Nancy stared severely over her spectacles. “Into the lion’s maw, my dear girl, into the lion’s maw.” With that, she flounced out.

  * * * *

  As Emily entered Alex’s study, she blinked hard against the glare of so many candles illuminating the room. She was getting tired of being called from her bed at all hours of the night. He’d sent instruction for her to bring her notebook with her.

  “You took your sweet time getting here,” he said from where he was sprawled lazily upon one of a pair new, dark blue settees. His banyan was untied and draped carelessly over his clothes. Several papers were scattered over his chest. He brushed the papers aside and stood.

  Two weeks had passed since she’d last spoken with him alone. He’d been leaving early in the mornings and coming home late at night. She had missed him—terribly—and he had appeared not even to think of her. She was determined not to show how much this bothered her. “I was asleep. It’s two in the morning.”

  “So? You’ll simply sleep later tomorrow.” He extended his hand. “Your drafts.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “The written parts. Come on, hand them over,” he replied impatiently.

  Shrugging, she handed him the stack of papers. “Why do you want them?”

  “I want to know what I am endorsing.”

  She gave him a suspicious look. “You already saw it at Mr Jefferson’s office.”

  “Well, maybe I want to know it bit more intimately. Take a seat.” He motioned to the other settee.

  She sat down. His business-like demeanour made her uneasy and she fidgeted with the belt of her wrapper, uncertain what to say or do. She glanced about and noticed the stack of papers on the side table. “What were you working on?”

  “An article admonishing those who allow party politics to divide them, especially when neither the French nor the English can be trusted.” He began reading her pages, absently chewing on his quill as he did so.

  After a while she decided to bring up something that had been weighing on her mind. “Alex?”

  “Mmm?” he asked distractedly.

  “I know a former sailor. He’s disabled. Being illiterate, he’s had it very hard.”

  He looked up and sharply at her. “You’re asking if I have a job for this man?”

  She nodded.

  His face grew pained. “Emily, I can’t hire everyone you know who is in dire straits.”

  “I am not asking you to—I simply wonder if you have a position for this man. His wife was a good friend to me in the boarding house.”

  He lifted his glass to his lips, took a drink, then paused. “Oh, what the hell—I suppose I could ask the Sexton manager if he can find a place in his warehouses. However, this is something I’ve made it a rule not to do.”

  “Hiring a disabled man?”

  He looked at her archly. “No—mixing my private life with my business.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, yes? What’s that?”

  “You’re wealthy, right?”

  “Aye, I am wealthy but you knew that, so let’s have it. Out with what’s really on your mind.”

  “You could afford to ransom many men from Algeria?”

  He winced. “Oh, Emily. I know the situation seems so simple to you, but it’s not. If men like me were to step in and ransom those men held captive, it would only encourage the pirates to become bolder. And paying endless tributes to those greedy blood-leeches is not the answer either.”

  She couldn’t believe he could be so cool about the issue. “But something must be done.”

  “Yes—we need to go to war and beat them down to their knees so that they will quake in fear at the mere mention of the United States.”

  “But everyone says that cannot be done. That we’re too small.”

  “Though we’ve limited resources and a burgeoning population, we’re only as small as we allow ourselves to be. But we need a navy to go to war with a country half the world away.”

  “It’s only a handful of men. Surely they could be ransomed and then later our country could worry about all of this navy and war business?”

  “Not having a national navy threatens to place our country in a crisis. Fairly soon, either the British or the French are going to do something so atrocious we’ll be forced to either fight them or capitulate.”

  She could see that he was sincere in his belief but she didn’t really believe it herself. He was worried about the larger effects and forgetting the individual human lives involved.

  “And you want to use my book, my art, to further the cause of this national navy?”

  “Aye, I do.” He studied her for a moment. “But you don’t trust me, do you? I mean, not on this.”

  “No, I don’t,” she admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So this is just automatic resistance against anyone using your work for something you didn’t originally intend?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, if you let me use your work, you get to have your work printed and maybe you’ll even get things settled your way. It might move people to raise ransom money for those men.”

  “But you don’t believe that
’s the proper way to solve the issue.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you’d take a chance on backing my work, if it might convince others to ransom them.”

  “Others have to work according to their own consciences, just as I must work according to mine. That’s part of a free Republic—we have to accept it.” He resumed reading, flipping through the pages one by one, scanning intently. For some reason, her heart stayed lodged in her throat in a way it hadn’t done when the printers had looked over her work.

  And it wasn’t just because she and Alex were lovers. It was because he took her work seriously, whereas the printers had not. Now he seemed to want to try to find fault with it. Was that because he now found fault with her? Nervous energy surged through her legs, making her want to get up and pace. She pulled the skirt of her wrapper tight over her knees and forced herself to sit still. She began to feel a bit ill.

  But why? There was nothing wrong with her work.

  Was there?

  Finally, he glanced up. “It’s very good, but it contains far too many errors and it lacks structure. I’ll edit it.”

  “Edit?” The word wrapped like a cold, iron fist around her heart. “I don’t want anyone interfering with my work.” She reached out and snatched her journal book from his hands.

  “Now, don’t be offended. In truth it’s far better than I expected. It’s good, but it lacks a certain uniformity”

  “I don’t want or need your editorial help, thank you very much.”

  “I am not asking.” His voice was firm. “I am telling you this work must be edited or you won’t see a penny from me to have it printed. You may be stubborn-headed and suffering from a severe case of emotional myopia as regards your work, but I won’t let you short-change your own work and I sure as hell won’t put my name behind something that is less than it could be.”

  Anger at his presumption boiled in her blood. “I knew you’d feel entitled—”

  His golden brows rose and the whites of his eyes seemed to widen. “Sweetheart, I don’t feel entitled. I know I’m entitled, by my own vested interest in your book.”

  “But you’ll take my vision and change it into something it isn’t supposed to be.”

  She sounded petulant but she couldn’t help it. He didn’t know what he was asking of her. It was as if he was reaching into her soul and rearranging all the particles of the foundation of her being. No one had ever invaded her creative vision like that. Her creative vision was the only place in her life where she had all the power of choice, the final say. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow him to take that away from her.

  “How can you trust me so little?” He actually had the audacity to look hurt when she was the wounded party.

  “How can I trust you when you are determined to corrupt my vision?”

  His face contorted with concern. “Sweetheart, you’re just too close to your own vision to see it clearly.”

  He rose from his settee and came to sit beside her. He touched her shoulders.

  Now she understood. The jewellery, fine clothes, sumptuous food and expensive wine—even the sensual pleasures he gave her—they were all designed to bend her to his will. Bend her so he could use her work for the sake of his own cause. And she was allowing such luxury to sway her. To tie her closer to this man who wanted to prostitute her art.

  But from this day forward she would fight the temptation. The time had come to leave Alex. No matter if she didn’t want to.

  The connection to him was simply too threatening now. He wanted to control her artistic work and shape it into something else. Something that could be used to meet his own ends. And she wasn’t sure what she believed about the national navy issue. She needed time to think things out.

  But her own intense responses gave him a power over her that she could allow no one to have.

  She jerked away from him.

  “Ah, so it’s like that, is it?” His voice was gentle, tender, and her heart threatened to soften. To betray her.

  No—she wouldn’t let him do this to her. He was controlling her just as surely as Grandmother had. Controlling her with the silken trap of her affection for him and her own sensuality. Her liking for all the luxury and affection her secret side had hungered for. She tightened her fists and dug her nails into her palms and refused the urge to turn and look at him.

  “My book is a work of art from my own heart. The people I interviewed through letters spoke directly to from their hearts to mine and I have faithfully recreated their stories. It is not flawed.”

  “I never said it was flawed. I said it was very good but we can work together to make it better.”

  His cognac-smooth voice was beguiling. She wanted to believe him, but she knew better. Grandmother was right. Gentlemen were arrogant and they thought they knew everything better than a woman did. Some men were bullies who intimidated with their loud voices and fists, but Alex dominated with his charm. He was by far the more dangerous type of man. And after living with Grandmother, she’d sworn she’d never be manipulated again. What was she doing here with this man?

  Suddenly, she needed to be alone. Desperately.

  “I think I shall go to bed now,” she said.

  “If you must, but we’re not done with this conversation. If you want your work printed, you’ll let me edit it. Do you understand me?”

  “Oh, I understand only too well. Because of my social station, my lack of wealth, my gender and my age, I don’t have the power to get my work printed as it was meant to be seen. You hold all the power and you choose to use it. Now I am forced to allow the corruption because it is the only way I may get my work distributed to the people of this nation, now, without further delays. All right, it is an urgent matter and I am powerless, I must allow the corruption.”

  His handsome face contorted as if he were pained. More manipulation. She wouldn’t cave in to it. She lifted her chin.

  He took her hand. “Emily, that’s not the way it is.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He put his other hand over hers as well. “You are tired and I shouldn’t have tried to press matters at this time of night. I am simply busy and it is hard to find other times for us to discuss the matter.”

  “No, the time of day is not the issue. I will never be reconciled to the use of my art to further your cause. I will never forgive you for this.”

  * * * *

  The next day, Emily stared in dismay at the noon meal Sally had brought to her in her small, personal sitting room. She had suffered all morning with her righteous hurt and anger and refused herself all food. But now the aroma of duck served in a honey glaze of tangy orange and cranberries threatened to put an end to her hunger strike.

  She held firm against temptation. “Please take this away, Sally.”

  Sally eyed her balefully. “When he heard you refused to eat, Mr Dalton ordered Mrs Webbs to make that special for you. If you don’t eat it, you’re going to offend her.”

  Left alone, Emily nibbled listlessly at the succulent duck. His concern and attention were just another way to try to control her actions. She let her fork fall, glancing about the luxurious room. All of this luxury was too seductive. It gave him too much power to be able to provide it. She mustn’t get too soft.

  Soon you’ll have to return to blood pudding, bitter coffee and cold boarding house rooms.

  Very soon after last night’s revelations. Alex had finally shown his true face. He fully intended to change and alter her art to suit his own needs. She was simply a tool.

  Twirling a ringlet about her finger several times and tapping her foot in short, rapid jerks, she sipped idly at her claret. The rich wine glided over her tongue, its warmth easing her disquiet. She downed several glasses, then grew sleepy. She stripped off her clothes and dived in sky-clad abandon into the downy warmth of her large bed. Rolling her naked body against the silky, fine linen, she laughed with uncharacteristic cynicism.

  Well, while I am
here, I may as well enjoy myself.

  “Emily.” The voice, masculine and urgent, pulled her rudely from her dreams.

  Alex’s face came into focus as she tried to concentrate on his words. She shouldn’t let him, though she couldn’t quite remember why. Thinking would have pulled her from the lingering, fuzzy haze of her dreams.

  He continued talking. He wanted her company at some kind of rout.

  Pfft! Chance would be a wondrous thing.

  Nothing was going to draw her from this bed. Rolling to face down, she fell back to sleep.

  “Come along—else I’ll die of the excessive boredom.” The commanding edge of his voice cut into her dreams once more.

  “If you’ll be bored, why go?”

  “Because I have an obligation. It’s my yearly pilgrimage to see my cousins up in the Northern Liberties. Part of my noblesse oblige to my mother’s side.”

  “Send James.”

  “James has an important prior engagement. He’s busy building his political career; he has such high hopes for himself. No, I am the only one who can go.”

  “Surely you’ve someone else to ask to accompany you?” She reached back and pulled the covers over her head.

  In one swift move, he flung them off completely. Cold air rushed over her bare skin and gooseflesh arose in its wake.

  He gasped, then laughed softly. “You naughty little hussy.”

  He ran a slow, caressing hand down her back, his touch deliciously warm. Arching like a docile kitten, she sighed softly.

  Images arose. Hot, lazy summer days lying on sun-soaked, fragrant grass watching the clouds passing above. Soft, cotton-like fluffs. She eagerly grasped one as it passed by, hugging it to herself. Feeling his hand stroking her long, loose hair, then sweeping it away to her bare neck, she sank more deeply into the soft warmth.

  Lazily, he worked his way from her neck, down her spine, massaging her body into boneless jelly. Now she knew how cats felt. No wonder they liked being petted. She could lie here forever and let him fondle her like this. Then he caressed her bottom and honey began to flow from her cunt. Restless desire made her writhe under his touch. He strayed between her legs and feathered over her swollen, wet inner lips.