by Julia James
Right to the very point of marrying for that purpose.
His eyes glanced sideways.
Louisa was standing beside him—conspicuously so—standing very still as the mill of people in the ballroom ebbed and flowed, and the cluster that Guy was meeting and greeting came and went. She looked ill at ease, saying little, and although Guy made allowances for her youth and inexperience at such formal gatherings, and had sought to reassure her that he would give her all the support he could, that did not mean she would not have to learn how to handle them with the assurance that would be necessary as his wife.
It did not help that she was clearly of marked interest to anyone who knew him, for this was her first appearance in London as his fiancée, and for once her parents were not here. Guy had finally succeeded in shaking them off for his visit here, and Louisa was staying with the family of an old college friend for a weekend in England. Guy would have preferred her not to be here at all—not to be putting her through what was clearly an ordeal for her—but on the other hand she had to get used to the life she would be leading once she was married to him: the endless round of socialising and hostessing. That would best be done without her parents endlessly hovering over her—and over him.
The bleakness flared in his eyes again, mingled with the other emotion that was his constant companion—an emotion that required every ounce of will to control. An emotion that being in London had brought dangerously to the fore. He hadn’t been here in four months, and he was glad of it. It only reminded him of what he’d had to do without. Into his mind’s eye flicked the image of the eagle soaring, free and unfettered, over the lofty Alpine peaks as he’d headed into the confines of the tunnel. Resentment bit into him at what he was no longer free to do. And what he had to do instead.
At his side, Louisa hesitantly echoed his greeting of whoever it was whose hand he’d just shaken. His glance went sideways again. His mouth tightened. Annelise might not be here in person, but she was here in spirit, given the choice of gown for her daughter tonight. The dress was far too overpowering, stiff and grandiose. Presumably Annelise had been intending to make Louisa look older, more sophisticated. Instead it just emphasised her youth—and her evident awkwardness.
She’d looked a whole lot better in the jeans she’d worn that first evening—casual teenage wear, Guy thought. Since then, whenever he’d set eyes on her, she’d always been wearing outfits obviously chosen by her mother, and never to her advantage. He’d made no comment, not wanting to make her even more unsure of herself, but had made a mental note to ensure that as soon as they were married he would put her in the hands of someone who knew how to dress her properly, to bring out the best in her.
Memory stung like an unwelcome wasp.
His murmured accolade—superbe…
The image was vivid in his mind.
A slender column of burnt sienna raw silk, sleeveless and high-necked, exposing graceful arms and accentuating the subtle curves of breast and hip…
His mouth tightened even more. Why was he remembering Alexa when she was gone from his life now? His future lay with Louisa and he must remember that, must banish distracting memories of his lost freedom.
At his side, Louisa’s gaze suddenly flickered up to his, and he saw anxiety flare briefly. He curved a smile to his mouth to reassure her, and hoped he’d succeeded. As he’d said to his mother, none of this was her fault. A frown drew his eyebrows together. Despite the punishing demands of starting to sort out Lorenz Investment on top of all his other concerns, he’d made an effort to spend what time he could with Louisa, seeking to get to know her and, above all, establish that she was prepared to enter into such a marriage with him.
Like his parents, hers, too, had married for the sake of Rochemont-Lorenz, and he was as reassured as he could be in the circumstances that Louisa was willing to marry him, and that she understood that for now his first concern must be saving her father’s bank. Once that was secure he would give Louisa the attention she deserved, get to know her better and draw her out of her shyness and reticence.
A young, adoring bride. His eyes frowned. Was that what he wanted? Even as the thought came, he knew the answer.
No.
But perhaps for Louisa—who, like him, had not sought this marriage—it would be the best way for her to find happiness.
The frown turned to bleakness. For him, happiness seemed unlikely.
Once more his eyes chilled. Once more his iron self-control hammered down—familiar and exacting. And absolutely essential.
‘More champagne?’
Alexa gave a slight shake of her head. ‘Not for the moment. I’m doing fine.’
She was, too—and not just in consuming the champagne that was circulating generously at this crowded charity gala. She was doing fine just being out for the evening with Richard. As fine as could be expected. She’d had cold feet half a dozen times since she’d given in to Imogen, but each time she’d gone through the same dogged loop of facing up to the unalterable truth that she simply could not go on living like a hermit for the rest of her existence. She had to get on with her life.
Even so, when Richard had disclosed that he was inviting her to be his partner at this charity gala, she had almost backed out. Something more low-key would have been preferable for a first evening. On the other hand as she’d gone on to consider, a charity gala was preferable to some kind of quiet, intimate tête-á-tête over dinner. Nevertheless, it had taken a stern degree of resolution to get herself ready for this evening and come here on Richard’s arm.
Although he could not be faulted as an evening companion, she knew she was far from relaxed. The commercial property company where he was a consultant architect was supporting this event. At his table was a mix of fellow architects and their partners, and she was conscious of being reserved—even for her. Conscious, too, of the presence of so many glitteringly arrayed guests—the charity had clearly captured a good number of London’s seriously wealthy people. The realisation made her uneasy. Evoked memories and associations she did not want. She felt the familiar scrape across her heart.
But the last thing she wanted was to spoil Richard’s evening by being anything other than a good guest, and so, despite her reserve, she entered into the general conversation at the table. As the evening wore on, a sobering truth came to her. Had she not ever gone through that rash, misguided affair with Guy de Rochemont—or rather, she amended, had she not committed the folly of allowing herself to so stupidly fall in love with him—she would have enjoyed Richard Saxonby’s attentions far more.
It makes such sense to fall for him…
Surely, with time, she could make herself do so? Surely, with time, she could start to feel for him, finally expunge the hopeless, dead-end love she’d felt for Guy that was keeping her in this pointless limbo? Surely, she thought, as she smiled pleasantly at Richard, accepting his invitation to dance as the dinner, speeches and charity auction finally gave way to a general mingling around the huge room, surely it would not be too hard to take pleasure in lifting her eyes to his, letting their warmth set a glow in hers, letting his well-made mouth kiss hers? It should not be too hard to come to desire him. To fall—one day, when the time was right and they had come to know each other and desire each other—in love with him?
Then the music ended, and the couples on the floor relinquished each other and started to disperse back to their tables. Across the wide expanse of the room, as Richard let go of her and she started to head to her seat again, the pattern of people shifted and her eyes went through a newly opened gap, far across the ballroom. She stopped absolutely, totally still.
And knew that never in a hundred years could she fall in love with Richard or any other man.
Because the man she still loved was looking straight at her.
It was Alexa.
For a moment Guy’s line of sight encompassed only her—a tall, slender column of wine-rich burgundy—then it widened to take in her arm, resting on the sleeve of one
of the many tuxedos, and the wearer of the tuxedo looking proprietorially down at her.
Instinctively Guy moved forward. It took only moments, and Alexa hadn’t moved. Only her expression had changed. The initial flare of shock in her eyes as they had lighted on him was now veiled, and she seemed to wait, immobile, for his approach across the floor of the ballroom.
‘Good evening, Alexa.’
His voice was smooth, the accent, as ever, hardly noticeable.
Unlike the rest of him.
Her eyes, beneath their veil, were sucked to him. In her limbs she felt a sudden debilitating weakness, as if they might not hold her upright. But she must force them to. Must force herself not, not to let her eyes feed on that tall, effortlessly elegant figure that instantly, immediately, made every other man in the room look clumsy and lumpish. She must not feast on the fabulous planes of his face, the sable feathering of his hair, and not, above all, drown unstoppably in those deep green eyes that were resting on her and making her feel dizzy, weightless, breathless.
Oh, dear God, let this not be happening…
She could hear the call in her head, hear all the sense that she was possessed of decrying what was happening, what she was doing, and her fatal reaction. She was totally unprepared for this, her guard helplessly, hopelessly absent, so that there was nothing she could do except reel from the impact of his presence.
Another cry sounded in her head, coming from deeper yet.
It shouldn’t be like this!
She shouldn’t be so overcome like this. She shouldn’t! She’d had four months—four whole months to come to terms with the end of the affair. Four months to build up that vital, essential distance from what had been to what her life now had to be. Four months to do without Guy de Rochemont in her life. To get him out of her head.
And it took a single moment now to make her realise that all her efforts to get over him had been utterly in vain.
Dismay drenched through her, mingling with the emotion that had seized her throat, her lungs, as she’d recognised him—that was still seizing her now, making it impossible for her to speak, impossible to do what she must, which was simply to say his name, in a calm, level voice, suitable for the occasion, in acknowledgment of his greeting. Then they would exchange pleasantries, he would wish her well, and stroll away again. Back to his life. Back to his world. Back to the woman he was going to marry.
That was what she must do.
But there was nothing. She could not speak.
Then, like a knight to her rescue, Richard was speaking. Prompting her.
‘Alexa?’
There was nothing in his voice but appropriate social enquiry, but thankfully it served to catalyse her into responding. A quick smile parted her lips.
‘Richard—this is Guy de Rochemont. I had the privilege of painting his portrait a while ago.’
A glint showed in the green eyes. ‘The privilege was mine, Alexa.’ He paused minutely. ‘I did not think you would be here this evening…’ There was the slightest Gallic intonation in the comment, so that it sounded like no more than a passing remark.
She made herself give her quick smile again.
‘Nor I,’ she said. She glanced at Richard, encompassing him in her reply. ‘Richard was kind enough to invite me.’ Her escort smiled acknowledgement. Without noticing it, Alexa leant slightly towards him. There was a flicker of enquiry on Guy’s expression. Richard held out his hand.
‘Richard Saxonby—Guy de Rochemont,’ she said, her voice and manner relaxed.
Guy took the outstretched hand, which was firm and solid. Like the man. Good-looking, too, he acknowledged, with intelligent eyes and a face that found it easy to smile. Personable. Attractive. He could see why Alexa was with him. There was nothing to dislike in this Richard Saxonby.
Which made it illogical, therefore, that he should have a sudden impulse, ruthlessly controlled, to wrest Alexa’s hand from the man’s sleeve, clamp it in his own grip, and walk off with her.
Walk off with her, pile her into a car, take her back to her apartment, his hotel—any damn place, providing it had a bed in it and no Richard Saxonby or any other damn male!—and then strip Alexa of that utterly unnecessary evening dress, loosen the clips on her hair to let its pale waterfall cascade like silk over her shoulders, cover her opening mouth with his and get her beautiful naked body to himself. Completely, luxuriously, satiatingly to himself.
His jaw tightened, and he slammed down on his overpowering impulse. That wasn’t going to happen. Despite the flash of desire momentarily possessing him, Alexa Harcourt was in the past. Everything to do with her was in the past. He’d made his decision, terminated their relationship. So if she wanted to have a relationship with another man, such as this Richard Saxonby, what was it to him? Nothing. Rien de tout.
The familiar sense of self-control settled over him, shutting out everything that had to be shut out, kept down. Smoothly he exchanged the socially required introductions with the man who was now clearly enjoying Alexa’s beautiful body—an enjoyment which was nothing to do with Guy any more, nor would be ever again, and therefore something about which he was unconcerned. Any other reaction was inappropriate to the circumstances. He no longer had Alexa for himself—a decision which had been his and his alone—and therefore if she wished, as evidemment she did wish, to bestow herself upon this man—any other man, in fact—it was of no moment to him at all. None.
And, because it was so, all that was required now was to do as he proceeded to do: loose the man’s hand and give an acknowledging nod of his head towards Alexa. He ignored the fact that her shoulder was brushing that of this Richard Saxonby, with his good-looking face and well-made body and his air of masculine assurance—and why not? He had Alexa in his bed—a presence which would make any man satisfied. With a brief indentation of his mouth in farewell, Guy took his leave and walked away from her and her bed-partner of choice these days, and returned to his own party.
It had been the work of a few moments only—a fleeting episode in an evening which was like a thousand other evenings in his life spent at some social gathering in which he had no particular interest, but where his attendance was expected and therefore was provided. He had not even had to take regard, for those few brief, inconsequential moments, of his fiancée and her gaucherie at this first social outing at his side. For, just before his glancing gaze had lighted on the unexpected sight of Alexa Harcourt, Louisa had murmured her excuses and slipped away to what he assumed was the ladies’ room.
She had still not returned, but he did not begrudge her her respite—indeed, he found himself glad she had not witnessed his exchange with Alexa. Not that it was any concern of his fiancée, or anyone else. Although he had never drawn attention to Alexa’s role in his life, it would have been more marked had he not acknowledged the presence that evening of the woman whom he had commissioned to make his likeness in oils. He had no wish for Louisa to be in a social situation of any kind with any female who had occupied a place in his life that she, as his fiancée and then wife, would never occupy. They were orbits that would never meet, never intersect.
As he resumed the party, slipping back into the banal chit-chat of his company, for a few brief moments in his mind’s eye he saw that eagle again, soaring away over the peaks, far, far beyond. Ahead of him opened the tunnel, leading into the mountain’s stony depths.
‘Richard, would you excuse me a moment?’
Alexa’s voice was steady, her manner just as it had been five minutes earlier.
But only on the outside. On the inside her nerves were jangling as if a current had been set through them. She had to get away.
Hardly waiting for his acknowledgement of her intention, she turned away, threading through the throng towards the blessed respite of the ladies’ room. There was a sickness in her insides, and her throat was tight. The moment she was in the Ladies she plunged into a stall, shutting fast the door and clinging to it. How long she was in there she didn’t know—kne
w only that her heart was pounding, her mind ragged. Gradually, very gradually, the shock—more than shock—of seeing Guy again started to recede. With intense effort she forced herself to calm the hectic beating of her heart, banned herself from letting the scene replay in her head. It didn’t matter—it didn’t matter a jot that she had seen Guy again! She would not let it matter!
She dared not…
She took the deep breath, steadying herself. Then, unlocking the door, she stepped out of the stall. Running on automatic, she crossed to the washbasins and mechanically started to wash her hands. As she did so, she noticed a large, opulent ring, with a glittering stone inset, on the surrounding vanity unit. There was no other person present—not even an attendant. Alexa glanced around. It was not the kind of ring to be left lying there. The area was deserted, but just as she was wondering what she should best do, reluctant to pick the ring up in case she might open herself to accusations of theft, there was a bustle behind her and a little cry of relief.
‘Gott seie Danke!’
Alexa turned to see a young woman dive on the ring and jam it back on her finger. As she did so, Alexa could not but help catch her eye.
‘I’m not used to wearing it,’ the girl said by way of explanation.
There was a slight Germanic cast to her accent. She smiled at Alexa, who found herself answering with a smile as well as she reached for one of the stash of folded linen towels by the basin.
‘I’m glad you remembered it,’ she remarked. ‘I was wondering who I ought to alert that it was here. It’s not the sort of ring one would want to lose.’
The girl made a face. ‘I would have got into such trouble,’ she said. ‘It’s some kind of heirloom. Every bride for a million years has had it!’ She didn’t sound very impressed by the fact, and as she examined it on her finger she didn’t look very impressed by the ring either, despite the vast size of the diamonds in the opulent setting.