JMcNaught - Something Wonderful (16 page)

Almost desperately, Alexandra continued. "When I look at a piece of furniture, I always wonder about the man who labored to make it—you know, whether he was short or tall, grim or pleasant… things like that."

"Do you?" he asked blandly.

"Yes, of course. Don't you?"

"No."

With her back still turned to him, Alexandra said with great care, "I think I'll go get Henry and take him for a walk."

"Alexandra." The word, spoken in a calm, no-nonsense tone, stopped her in her tracks, and she turned.

"Yes?"

"You needn't work yourself into a fever of anguished terror. I've no intention of sleeping with you tonight."

Alexandra, whose only concern had been a need to use the inn's facilities, looked at him in surprise and unconcern. "I never imagined you would. Why ever should you want to sleep in my room when this inn is so very large, and you can afford a room of your own?"

This time it was Jordan's turn to look blank. "I beg your pardon?" he uttered, unable to believe his ears.

"It isn't that you aren't
welcome
to share my room," she amended cordially, "but why you would
wish
to do so, I can't imagine. Sarah—our old housekeeper—always said I flail about like a fish out of water at night, and I'm sure I'd make you very uncomfortable. Would you mind terribly if I went upstairs now?"

For a moment Jordan simply stared at her, his wineglass arrested partway to his mouth, then he shook his head as if trying to clear it. "Of course not," he said in an odd, choked voice. "Go ahead."

«
^
»

J
ordan called to
his coachman to pull up at the next clearing beside the road, and Alexandra sighed with relief. They'd been traveling at a fast pace since lunch, and she longed to walk about and work the kinks from her body. Her husband, however, seemed perfectly comfortable and relaxed in the confines of the coach—probably, she decided, because his clothing was far more sensible than hers.

Clad in buff-colored breeches, shiny brown boots, and a wide-sleeved, peasant-style shirt that was open at the throat, Jordan was more suitably attired for a long coach journey than she was. She, on the other hand, was wearing three petticoats beneath the wide skirt of her bright yellow traveling costume and a white silk shirt beneath the tight-fitting yellow pelisse that was trimmed in dark-blue braid. A scarf of yellow, white, and blue stripes was tied at her throat, her hands were encased in yellow gloves, and a pert straw bonnet trimmed with yellow ribbons and silk roses was perched upon her mahogany curls and tied beneath her ear. She felt hot, confined, and rather resentful that fashionable young ladies were evidently required to dress so foolishly, while fashionable
gentlemen
, like her husband, could apparently dress as they wished.

As soon as the coach came to a complete stop at a wide place in the road and the steps were let down, Alexandra scooped up Henry and bumped into Jordan in her haste to escape. Instead of preceding her, as he would normally have done, Jordan shot her an understanding look and relaxed against the squabs. Allowing her a decent interval in which to take care of personal needs, which he assumed was the reason for her haste, he then climbed down and strolled through the bushes at the side of the road into the pretty little clearing.

"Doesn't this feel marvelous, Henry?" She was standing in the center of the clearing, stretching, her hands linked high over her head, her puppy sitting at her feet For the second time, Jordan wished an artist could capture her on canvas. In her bright yellow finery, surrounded by sloping hills covered with yellow and white wildflowers, she was youth and grace and suppressed energy—a gay wood nymph dressed in the latest fashion.

He grinned at the poetic bent of his thoughts and stepped into the clearing.

"Oh, it's you!" she said, dropping her arms hastily to her sides, but looking relieved.

"Who else were you expecting?"

Stalling for time before she had to return to the coach, Alexandra bent down and snapped off a long, slender branch from a dead sapling. "No one, but when one is traveling with two coachmen, two postilions, and six outriders, it's hard to guess who will appear. What an army!" she laughed, and then, lightning-quick, she excuted a saber salute with the branch and thrust it at Jordan's chest. "
En garde
!" she said teasingly, then pointed the wooden saber at the ground, put her palm atop it, and jauntily crossed one ankle in front of the opposite leg, looking like a remarkably pretty, youthful swordsman.

The thrusting motion with the wooden "saber" had been executed with such flawless technique that Jordan couldn't believe she was merely mimicking something she'd seen. On the other hand, he couldn't believe she possessed any real knowledge or skill, either. "Do you fence?" he asked, his dark brows furrowed in disbelief.

She nodded slowly, her smile widening. "Care to try me?"

Jordan hesitated, aware that daylight was slipping past, but his fascination rapidly won out over his common sense. Besides, he too was tired of being confined in the coach. "I might consider it," he replied, deliberately baiting her. "Are you good enough?"

"There's only one way to find out."

Accepting her challenge with a gleam of amusement, he turned and looked around for a suitable branch. By the time he'd found one the right length and width, Alexandra had already removed her bonnet and pelisse. Arrested, he watched her unknot the scarf from around her neck, pull it off, then unbutton the top buttons of her silk shirt. At the sound of his approach, she whirled around in a swirl of yellow skirts, her color gloriously high, her aquamarine eyes sparkling with anticipation. "I wish I could remove my petticoats and slippers," she announced. As she spoke, she lifted her skirts, exposing slim, surprisingly shapely calves to Jordan's view, while she wriggled her dainty foot and ruefully considered the offending yellow slippers on her small feet. "I suppose I'd ruin my stockings if I took my slippers off. Wouldn't I?"

She glanced at him for advice, but Jordan's mind was momentarily preoccupied with how adorable she looked in that particular pose, and another, less welcome awareness: Desire. Without warning, he felt hot desire pulsing to life within him—unexpected, unwelcome, but undeniable.

"My lord?"

His gaze shot to hers.

"Why are you glowering at me in that ferocious fashion?"

With an effort, Jordan shifted his thoughts to her predicament, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was going to have her before their journey ended. "If you're worried about your stockings, take them off," he said, then he mentally shook his head at her naiveté when she ingenuously turned her back to him and peeled them off, allowing him glimpses of smooth, bare calves and ankles.

Finished, she picked up her makeshift saber and touched it to her forehead in a jaunty formal salute. Jordan returned the salute, though his mind was occupied with the bewitching sparkle in her mesmerizing blue-green eyes and the exquisite rosy color at her smoothly carved cheeks.

She had scored two points on him before he finally managed to concentrate on the swordplay, and even then she proved to be a worthy opponent. What she lacked in strength, she made up in lightning-quick moves and flashy footwork. But in the end it was her footwork that finally cost her the match. She had stalked him halfway around the clearing, advancing quickly, holding her ground, never retreating unless he physically overpowered her. With only one point left to decide the outcome, Alexandra suddenly saw an opening and lunged at him. Unfortunately, as she lunged forward, she stepped on the hem of her gown, which sent her sprawling off balance, straight into Jordan.

"You lost," he chuckled as he caught her in his arms.

"Yes, but it was my long skirt, and not your swordsmanship, which gave you the match," she retorted, laughing. Pulling out of his arms, she stepped back, her chest rising and falling as she strove to catch her breath. But the heightened color on her cheeks owed far more to his touch than her exertion. "You should have spotted me some points at the outset," she reminded him. "After all, you're twice as strong as I am."

"True," he admitted, smiling impenitently, "but I didn't take advantage of my strength. Moreover, I'm a great deal more advanced in years than you."

Laughing, she plunked her hands on her slim hips. "You're a veritable antique, your grace. Next year or the year after, you'll be at your last prayers, with a shawl round your shoulders and Henry dozing at your feet."

"And where will you be?" he demanded with mock solemnity, his hands itching to pull her into his arms.

She stepped back with an arch smile. "In the nursery, playing with my dolls—as befits my tender years."

Jordan gave a shout of laughter, wondering what the
ton
would say if they could see him being treated with such total lack of respect by a country-bred chit of eighteen.

"Where else should I be," she teased, "if not in the nursery?"

On my lap
, he thought.
Or in my bed
.

The laughter vanished from her face and she pressed her hands to her cheeks, staring over his shoulder. "Good heavens!"

Jordan turned sharply to see the cause of her chagrin and saw six outriders, two coachmen, and two postilions standing shoulder-to-shoulder, their abashed expressions testifying to the fact that they had witnessed the earlier swordplay and now the wordplay between the duke and his duchess.

His jaw tightened, his steady, icy gaze slicing across them, dispersing them as effectively as any words could have done.

"That's very impressive," Alexandra teased, reaching down and plucking up her discarded garments. "That thing you do with your eyes," she clarified, looking around for Sir Henry. "You slay with a glance. You don't need a sword. Is that a natural talent that the nobility is born with, or is it a skill you acquire later, as befits your station?" She found Henry sniffing about beneath a bush and scooped him up. "Your grandmother can do it too. She quite terrifies me. Would you hold these for me?" Before Jordan realized what she was about, she dumped bonnet, pelisse, and hairy puppy into his arms. "Would you turn your back, please, while I put my stockings on?"

Obediently, Jordan did as bidden, but in his mind, he visualized the
ton
staring in collective, comical shock at Jordan Townsende—12th Duke of Hawthorne, holder of the most magnificent lands and fortune in Europe—who was now standing in a clearing with an armload of discarded clothing and one unwanted puppy who was determined to lick his face.

"Who taught you to fence?" he asked as they strolled back to the coach.

"My father. We used to practice together for hours at a time whenever he came home. When he left, I'd practice with Mary Ellen's brothers—with anyone else who was willing—so that when my father came home again, he'd admire my skill. I suppose, since I didn't show much promise of feminine beauty, he thought it was amusing to turn me into a son. On the other hand, it's possible he simply liked to fence, and he used our matches as a way of passing time." She had no idea that the pain and scorn she felt for her sire was obvious in her voice.

"Alexandra?"

Alexandra pulled her gaze from the countryside that was sliding past the coach windows. Ever since their mock duel two hours before, the duke had been watching her in an odd, speculative way that was making her increasingly uncomfortable. "Yes?"

"You said your father didn't come home very often. Where did he spend his time?"

A dark shadow dimmed the brilliance of her eyes, then it vanished behind a deliberately offhand smile. "He came two or three times a year and stayed a fortnight or so. He spent the rest of his time in London. He was rather like a visitor."

"I'm sorry," Jordan replied, apologizing because he had made her talk about someone he could see had caused her some sort of hurt.

"You needn't be sorry, but if you could find it in your heart to think more kindly of my mother, I would appreciate that very much. My mother used to be charming and gay, but after my father died, she just sort of—went all to pieces."

"And left the burden of the household and the servants on the shoulders of a fourteen-year-old child," Jordan finished dampingly. "I saw that place, and I've met your mother and uncle. I can imagine exactly what it was like for you."

She heard the angry compassion in his voice and her love for him grew because he cared about her, but she shook her head, refusing his pity. "It wasn't as bad as you seem to think."

It felt so good, so safe and secure to have someone worry about her, that Alexandra scarcely knew how to contain the tenderness and gratitude she felt for him. Unable to tell him how she felt, she did the next best thing: Reaching into the bright yellow reticule that matched her skirt and pelisse, she lovingly extracted a heavy watch and chain. To Alexandra it was sacred—the most valuable possession of the man she had adored. She held it out to Jordan and when he took it with a quizzical expression, she explained, "It belonged to my grandfather. It was given him by a Scottish earl who admired his knowledge of the philosophers." Just looking at it in Jordan's wide palm made her eyes mist. Her voice aching with poignant memories, she said, "He would have wanted you to have it. He'd have approved of you."