This would be a good time, Alex thought, to tell Bryceson that she still had more than three hundred pounds left from the five thousand she had accepted from Chesterfield… under false pretenses, as it turned out. But she could not, for the revelation was not entirely hers to own, not to mention how angry Bryce would be.
“We have some little money,” she said. “With the planting, and the few animals we keep, we will not starve.”
Hawk frowned. He should have done better by them all. “I will write to Gideon this very day, to ask him to put in a good word for my petition with the Prince Regent, as regards the return of my title and property.”
“What about your military pay?” Alex asked. “Is there any of that left?”
“I can contribute the grand sum of one hundred thirty-seven pounds, two shillings, and three. Rich, are we not?”
Alex laughed. “We are, indeed. And since we are, it is time Claudia had her season. What better time than now, for we can also reintroduce you to society.”
Hawk shook his head. “I hate the thought of all that blasted society fuss.”
“Do you? When women were swooning at your feet, I thought you rather enjoyed the bustle and fuss.”
Hawk quirked a brow. “You used to loathe it.”
“I guess we have switched places, then.”
The words seemed to steal the very air from Hawk’s lungs. “Let us put Claude’s season off for a year,” he said. “Until the spring, at least, so I can recover my ability to walk without the cane.”
Of a sudden, Alex understood, because she remembered Hawk’s lifelong yearning for perfection, acceptance, approval, what have you. But understanding his need to recover his steady gait did not alter the facts. “A season will cost too much in the spring. Claudia would need a larger and grander wardrobe then. Besides, she is very nearly a spinster already.”
“Claude is a baby, certainly no spinster. And you will need a proper wardrobe, as well.”
“My bride clothes should suffice.”
Thunder glanced off Hawk’s dark, furrowed brow. “Purchased by Chesterfield? I think not.”
“I purchased some things, myself.”
“Good. You will discard everything Chesterfield purchased and wear only what you chose and paid for.
“Fine, then, I shall go about London in my corset and stockings.”
Hawk was struck dumb by the image of Alex striding down St. James’s Street in nothing but her corset and stockings.
When she raised a brow, he recalled the point of their conversation. “No season,” he said. “Not this year. We cannot afford one.”
“I have been saving for this, Bryce. I believe that Claude’s season is among the necessities we must afford.”
“At the best, we might be able to purchase her a new wardrobe, since you already have your blasted bride clothes—every item of which I despise for their purchaser. But dressed like this, I am barely fit for a gentleman farmer, never mind escorting my niece about the marriage mart.”
“In regards to your clothes…”
“I told you,” Hawk said. “These are all I have.”
“But the ones you left behind may have been relegated to a trunk at Hawksridge. If Baxter kept any of your old retainers, one of them might be loyal enough to your family to search the attics for you.”
“Even if my clothes were returned to me, we do not have the money to fire Claude off properly, I tell you. The entire family can hardly be accommodated at Stephen’s Hotel, and we absolutely do not have the blunt to take a house in town, even for so short a season.”
“Let us just see what time brings,” Alex said, enigmatically, even then turning Buttercup toward Hawksridge.
Shaking his head, sure there was some salient point he was missing, Bryce turned his plodding beast in the same bloody direction.
~ ~ ~
HERE ALEX THOUGHT, as they made their way along the poplar lined drive of Hawk’s stately family seat, the lawns were manicured and greening nicely, though the drive lacked that certain flair brought on by foot-high weeds.
As far back as she could remember the situation had always been thus. Hawksridge had shone bright where Huntington Lodge appeared tarnished.
In the opposite manner, however, her own dear father had always been everything a loving and doting parent should be, while Hawksworth’s critical, demanding sire had been a man given to furious wrath. Though she did not think that Hawk feared his father’s wrath as much as his rejection.
They stopped beside the rose garden when Leggins, the old head gardener, straightened and tipped his hat. “Blimey,” the grizzled man said, scratching his head as he regarded Bryceson. “Blimey, Guv, you ain’t dead.”
“Indeed not,” Bryce said, nearly smiling. “I do not suppose your new master is to home?”
“He is, your grace.”
“There is a pleasant surprise,” Bryce said to Alex. “We may get this settled much sooner than we expected. Good day to you, Leggins, and thank you. Alex, shall we face the lion in his den?”
“Now we may witness that seizure you worried about last night,” she said with a grin. “If Baxter does not yet know that you are alive.”
But Bryce did not smile. As a matter of fact, as they climbed the front steps, his jaw set decidedly more firm, and his lids lowered, shuttering his reaction.
When the door was opened, they saw immediately that Hawk’s old footman had been replaced. The current retainer bowed politely and did not so much as quirk a brow or twitch a face muscle when Bryceson gave his name, but led them directly to the blue salon.
“Everything is the same,” Bryce said, with stifled longing, as he gazed about the cerulean room, snowy clouds drifting upon its azure ceiling, and Alex’s heart near broke for his loss.
“Well, this is a surprise,” said a familiar voice from the doorway.
“Chesterfield? What are you doing here?”
TWELVE
CHESTERFIELD RAISED a surprised brow. “I might ask you the same question. My man said you wanted to see me.”
“No. We came to see Hawk’s heir. Are you staying with Baxter?”
“I do not know where Baxter has run off to, but you must have asked to see the master of Hawksridge, and since Hawksridge is now mine—”
“No,” Bryce said without thought. Then he regarded Alex and raised his hand in a sign of defeat. “I know; I sound like my uncle.”
“This makes no sense,” Alex said. “How came you to be in possession of Hawksridge?”
“Hawk’s cabbage-headed heir wagered and lost it to me in a card game not six weeks ago. I do think I will be changing its name. To my ears, there is something decidedly annoying about its current appellation.”
Bryce cursed.
Chesterfield nodded. “Precisely how I felt at the church the day before yesterday.”
“Hawk loves his home,” Alex said.
“Alexandra,” Hawk warned.
Chesterfield regarded Hawk with a raised brow. “You want Hawksridge? I will trade you… for Alex.”
“Do not be an ass,” Hawk said.
“Judson, be serious. You cannot keep Hawk’s home.”
“Hawksridge was Baxter’s estate to wager at the time I won it, and unless someone can pay me the fifteen thousand pounds that whelp of Satan owes me, I am bloody well going to keep it.”
Hawk cursed again.
“It would be a bargain at double the price,” Chesterfield said, his gaze moving between Alex—very much aware that he thought of her as his lost bride—and her bristling husband, who would as soon strike the man as look at him. “Whatever you wanted of Baxter,” their unexpected host asked, “is it something with which I can help you?”
“Yes,” Alex said.
“No,” Hawk replied as fast.
“Ah, a stalemate then. Can I offer you refreshment, or shall I have my man show you out?”
“Judson, really, there is no need to be rude.”
“Is there not? Odd
I thought I was being civil to the blackguard who took my bride from me. It might interest you to know, Alexandra, that were it not for your fondness for this estate, I would not have been so anxious to acquire it. It was to be your wedding present, you see. Half the countryside kept the secret of my ownership, so I could surprise my bride on our wedding day. Otherwise, I might have called Baxter out, rather than accept it.”
“And done us all a favor,” Hawk snapped.
“Hawksworth!”
“God’s teeth, Lexy, you cannot blame me for wanting to thrash the blighter. He has run my entire fortune into the ground.” Bryceson regarded Chesterfield. “Your pardon for airing our dirty linen in your home. We will bid you a good day.”
“Well I’ll be dashed,” Chesterfield exclaimed. “That was damned near polite of you, Hawksworth. Will wonders never cease?”
“Go to the devil!” Bryce strode from the room, barely using his cane, and gleaning a modicum of respect from Chesterfield, Alex thought, from their host’s approving look.
After seeing Bryce rise from the floor this morning, she understood the likely cost to him in pain for that exit, and because of it, she too experienced a frisson of pride.
Hurrying to catch up, she passed by Chesterfield, who caught her arm and stopped her. “I will send his personal belongings over later today. He looks as if he could use them.”
“Thank you Judson. You are a good man.” Alex stepped near and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head and caught her lips, extending the kiss. By the time Alex got her wits about her, Chesterfield was pulling away with a grin.
Alex blushed and stepped back, and when she did, she saw that her husband stood not two feet away, straight and proud and looking fit to kill. Were she guilty of the crime for which he silently accused, the fury in his expression might turn her to salt.
He most certainly had witnessed the kiss, if not their discussion about his clothes, for even from here, she could see that frenetic tic working in his cheek.
Chesterfield chuckled. “I am not so good a man that I cannot find amusement in this situation.”
“Shame on you,” Alex said. “I do believe I misjudged you.”
“You did. But do you not agree that a kiss, in exchange for what is owed me, is not too much to ask?”
Alex gasped. “I most certainly do not.”
Chesterfield chuckled as Bryce left the house, seeming not to care whether Alex followed or not.
Having been abandoned by her husband, Alex left shortly thereafter, but took the long circuitous route home, hoping Bryce would wonder if she was dallying with Chesterfield.
Let the dolt be jealous, if he was fool enough to think she cared to kiss anybody but him.
When she got back to the Lodge, the letter from Sabrina, which she had been anxiously awaiting, had arrived. Except that, after Alex read it, her emotions were mixed. Yes, she received the answer for which she hoped. But she also learned something that made her so angry, she wished she had dallied with Judson, or at the least kissed him back.
Though she would rather trounce her husband as speak to him at the moment, she marched straight to the study.
The French doors leading to the overgrown garden stood open, curtains fluttering in the early fall breeze. A light scent of roses wafted upon the air from the few remaining blooms tenacious enough to have survived death by strangulation.
Hawk stood before the hearth, resting one elegant, booted foot upon the cool grate. He twirled a raised goblet of brandy before his eyes, examining it as if it held the answer to all of life’s mysteries… if only he could find a way to make it give them up.
Tall, dark and perilously devastating, he was Hawksworth, not Bryce, imperious, rigid, in control. Here, she saw for the first time, the man who had expected to be a duke, cold, arrogant, a woman-slayer.
A ledger lay open upon the desk. Atop and all around it sat boxes of assorted estate receipts, as if Hawk had attempted and failed to make some sense of the monumental task. On the instant, Alex was sorry for her lack of bookkeeping skills. Then again, it served him right for staying away so bloody long.
When he bothered to look in her direction, as if he could care less where she had been, who she had been with, or for how long, he raised his secret-laden goblet higher in her direction and gave her an arrogant, brow-raised salute. Then he took a long, slow swallow.
She did not know whether he was angrier about the kiss or losing Hawksridge. Though she would place her wager on the estate as being of greater import to his mind.
Despite his show of nonchalance, there was something soulful lurking in her husband’s eyes that made him appear more human in his vulnerability. Grief, or sorrow, filled their topaz depths, and being allowed so much as a glimpse, jarred her.
But rather than step into his arms, which she longed to do—to ease those burdens and console him—Alex crushed Sabrina’s letter in her trembling hand and hardened her heart.
Damn the rogue.
He had let more than a year go by since Waterloo, with nary a word from him, and according to the information in Sabrina’s letter, he could have contacted her at any time for all of the past five months, at least.
He might be her long-lost husband, and a duke of the realm, when he got his title back, but he had a great deal of explaining to do.
Yes, she had some little explaining to do, herself, but not on his scale. Oh no, nothing like.
Again Alex wanted to berate him. Again, she kept her peace. “I have had a letter from Sabrina,” she said, when the silence stretched—her, raging inside, Hawk, daring her with his look to let loose, almost as if he ached for a good brawl. “She sends news I think you should hear.”
Hawk sighed. “Then hear it I must, I suppose.” He poured another liberal brandy and slouched into a butternut leather wing chair to listen, more or less.
Annoyed by his cavalier attitude, Alex stepped closer as she perused the missive, deciding to give him every foolish bit of news, prattle and promise alike, for which he pretended indifference. “Sabrina says that Juliana is growing like a weed, and at the advanced age of ten months, she has her father even more tightly wrapped about her smallest finger.”
A near-smile altered Hawk’s expression for a blink.
Alex faltered but continued. “Since Gideon has been relating the story of the American Indians, as told by James Adair, and embellished upon by adventurous travelers to the American West, the twins have formed a passion for Indians and have been war-whooping about the house for weeks. Just the other day, they tied Gideon to the stake.”
Alex chuckled. “Not to worry, says Sabrina, the fire they set was quickly contained and barely singed his eyebrows. Though the boys may not be able to sit for a week, nor may they leave the nursery for as long, not to mention their trip to the Royal Menagerie, which has been cancelled.”
Alex took the chair across from her husband, enjoying the letter, despite her ire at his haughty arrogance. Suddenly, she could think of him as nothing less than a duke. Where had Bryceson gone? she wondered. Had he never returned from war? Had she been deluding herself?
Only time would tell.
“Gideon is Bree’s new husband, I take it, the Duke of Stanthorpe? The match you made for her?” Alex asked.
Hawksworth nodded. “They are top over tail in love.”
“I do not believe it. Not Sabrina.”
Hawk shrugged. “I saw it for myself.”
“You saw that some time ago, as I understand it. About five months, as a matter of fact.”
“Ah. So that is your quarrel with me?”
“Quarrel? I have no quarrel with you, though I do wonder where we would be if I had not decided to marry and you had not been forced to stop me.” Alex held up her hand. “No, do not answer that. Spare me some dignity, please,” she said, using his words, gratified to see him wince.
“The reason I sought you out,” Alex said, “after your rude and abrupt departure from Hawksridge, was to te
ll you that Sabrina has arranged for Stanthorpe’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Basingstoke, to sponsor Claudia in London during the coming fall season. Since now is the little season and of shorter duration than the actual spring season, the cost will be much less and, therefore, easier to manage.”
Hawk sat forward. “We cannot afford either this year.”
“Did you know that Claudia has formed a tendre for Chesterfield?”
On the instant, a maelstrom of fury darkened her duke’s brow. “The devil you say.”
Alex gave a half nod, satisfied she had made her point. “The duchess is inviting us to stay with her at her townhouse on St. James’s Square, which eliminates the cost of taking a house. Sabrina arranged everything. We need only pay for Claudia’s wardrobe to fire her off properly.”
Hawk slammed his glass on the near table, dashing it to fragments.
Alex ducked to evade the spray of glass and brandy.
“God’s teeth,” Hawk snapped, coming to his feet in one furious and shocking lunge, his shout of pain for the move, as piercing to Alex as one of those shards might have been. Then he pulled her up and into his arms to crush her so close, she could feel him tremble, taste his fear.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you get cut?” He held her away then, examining her face, her arms and hands, kissing her brow, her fingers, disregarding the glass shards and brandy defacing his frockcoat, the blood at the tip of his thumb. “I might have hurt you. God, forgive me. I might have hurt you.”
“What is the matter with you today?” Alex asked. “Your restlessness is contagious. I have never seen you like this before.”
“I am so… unsettled, unsure—”
“Of what?”
“Of—” He hauled her back into his arms and opened his mouth over hers, drawing a response from her, even as anger boiled inside him—anger through which she could feel his power. But she did not regard it any more than he did. She simply gave and took succor at the only source from which she cared to give or receive it.
“There,” he said stepping back, leaving her breathless. “There. I am calmer now. What was the question?”
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