Something Wonderful
Page 72
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
"I can't recall that I ever dallied with virtuous innocents," Jordan said, sitting down and staring into his glass.
"You didn't. But if your wife and mine have enough in common to become friends, I can only assume they're much alike. In which case, you're in for a life of torment."
"Why?" Jordan asked politely.
"Because you won't know from one day to the next what she's going to take it into her head to do—and when you do find out, it will scare the hell out of you. Melanie told me this afternoon that she's with child, and I already have the liveliest fear she'll misplace the babe when he's born."
"She's forgetful?" Jordan asked, trying without success to appear to be interested in his best friend's new wife.
John raised his brows and shrugged. "She must be. How else could she have forgotten to mention, when I returned from Scotland late today, that she and my best friend's wife—whom I haven't yet met—have been involved in several imbroglios together?"
Realizing his attempt to make light of Jordan's predicament was less than successful, John hesitated and then he said gravely, "What do you intend to do about your wife?"
"I have several choices and right now they're all appealing," Jordan said curtly. "I can wring her neck, put her under guard, or send her to Devon tomorrow and keep her there, out of the public eye."
"Good God, Hawk, you can't do that. After what happened in church today, people will think—"
"I don't give a damn what people think," Jordan interrupted, but in this case it was not the truth and both men knew it. Jordan was becoming increasingly furious at the idea of being made to look like a public laughingstock who couldn't control his own wife.
"Perhaps she is merely high-spirited," Lord Camden ventured. "Melanie knows her and likes her very well." Standing up to leave, he said, "If you're in a mood for it, join us at White's tomorrow evening. We're convening there to drink a toast to my impending fatherhood."
"I'll be there," Jordan said with a forced smile.
When Camden left, Jordan stared unseeing at the landscape framed above the mantel, wondering how many lovers Alexandra had taken to her bed. He had seen the loss of innocence, the disillusionment, in her eyes when they were alone in the drawing room this afternoon. Once, her magnificent eyes had been candid and trusting and soft when she looked at him. Now their radiance was dimmed with cold animosity.
Anger raged through Jordan like wildfire as he contemplated the reason Alexandra had treated him with such wary hostility today: She was sorry he wasn't dead. The artless, adoring child he had married was angry now because he was alive! The bewitching young girl he had wed had turned into a cold, calculating, beautiful… bitch.
He considered a divorce for a few minutes, then discarded the idea. Aside from the scandal, a divorce could take years to obtain, and he wanted an heir. The Townsende men seemed to be cursed with short lifespans, and even if Alexandra proved to be as lacking in virtue and decorum as she now seemed, she could still bear his children for him—in seclusion if necessary, to make certain the children she gave him were his, not someone else's.
Leaning his head against the back of his chair, Jordan closed his eyes and drew a long, harsh breath trying to bring his temper under control. When he finally managed to do that, it occurred to him that he was condemning Alexandra and deciding her future on the basis of common gossip. He owed his life to the artless, unspoiled girl he believed he had married. Surely, he also owed her the right to defend herself.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would confront her openly with the things he had heard from Carstairs tonight and give her a chance to deny them. She was entitled to that, provided she was not fool enough to lie to him. But if it became clear that she was indeed a scheming opportunist or voluptuous little wanton, then he would tame her with the ruthlessness she deserved.
She would either bend to his will, or he would break her to it, but either way she would learn to behave herself like a good and dutiful wife, he decided with cold resolve.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexandra was awakened by the sound of footsteps rushing ceaselessly up and down the hall outside her bedchamber and the muted, excited voices of servants hurrying about their duties. Sleepily, she rolled onto her back and looked at the clock in surprised confusion. It was not yet nine o'clock, much too early for the staff to be working on this floor, where during the Season the inhabitants often slept until eleven o'clock after staying out until dawn.
No doubt they were preparing for their illustrious master's arrival later on, she thought with disgust.
Without bothering to ring for her maid, Alexandra climbed out of bed and went about her normal morning routine, her ears attuned to the unprecedented activity that seemed to be taking place outside her bedchamber.
Dressed in a pretty lavender morning gown with short puffed sleeves, she opened her door, then had to jump back as four footmen marched past, bound for what had been the master bedchamber, their view obstructed by towering armloads of boxes bearing the names of London's best tailors and bootmakers.
From the foyer below came the sounds of the doorknocker being lifted and lowered, followed by repeated openings and closings of the front door and deep, cultured masculine voices. The commotion today was much, much worse than what she had heard last night. Callers were evidently arriving in incredible numbers—hoping to see "Hawk," Alexandra had no doubt. In the past, Alexandra and the duchess normally received a gratifying number of callers every day, but nowhere near so many and never, ever at such an early hour.
Curious, she walked along the hall to the balcony and looked down into the foyer where Higgins, not Penrose, was opening the door to admit three men whom Alexandra knew only by title. Two more, who had evidently also just arrived, were waiting politely to be shown to an appropriate salon, while all around them servants in immaculate uniforms were performing their duties with suppressed excitement and energetic fervor.
As Higgins guided the last of the newly arrived guests down a hall that led to the library, Alexandra stopped one of the maids who were scurrying down the hall carrying stacks of fresh linen. "Lucy?"
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy. "Yes, my lady?"
"Why are the servants all about so early?"
The little maid squared her shoulders and proudly proclaimed, "The Duke of Hawthorne has come home at last!"
Alexandra clutched the banister for support, her shocked gaze flying to the foyer "He's already here?"
"You didn't. But if your wife and mine have enough in common to become friends, I can only assume they're much alike. In which case, you're in for a life of torment."
"Why?" Jordan asked politely.
"Because you won't know from one day to the next what she's going to take it into her head to do—and when you do find out, it will scare the hell out of you. Melanie told me this afternoon that she's with child, and I already have the liveliest fear she'll misplace the babe when he's born."
"She's forgetful?" Jordan asked, trying without success to appear to be interested in his best friend's new wife.
John raised his brows and shrugged. "She must be. How else could she have forgotten to mention, when I returned from Scotland late today, that she and my best friend's wife—whom I haven't yet met—have been involved in several imbroglios together?"
Realizing his attempt to make light of Jordan's predicament was less than successful, John hesitated and then he said gravely, "What do you intend to do about your wife?"
"I have several choices and right now they're all appealing," Jordan said curtly. "I can wring her neck, put her under guard, or send her to Devon tomorrow and keep her there, out of the public eye."
"Good God, Hawk, you can't do that. After what happened in church today, people will think—"
"I don't give a damn what people think," Jordan interrupted, but in this case it was not the truth and both men knew it. Jordan was becoming increasingly furious at the idea of being made to look like a public laughingstock who couldn't control his own wife.
"Perhaps she is merely high-spirited," Lord Camden ventured. "Melanie knows her and likes her very well." Standing up to leave, he said, "If you're in a mood for it, join us at White's tomorrow evening. We're convening there to drink a toast to my impending fatherhood."
"I'll be there," Jordan said with a forced smile.
When Camden left, Jordan stared unseeing at the landscape framed above the mantel, wondering how many lovers Alexandra had taken to her bed. He had seen the loss of innocence, the disillusionment, in her eyes when they were alone in the drawing room this afternoon. Once, her magnificent eyes had been candid and trusting and soft when she looked at him. Now their radiance was dimmed with cold animosity.
Anger raged through Jordan like wildfire as he contemplated the reason Alexandra had treated him with such wary hostility today: She was sorry he wasn't dead. The artless, adoring child he had married was angry now because he was alive! The bewitching young girl he had wed had turned into a cold, calculating, beautiful… bitch.
He considered a divorce for a few minutes, then discarded the idea. Aside from the scandal, a divorce could take years to obtain, and he wanted an heir. The Townsende men seemed to be cursed with short lifespans, and even if Alexandra proved to be as lacking in virtue and decorum as she now seemed, she could still bear his children for him—in seclusion if necessary, to make certain the children she gave him were his, not someone else's.
Leaning his head against the back of his chair, Jordan closed his eyes and drew a long, harsh breath trying to bring his temper under control. When he finally managed to do that, it occurred to him that he was condemning Alexandra and deciding her future on the basis of common gossip. He owed his life to the artless, unspoiled girl he believed he had married. Surely, he also owed her the right to defend herself.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would confront her openly with the things he had heard from Carstairs tonight and give her a chance to deny them. She was entitled to that, provided she was not fool enough to lie to him. But if it became clear that she was indeed a scheming opportunist or voluptuous little wanton, then he would tame her with the ruthlessness she deserved.
She would either bend to his will, or he would break her to it, but either way she would learn to behave herself like a good and dutiful wife, he decided with cold resolve.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexandra was awakened by the sound of footsteps rushing ceaselessly up and down the hall outside her bedchamber and the muted, excited voices of servants hurrying about their duties. Sleepily, she rolled onto her back and looked at the clock in surprised confusion. It was not yet nine o'clock, much too early for the staff to be working on this floor, where during the Season the inhabitants often slept until eleven o'clock after staying out until dawn.
No doubt they were preparing for their illustrious master's arrival later on, she thought with disgust.
Without bothering to ring for her maid, Alexandra climbed out of bed and went about her normal morning routine, her ears attuned to the unprecedented activity that seemed to be taking place outside her bedchamber.
Dressed in a pretty lavender morning gown with short puffed sleeves, she opened her door, then had to jump back as four footmen marched past, bound for what had been the master bedchamber, their view obstructed by towering armloads of boxes bearing the names of London's best tailors and bootmakers.
From the foyer below came the sounds of the doorknocker being lifted and lowered, followed by repeated openings and closings of the front door and deep, cultured masculine voices. The commotion today was much, much worse than what she had heard last night. Callers were evidently arriving in incredible numbers—hoping to see "Hawk," Alexandra had no doubt. In the past, Alexandra and the duchess normally received a gratifying number of callers every day, but nowhere near so many and never, ever at such an early hour.
Curious, she walked along the hall to the balcony and looked down into the foyer where Higgins, not Penrose, was opening the door to admit three men whom Alexandra knew only by title. Two more, who had evidently also just arrived, were waiting politely to be shown to an appropriate salon, while all around them servants in immaculate uniforms were performing their duties with suppressed excitement and energetic fervor.
As Higgins guided the last of the newly arrived guests down a hall that led to the library, Alexandra stopped one of the maids who were scurrying down the hall carrying stacks of fresh linen. "Lucy?"
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy. "Yes, my lady?"
"Why are the servants all about so early?"
The little maid squared her shoulders and proudly proclaimed, "The Duke of Hawthorne has come home at last!"
Alexandra clutched the banister for support, her shocked gaze flying to the foyer "He's already here?"
