by Baird Wells
“I know that she came to speak to you. I don't want to know what she said; I can probably imagine. Just,” she exhaled slowly, “weigh everything she tells you.”
Spencer sat up, leaning in close enough that heat from his thigh transferred through her petticoats. He slid a hand over hers and fit their fingers together. “I've formed my own opinions.”
She stared at the point where they were joined, wanting to remember the garden and to push it away. “Lord Reed --”
“Spencer,” he corrected.
“Spencer.” Alix tried it out, whispering his name and thrilling at how easily it slid from her lips, protest forgotten.
“Alexandra --” His thumb stroked the back of her hand, idle at first and then suggestive in its rhythm. Then his face changed, and Spencer pulled back whatever he'd been about to say and separated their hands. Without warning, he stood up. “I'll bid you goodnight, for now.”
She cast away her disappointment at the abrupt shift, searching his face and feeling reassured by what she found there. He was likely as wearied by the day as she. She couldn’t fault his being too tired for serious conversation. She stood up, taking delight in his formal bow.
“Goodnight, Spencer.”
“Alexandra?” Her hand was on the knob as she glanced over her shoulder.
“I'll be waiting here tomorrow night, too.”
* * *
Spencer pulled the bottle close and began to deal for solitaire. He certainly wasn't getting sleep anytime soon. There were moments with Alexandra when he felt they were crossing a line. Not kissing or touching, exactly. He knew what it wasn't, but he couldn't name what it was.
Turning over another card, Spencer studied his move. A mantle clock kept patient time, ticking over the house's silence as he tried and failed to sort out their short but convoluted history. They’d gone from a layer of fabric away from lovemaking to an easy, almost necessary camaraderie. The events seemed out of order, but somehow they made sense. It didn’t help when he reached an impasse, as he had tonight, not wanting her to leave but having no idea how to take a step forward. He sighed and laid down the last ace.
What was Paulina's motivation? He could understand her father's detached treatment of Paton Shipping; business was not an arena for emotional decisions. Her tight-fisted grip on Alexandra though… He sensed more at work than loyalty to the family. They had built enough intimacy that he felt comfortable prying Alexandra for details, and resolved to do just that at the next opportunity.
Spencer abandoned his cards at a rumble of hooves thundering up the drive. It was a sound he had expected, though not until later in the morning. He slipped out into the hall and waved off the Hastings’s shuffling, gritty-eyed butler.
He caught the front door just ahead of a dusty, panting courier. The man raised a battered felt top hat under the hall lamp. “Lord Reed, urgently.” Spencer nodded and traded his coin for an envelope, the courier loping back to an anxious mount before the door had closed.
Darby's wide slanting signature marked the first of two thick sheets of paper. His note read only 'For publication in this morning's papers'. Thin, nervous letters lined the second page, handwriting he recognized by content rather than form.
Lord Spencer Reed has called upon me to give, for my conduct, that satisfaction which a gentleman has a right to require, and which a gentleman never refuses to pay. Admitting offence given to his lordship and a concerned lady, Lord Grey accedes to disgraceful and insulting conduct against both parties. A public apology is merited, and offered to prevent a more hostile transaction.
Ld. G. Grey
“Coward.” He crumpled both sheets. Not that he wasn't relieved at avoiding dawn at ten paces; if anything, he was grateful sparing fifty miles to London and rising at an obscene hour. He felt no joy at the prospect of injuring the man, but something about George’s casual disregard for Amelia had stoked a fury in Spencer which he hadn’t known was there. There was not an ounce of contrition to Grey's apology, just disgraceful self-preservation. In the army, men like him weren't given the gentleman's way out. He missed that simple justice now.
Whatever his feelings, the matter was settled. He relaxed and, relieved at having pried at least one weight from his mind, Spencer stuffed the letter into his coat and headed upstairs to bed.
* * *
Alix dressed for breakfast at an unprecedented speed. Usually coming down to face her brother and Paulina first thing in the day merited a lot of stretching and rolling over, several wardrobe changes, and enough attention to her hair that she could be presented at court.
This morning she had tripped on her petticoats and torn a shoulder seam in her gown, all in her eagerness to see Spencer. He would leave for London in the afternoon and she dreaded his journey as much as the outcome.
She could hear Paulina's yammering as she reached the foot of the stairs, which was strange on two counts; Paulina made an art of frosty silence, and she sounded a shade less miserable than usual. The one-sided conversation ground to a halt, however, the moment Alix set foot in the dining room. She found seven pairs of eyes trained on her, Elizabeth Conyngham's only marginally more hostile than Paulina's. John and Laurel stared blandly, Chas sat resigned, and Spencer unreadable as he looked her over head to toe. Despite the attention of so many, it was his study which quickened her pulse.
A man seated beside the pink satin abomination of Elizabeth, her unfortunate husband, were Alix to hazard a guess, toyed with a hank of dark hair in open boredom.
Alix met each pair of eyes in turn, waiting in silence until more than one chair creaked under discomfort. Then she curtsied. “Lady Conyngham.”
More silence. Lord Conyngham jabbed his wife with a broad elbow. Elizabeth's full lips tightened into a squished heart, eyes staring at a point beyond Alix. “Mrs. Rowan.”
Wearied by the pregnant silence, Alix moved to the buffet and put her back to the group.
“Lord and Lady Conyngham have come with an invitation.” Paulina dropped the information in the center of the room, hanging it by a taunting thread.
Again, silence while she managed an egg onto her plate. They were waiting for an 'Oh?', or an 'Is that so!' She would not give them the satisfaction.
A feminine throat cleared behind her several times, Elizabeth requiring full attention and frustrated that Alix refused to turn and face her. Appreciating that she had all the ears possible and that Alix could go on forever choosing a pastry, Elizabeth finally spoke. “We have come to invite Mr. and Mrs. Paton to Hamilton Place.”
Damn the woman if she was going to make anyone feel cut out. Seizing the opportunity, Alix buried her face in the crook of her arm, producing a wracking bout of exaggerated, unladylike coughing and stumbled to her seat. “I'm sorry I'm not well enough to join you all.” Thudding into her chair, she grimaced and hung her head to one side.
Elizabeth pursed her lips and her cheeks flushed, but good manners and witnesses kept her from saying that Mrs. Rowan had never been on the guest list. Paulina was less circumspect, eager to build her up before tearing her down. “You can suffer a carriage ride, Alexandra.”
Spencer, rendered headless behind the papers' crease, cut in. “I have business in London tomorrow, Conyngham; perhaps we can arrange an evening.”
His duel. Alix swatted away the idea, sick over it no matter if he was accounted a 'dead shot.'
“Capital,” drawled Conyngham, staring at the far wall and twisting away on his hair.
“I did not know that you would be in London, sir.” Paulina's motives were so tactless that Alix nearly laughed out a mouthful of toast. The moment she believed Spencer would be fifty miles from Broadmoore, Paulina’s relief was palpable. “Alexandra, you will stay behind, for your health.”
Transparent hardly did the moment justice.
Laurel, bless her, brought everyone back to the beginning. “Hastings and I are too committed with improvements here to join Reed. Alexandra will convalesce with us, and the rest of you will be
free to enjoy London.”
“There,” resolved Chas with an unprecedented measure of backbone. “Everyone is settled. Reed, will you travel down with us?”
“No. I have some marching orders for Bennet to carry out in my absence. I’ll leave late this afternoon, before supper.”
“This breakfast is too heavy for my nerves!” declared Paulina, shooting up. “Arranging and packing; it won't sit. I must begin directly.” When no one made a move to acknowledge her outburst, she snapped bony fingers at Chas’s ear. “Charles.” Mid bite, Chas set down his fork and groaned from his chair, any trace of spine now absent. Alix was never certain who merited more disgust.
Elizabeth rose next. “Lady Hastings, you may show us to the parlor.”
Alix didn't miss the sideways glance, Elizabeth's haughty unease at their being in close company. Though her condescension stung, Alix took pleasure that Lady Conyngham felt a need to escape her.
Laurel didn't bother concealing a frown at the imposition, at having no choice but to entertain the woman. “Of course, Lady Conyngham. Hastings, come. You can share your plans for the north wing with his lordship.”
John, midway through breakfast judging by his plate, looked to her and then Spencer, then finally to his wife, eager for a sympathetic pair of eyes. Finding none, he wiped his mouth with violence and followed Laurel out.
Spencer met her eyes and pulled a serious face. “And then... there were two.”
She smiled without reservation now that they were alone. “I take a little pride in my victory, facing more opposition from the room than anyone else.”
He clutched his napkin to his chest. “You mean you aren’t heartbroken, being cut so fully by the charming countess?”
“Hah!” Alix poured coffee into her cup, punishing it with a frown intended for Spencer. “Her going to London is eclipsed by my anxiety at your going to London.”
No answer. She finished pouring and glanced up to find dancing hazel eyes watching her. Spencer produced a creased envelope from his coat, laid it on the table and pushed it across to her with a finger to his lips.
She unfolded it close to her chest and skimmed its few lines. “An apology?” she whispered. She glanced up again, hope blooming in her chest. “This means you don't have to go?”
“I could still call him out,” Spencer whispered back. “Few would cry foul, though it would be rather ungentlemanly to press things now. Grey is humiliated, humbled. And his troubles are far from over.” He smiled and claimed the note. “I won't inconvenience myself to do what London can accomplish more artfully.”
She frowned. “But you told Paulina that you have business in London.”
He sat back, looking triumphant. “So I did, and I also said that I have business at Oakvale. Which I do not.”
Alix gasped, heart pounding harder by the moment. “That means!”
He nodded. “Five days at least.”
Five days in Spencer's company with no one more obtrusive than John and Laurel to take a bit of notice. Equal measures of relief and anticipation dashed her composure, and she pressed a hand to her chest and fell back in her chair.
Spencer nodded again. “Precisely.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He had found her at last, his woman from the masquerade. Perhaps even more than that, Spencer thought, watching her tease John and then duck her head at his colorful retort. However alluring, his garden lady had been one color where the woman before him now was a whole spectrum.
Alexandra was the sun after a cloudy day, and it was impressed on him what a powerful effect her brother and sister-in-law had. Even her way of dressing had changed since their departure. Smooth bare arms and a neckline somewhere lower than her chin revealed creamy skin in frustrating quantity. She wore crisp ivory satin which set off a mountain of black waves swept up to reveal a slender neck his fingers remembered well. There was a renewed light to her beautiful face, and Spencer thought her a match for London's most celebrated belles.
Laurel stood, stifling a yawn against one hand and massaging the green muslin that shrouded her growing belly with the other. “Walk me up, John, or you'll be carrying me.”
“Hmph. In that case at your current size, you'll stay where you are.”
A whack from Laurel earned Spencer a helpless look from John. Spencer raised his arms in reply. “If you fear her size, I wouldn't provoke her, Hastings.”
Laurel grabbed a fistful of John's coat, heaving with all her willowy might. “Your friend is wise. You should heed his advice.”
That put an end to it. John caught her around the waist, swept her legs and gathered her to his chest, Laurel giggling and shrieking all the while. Alexandra doubled over with laughter, meeting his eyes and shaking her head.
“Spoils of war, Reed!” John called back over his shoulder. “You're my witness. Won fair and square.” Laurel's giggling could be heard all the way down the hall, punctuating John's indistinct murmurs.
Still laughing, Alix raked their cards together. “I suspect neither of them is as put out as they let on.”
He tapped her slipper under the table. “Whatever gives you that impression?”
“Hm.” She finished stacking up the deck and glanced around. “I thought we were old, but here we are, the last ones up at an embarrassingly early hour.”
Pulling out his watch, Spencer saw she was correct; just past ten.
She reclined into a languid stretch, painting him with a lazy smile. He wondered if she grasped the effect her pose was having, until her foot brushed his calf beneath the table. “What should we do with ourselves?”
Anything. Everything. Spencer had no idea how to answer. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't want to leave her yet, that he wanted every possible moment in her company before the Patons returned. “Get your coat,” he instructed, not certain what he intended. “I'll meet you in the hall.” Like everything where Alexandra was concerned, the moment was impulse and he was happy to make it up as they went.
Looking as perplexed as he felt, Alexandra cocked her head and smiled, skipping his heart. “Are we running away?”
Swallowing twice, he still couldn't find a reply, and shrugged.
He felt like an idiot, but Alexandra nodded and spared him. “Playing coy. Very well. Though, I warn you, I'm prepared.”
He watched her go, the graceful sway of her skirts holding him captive until she was out of sight. Taking her outside had seemed like a clever idea until this moment; now he had the distinct sense of saddling himself with biblical temptation. There was no telling yet if that were terrible, or wonderful.
When he met Alix in the hall minutes later, she was covered from neck to ankles in a sensible brown velveteen coat, and Spencer exhaled. Made safe by the garment, mostly from himself, he offered her an arm.
They went left around the staircase where he opened the ballroom's wide double doors and led her through the dark, their footsteps tapping at marble until they reached the terrace’s high doors. A few lamps blazed along the wall and Spencer took advantage of their light, as they moved down the stairs, to steal glances at Alix. They retraced steps they’d taken into the garden on that first night, and he studied her as they went for any hint of recognition. She looked more concerned with navigating deepening shadows, no acknowledgement for their surroundings.
“It’s just up here,” he whispered when they had passed the orangerie and his beloved wall, and moved into the garden proper.
“Why are we whispering?”
Spencer chuckled at himself and shrugged even if she couldn't see him. “Because it's dark?”
“Oh.” A soft laugh. “Of course.”
“Here.” He stopped them atop a low rise beyond the garden's hedges where Broadmoore's lawn rolled away toward wilder country. Lights from the house caught the edge of a small pond, painting it in amber ribbons, offering a hint of illumination until the moon rose. Sitting, Spencer braced back on his arms, stretched his legs out along the small hill, and pat
ted the grass. Alix fell beside him without warning, hip to hip, one arm inside his own so that their fingers just touched. She was close enough for him to catch the warm, sweet perfume from her hair, to hear her slow. even breathing. The magical ward of her modest coat began to dissolve.
Spencer fixed his eyes overhead, studying the night sky and clearing his throat. “Do you know your constellations, Mrs. Rowan?”
“In fact, I do.” He caught a delighted bent to her words. “I think anyone who has a love of sailing must. My father taught me each and every one.” Her laugh was girlish. “Sometimes we made up our own. It became a contest.”
“Is that so?”
“A toad. A fountain. Snake; my father always tried snake, which of course you can make out of exactly any four stars.” She snorted and pressed their shoulders together.
He inhaled, exhaling her name slowly. “Alexandra.”
“Mmm?”
It was more a sensation than a word. He had meant it as a preamble, an introduction to a speech he had practiced countless times over the last week. It was a concise and finely worded explanation of his attraction and confusion, her beauty and quiet strength, and how he feared her as much as he chafed in her absence. He had even written it out on a scrap of paper and whispered it to himself before the glass while dressing, two mornings in a row. Face to face with her now, he could hardly recall it and the parts he did remember sounded rote. Wrong. Finally, he settled on: “I'm glad we have this time together.” He caressed her cheek with his thumb and hoped that she could hear his sentiment behind the words.
“I am glad you found it for us.” Her head fell against his arm in reply, putting their faces in dangerous proximity. “A month,” she murmured.
It barely pierced his awareness, distracted by her heat through his clothes. “What's that?”
She didn’t speak for awhile, long enough that he wondered if she had heard him. “Chas means for us to return home. Settle the accounts he's started here, and then we'll be on our way.” Her words were hollow, toneless.