Alissa Baxter (26 page)

Knowing full well that his rakish reputation put him at a decided disadvantage in Alexandra’s eyes, the Duke had set about courting the object of his affection with circumspection — proceeding with decided caution in his attempt to woo and win her. But, although Alexandra certainly appeared to enjoy his company, the moment the Duke overstepped the invisible line that she had drawn in their relationship, the delightfully engaging companion whose company he so much enjoyed withdrew from him completely to become a wary, guarded stranger.

Perhaps Alexandra simply had no desire to ever enter the married state, the Duke thought, frowning slightly as he stared absently out of the window of his library one morning. He had not failed to notice the pains she went to, to discourage her numerous suitors from believing that she may be open to receiving their addresses. Remembering her pert assertion that she had “no desire to be saddled with a husband”, a slight smile curled his lips. His beloved appeared to be uncommonly fond of the spinster state and disinclined to depart from it willingly! And yet, the Duke’s frown deepened, at times he was almost certain that the beautiful girl he had fallen in love with, looked at him with an expression in her eyes that could not be ascribed to mere friendship. With chagrin, he reflected that although she appeared to enjoy his attentions more than those of her other suitors, the annoying fact remained that for the first time in his life the Duke was unsure of a woman’s regard for him. This was a novel experience which he found to be most frustrating! Perhaps he had become spoilt, he thought rather grimly, having grown so accustomed to women throwing out unmistakable lures to him that he had — God forbid! — almost come to expect this from every member of the fairer sex that he encountered, like some contemptible coxcomb.

The only thing that he could really do, he realised, was bide his time and continue to play upon Alexandra’s defences. However, for a man accustomed to being in total control of every aspect of his life, this was a state of affairs of a most unsatisfactory nature. Being a patient man, though, the Duke was prepared to go the long way in winning Alexandra over. At present, he admitted wryly, it appeared to be the only way.

Coming out of Jackson’s Boxing Saloon one morning after an enjoyable bout of sparring, the Duke made his way towards his curricle which was standing a little way up the street. About to take the reins from his tiger, Jimmy, he was fortunate enough to see the object of his thoughts coming out of Hookham’s Library. Hailing Alexandra, he offered to drive her home and, after she had succeeded in convincing the country-born Hobbes that it was perfectly proper for a young lady to drive unaccompanied with a gentleman in London — it was an open carriage after all! — he helped her into the curricle.

“You are driving your bays today, I see,” Alexandra remarked, looking in admiration at the pair of high-steppers held so firmly under control by the man at her side. Glancing at him sideways, she continued, “I do not suppose you might allow me to handle the ribbons one day, your grace?”

“You drive, Miss Grantham?”

“Hmmm,” Alexandra murmured, a reflective smile playing about her mouth. “I plagued my poor father to give me lessons until he finally consented to do so.”

“I shall allow you to try their paces one day then,” the Duke promised, ignoring the disgusted snort Jimmy gave upon hearing this assurance.

“Thank you, sir!” Alexandra exclaimed in delight. “I was not certain whether you would approve of the fact that I drive.”

“I am sure that you drive with the same skill that you demonstrate in every activity that you undertake,” the Duke replied urbanely.

“I am much obliged to you, your grace,” Alexandra said, smiling. Remembering something that she had meant to inquire of Stanford, she said after a moment’s pause, “Will you be attending the Dress Ball at Carlton House tomorrow evening, your grace? I have heard so many stories about the Prince Regent’s peculiar taste in interior decorating that I confess that I am agog with curiosity to visit his place of residence.”

“I depart London for Stanford Court tomorrow morning, Miss Grantham, so I shall not be in attendance,” the Duke replied. He refrained from telling Alexandra that he generally gave Prinny’s rather vulgar parties an extremely wide berth.

“Oh!” Alexandra said abruptly, disappointed at this news. Pretending to admire a hideous purple and orange bonnet displayed in a shop window, Alexandra asked nonchalantly, “Will your visit be a protracted one, your grace?”

“Five or six days at the most, my dear. There are certain matters in connection with the running of my estates to which I must attend.” Smiling somewhat enigmatically at her, the Duke said, “You must assure me, Miss Grantham, that while I am away you will not fall into any scrapes from which I shall, naturally, be unable to extricate you.”

“I am not in the habit of falling into scrapes, your grace,” Alexandra said with dignity. Seeing the Duke’s decidedly sceptical expression, she revised, with a somewhat rueful laugh, “Well, not many, at any rate!”

At this moment the Duke drew up outside Beauchamp House. Handing the reins over to his visibly disgruntled tiger, he descended from the curricle in order to help Alexandra alight. He escorted her to the front door where he stood looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. After a moment, he said quietly, “Do try to behave yourself while I am away, Miss Grantham.” Raising her hand to his lips, he bowed, before taking his leave of her, and driving away — leaving Alexandra staring in a decidedly perplexed fashion after him.

The next morning, the Duke made an early start for Stanford Court. He drove himself, spending most of the journey lost in thought, barely aware of the passing countryside, or the fact that his injured henchman was intent on maintaining a stoic silence. In reality he welcomed the silence, and the solitude of his thoughts — the problem of his relationship with Alexandra weighing heavily on his mind. Twilight was falling as he finally entered the entrance archway of The Court and, as he looked around the familiar grounds of his ancestral home, bathed in the soft evening light, the Duke felt the tension that he had not even realised was holding him in its grip, slowly begin to drain away. Returning to his childhood home had never failed to lift his spirits — his love for the magnificent lands that he had inherited upon the death of his father ten years previously, deeply ingrained in him. Contrary to what the gossip mongers implied, the Duke had always intended to eventually enter the wedded state to ensure that his son would one day inherit these lands. The only reason that he had put it off for so long was that he had two brothers — one having sired a son — which meant that the impressive Stanford holdings were in no danger of passing out of the family. And frankly, he admitted to himself, before recently, the very idea of becoming leg-shackled to some clinging female had filled him with acute distaste — until he met Alexandra... Alexandra. A smile played about his mouth as he thought of the fiery young beauty with whom he had fallen in love. Marriage to her would be neither a duty nor a chore — only, the Duke was convinced, a delight.

He drove the curricle along the curving drive which was bordered by miles of magnificent parkland, studded with old oak trees. The wheels of the carriage clattered over a quaint stone bridge, the arches of which spanned a gently flowing stream and, when it rounded the next bend in the road, an enormous house came into view. The main stone structure rose to a height of three stories in the centre, with giant wings on either side of it sweeping forward to create a large terraced courtyard. The well-clipped lawns, surrounding the stately mansion, led down to an ornamental lake with an island of poplars in the centre and hanging beechwoods beyond. A pillared pavilion, nestling amongst the trees, overlooked the still waters of the lake.

The Duke brought the curricle to a halt in front of the entrance of Stanford Court and, leaving Jimmy to drive the carriage around to the stables, he strode up the shallow steps to the immense front doors. Wilson, the old butler who had served three generations of Beaumonts at The Court, opened the doors to him — the wide smile upon the family retainer’s usually stolid countenance revealing his delight at seeing his master again. “Welcome home, your grace,” he murmured, taking the Duke’s hat and gloves, “It is indeed a pleasure to see you again.”

“Good evening, Wilson,” the Duke said with a smile for the old friend who had covered for him so many times during the madcap days of his childhood. “How is your rheumatism?”

“Much better thank you, your grace,” Wilson replied, not quite able to hide his pleasure at the fact that the Duke had remembered his old ailment. Removing his master’s greatcoat, he continued, “Her grace informed me that although she is at present resting in her bedchamber, she will be pleased to receive you in the Little Drawing Room immediately you arrive, your grace.”

“Did she, indeed?” the Duke murmured, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Inform her grace that I have arrived and that I shall wait on her in twenty minutes — I must change out of all my dirt first.”

“Certainly, your grace,” Wilson said impassively, wondering what was in the wind. It was the unwritten law at Stanford Court that the Dowager Duchess of Stanford, once resting in her rooms, was under no circumstances to be disturbed. And, although she was the fondest of mamas, it was not her grace’s wont to order her offspring to wait on her immediately they arrived. Something, Wilson was certain, was in the air. Something had to be — as nothing short of a catastrophe, in the ordinary run of events, would disturb the Duchess from her precious sleep!

Exactly twenty minutes later, the Duke entered the Little Drawing Room — the beautifully decorated apartment leading on from the Duchess’s bedchamber that was her grace’s personal sitting room. Due to the crippling nature of the Duchess’s arthritic condition, her mobility had for many years been severely limited and, in recent years, she had taken to receiving her guests in this charming sitting-room rather than in the oppressively grand drawing room downstairs. A fire burning cheerfully in the grate dispelled the chill from the air, and the Duchess sat nearby in a comfortable armchair, a warm rug spread over her knees.

Serena, Dowager Duchess of Stanford, had, in her younger days, been known as a remarkable beauty. Ill-health and time had etched their inevitable mark on her flawless features, and silver now touched her lustrous mane of dark hair — but her exquisite bone-structure and dark eyes gave her a timeless beauty that neither age nor illness could ravage.

Approaching his mother, the Duke bent down to kiss her proffered cheek, saying with his attractive smile, “You look as charming as ever, Mama.”

“Thank you, Robert — but you flatter me, dearest!” the Duchess said with a laughing look up at her tall son. Indicating the chair opposite hers, she invited him to sit down, wondering how best to broach the topic that had occupied her thoughts for quite some time now. The Duchess had all but given up hope that her eldest son would one day marry and provide her with grandchildren. But now, according to the various communications that she had received in recent days from her close friends, it seemed that her dearest wish was about to be granted: Robert, apparently, was on the verge of making the Grantham girl an offer of marriage. Responding rather absently to his inquiries as to the state of her health, the Duchess wondered how best to tackle her son. He could be so maddeningly uninformative at times!

After the Duke had allayed his mother’s anxieties as to the well being of her younger daughter, the Duchess inquired of him, “What news can you bring me from London, dearest?”

With a smile lurking in his eyes, he said blandly, “Your cronies must be slipping up in their correspondence, Mama. They are usually most diligent in their efforts to keep you abreast of the latest London gossip.”

Sighing in exasperation, the Duchess gave her son an old-fashioned look, and decided that it would be best to grasp the proverbial nettle — he seemed determined to be difficult! “Robert,” she said directly, “is it true that you are going to marry Alexandra Grantham?”

The Duke flicked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve, then looked up and replied coolly, “If Miss Grantham will have me.”

The Duchess looked at her son in consternation. “If she will have you, Robert?” she repeated. “What in heaven’s name do you mean?”

A smile curled the Duke’s lips as he thought of Alexandra. After a while, he said, “Miss Grantham is averse to the idea of marriage, Mama. She has informed me on several occasions that she values her independence far too much to give it up, and that she has no desire to wed any man. I have been — er-battling her defences in recent weeks, but am, as yet, uncertain of her regard for me.”

The Duke’s brows lifted as his fond mama burst out laughing. Wiping her streaming eyes, the Duchess said in a choked voice, “How — how vastly amusing, Robert!”

“Your maternal feelings do you credit, Mama,” he said ironically. “May I inquire as to why you find my predicament so marvellously diverting?”

The Duchess bit her quivering lip. “Well, dearest, it is only that for the last ten years, every silly chit in London has been throwing out lures to you. You are the most eligible bachelor in England, and have been odiously courted and flattered by every lady in London. And now, after all these years, the one girl on whom your fancy has alighted, you appear unsure of. Your plight is vastly entertaining, my dear — I never thought to see you at the mercy of a pretty face!” Pausing briefly, the Duchess continued, with a smile, “I am even more eager now than I was before to become acquainted with your Miss Grantham, my dear — she must be a remarkable girl.”

“Alexandra Grantham is nothing more than a mischievous little gypsy, Mama,” the Duke said calmly — but the Duchess did not miss the decidedly tender light in his eyes when he mentioned Miss Grantham’s name. He loves her! — she thought, joyously. He truly loves her! In recent years the Duchess had begun to lose hope that her eldest son would find a woman for whom he could truly care. Having reached the age of two-and-thirty, he had seemed set to avoid the matrimonial net indefinitely — but now, now he had evidently fallen in love! And with a girl who apparently cared not a whit for his rank or consequence, she thought in satisfaction.