JMcNaught - Something Wonderful (27 page)

The young woman turned slightly as Alexandra entered with Lord Ponsonby, and Alexandra recognized her immediately. Lady Melanie Camden, the beautiful young wife of the Earl of Camden had just returned to London earlier in the week from the country, where she'd been visiting her sister. Alexandra had been present at the ball where Lady Camden put in her first appearance of the Season, and she had watched from afar as the crowd of illustrious guests rushed to Lady Camden, welcoming her back with delighted smiles and eager hugs. She was "one of their own," Alexandra thought rather wistfully.

Realizing they were invading Lady Camden's privacy, Alexandra smiled tentatively, silently apologizing for their intrusion. The countess acknowledged the smile with a polite nod of her head and serenely turned back to the French doors.

Lord Ponsonby either failed to notice the countess, or refused to be distracted by her presence. After helping himself to a glass of punch from the tray on the table beside him, he positioned himself beside one of the marble pillars that were situated in front of the curtains, and then launched into a pompous, grossly inaccurate dissertation on Horace's philosophical remarks about ambition, but all the while his gaze seemed to be on Alexandra's bosom.

Alexandra was so disconcerted at being subjected for the first time in her life to visual fondling by a male—even such a comically poor specimen of a male as this—that when he casually attributed a remark of Socrates' to Horace, she scarcely noticed either the error or the fact that the Countess of Camden had glanced swiftly over her shoulder at him, as if startled.

A minute later, Lord Ponsonby declared importantly, "I agree with Horace, who said, 'Ambition is so powerful a passion in the human breast that however high we reach we are never satisfied—' "

Utterly unnerved by his unswerving gaze and unaware that Lady Camden had turned fully around and was listening to Lord Ponsonby with a mixture of disbelief, fascination, and ill-concealed mirth, Alexandra shakily stammered "M-Machiavelli."

"Horace," Lord Ponsonby decreed, and to Alexandra's horror, the absurdly dressed creature lifted his quizzing glass to his eye, trained it upon the ripe flesh swelling above her bodice and boldly inspected her while he simultaneously sought to improve his appearance of languid nonchalance by propping his shoulder against the pillar behind him. Unfortunately, his obsession with Alexandra's breasts prevented him from glancing over his shoulder to ascertain the exact location of the pillar. "Now perhaps you can begin to understand," he proclaimed, leaning back and opening his arms wide in an all-encompassing gesture, "why Horace's remarks caused him to—aagh!" Arms outspread, he fell backward, overturning the table with the punch and dragging down the curtain, landing spreadeagled on his back at the feet of three male guests, like a colorful bowl of fruit beneath a waterfall of punch.

Unable to prevent her mad desire to laugh, Alexandra clapped her hand over her mouth, whirled around, and found herself staring at the Countess of Camden, who had covered her own mouth and was staring at Alexandra, her shoulders shaking with mirth, her wide green eyes swimming with it. In unison, both young women sped for the French doors, colliding in their haste to get through the doorway, and fled onto the balcony. Once there, they collapsed against the side of the house and exploded into gales of laughter.

Side by side, they stood, oblivious to the hard stone behind their shoulder blades, shrieking with mirth, gasping for breath, and wiping at the tears running down their cheeks.

When the storm of laughter had dwindled into fits of helpless giggles, the Countess of Camden turned her face toward Alexandra and said brokenly, "Ly-lying on his back, h-he looked exactly like a giant macaw that fell from a tree."

Alexandra was scarcely able to drag her voice through the mirth in her chest. "I—I thought a bowl of fruit—no, fruit
punch
," she declared, and they dissolved with laughter again.

"P-poor Ponsonby," Lady Camden giggled, "s-struck down in his pompous prime by Machiavelli's ghost for attributing his own words to Horace."

"It was Machiavellian revenge!" Alexandra gasped.

And beneath a black velvet sky carpeted with stars, two elegantly garbed young women leaned against a cold stone wall and laughed with all the giddy, helpless delight of barefoot children racing across a meadow.

When their laughter was finally spent, Melanie Camden weakly slumped against the wall and turned her head to Alexandra, regarding her with smiling curiosity. "How did you know the odious Lord Ponsonby was confusing Machiavelli with Horace?"

"I've read them both," Alexandra admitted after a guilty pause.

"Shocking!" said the countess, feigning a look of horror. "So have I."

Alexandra's eyes widened. "I was under the impression that reading the classics branded a female as a bluestocking."

"It usually does," Melanie admitted airily, "but in my case, Society has chosen to overlook my—er—unfeminine interest in things beyond petitpoint and fashions."

Alexandra tipped her head to the side, regarding her in rapt fascination. "Why have they done so?"

Lady Camden's voice softened with affection. "Because my husband would flay anyone alive who dared intimate that I am anything less than a perfect lady." Suddenly, she peered suspiciously at Alex and demanded, "Do you play a musical instrument? Because if you do, I warn you—friend or not—I shall
not
come and listen to you play. The mere mention of Bach or Beethoven sends me galloping after my hartshorn, and the sight of a harp puts me into a violent decline."

Alexandra had spent one year learning to play the pianoforte because the duchess had told her the ability to play at least one musical instrument was absolutely mandatory for young ladies of quality; she could hardly believe she was now hearing these derogatory comments from a lady who was reputed to be a veritable trend setter amongst the haughty elite. "I've had lessons at the pianoforte, but I don't play well enough to perform," she admitted uncertainly.

"Excellent," said Melanie with great satisfaction. "How interested are you in shopping for fashions?"

"Actually, I think it's tedious."

"Perfect," she declared, and then suspiciously, "You don't sing, do you?"

Alexandra, who had been somewhat reluctant to admit her inability to play a musical instrument, was now conversely reluctant to admit that she could sing well. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"No one's perfect," the Countess of Camden cheerfully and magnanimously declared, pardoning Alexandra. "Besides, I've been waiting forever to meet a female who's read Horace and Machiavelli, and I shan't be deterred from befriending you merely because you can sing. Unless, of course, you do it very well?"

Alexandra's shoulders began to shake with mirth, for she sang very well indeed.

Melanie saw the answer in Alexandra's laughing eyes and grimaced with comical horror. "You don't sing
often
, do you?"

"No." Choking back a giggle, Alexandra added irreverently, "and if it will help raise me in your estimation, I can promise you that I generally run out of polite conversation in less than five minutes." Having thus cheerfully disposed of some of the most sacred of conventions, both girls burst out laughing again.

Within the mansion at No. 45 Regent Street, dancers continued to dance and laughing guests continued to laugh, oblivious to the momentous event that was taking place outside the French doors. Only the twinkling stars noticed that on a deserted London balcony, two kindred spirits had found each other at last.

"In that case," Melanie grandly decreed when they had stopped chuckling, "I shall consider you a most suitable and enjoyable companion." Blithely setting aside any remaining pretense of formality, Lady Camden said quietly, "My close friends call me Melanie."

For an instant, happiness radiated through Alexandra's entire being, then harsh reality shattered it as she realized that Melanie Camden's friends wouldn't want her included in their circle. The entire
ton
, including Melanie's sophisticated friends, already regarded Alexandra as a complete antidote. She had been judged by all of them and found sadly lacking. Evidently Melanie Camden hadn't been back in London long enough to know that yet. Alexandra's stomach clenched at the thought of the derisive looks Lady Camden would receive were she to walk back into that ballroom with Alexandra.

"What do your friends call you?" Melanie prompted, watching her.

I don't have friends anymore
, Alexandra thought and hastily bent to brush off her skirts, carefully hiding the tears that burned her eyes. "They called—
call
me Alex." Deciding it was best to end this association now, herself, rather than bear the humiliation of having Melanie Camden cut her dead when they next met, Alexandra drew a deep breath and said in a painfully awkward rush, "I appreciate your offer of friendship, Lady Camden, but you see, I'm very busy these days with balls and luncheons and… and all sorts of amusements… And so I very much doubt that you… we… would be able to find time… and I'm certain you already have dozens and dozens of friends who—"

"—who think you are the veriest greenhead ever to appear at a London ball?" Melanie prompted gently.

Before Alexandra could react to that, Anthony walked out of the shadows onto the balcony, and she rushed to him in relief, talking swiftly so that he couldn't gainsay her. "Have you been looking for me, your grace? It must be time to leave. Good evening, Lady Camden."

"Why did you decline Melanie Camden's offer of friendship?" Tony demanded angrily, as soon as they were ensconced in his coach on the way home.

"I… It would not have worked out," Alex prevaricated slightly, her mind on Melanie Camden's softly spoken parting remark. "We do not 'move in the same circles,' as you say here."

"I know that, and I also know why," Tony said tightly. "Roddy Carstairs is part of the reason."

Alexandra started at the realization that Tony was aware of her lack of popularity; she had thought—hoped—he was oblivious to her mortifying predicament.

"I've asked Carstairs to call upon me tomorrow morning," Tony continued bluntly. "We'll have to do something to change his opinion of you and pacify him for the slight you gave him when you left him on the dance floor that first night—"

"Pacify him!" Alexandra exclaimed. "Anthony, he said dreadful—wicked—things to me about your grandmother!"

"Carstairs says objectionable things to people all the time." Tony's reassuring smile was preoccupied. "He particularly enjoys trying to shock or fluster or intimidate females, and if he succeeds he despises his victim for her cowardice and stupidity. Carstairs is like a bird who flits from tree to tree, dropping seeds of dissension wherever he goes. Much of what he says is very amusing—so long as it isn't about oneself. In any case, you should have stared him right out of countenance or said something equally shocking to him."

"I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know that."

"There is a great deal you don't know," Tony said between his teeth, as they drew up before his house on Upper Brook Street. "But once we're in the house, I'm going to remedy that."

Alexandra felt a terrible, unexplainable premonition of dread that mounted as they walked into the salon. Tony motioned for her to sit down on the light-green brocade settee and then poured whisky into a glass for himself. When he turned toward her, he looked angry and unhappy. "Alex," he said abruptly, "you should have been a tremendous success this Season. God knows, you have all the requisite attributes for it—and in sinful abundance. Instead, you've become the decade's most notorious failure."

Shame almost doubled Alexandra over, but Anthony hastily held up his hand, awkwardly explaining, "It's my fault, not yours. I've kept things from you, things I would have told you before, but my grandmother forbade it—she couldn't bear to disillusion you. Now, however, we both agree that you must be told, before you destroy what's left of your chances to find happiness here—if it isn't already too late."

Lifting his glass to his lips, Anthony swallowed the whisky straight down, as if he needed it to give him courage, then he said, "Since you've come to London, you've heard many of Jordan's friends and acquaintances refer to him as 'Hawk,' have you not?" When she nodded, he said, "Why do you think they call him that?"

"I assume it's some sort of shortened name—a nickname—derived from 'Hawthorne.' "

"Some people mean it in that way, but especially among the men it means something different. A hawk is a hunting bird with a faultless eye and the ability to snare its prey before its prey even knows it's in danger."

Alexandra gazed at him with polite interest and complete lack of understanding, and Anthony raked his hand through his hair in frustration. "Jordan got that name years ago, when he made a conquest of a particularly proud young beauty for whom half the bachelors in London had been hanging out for months. Hawk did it in one evening by asking her to dance."

Leaning down, Anthony braced his hands on the arms of her chair. "Alex," he said sharply, "you've convinced yourself you loved, and were loved by, a man who was practically a… a
saint
. The truth is, Hawk was much closer to a devil than a saint where women were concerned, and
everyone knows it
. Do you understand me?" he asked bitterly, his face inches from hers. "Every single person in London who's heard that you speak of him as if he were some damned knight in shining armor,
knows
you are just another one of his victims… just another one of the countless women to fall prey to Hawk's fatal attraction. He didn't try to seduce them—half the time, he was more irritated than pleased when women fell in love with him, but they did it anyway, just as you did. But unlike his other victims,
you
are too guileless to hide it from anyone."