The Sherbrooke Bride (28 page)

“Her Ladyship also asked me about my nephew who has a putrid throat, my lord. You have never shown such solicitude, thus, I favored her with my silence.”

“Damn you. I didn't know you had a nephew!”

“No, my lord.”

Douglas, still more intrigued than otherwise, walked quickly down the corridor toward the back of the house. The morning room gave onto the enclosed garden. It was light and airy, a delightful room. He hadn't been in here often. Sinjun had told him it was
a room for the ladies and for him to stay away. He didn't knock on the door, just opened it quietly. He saw a long-faced young gentleman dressed in frayed black, sitting across from Alexandra. He was silent. She was saying slowly, “
Je vais à Paris demain. Je vais prendre mon mari avec moi.
”

The young man exploded with evident pleasure. “
Excellent, madame! Et maintenant
—”

Douglas said abruptly from the doorway, “I am not going with you to Paris tomorrow, Alexandra. Nor is there anything excellent about such a suggestion.”

Under his fascinated eye, she flushed to the roots of her red hair, sputtered several times, then said to the French male person opposite her, “
Je crois que c'est ici mon mari.
”

“You only
think
I'm your husband?” Douglas nodded to the Frenchman, who was now on his feet, staring at him nervously, fiddling with his watch fob. A watch fob!

“What is he doing here, Alexandra?”

She was on her feet too and she was running lightly toward him, giving him a fat smile. “Ah, he is just a very nice young gentleman I met . . . well, yes, I met him at Gunthers' and I asked him to visit here and we could, well, we could talk about things.”

“Things French?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Are you paying him?”

“Well, yes.”

“He is spying for you? Do you expect him to follow me and eavesdrop on my conversations and report back to you?”

She stared at him. “You really believe I would do that, Douglas?”

“No,” he said shortly. “No, I don't, at least not in the usual run of things. But I do believe you would do anything you could think of to help me even when I don't require it or want it or need it and would, in fact, beat you if you tried it.”

She cocked her head to one side. “You are saying several things there, Douglas, and I'm not at all certain—”

“Dammit, woman, who is this fellow and what is he doing here?”

Her chin went into the air. “Very well. His name is Monsieur Lessage and he is giving me French lessons.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If you would now leave, Douglas, we are not yet through.”

Douglas cursed in French with such sophisticated fluency that the young Frenchman was moved to give him a very toothy approving smile. He said something quickly to Douglas, and Douglas said something even more quickly back to him. Then the two men proceeded to speak in that accursed language, excluding her, making her feel like an outsider.

“Douglas,” she said in a very loud voice, “Monsieur Lessage is my teacher. You are interrupting us.
S'il vous plaît,
please leave.”

Douglas said something to Monsieur and the man grinned.

“I apologize, Alexandra, but Monsieur just remembered that he has another lesson to give, very shortly, and all the way on the other side of London.” Douglas shook the man's hand, and money went from her husband's hand into the Frenchman's.

Alexandra wanted to hit him. She wished she could curse him in the fluent French he used so
effortlessly. No, all she wanted was just one French curse word, just one. Her hands were fisted at her sides. She waited for the door to close, then bounded to her feet. “How dare you! He was my teacher, he was not at your beck and command! Ah, I would like to tell you in French just how angry I am!”

“Want to curse me out, hm?”

“Yes.
Oui!
”

“
Merde.
”

“What?”

“You may say
merde.
It means . . . never mind, it's a curse and it will relieve your spleen. Trust me.”

“
Merde!
”

He winced, then grinned at her. “Feel better?” She said nothing, and he continued, “Why did you want to learn French?”

“To find out what that hussy said to you and why that man, Georges whatever, wanted to kill you last night!”

“Ah, so I was right. You are picturing yourself as Saint Georgina.” He walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that gave directly into the garden. He opened the door and breathed in the fresh morning air. “Alexandra, you were planning to rescue me again? This time with schoolgirl French?”

“If you won't tell me what is wrong, why, I must do something! It is my nature, I can't help it. I wish you wouldn't regard it as interference.”

“A pity,” he said, not turning to look at her. “Yes, a pity that you aren't more like your sister, a lady, I fancy, who is perfectly willing to wait to see what her husband wishes of her before hurling herself like a hoyden into one mess after another. Messes, I add,
that have nothing to do with you.”

“I wish you would be more clear in your condemnation, Douglas.”

“In what way am I not perfectly clear?”

“That you love Melissande, still?”

He turned then to face her, this wife of his, and he saw the hurt in her eyes. It bothered him. He hadn't made love to her the previous night. He'd wanted to, Lord, that was nothing new, he always wanted her, but he had to teach her that she couldn't have him whenever she wished to, that he would decide when and where and how, and he'd had to show her his displeasure. Well, he'd done that and now he wanted her like the very devil. Her morning gown wasn't all that alluring, for God's sake, just a soft yellow muslin, yet he wanted to rip that very feminine row of lace from the neckline and bare her breasts. He wanted her breasts in his hands, he wanted to caress and kiss the soft flesh on the underside of her breasts. He wanted to press his face against her heart.

He sighed, and kept his back to her for he'd become hard, painfully so, just thinking about her damned breasts. He didn't like it at all.

And he said, to his own surprise, “No, I don't love Melissande. I never loved her but I wanted her. I suppose she was something of a dream to me, not a real woman, just this exquisite phantom that made my nights less lonely. No, I don't love her. I fear Tony was right about that, the damned sod.”

“Tony loves her.”

“Yes, he does.”

And she wanted desperately to ask him if perhaps he couldn't bring himself to love her, just a little
bit. But she remained silent. She did say, “I am as I am, Douglas. I cannot bear to think of you in danger. I cannot believe that you would prefer me to sit drinking tea when a villain comes up to plant a knife in your back.”

“Perhaps if that were the case, you could yell at the top of your lungs for some assistance from a man.”

“And if there were none of your precious specimens about?”

“Cease your games with me, Alexandra. I don't want you doing things I haven't approved. I want to know where you are, what you're doing. I do not want or require your interference in my affairs.”

“You want a bloodless wife.”

“Bloodless? Ha, do you so soon forget your screams and moans when I take you?” He shut his mouth for his sex was very painful now, his britches stretched.

He gave her a long brooding look. She was too close. “I wish you to remain here, in the house. Do not go out. Oversee our preparations to leave, early in the morning. Is that enough for you to do?”

She rose, her hands fisted at her sides. He simply wouldn't give over, she thought. She wondered in that bleak moment if he would ever give over. Perhaps not. She gave him a smile, ah, but it hurt to make her mouth move like that, but she did it, then just nodded to him, and left the room.

She walked up the wide stairway, not turning when she heard Mrs. Goodgame call to her. She walked to her bedchamber, walked inside, and locked the door. She stood for a very long time in the middle of the room, then slowly, she went down onto her knees. She wrapped her arms about herself and cried.

She was deep in her misery and didn't hear the adjoining door quietly open. Douglas, an order forming in his mouth, let the order die. He stared and felt a shifting hollow feeling in his belly. He hadn't really scolded her, for God's sake, nothing to bring on this misery. He couldn't bear it. He walked quickly to her, lifted her into his arms, and carried her to her bed. He came down on top of her, his mouth on hers, and he tasted her tears and sought to make her forget the tears, the pain, forget all but the pleasure he would give her. He jerked up her gown, shredded her stockings and flung away her slippers.

He unfastened his britches and came into her and she was soft and willing, quite ready for him, and it amazed him, this awareness of him that was deep in her, this yielding that was his even when he had hurt her. “Alexandra,” he said into her mouth and thrust hard and harder still.

She opened her eyes even as she pushed upward against him to draw him deeper.

“I seems I must take you every day, for our health, you understand, otherwise we will grow quickly old and mean and testy. Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” she said, and pulled his face down to hers. She was hungry for him, always this hunger, and she kissed him, her tongue in his mouth, taking the lead, and it both surprised him and made him instantly wild.

“Ah, don't,” he said, but it was too late. Always too late with her and he surged into her and over her, panting and heaving, his eyes closed against the intensity of the feelings coursing through him, and that pressure, always building, and then, quite suddenly, he jerked out of her. Her eyes flew open
but he only shook his head. He lifted her hips in his large hands and brought her to his mouth.

Alexandra screamed.

Then she groaned, softly, beyond herself, and it went on and on and he forced her to ease then he built the sensations again. He was controlling her this time but there was nothing she could do about it. She cried out, her head thrashing on the bed until finally, he left her and came inside her once more and he arched his back and yelled her name at his release.

When it was over, when he could find a breath, Douglas came up on his elbows over her, and said into her dazed face, “Don't you cry again. I don't like it. There is no reason for you to cry. I came to you, did I not? Did I not give you great pleasure?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, you did.”

He was still deep inside her. It was time for lunch. Absurd, the middle of the day and he was growing hard again. He forced himself to pull out of her.

“No more crying,” he said and rose to stand over her. He straightened his britches.

“Why can't you trust me, Douglas?”

“You speak nonsense.”

“Did I not try to save you from Tony?”

“That has naught to do with anything.”

She managed to come up to a sitting position, pulling down her gown. She was wet with him and with herself, she supposed; she still felt the pull of the languorous feelings, the draining pleasure. She looked at her feet, bare, hanging over the side of the bed, not reaching the floor. “Very well, Douglas, I will do as you wish. I will not pry into anything. If you get into trouble, I shall be sorry for it, but I will do nothing. That is what you wish, is it not?”

He frowned. No, it wasn't, but it had been what he'd said.

“I wish you to arrange yourself. I am hungry. It is time for luncheon.” He left her then, going into his own bedchamber, closing the adjoining door behind him. She sat there, staring after him.

“
Merde,
” she said.

D
OUGLAS CAME AWAKE
suddenly. He didn't know what had awakened him, but one instant he was deep in a dream, in a heavy skirmish near Pena, the French drawing closer and closer to his flank, and the next, he was staring into the darkness, breathing fast. He shook his head and automatically turned to reach for Alexandra.

His hand landed on smooth sheets. Foolishly, he ran his hands over her pillow and on the blankets bunched up at the foot of the bed. She wasn't there. She was gone. He felt panic surge, raw and painful in his belly. Dear God, Georges Cadoudal had taken her.

No, that was absurd. Georges couldn't have gotten into the house, up here into the bedchamber, and taken her, all without waking him. No, it was impossible.

Douglas was still wrapping the belt around his dark blue velvet dressing gown when he walked quickly downstairs, his feet bare and soundless on the heavy carpet. Where the devil could she have gone?

He quietly looked into the two salons, the breakfast room, the huge formal dining room. He paused
in the wide entrance hall, frowning. Then, he walked quickly back toward the library. He stopped, seeing the flicker of light coming from beneath the door.

Very quietly, he turned the knob and looked in.

Alexandra was sitting at his desk, a candle at her left elbow, an open book in front of her. She was concentrating fiercely, her forehead furrowed.

He was on the point of charging in and demanding what the devil she was doing when he heard her say quite clearly, “So that is what
merde
means. Well, well, it is certainly bad enough and Douglas was right. It would relieve a person's spleen splendidly and very quickly.” She said the word several times, then added aloud, “Of course it won't do much good in the long run. Come on, my girl, let's get to it.”

He had a difficult time to keep the laughter in his throat, but he managed, for now she had begun repeating aloud in poor but understandable French, “I won't go.
Je ne vais pas.
He won't go.
Il ne va pas.
They won't go.
Ils ne vont pas.
”

He stared. What the devil?

She was trying to teach herself French. All because she wanted to help him if she could.

Douglas simply stood there, staring at his wife, slowly shaking his head, grappling with what he saw and what was happening to him. Something deep and sweet began to fill him, something he hadn't felt before in his life, something new and wondrous and rich, something he'd never expected simply because he hadn't realized there was something to be felt and he hadn't known . . . hadn't known that he was lacking.

He continued to stare at her. She was sitting there
in her white nightgown with its collar to her chin, her dark red hair in a braid that fell over her right shoulder. She was using her hands as she repeated the words in French. The candlelight flickered over her face, making her eyes luminous, breaking shadows on her cheeks and hair. She continued speaking, repeating endlessly the same phrases, over and over.

He could understand the French. If he really tried.

“I am helping him.
Je l'aide.
Ah, what is this?” She fell silent, then said very softly, “I love him.
Je l'aime.
I love Douglas.
J'aime Douglas.
I love my husband.
J'aime mon mari.
”

He stood there, letting the feelings expand and overflow in him, and then he smiled, a gentle smile that he could feel inside himself, and even that smile warmed him, made him feel incredibly lucky and that smile of his was his acceptance of her, of what she was to him and of what he knew he would always feel for her, his wife.

Very quietly he closed the door and walked thoughtfully back upstairs. He lay awake, reveling in the newness of his feelings, waiting.

When she eased into the bed beside him an hour later, he pretended sleep. For ten minutes. Then he turned to her and took her into his arms and began kissing her.

Alexandra gave a start of surprise, then returned his kisses with enthusiasm, as always. But there was no frenzy, no wild urgency this time. When he came into her, it was tender and gentle and slow, something he'd never been able to accomplish with her before, and he continued to kiss her, teasing her with his tongue, nipping at her lower lip, stroking her as he gave himself over to her. And it was good
and she sighed in soft pleasure when it was done; she was bound to him now. She would be bound to him forever.

And when he knew she was asleep, he kissed her temple and said very quietly against her warm cheek, “
Je t'aime aussi.
”

Seven hours later, at the breakfast table, Douglas slammed his fist so hard his plate jumped and a slice of bacon slid off onto the white tablecloth.

“I said no, Alexandra. If Sinjun asked you to fetch her a book at Hookams, it is just too bad. I haven't the time to accompany you and you will go nowhere without me with you. Do you understand?”

She was silent.

“Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, see to our packing. I'm sorry we can't leave this morning, but there is business I must attend to. I will return later.” And just as he was at the door, he froze, hearing her say “
Merde!
”

He pretended not to hear her and was gone. Alexandra stared at her eggs and wondered why one could rhapsodize so stupidly in the middle of the night and imagine that it would last beyond a man's passion.

She remained busy the remainder of the morning although, truth be told, Mrs. Goodgame had little use for a mistress who was clearly distracted and really didn't care if her gowns were packed carefully in tissue paper or simply thrown into the trunk.

Douglas didn't return for luncheon. Alexandra was near to screaming with vexation and with fear for him. Why couldn't she make him promise that he would go nowhere without her in attendance? She tried to study her French but she was so angry with
him that she spent most of the time searching for more curse words.

“You have the fidgets, my lady,” Mrs. Goodgame finally told her, her voice weary with aggravation. “Why don't you take a nice ride in the carriage? There is nothing needing your attention here, I assure you.”

So Douglas hadn't told his staff that his wife was to be a prisoner. Her mouth thinned. She would go fetch Sinjun her novel and Douglas be damned. However, just to be on the safe side, she removed a small pistol from Douglas's desk in the library that she'd come across the night before when she was resting from her French lesson, and slipped it into her reticule. She had no idea if it were primed. Just looking at it scared her; she prayed if she had to use it, the person she was using it on would be equally frightened just seeing it. She asked one of the footmen to accompany her, sitting next to John Coachman. What more could Douglas ask? She had two armed guards and a pistol.

Burgess did know that Her Ladyship was to remain indoors but he wasn't at his post when Alexandra slipped out, James the footman in tow.

The carriage bowled up Piccadilly, past Hyde Park corner to St. Edward's Street. John Coachman remained with the carriage and James accompanied Alexandra into Hookams. It was a drafty place, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full with books. It was dusty with little space between the aisles, but nonetheless, it had been pronounced a meeting place by the ton and thus the aisles were crammed with chatting gentlemen and ladies. Near the front of the shop, maids and footmen waited to relieve their mistresses and masters of their parcels. Alexandra
left James to eye a pretty maid and allowed a harried clerk to lead her to where Sinjun's novel was. Ah, yes, there, on the third shelf. She reached for
The Mysterious Count
then froze when a man's voice hissed low into her right ear.

“Ah, the little pigeon leaves the nest, eh?”

It wasn't Heatherington, she thought. No, he'd been the sheep and the shepherd. She sighed and said, not looking back at the man, “Your approach is not to my liking, sir. It lacks originality. It lacks grace and charm. It lacks wit. You should hire someone to instruct you. I do like your affectation of a French accent though, but it really doesn't fit all that well with your excellent English. You don't reverse your words, you know?”

“Damn you, I do not mean to charm you! I speak three languages fluently!”

“Well, then, what is your purpose?” She turned as she spoke and stared up at a gaunt, very tall man, dark-haired, eyes blacker than Douglas's, garbed in gentleman's morning wear. She knew suddenly that this was Georges Cadoudal. Oh dear, this man's accent was quite legitimate.

“My purpose? Well, I will tell you. I have a very small and very deadly pistol here in my right hand and it is pointed at your breast. I suggest, madame, that you come with me, and keep that charming smile on your face. Consider me your lover and we shall deal together famously, eh? Let's go.”

Alexandra saw the intent in his eyes, the cold hardness, the determination. “
Je ne vais pas!
” she shouted at the top of her lungs. She smashed
The Mysterious Count
in his face, hoping she'd at least broken his long nose. Then when he raised his arm to strike her, she screamed,
“Merde! Merde! Je vais
à Paris demain avec mon mari! Aidez-moi!
”

He struck her against the side of her head, cursing all the while, whilst the patrons of Hookams stared in frozen shock.

“James, help!
Aidez-moi!
”

“Damn you,” Georges Cadoudal hissed in her face, and then in the next instant, he was gone. James was at her side, shocked to his toes, knowing that he'd failed the mistress, but it had been so unexpected, the attack by the unknown villain.

“Are you all right, my lady? Oh dear, please tell me you're all right.”

Alexandra shook her head to clear it. The blow had made her eyes blur and cross. “Yes, I'm all right.” Then she looked at the novel she was holding and straightened out its ruffled pages. “I coshed him in the nose, James. Did you hear my French?”

“
Merde,
my lady?”

This time it was Heatherington, the man Douglas had told her would toss up a woman's skirts even before he knew her name, and he was smiling down at her, not the sardonic smile of a practiced roué, but a genuine smile. Oddly, there was a good deal of warmth in that smile. “Ah yes, I heard your magnificent French. Who is the poor soul who dared to agitate you?”

“He is gone,” Alexandra said. She looked as proud as a little peahen. “My French scared him off.”

Heatherington gave her a long look, then he laughed, a sound that was rusty because he hadn't laughed, really laughed in a very long time. It didn't go with the image he so carefully cultivated for himself. He laughed louder, shaking his head. “
Merde,
” he said. “
Merde,
” he said again, then turned away and left the bookstore.

Alexandra stared after him for a moment, then paid for her novel, ignoring all the whispering ladies and gentlemen staring at her. James walked very close to her until he handed her up into the carriage. They were at the Sherbrooke town house in twenty minutes. As James walked up the front steps just behind her, she stopped and said urgently, her fingers plucking at his coat sleeve, “Please, James, I don't wish His Lordship to know about the small, ah, contretemps, all right? It was nothing, nothing at all. The man was doubtless confused as to who I was, but nothing more.”

James wasn't at all certain she was right. He was worried and rightfully so, for the first person he saw in the entrance hall was His Lordship and he looked fit to kill. In fact, he looked filled with anticipation to kill.

James had never before heard a man roar, but he did now. His Lordship straightened to his full height, and yelled at the top of his lungs at his wife who only came to his shoulder, “Where the hell did you go? How dare you disobey me! My God, Alexandra, you've pushed me too far this time! Bloody hell, it is too much, much too much!”

James retreated, bumping into Burgess, who glided into the fray without a tremor of agitation showing on his face.

“My lady, welcome back. Ah, I can see that James here stayed closely with you, as did John Coachman. His Lordship was worried, naturally, even though—”

“Damnation, Burgess! Be quiet! Believe me, she doesn't need your protection or interference.” Douglas grabbed her arm and pulled her into the salon. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot.

“Trying to defend you, damn his traitor's eyes,” Douglas said, shaking her now, his fingers digging into her upper arms. She said nothing, merely looked up at him. The shock of Georges Cadoudal's sudden appearance at Hookams had passed during the carriage ride home. Now, she was more calm than not in the face of Douglas's fury.

“I purchased Sinjun's novel,” she said when he'd momentarily run out of bile.

“Damn Sinjun's bloody novel!”

“Douglas, your language is deteriorating. Please calm down. Nothing happened, really . . .”

He shook her again. “And now you compound your disobedience with a lie. How dare you, Alexandra? How dare you lie to me?”

No, she thought, it was impossible that he knew anything of what had happened at the bookshop.