"That is because they were enamored of the idea of it all rather than the person. I, for one, should never consider matrimony unless I were good friends with someone first."
"What? You do not believe in falling in love? I thought all young women dreamed of being swept away on a tide of passion."
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"I do not. It sounds dreadfully uncomfortable to me. And besides, one cannot live out one's days on a tide of passion." She stopped to stare up at him curiously. "Why? Do you believe in love? Have you ever been in love?"
"I thought so once." The major laughed bitterly. "I suppose it was love. She loved my possessions and my estate until someone with more of both came along. For my part, I loved her beauty until I saw what was beneath it. I awoke from
that
dream quickly enough, and I am delighted to say I have never fallen for it again." But somehow he did not look happy about it. There was a bleakness in his eyes that made Alex long to replace it with the warmth and love she had known in her own family.
Sensing her scrutiny, the major turned and found the green eyes looking up at him with so much sympathy and understanding that he was at a loss for words. He hadn't even known the extent of his anger and hurt until he saw it reflected in her eyes. Somehow, just having someone understand it did a good deal toward easing the pain. "Never mind. You need not look so distressed." He laughed, both gratified and uneasy at her quickness of perception. "I soon got over it. I joined the regiment and discovered all the fellowship, the companionship a man could wish for."
"I'm glad," was the simple reply, but Alex was not convinced. Fellowship he might have had, but there was still a part of him that longed for something more—something he wanted but had never found, else why was he so affected by his mother? Most people would simply have dismissed her as a vain and silly woman, but the major seemed unable to do 195
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so. His barely concealed contempt for her and for women in general hinted at an anger and a disappointment that went deeper than that. It was as though he truly had longed for love and affection but had it denied him.
Why of all things, Alex wondered, did she entertain the wish, fleeting though it was, that she could give him what he wanted? It would be so easy. He was charming and interesting, a man who cared passionately about things—his country, his comrades in arms, even a young woman masquerading as her brother in order to save her birthright. Alex had had great experience in taking care of people, from useless older brothers to rambunctious younger ones. She knew that ensuring the happiness and comfort of a grown man who possessed no outrageous eccentricities and who had been looking after himself for years would be simplicity itself. The real question was why did she wish to do this? Surely it was just because she wished everyone could enjoy the love she had received in her family. She firmly put all such thoughts out of her mind, concentrating instead on what she hoped was to be her last evening at White's. With the major urging veteran gamesters in her direction, she had managed to win thousands of pounds at each sitting and all that was needed now was a few thousand more. She should have been overjoyed to think that after tonight her masquerade would be over. She could cast aside Alexander de Montmorency forever and resume her normal life—a prospect which did not elate her as much as it should have.
By now they had reached the Clarendon—a surprise to both of them, as each one had been so wrapped up in his own 196
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thoughts that neither one had been very conscious of their progress.
Christopher paused on the stairs, laying a hand on his companion's shoulder. "I must repair to my chambers to write up some reports for the Duke. Until tonight. It should be the last. Courage
mon brave,
you have almost reached your goal." He turned and was gone, leaving Alex to stare stupidly after him, a lump in her throat and unaccountable tears stinging her eyelids.
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The gaming room at White's was densely crowded by the time Anthony, Alex, and Christopher arrived. In order to see his sister through her final round, Anthony, who had been begging off more and more frequently to attend events where he was likely to encounter his adored Lucinda, had eschewed an opportunity to look for her at the Bellingwood's rout. By now a respected regular, Alex was hailed by players at several tables and invited to join the play, but just as she was about to take her seat at the table adjoining General Scott's, she was accosted by a gaudily dressed man of indeterminate years who sported a rather boldly patterned waistcoat and the high color of one of Bacchus's more confirmed devotees.
"Ssho, de Montmorenshy, I hear you're cleaning out the pocketsh of all the gentleman here," he slurred. "It'sh my turn now to show you that not everyone here ish easy game or my name ishn't Gilesh O'Hara."
Alex had never seen the man before and, if the expression of the onlookers were anything to go by, neither had anyone else. His aggressive air brooked no denial, and on her last night here, Alex was not about to do anything that would cause a stir. When he waved an unsteady hand toward a table in the corner and wove toward it she could do nothing but shrug and follow.
It rapidly became apparent that Giles O'Hara had grossly overestimated his card-playing abilities and it took the shortest of whiles for Alex to trounce him severely, winning all 198
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that remained of the money she needed. That accomplished, she heaved a sigh of relief and smiled pleasantly at her opponent. "I thank you for the game, sir, but I am afraid I must beg your indulgence in cutting it short as I am promised to Cathcart this evening."
With a roar O'Hara rose and pointed a wavering finger at her. "You'll not dismish me so easily, my fine young buck. Gilesh O'Hara is no pigeon to be plucked ash you have done all the othersh. No. You'll sit down and play an honesht game with me and then we shall shee who winsh." An angry flush rose in Alex's cheeks and her fists clenched at her sides, but she managed to reply calmly enough.
"Certainly. And I shall beat you as honestly as I just have done."
"Are you calling me a liar? No one callsh Gilesh O'Hara a liar to hish face and lives. Name your weaponsh and your secondsh."
By this time, the deathly hush that had fallen at the adjoining tables had spread throughout the room. Alex rose to face him, maintaining her outward composure although her eyes positively sparkled with anger. "Pistols," she replied promptly. Then she turned to Christopher. "And I beg Lord Wrotham to oblige."
His heart in his mouth, the major shot a quick glance at Tony, who appeared to be no more concerned by the entire episode than his sister was. "I shall be honored to do so." He bowed ever so slightly in Alex's direction.
"Thank you." Alex turned back to her accuser. "Very well, then, sir. I suggest that we repair to a suitable spot at 199
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daybreak. The sooner honor is satisfied, the better. As to the location, I leave its selection to the seconds." And without giving O'Hara time to reply she turned on her heel and strode toward the door, leaving the room abuzz behind her. The first to recover was the major who, after establishing Wimbledon Common as the site for the encounter, grabbed Tony by the arm and hustled him toward the door, whispering urgently, "Whatever shall we do?"
"Do? Why nothing."
Christopher was not a little taken aback at the callous insouciance with which Alex's brother viewed the dreadful situation. "But we cannot let her do this!"
"Don't see how we can stop her, old fellow. Question of honor you know, and she wouldn't thank you for doing so." Then seeing that his words had done nothing to erase the worry in the major's eyes or the tense set of his jaw, he laid a hand on Wrotham's shoulder. "Relax, man. Alex is as fine a shot as I have ever encountered. She should be. I taught her myself down at Halewood. She is as steady as a rock and has eyes like a hawk. I wish we had time to go to Manton's so you could see what I mean. Taught her swordplay as well, though she is not as good at that. Oh, she is a very pretty fighter, but nothing out of the ordinary. I say the best thing we can do is go home and get ourselves a bit of sleep as Alex will undoubtedly do. If I know anything about it, I would say that a man like O'Hara is likely to stay up until the appointed hour getting drunk as a lord and he won't even offer Alex a challenge worthy of her. Come. Let's toddle along then." 200
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And they headed toward the door. Once outside, they hurried along the street to catch up with Alex, who had slowed her pace in the hopes that they would. Difficult though it was for him to credit, the major was struck by the fact that the air of unconcern she had exhibited in the club still remained. She greeted them both with a nonchalance that Christopher, for one, was far from feeling. The major studied her carefully. From the steady green eyes to the smooth white forehead to the beautifully sculpted lips, not a single feature betrayed the least sign of anxiety. Few men of his acquaintance would have been as calm in such circumstances. Wrotham shook his head admiringly.
"Are you not concerned about this encounter?" An impish smile flitted cross Alex's face. "Will you think it very bold of me if I say no? Someone who displays such a singular lack of skill and concentration at cards is not likely to suddenly acquire these traits once he has a pistol in his hand. Besides, I am an even better shot than I am a card player." The major laughed, but the tightness that gripped his stomach would not go away. He wanted to beg her to let him take her place, but he knew that even if she could keep her honor intact while allowing him to do that, she never would do so. One look at the proud lift of the chin and her erect carriage was enough to tell him that. All he could do was to continue along to his lodgings and try as best he could to wait until dawn.
Oddly enough, Alex thought to herself, she was truly not worried. The worst of her adventure was over. She had only to deposit the last of her winnings at Hoare's bank to make 201
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her wild gamble successful. In contrast to the hopes and fears riding on her skill at the gaming tables, facing the mouth of a pistol in the hands of a drunken braggart was the merest nothing. Still, not wishing to be foolhardy in her confidence, she repaired immediately to bed the moment she reached the Clarendon, doing her best to compose herself for the upcoming duel.
It would have been naive to hope for a solid night's rest before facing such a challenge, but she did manage to doze off once or twice before Lord Wrotham, who had been awake all night and pacing the floor, banged on her door. Alex was unprepared for his strained and exhausted expression. Surely he had faced far worse situations many times over. Were the shadows under the eyes and the lines of fatigue concern for her situation? A strange feeling of warmth and gratitude swept over her at such a thought, making her
"Good morning" unusually gruff. That such an out and outer as Lord Wrotham should care what happened to Lady Alexandra de Montmorency was most surprising and wonderful, and she was quite unprepared for the happiness it brought her.
"I have a carriage waiting downstairs." For his part, the major could not believe that anyone going to face even as doubtful an opponent as O'Hara could look as well rested as Alex. What an incredible woman—no, what an incredible person—she was! Christopher still found it difficult to believe that someone as courageous and intelligent, someone he admired and enjoyed as a friend could be a member of the 202
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sex that hitherto had caused him so much annoyance and pain.
"Good. I shall just get my cloak." Alex grabbed her cape, swung it over her shoulder, and headed out the door with the major in her wake.
The faintest blush of pink stained the sky as they reached the common, and wisps of mist rose from the ground lending an unearthly air to the entire scene. Real enough, however, were the deadly-looking pistols handed to the seconds for inspection and Giles O'Hara's bullying threat, "Now we'll show who's the honest man and who's the Captain Sharp. You shan't get away with this, de Montmorency." Not deigning to reply, Alex shrugged, accepted her pistol from the major, and went to take up her position. She sighted carefully, took a deep breath, and waited calmly, her eyes on the white handkerchief being held aloft.
On the sideline, the major, standing next to Tony, who had arrived a few minutes before, was gnawing the inside of his lip in a desperate attempt to appear as calm as the woman facing the pistol.
The handkerchief fluttered. Knowing her opponent was less than steady, Alex forced herself to raise her pistol and take aim as coolly as if she were in the bam at Halewood. There was a flash and a loud report which allowed her to place her own shot precisely where she wished, hitting O'Hara's gun and sending it tumbling to the ground while he stood stupidly gazing at his empty hand.
Alex's marksmanship brought a round of cheers from the sprinkling of onlookers. She bowed and, not deigning to 203
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acknowledge O'Hara, turned her back to him and headed toward the carriage, barely aware of a stinging in her left arm.
Tony sprinted toward his sister, his face beaming. "By Jove, Alex, that was a simply splendid shot! Couldn't have done better myself."
"I had an excellent teacher," she replied modestly, though she was unable to hide her happy grin. Really, she was rather proud of herself. Now that she could allow herself to think about it, she was weak with relief, but her nerves had been cool and steady when the situation demanded it. Too overwhelmed by a variety of confusing emotions, Wrotham was quite unable to say anything. First and foremost was relief that she was unharmed. Then there was tremendous admiration. It had been a magnificent shot, executed with me boldness of someone confident of her skill. Next, oddly enough, was pride—a pride that someone he had come to like had acquitted herself so very well, from the dignified response in the face of an outrageous insult to the brilliant conclusion of a dangerous episode. No man could have done better. Christopher was not entirely certain that even he could have made such a shot, but somehow, in his pleasure at Alex's success, he did not mind such a notion, strange though it was. But strangest of all had been the cold, paralyzing fear that had gripped his heart as he had watched her standing there, slim, straight, and proud in the cold dawn light. She was so brave—shouldering all the responsibilities that came her way without the slightest complaint—that he wanted more than anything to throw himself in front of her as 204