"The…
friend who accompanied me, ma'am," said Ophelia.
"A friend?" Mrs. Hart's lazy cat gaze said she scented some deception. "Do invite him in, Miss Gray."
Ophelia's stomach did a strange flip at the thought. "Here?"
"Of course. It won't do to have a friend languishing in the stable while we talk. It could be hours." Ophelia didn't dare look at Hetty.
"I don't mind," said Hetty.
Ophelia's brain refused to work, to think of the necessary evasion.
"I'll speak to your father, Miss Gray. He can send his man to the stable. We'll make your friend quite welcome, I assure you, Miss Brinsby."
Ophelia stood helpless as Mrs. Hart approached Solomon. The woman would use civility as a weapon. Ophelia turned to Hetty. "What are we going to do?
My friend
is covered in mud from grooming horses all day."
"He won't come in, will he?" Hetty asked.
Ophelia suddenly knew he would. She had supposed he would join the other grooms in their dicing game, but she knew as soon as she had the thought that he wouldn't. It was difficult to assign him a place in society. He seemed outside of it, somehow. If he didn't fit in Hetty's drawing room, he certainly didn't fit among low men gambling for shillings.
Hetty squeezed Ophelia's hand. "Drink your coffee. He'll be welcome. Didn't you say he had more wit than your dance partners? I'll slip out and make sure he looks like a 'friend' and not a servant."
Ophelia turned blindly to find the bookseller, Mr. Archer, at her side. He was a large man with a calm, contemplative countenance. He seemed aware of Ophelia's distraction without being offended by it. After a few weak remarks from her, he took up the burden of the conversation. She could follow him without effort while her glance kept straying to the door.
As if a signal had been given, the guests returned to seats around the room, laughing, adjusting the chairs to form a loose circle. Mrs. Hart took a green velvet chair next to the attorney. Ophelia's companion invited her to join him on one of the couches covered with bright chintz in a pattern of roses.
The conversation passed from poets to engines to politics. Ophelia wanted her whole mind on the talk, but she kept looking at the door. Just as it occurred to her that Alexander might have left the stable, might not be found, the door opened and he entered with Hetty.
Ophelia had to adjust her thinking about him instantly. He fit in her father's stable, with his quiet confidence and competence, his easy way with the horses, but he fit here, too, strikingly. The candlelight favored him, lighting the gold strands in his hair. The mud had been scraped from his boots and brushed from his breeches, and he wore a borrowed brown coat—respectable, but, she realized, inferior to his usual coats.
Even so, he outshone the other men in the room. His pride of bearing drew the guests' notice as Mrs. Hart's beauty had.
His gaze met Ophelia's, and he halted as if he'd forgotten other eyes were on him. The look he gave her burned a path from her toes to
the dipping "V" of her bodice,
halted indiscreetly there, and rose to her face. Ophelia found herself rising with the others. There was some polite ritual to be observed, but she'd forgotten what it was, her heart beating wildly, her breath trapped in her throat.
Hetty was going to present him, to name him. Ophelia leaned forward, impatient to hear his name. She had never asked, and now strangers were going to hear it first.
"I beg your pardon," Hetty said. "Our friend, Mr. Alexander."
The moment passed. He had kept his secrets, after all. There was no time to wonder at it. Berwick was urging them back to the conversation. Hetty and Solomon found a chair fo
r
Alexander, and there was a brief shuffle as Mrs. Fenton shifted places, and Alexander settled next to Mrs. Hart and opposite Ophelia.
Mrs. Hart swirled the brandy in her glass and asked about the Prince Regent.
Mr. Archer turned the talk away from direct criticism of the regent with a theory that government evolved in an organic way out of a nation's character and history.
"No need to criticize the Regent," he declared. "The right form of government is inevitable."
Berwick leaned forward in his chair, his shoulders squared as if he were ready to lunge at an
opponent. He seemed to be waiting to interrupt, determined to assert himself.
"Your theory won't hold, Archer," he said. "Or a nation of such industrious, practical people as the English could not have produced such fat leeches as the royal dukes have become."
Ophelia saw Hetty flinch. She did not appreciate Berwick's clubbing kindly Mr. Archer with his opinion, and felt she must apply some conversational balm to soothe the irritation that Berwick had created. While the guests cleared their throats and shifted uneasily, Mrs. Hart turned her smile on Berwick, asking him to explain himself.
Berwick's posture relaxed at once, his ego apparently soothed. The grateful look Hetty sent Mrs. Hart made Ophelia oddly jealous. It was another sign of the intimate control Mrs. Hart seemed to exercise over the Grays.
Berwick declared the royal princes the dregs of their race.
Ophelia thought it a mean-spirited attack. "In his defense, the Regent has taste," she said. "And he has undertaken great building projects."
Alexander watched her with his intense blue gaze, and her glance settled on him almost against her will.
"What is taste," said Berwick, "when Prinny doesn't know what the humblest cottager knows—how to live within his means?"
"Alas," said Mrs. Hart, "the poor Regent can't even manage to live within his waistband."
General laughter relieved the tension of the moment. Mrs. Hart raised her glass and sipped delicately. Berwick looked bewildered at the suddenness with which the confrontation evaporated. Ophelia wondered again at Mrs. Hart's assurance and glanced at Solomon to see how he took the woman's lofty manner. Mrs. Hart acted as if she were the lady of the house, not Hetty. She lowered her glass and turned to Alexander with a snowy bosom, a throaty voice, and a languid air.
"We haven't heard from you, Mr. Alexander," she said.
Ophelia was instantly alert. There was something in Mrs. Hart's voice that disturbed her. Alexander had remained quiet intentionally, she supposed. She clutched the delicate cup in her hand. She had become used to his speech and saw no uncouthness in it. She knew he read books, but how would he sound in the midst of people of deep education?
"You've heard all sides of the issue, ma'am," he said.
"Then you must tell us which side you take," Mrs. Hart insisted. Her mouth curved in a slow, inviting smile, her body leaned toward his. "Has the Regent hurt the monarchy?"
"The idea of monarchy has been in question for fifty years at least," he said. "No man can blame the Regent for that."
Ophelia could see he was evading Mrs. Hart's efforts to make him speak against the Prince, but she seemed more intrigued with him than ever.
Berwick broke in. "The Regent's making everything worse. The monarchy won't have any power when he's crowned."
"If that's so, it must be because he's forgotten how to serve," said Alexander quietly.
"A prince serves the nation?" asked Mrs. Hart. "What a quaint idea!"
Ophelia could see it was no joke with Alexander.
He looked about at the others in his bold way. "A man in power, surrounded by servants who rush to do his bidding, forgets that he is subject to power. A man waiting to be king, with none of the duties and responsibilities of the king, but with all the ceremony, forgets that he is a man."
There was a change in the atmosphere of the group. Ophelia could sense the others' interest in his perspective.
"If a prince is a mere man," she asked him, "how is he to win his people's esteem?"
He smiled at her, a slow, satisfied smile, and she had the feeling the question had made talk easy for him.
"Nothing makes a prince more esteemed than great undertakings and examples of his unusual talents." He said it as if he were reciting a familiar lesson. "Then it helps a prince to display examples of his skill in dealing with internal affairs."
The ideas sounded like a book. She knew what he would say next.
"A prince should also demonstrate that he is a lover of talent." He was quoting someone, she was sure.
He stopped and dropped his teasing gaze from hers, speaking quietly and earnestly. "The work of the prince is to serve the people, protect them, put all self-interest aside for their good, and die if he must. His readiness to do that is what gives him power."
The room went quiet, no stir, no clatter of cups. Without pretension he spoke of an ideal of kingship that lifted it above a joke. They were so used to the Regent's failings, his fat person, the print shop caricatures, they couldn't see any majesty in kingship any longer, but Alexander made them see it.
"Surely no one expects a prince to die these days." Mrs. Hart broke the spell, her eyes teasing.
Alexander's serious gaze turned to her. "It's the readiness to sacrifice all for the people that marks a true prince. Without it, he's too apt to think they serve him." He said it easily, but refused to make light of it.
Mrs. Hart merely watched him more openly, a keen sparkle in her eyes, the brandy glass in her languid hand.
Somewhere a clock chimed the hour, and Mrs. Hart asked Hetty for the tea tray. A flushed Hetty rang, and Mrs. Pendares appeared with another tray of cakes and pots of fresh coffee. Ophelia was surprised to see Mrs. Pendares go about her business without a glance at Hetty or Solomon, a strange silence around her, as if she were invisible.
Berwick backed Ophelia into a co
rn
er by the refreshments. She smiled grimly at him, intending to be civil, but not to cater to the man's pride. He had energy and wit, but he was sharply critical and ungenerous in his opinions. Listening to him, she was amazed his poem was as good as it was, and she realized he would never do for Hetty.
Across the room Mrs. Hart found Alexander's
side and rested her hand lightly on his sleeve. Their golden heads inclined toward each other, their conversation plainly private.
Ophelia could no longer make sense of Berwick's words. She couldn't remember where she'd set out to go this evening. Alexander astonished her. He was not the man she'd thought he was a fortnight earlier.
She left Berwick spouting something about the number of farms that had failed under the current government, and went to extricate Alexander from Mrs. Hart.
Chapter 7
T
he fragrance of the Grays' rain-soaked garden sweetened the air, and Alexander halted, filling his lungs with a deep cleansing breath. Beside him at the top of the stairs, Ophelia whirled in a brief dance. "You see why I had to come tonight."
"No." He was being perverse.
"Because there is no artificial nonsense, no gossip. People talk of engines, poetry, and princes. They lose themselves in ideas."
"Berwick hardly lost himself. He waved his opinions about as if he were leading a charge at Waterloo."
She sighed. "I grant you Berwick's egotism, but you have to admit Mr. Archer and the others were splendid, especially about poetry."
He could admit it as long as she dismissed Berwick.
She'd spent half an hour tete-à
-tete with Berwick, nodding gravely at whatever the blond idiot said.
Now Alexander wanted the breeze to sweep away his deceptions. He needed to recall who and where he was, to sort out the lies. It was one
thing to play a groom in a stable, another to involve Ophelia publicly in a masquerade before the Grays' guests. In an impulsive moment he'd taken his plan to make her treat him as an equal far beyond his original intention.
But the temptations of the evening had come rapidly, one after the other, like breakers when one tried to launch a boat. First, he could not refuse to take her to Hetty's when he understood the tyranny of a social calendar that herded London society in and out of ballrooms like sheep. Then he had been unable to refuse Hetty's invitation when he might see Ophelia in company for hours. And once there he had been unable to sit silent and cautious while Berwick spouted idiocy about princes. His will had been unequal to such restraint, and he'd been rewarded for his fall the moment he'd entered the Grays' drawing room.
Seeing Ophelia in her evening dress, he had forgotten everything but her brilliance. Excitement lit her from inside, her delicate skin flushed like a clear dawn sky. Her throat bared to his gaze had left him standing stupidly in the midst of strangers, all his habits of caution abandoned in the singular desire to touch her. His gaze had been drawn to her irresistibly, and the disposition of the chairs had allowed him to continue his folly.
Whatever the others made of him as an uninvited guest, Mrs. Hart obviously recognized his secret desire for Ophelia. When the conversation broke up, Mrs. Hart sought him out. His senses, already quickened by Ophelia's radiance, had
lain
op
en to Mrs. Hart's assault. She pressed her
soft bosom against his arm, murmured in his ear with her warm voice, and tangled him in her rich scent. He had wanted Ophelia's nearness, and reaching for it was like straining to catch a faint, sweet melody over the swelling sounds of a street band.
He stretched, trying to shake off the lingering effects of Mrs. Hart. At least he had his own coat back again, felt more himself.
Ophelia ran lightly down the steps into the garden, a fairy tale creature in a gossamer cape, flitting through the darkness, while he stood transfixed, watching her.
Abruptly, she stopped and cast him an impatient glance over her shoulder. "What are you waiting for?"
"I need to clear my head."
"I can imagine." She strolled back to the foot of the steps. "The scent of flattery can be very strong."
Alexander laughed. So she thought him under Mrs. Hart's spell. He came down the steps, stopping just in front of her, taken with the bright glitter of her eyes.
She challenged him with her stance. "You made a fine impression on Mrs. Hart. What did she want?"
"She invited me to return."
"Tonight?"
The question came and went so quickly he could not make out the tone. "Next Tuesday."
"Oh." She shrugged. "That's perfect. We can come again."
"I'd rather not." He tried to think of an excuse
she would accept. "I don't much relish performing on cue like a pet dog."
"Really? I thought you rather enjoyed yourself."
He made himself look away. "You don't know what I enjoy or don't enjoy, Ophelia."
"It seemed clear enough to me with Mrs. Hart's generous bosom under your nose."
Alexander said nothing. He was not going to speak of bosoms when just an arm's reach away, concealed by Ophelia's cloak, were the high, small, uptilted breasts of his restless dreams. A nearby churchbell rang the quarter hour. He'd forgotten time entirely. Now he remembered that she was supposed to meet her brother somewhere. He stepped around her and indicated the garden path. "Let's go."
"Wait," she said, putting out a gloved hand to stop him, close but not touching. "Promise you'll bring me to Hetty's again."
He kept his gaze on her hand. "It's not wise."
"How can you say so? What impropriety is there in coffee and ideas and interesting people?" Her voice had risen.
"You don't know what the dangers are," he said quietly.
"I didn't get caught."
"You're not safely home yet." He started down the path.
An instant later he heard her quick steps behind him. "Are you afraid Berwick will reveal a plot to overthrow the Regent? Or Mr. Archer will offer me some insult?"
"No."
"Well, then, you don't want me here because you want to come on your own."
"No." He was forgetting his role as groom. He stopped where the stone path turned and ran along the back wall of the garden to the gate. She came up behind him, a little breathless.
"One of your brothers should bring you," he said quietly without turning.
"Coward."
He was. He walked on. It was only a few yards to the gate. He was afraid he was going to do something rash if she kept goading him this way. "You will cost me my situation." He spoke without conviction, too conscious of the lie.
"I will see that you get another."
He stopped, the crunch of gravel under his boots an echo of the anger he felt. She had reminded him that he was not quite a person in her eyes, that she forgot him daily when she left the stable.
"There are other reasons," he said coldly. "You don't need the scandal Mrs. Hart would be happy to embroil you in. You don't need to present
…
me as your equal when I'm not."
"You don't believe that. You spoke as if
you
…"
He tried one more argument. "There's too great a chance
of
…
intimacy in riding together." He held his breath. Truth and lies blended strangely in his words.
"Fine democratic principles you have," she said, disgust evident in her tone. "You're a snob."
She brushed past him, and the light sweep of her cloak against his leg jolted him. Before he
could steady himself, she spun, facing him, backing away, holding his gaze helpless.
"Why worry about intimacy with me when you spent the better part of an hour gazing at Mrs. Hart's chest?"
He reached for her, but she retreated, colliding with a low hanging branch that sent a shower of cold drops over them. With a little cry, she stepped forward, shivering and shaking the water from her mantle. Its hood slipped from her curls, and raindrops sparkled in her hair, a tiny diadem. His will broke and he caught her shoulders, pushing her against the rough wall of the garden, trapping her, silk against stone.
In the dark, her eyes grew big with awareness. She pushed against his ribs, and his breath caught at her touch. For a moment their breathing filled the garden—irregular, mingled, charged with longing.
He couldn't believe he'd done it, trapped her there. He'd never been driven enough by a woman just to take what he wanted, but he was ruled by a hunger which weeks of watching Ophelia had fed. By now he knew the delicacy of her skin, the sweet scent that clung to her, the temptation of her uptilted breasts, the vulnerability of her narrow waist.
"I'm not interested in Mrs. Hart's chest," he said, the words clipped by his uneven breath. The surge of boldness crested in him. Whatever happened afterward when he regained sanity and restraint, he was not going to let this moment pass without kissing her.
He shifted his weight, lifting one hand from the wall, tracing a line across the softness under
her chin. "The collar of your riding habit comes to here."
A small incoherent sound came from her throat, drawing his attention down to where he rested the "V" of his hand against the flutter of her pulse. With a slow, reverent move, he brushed the mantl
e over her shoulder. "All this,"
he gazed at the white glimmer of her flesh, "was hidden from me until tonight."
He bent and kissed the base of her throat, drinking in the scent of her. Her fingers opened and closed, bunching the cloth over his ribs. The motion tugged at his shirt ends, sending flashes of desire down through the roots of his nerves. He kissed his way up her neck to her ear, her cheek, and paused, his face pressed to hers. She was resisting him, avoiding his mouth, and it occurred to him that he should stop now, that he should not kiss her while she believed him a lowly groom, but his whole body beat with longing. He was greedy with it.
"Ophelia." He didn't recognize the low rasp of his own voice.
She kept her face averted, but her hands still clutched his waistcoat. "It's not me you want."
"It is." He pried one of her hands from his ribs and pressed the palm flat over the rapid beating of his heart. She turned then, trembling, her mouth inches from his.
He lifted his hand and traced the outline of her lips with his fingertips. "One kiss."
"You make me weak."
"No more than me." That, at least, was a true thing in all his lies.
She went still, her hands flat against his ribs.
He lowered his face and touched his mouth to hers. Her kiss was hesitant, untrusting, dry, admitting nothing. He offered more, breathed his desire into her. He was a fool to let her see how completely he wanted her. She would gain more power over him, but he wanted to convince her that he thought of her only, and no one else. He coaxed and teased and knew the moment she yielded and acquiesced to his kisses, opening sweetly, letting him taste.
Ophelia tasted need, frank and demanding. It was there in the thrust of his tongue and in the press of his hot, hard body against hers. And it made her frantic to open, to give, to soothe. But against his melting heat pressed the cold, wet stones at her back.
Alexander felt caution and reason vanish. There was only Ophelia. He put his hand to her waist and slid upwards, up the fan of her ribs to cup the soft swell of her breast, drawing his thumb once across the nipple.
She wrenched her mouth from his, struggling to free herself from his hold. "Don't."
"Please." The plea came raw and impassioned from somewhere deep within him.
She tried to slide away along the wall, but he pressed his body to hers, pinning one of her hands between them. At the contact he froze, giving in to the pleasure of her hand accidentally cupping his hot, swollen male flesh. Her eyes widened and he shoved away from the wall, freeing her.
She pulled her mantle closed and hugged herself tight, her arms crossed over her chest.
He turned away, balling his hands into fists
and tucking them under his arms. He threw his head back, looking up at the distant stars, willing the riot in his body to calm. "You see why I can't bring you to Miss Gray's again."
"Yes."
"I apologize for any offense I gave. I will leave your father's stable if you wish."
The stars glittered coldly while he waited for her reply.
"No."
"Wait here," he said. "I'll bring Raj to the gate."
A
lexander wrapped her in the greatcoat and kept Raj moving briskly. They rode in silence. It was too early for the traffic of carriages returning from the evening amusements of society. She burrowed into the folds of the heavy garment and tried to think how she had come to stand helpless and trembling, accepting the kisses of her groom.
After Wyatt, she had vowed never to be weak again. She had been determined to prove that her nature was cool, not passionate. She had carefully cultivated men who did not stir her senses. Yet her weakness had appeared where she least expected it, with her groom, with Alexander, who had done nothing to seduce her, offered no flattery, no attempts to get her alone, no soulful gazes.
She had yielded however briefly to a man who had spent the evening absorbed by another woman. His carnal appetite had been stirred, and she had been the available female. That might explain his actions, but not hers. Why had she
been so weak-willed as to permit his advances? Because it had seemed for a few minutes as if he truly did want her? Vanity. But she had felt the rapid beating of his heart and for one startled moment the pulsing heat of his most male part.
Then she had had to break away. Just the flick of his thumb across her breast had sent a bolt of sensation through her. She had been humiliated again by her body's response to a man. Alexander was knowing and clever. He would sense, as Wyatt had, that Ophelia's nature was passionate and weak. She had as much resistance as a brandy-soaked pudding that went up in flame at the first touch of a taper.