Jordan ushered his grandmother into her stately coach, snapped orders to her mesmerized coachman, and climbed in beside her. “Jordan—?” she whispered finally, staring up at him with joyous, tear-brightened eyes as the coach lurched forward. “Is it really you?”
A sympathetic smile softened his grim features. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he tenderly kissed her forehead. “Yes, darling.”
In a rare show of affection, she laid her hand against his tanned cheek, then suddenly jerked her hand away and demanded imperiously, “Hawthorne, where have you been! We thought you were dead! Poor Alexandra almost wasted away with grief, and Anthony—”
“Spare me the lies,” Jordan interrupted coldly. “Tony looked anything but thrilled to see me just now, and my ‘grieving’ wife was a radiant bride.”
In his mind Jordan saw the ravishing beauty who had turned to him on that altar. For one wonderful, mortifying moment he thought he’d barged in on the wrong wedding, or that Mathison had been mistaken about the identity of Tony’s bride, because Jordan hadn’t recognized her—not until she’d raised those unforgettable aqua eyes of hers to his. Then and only then had he known for certain who she was—just as certainly as he knew in that instant that Tony had not been marrying her out of pity or charity. The intoxicating beauty on that altar would arouse lust in any man, but not pity.
“I was under the impression,” he remarked with biting sarcasm, “that a mourning period of one year is customary after a death in one’s immediate family.”
“Of course it is, and we did observe it!” the duchess said defensively. “The three of us did not go out into company until April, when Alexandra made her bow, and I don’t—”
“And where was my grieving wife living during that somber period?” he bit out.
“At Hawthorne, with Anthony and me, of course.”
“Of course,” Jordan repeated caustically. “I find it amazing that Tony wasn’t contented with owning my titles, my lands, and my money—he had to possess my wife, as well.”
The dowager paled, suddenly aware of how all this must look to him right now and equally cognizant that in his present mood, it would be a grave mistake to explain that Alexandra’s popularity had necessitated her marriage. “You’re wrong, Hawthorne. Alexandra—”
“Alexandra,” he interrupted, “apparently liked being the Duchess of Hawthorne and therefore did the only thing she could do to secure the position permanently. She decided to marry the current Duke of Hawthorne.”
“She’s—”
“A scheming opportunist?” he suggested bitingly, as rage and disgust ate at him like acid. While he had been rotting away in prison, lying awake nights worrying that Alexandra was wasting away in seclusion, tormented with grief and despair, Tony and Alexandra had been enjoying all his worldly goods. And in time they decided to enjoy each other as well.
The dowager saw the harshness in his taut features and sighed with helpless understanding. “I know how dreadful all this must look to you, Jordan,” she said with a trace of guilt in her gruff voice, “and I can see that you are not ready or able to listen to reason. However, I should very much like it if you would at least explain to me what you have been about all this time.”
Jordan sketched in the details of his absence, leaving out the worst of them, but talking about it only made him more furiously aware of the sick irony of the entire situation: While he had been in chains, Tony had happily usurped his titles, his estates, his money, and then he had decided to help himself to Jordan’s wife.
Behind them, in a coach bearing the gold crest of the Duke of Hawthorne—an insignia which Anthony no longer had the right to use—Alexandra sat perfectly still beside Uncle Monty and across from Anthony, who was staring out the window. Her mind was racing in wild circles, her thoughts tumbling over themselves. Jordan was alive and well—except that he was much thinner than she remembered. Had he deliberately vanished because he wanted to escape from the pathetic child he had married, returning only when he discovered his cousin was about to become a party to bigamy? Her joy that he was alive and well gave way to bewilderment. Surely he could not have been so revolted by her as that!
No sooner had that thought consoled her dazed spirits than sharper ones began to stab at her in rapid, relentless succession: The man whose return she had just been rejoicing was the very same man who had pitied and despised her. He had mocked her to his mistress. Jordan Townsende, as she now knew and must never forget, was unprincipled, unfaithful, heartless, and morally corrupt. And she was married to him!
In her mind Alexandra called him every terrible name she could think of, but as their coach neared Upper Brook Street, her fury was already abating. Anger required mental energy and concentration, and at the moment her dazed mind was still nearly paralyzed with shock.
Across from her, Tony shifted in his seat and the movement suddenly made her remember that she was not the only one whose future had just been drastically altered by Jordan’s reappearance. “Tony,” she said sympathetically, “I’m . . . sorry,” she finished lamely. “It’s just as well your mother felt she ought to stay home with your brother. The shock of Jordan’s return would surely have brought on an attack.”
To her amazement, Tony started to grin. “Being the Duke of Hawthorne was not quite so delightful as I once thought it would be. As I said a few weeks ago, there’s little joy in possessing fabulous wealth if one can’t find the time to enjoy it. However, it has just occurred to me that fate has handed you quite a boon.”
“What is that?” she said, staring at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.
“Only consider this,” he continued, and to her disbelief he began to chuckle out loud. “Jordan is back and his wife is now one of the most desired women in England! Be honest —isn’t this exactly what you used to dream would happen?”
With grim amusement, Alexandra contemplated the shock that was in store for Jordan when he discovered that his unwanted, pitiful little wife was now the toast of the ton. “I have no intention of remaining married to him,” she said with great finality. “I shall tell him as soon as possible that I want a divorce.”
Tony sobered instantly. “You can’t be serious. Do you have any idea how much scandal a divorce will cause? Even if you can get one, which I doubt, you will be a total outcast in Society.”
“I don’t care.”
He looked at her and his voice gentled. “I appreciate your concern for my feelings, Alex, but there’s no need for you to think of a divorce on my behalf. Even if we were desperately in love, which we aren’t, it wouldn’t matter. You are Jordan’s wife. Nothing can change that.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that he might want to change that?”
“Nope,” Tony declared cheerfully. “I’ll wager that what he wants to do right now is call me out and demand satisfaction. Didn’t you see the murderous look he gave me in church? But don’t fret,” he continued, chuckling at her look of terror, “if Hawk wants a duel, I’ll choose rapiers and send you in as my stand-in. He can’t very well spill your blood, and you stand a better chance of drawing his than I do.”
Alexandra would have argued tempestuously that Jordan wasn’t likely to care that Tony and she had been about to marry, but argument required clear, rational thinking and she could not quite shake off the blur of unreality still surrounding everything. “Let me be the one to tell him I wish a divorce, Tony. For the sake of future family tranquillity, he must understand that this is entirely my decision and has nothing to do with you.”
Caught between amusement and alarm, Tony leaned across and took her by the shoulders, laughing as he shook her lightly. “Alex, listen to me. I know you’re in shock, and I certainly don’t think you ought to fall into Jordan’s arms this week or even this month, but divorcing him is carrying vengeance too far!”
“He cannot object in the least,” Alexandra replied with a flash of spirit. “He never cared a pin for me.”
Tony shook his head, his
lips twitching with the smile he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. “You don’t really understand about men and their pride—and you don’t know Jordan if you believe he’ll just let you go. He . . .” Suddenly Tony’s eyes gleamed with laughter and he fell back against the squabs, chuckling with mirth. “Jordan,” he declared mirthfully, “hated sharing his toys, and he’s never passed up a challenge!”
Uncle Monty looked from one to the other of them, then reached inside his coat and removed a small flask. “Circumstances such as these,” he announced, helping himself to a swallow, “require a bit of restorative tonic.”
There was no time for further conversation, because just then their coach drew up behind Jordan’s at the house on Upper Brook Street.
Carefully averting her eyes from Jordan, who was already helping his grandmother down from the other coach, Alexandra put her hand in Tony’s and stepped down. But as Jordan followed her up the steps with his grandmother on his arm, the shock that had blessedly anesthetized Alexandra up until now, abruptly began to dissipate. Less than two feet behind her, his booted heels struck the pavement with sharp, relentless clicks that sent shivers of apprehension dancing down her spine; his tall body and broad shoulders threw an ominous shadow across her path and blocked the sunlight. He was real and alive and here, she thought, and her body began to tremble uncontrollably. This was not a dream—or a nightmare—from which she might awaken.
The group seemed to turn in unison toward the drawing room. Her senses heightened sharply by her growing awareness of his menace to her future, as well as Tony’s concern about a possible duel, Alexandra paused inside the drawing room and swiftly surveyed the seating, weighing the psychological advantages and disadvantages of each location. Looking for a neutral position, she decided against the sofa, seating herself instead in one of the two wing chairs facing each other in front of the fireplace, then concentrated all her will on trying to subdue the sudden, quickened pounding of her heart. The dowager duchess apparently opted for neutrality also, for she chose the other chair for herself.
That left the sofa, at right angles to the chairs and facing the fireplace. Tony, with no other choice, sat upon that and was joined by Uncle Monty, who had rushed into the drawing room in hopes of enjoying some libation while simultaneously lending Alexandra his emotional support. Jordan crossed to the fireplace, draped his arm across the mantel and turned, regarding the entire assemblage in cool, speculative silence.
While the elderly duchess gave an extremely brief, nervous account of Jordan’s whereabouts for the last fifteen months, Filbert walked in, a beaming smile upon his lips, a tray of champagne in his hands. Unaware of the charged atmosphere or of Jordan’s relationship to Alex, the loyal footman carried the tray straight to Alexandra and filled five glasses. As soon as the duchess finished speaking, Filbert handed the first glass to Alexandra, and said, “May you always be as happy as you are at this moment, Miss Alex.”
Alexandra felt hysterical laughter well up inside her, combined with escalating panic, as Filbert returned to the table and poured more champagne into the remaining glasses, then passed them out to the silent inhabitants of the room, including Jordan.
Seconds ticked past, but no one, not even Uncle Monty, had nerve enough to be the first one to lift his glass and partake of the vintage champagne that had been brought up from the cellars in advance to celebrate a wedding that had not taken place. . . . No one, except Jordan.
Seemingly impervious to the throbbing strain in the drawing room, he turned the glass in his hand, studying the bubbles in the sparkling crystal glass, then he took a long swallow. When he lowered the glass, he regarded Tony with a sardonic expression. “It’s good to know,” he coldly remarked, “that you haven’t let your grief over my alleged demise prevent you from enjoying my best wines.”
The duchess flinched, Alexandra stiffened, but Tony accepted the biting gibe with a nonchalant smile. “Be assured that we toasted you whenever we opened a new bottle, Hawk.”
Beneath lowered lashes, Alexandra stole a swift, apprehensive glance at the tall, dark figure at the fireplace, wondering a little hysterically what sort of man he actually was. He appeared to feel no antagonism over Tony’s having “usurped” his title, his money, his estates, and his wife— and yet he was angry because his wine cellar had been raided.
Jordan’s next words immediately disabused her of the erroneous notion that he was unconcerned about his estates. “How has Hawthorne fared in my absence?” he asked, and for the next hour he snapped rapid-fire questions at Tony, interrogating him in minute detail about the state of each of his eleven estates, his myriad business ventures, his personal holdings, and even the health of some of his retainers.
Whenever he spoke, his deep voice scraped against Alexandra’s lacerated nerves and, on those rare occasions when she stole a glance at him, apprehension made her quickly jerk her gaze away. Dressed in tight breeches that outlined his long, muscular legs and an open-necked white shirt that clung to his wide shoulders, Jordan Townsende looked completely relaxed, yet there was an undeniable aura of forcefulness, of power—restrained now, but gathering force —waiting to be unleashed on her. She remembered him as being handsome, but not so . . . so ruggedly virile, or so formidably large. He was too thin, but the tan he’d acquired after his escape and on board the ship made him look far healthier than the white-skinned gentlemen of the ton. Standing almost within arms’ reach of her, he loomed like a sinister specter, a dangerous, malevolent giant of a man who had suddenly imposed himself in her life, again, with the power to blot all happiness from her future. She was not callous enough to be sorry he was alive, but she sorely wished she’d never laid eyes on him.
For what seemed an eternity, Alexandra sat perfectly still, existing in a state of jarring tension, fighting to appear completely calm, clinging to her composure as if it were a blanket she could use to insulate herself against Jordan. With a mixture of terrible dread and utter determination, she waited for the inevitable moment when Jordan would finally bring up the matter of her. When Jordan was finished discussing estate matters with Tony, however, he switched to the status of his other ventures, and Alexandra felt her anxiety begin to escalate. When that topic was exhausted, he inquired about local events, and Alexandra’s panic was mixed with bewilderment. But when he switched from that to gossip and trivialities and asked about the outcome of the races at Fordham last spring, Alexandra’s bewilderment gave way to annoyance.
Obviously, he considered her less important than Lord Wedgeley’s two-year-old mare or Sir Markham’s promising colt, she realized. Not that she should have been surprised by that, she reminded herself bitterly, for as she had discovered to her mortification a short time ago, Jordan Townsende had never considered her anything but an irksome responsibility.
When all matters, down to the most trivial, had finally been discussed, an uneasy silence fell over the room, and Alexandra naturally assumed her time was finally here. Just when she expected Jordan to ask to see her alone, he abruptly straightened from his lounging posture at the fireplace and announced his intention to leave!
Prudence warned her to keep silent, but Alexandra could not bear another hour, let alone another day, of this awful suspense. Striving to sound calm and impersonal, she said, “I think there is one more issue that needs to be discussed, your grace.”
Without bothering to so much as glance in her direction, Jordan reached out and accepted Tony’s outstretched hand. “That issue can wait,” he said coldly. “When I’ve seen to some important matters, you and I will talk privately.”
The implication that she was not an “important” matter was unmistakable, and Alexandra stiffened at the deliberate, unprovoked insult. She was a fully grown young woman now, not an easily manipulated, wildly infatuated child who would have done anything to please him. Putting a tight rein on her temper, she said with unarguable logic, “Surely a human being warrants the same amount of your time as Sir Markham’s colt, and I would rather discuss
it now, while we are all together.”
Jordan’s head jerked toward her, and Alexandra’s breath froze at the hard anger flaring in his eyes. “I said ‘privately’!” he snapped, leaving her with the staggering realization that beneath his cool, impassive facade Jordan Townsende was burningly angry. Before she could assimilate that or withdraw her request for his time—as she was on the verge of doing—the duchess swiftly arose and beckoned Uncle Monty and Tony to follow her out of the room.
The door to the salon closed behind them with an ominous thud, and for the first time in fifteen months, Alexandra was alone with the man who was her husband— alarmingly, nerve-rackingly alone.
From the corner of her eyes, she watched him walk to the table and pour himself another glass of champagne, and she took advantage of his preoccupation to really look at him. What she saw made her tremble with foreboding. Wildly, she wondered how she could have been naive enough, or infatuated enough, to imagine that Jordan Townsende was gentle.
Seen now, through the eyes of an adult, she could not find a trace of gentleness or kindness anywhere in his tough, ruggedly chiseled features. How, she wondered in amazement, could she ever have likened him to Michelangelo’s beautiful David?
Instead of gentle beauty, there was ruthless nobility stamped on Jordan Townsende’s tanned features, implacable authority in the tough jawline and straight nose, and cold determination in the thrust of his chin. Inwardly she shivered at the harsh cynicism she saw in his eyes, the biting mockery she heard in his drawl. Long ago, she had thought his grey eyes soft, like the sky after a summer rain, but now she could see they were cold and unwelcoming as glaciers; eyes without kindness or understanding. Oh, he was handsome enough, she conceded reluctantly—devastatingly so, in fact, but only if one were drawn to dark, blatantly aggressive, wickedly sensual men, which she assuredly was not.
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