Grayson’s deep timbre cut through the silence. “Mrs. Alastair.” He casually crossed the room to her. “I apologize for interrupting you.” He stopped beside her, his back to the others. He withdrew a small package from his pocket and slipped it into her hand. “Wear them tonight,” he whispered.
She clenched the package, feeling something hard and sharp beneath the paper. He backed away and made an overly formal bow. “Good afternoon, ladies. I look forward to seeing you later. Mr. Henderson?”
He turned and strolled out of the room. Henderson shot him a look of annoyance, then bowed to Alexandra and Lady Featherstone and scurried after him.
“Goodness.” Lady Featherstone jumped as the front door banged. “Two such handsome gentlemen in your reception room, looking daggers at each other over you, you lucky girl.”
Alexandra did not feel lucky in the least. What Mr. Henderson had told her had drained her of feeling—and made her angry beyond measure. All this time Grayson had known of his diabolical bargain with Captain Ardmore. And he had made her love him anyway.
As for Captain Ardmore—She longed to see the man again and tell him just what she thought of his so-called bargain. She understood his grief about his brother, she was no stranger to the loss of loved ones, but he’d taken it a bit too far.
Lady Featherstone came to her. “What did he give you?”
“What? Oh.” Alexandra looked down at the package. “I do not know.”
“Well, open it, silly.”
Alexandra lay the gift on the small Sheraton table and unwrapped the folds of paper. Inside was a black velvet cloth. She opened it.
She and Lady Featherstone gasped together.
“Good heavens!” Lady Featherstone said, her hand to her heart.
Lying on the cloth, glittering like stars against the night, was a strand of diamonds. The pattern was intricate, yet simple. In the middle of the piece, held by clasps of beaten silver, were five opals, each about a half-inch across, polished and shining white.
Alexandra recognized the diamonds. They had been part of the hideous necklace Theo had given her, the one Grayson had stolen from her the night they’d made love aboard his ship. He must have had them cut apart and reset. But the opals—
She remembered his voice, the touch of his hand:
I have opals that would shine like white fire in your hair.
Here they lay before her.
Lady Featherstone looked up at her, her face still. “You did not tell me,” she said carefully, “that you and Viscount Stoke were engaged.”
Alexandra swallowed. “We are not.”
The lady’s face went a bit white. “Why else would he give you such a gift?”
Alexandra made herself fold the black cloth over the jewels, shutting out their starry sparkle. “I cannot imagine.”
From the look on Lady Featherstone’s face, she obviously could. “Have a care, my dear,” she said. “Tongues in the haut
ton
can be very cruel.” She brightened. “I know. Perhaps this is his way of announcing he intends to propose.” She pressed her hands together. “How delightfully romantic. You and a viscount, right next door to one another, falling hopelessly in love.”
“Yes,” Alexandra sighed, folding the papers. “Hopeless.”
She repeated the word again later as she stood at her dressing table and waited for her new lady’s maid to put the finishing touches to her hair.
The lady’s maid, Joan, a plain woman with brown hair scraped into a painful knot, had proved competent and quiet spoken. She’d had references from a baroness and a countess, and said she preferred a quiet household. Alexandra had bitten the inside of her cheek, crossed her fingers, and said that her household was quiet—most of the time.
The jewels lay on the black velvet before her. Her first thought had been to hide them away, but she could not bring herself to do so. The tiara was so beautiful. She’d never liked diamonds, finding them cold and harsh, but the jeweler had made these beautiful. Using Grayson’s opals he had transformed a rather gaudy piece—purchased by her husband only to prove that he could afford such baubles—into one of elegance and grace. It seemed a shame to hide it.
“Will you wear it, madam?” Joan asked behind her. She’d already expressed approval for the jewelry, though she’d not asked where it came from. She must have believed it part of Alexandra’s collection from her husband.
Alexandra jumped. “Hum? Oh, no. No, I do not believe I will.”
Joan’s square, stoic face registered disappointment. “But it would look so good on you, madam. You have just the right coloring to set it off.”
Before Alexandra could protest, Joan lifted the jewels to Alexandra’s hair.
The lady’s maid was correct. The opals shone like white hot stars against Alexandra’s dark red hair. The diamonds glittered like more distant stars, visible when they caught the light. It took her breath away.
“Please consider it, madam. It will go well with your new gown.”
How she wanted to wear the jewels. Grayson had had the tiara made for her, had given her a princely gift.
But why? She had been convinced at first that he meant to make her his mistress. Lady Featherstone was now convinced he meant to make her his wife. But after her conversation with Mr. Henderson, she realized that Grayson had told her the truth from the beginning. He had said with regret that he could not marry.
Anger coupled with her confusion produced outrage and grief. He was going to let Captain Ardmore murder him. She fumed at the pride and arrogance of men, who left women and children to grieve for them. She fanned her irritation, because it kept her fear at bay. This bargain had to be stopped. And it would be, if she had anything to say about it.
Her thoughts raced from one to the next, emotions tumbling through her. She had some ideas about what she could do. None was very practical at the moment, such as running Captain Ardmore to the ground, giving him a good talking to, and threatening him with arrest if he did not leave Grayson alone. Shouting at him appealed to her, but she reflected that it probably would not have much effect.
She turned over possibilities in her mind, her breath pushing her breasts against the hard bones of her stays. She became aware of Joan’s brown eyes regarding her steadily in the mirror.
Alexandra picked up the tiara. “Yes,” she said calmly. “I shall wear it.”
Vanessa Fairchild paused before the mirror in Alexandra’s bedchamber, smoothing the last of her dark curls beneath
a hairpin. The soiree had already begun; guests poured in through Alexandra’s front door, and carriages jammed Grosvenor Street as coachmen tried to halt as close as possible to the red carpet that led in the short space between door and carriage stop. The reception room blazed with light. The rear reception room’s doors had been thrown open to make the two rooms one, and the carpet had been taken up so dancing could commence. Upstairs the sitting room and dining room had likewise been opened, making one long room where guests could linger, chat, and eat.
Maggie would be entering with her father. Vanessa smiled a little as she studied her subdued gown in the mirror. The viscount wished to show off his daughter. Vanessa would wait upstairs for the hour when Maggie drooped or the viscount tired of her and deposited her in this quiet corner. Of course, Vanessa thought indulgently, having observed the viscount’s obvious love for his daughter and Maggie’s unfailing spirits, that hour could be long in coming, if ever. But she, as a good governess, would wait to take her charge.
Robert Jacobs was also in the house. Her trembling fingers knew it. He came ostensibly as a guest and friend of the viscount’s, but his true purpose was bodyguard to Maggie. For the last three days, he had been Maggie’s constant companion, and therefore, he’d also been Vanessa’s.
Did he sense the fire that shot through her every time he drew near? Did he know that she had to slow her panicked gasps whenever she looked upon his face? Did he know that the desire she’d had for him all those years ago had never waned?
Possibly not. He remained entirely businesslike, watch
ful and alert when they went out, quiet and unobtrusive when they stayed home. Maggie liked to include him in their conversations, and he answered questions or made comments in a friendly way. But he never spoke directly to Vanessa.
Today, for the first time, Vanessa had seen a sign of the danger from which the viscount wanted to protect Maggie. She had taken Maggie to Hookham’s to introduce her to the world of novels, which Maggie knew nothing of. Robert had accompanied them on the errand, as he did on all errands. Afterward they had walked up to New Bond Street and looked in the shops. On a sudden, Robert had herded them away from a glovemaker’s and shoved them both into a tiny, deserted passage.
They’d hovered there, in the shadow of the tall buildings, while Robert had shielded them both from the street with his body. They’d watched, tense, while a gentleman who looked no different from any other gentleman strolled by, looking right and left as if trying to take in all the wonders of mercantile London.
Robert had later explained that the gentleman was called Burchard and that he was a dangerous pirate. He had a vendetta against Captain Ardmore and would not hesitate to mow down Captain Ardmore’s associates, current and past. At the time, however, Robert had told them nothing. He’d simply stood against her, with Maggie sandwiched between them, his nose nearly touching Vanessa’s hair. She’d held Maggie, arms around the girl’s slim shoulders, and tried to find a safe place to rest her gaze. But all she could see before her was his throat, swathed in a crisp neck cloth, and his chin, tinged with new beard. His broad chest in waistcoat and coat was below that, rising and falling with his quick breath. The
scent of him had washed over her, so masculine and desirable. The five minutes they’d spent in that passage had stretched to an eternity.
Now as she looked into the mirror, she touched the cameo at her throat. She looked so respectable, a widowed woman making her way in the world as governess to a viscount’s daughter. An enviable position. His lordship was very handsome himself, although anyone with eyes could see that he was obviously madly in love with Alexandra.
On the outside, Vanessa was neat and respectable. On the inside, she churned with emotion. She was simply a woman who desired a man, who could think of nothing but a forbidden passion of five years before.
The door opened. Supposing it to be Alexandra, Vanessa did not turn. She lifted her gaze to the mirror again and saw Robert Jacobs standing behind her.
He did not speak. He closed the door and stood looking at her. Their gazes caught and tangled in the glass. He must have come to tell her that the viscount had arrived or that he needed her to take charge of Maggie. But he only crossed the room slowly, saying nothing.
He stopped behind her, an arm’s reach away. If only she could turn and face him.
“Vanessa,” he said. “I have never stopped loving you.”
“Robert—”
White lines etched the corners of his mouth. “No, let me say what I came to say. I loved you then, and I love you now. It has not changed. You may think me young and a fool, but I love you with a man’s love, not that of a callow boy.”
She put her hand to her throat, fingers touching the cold cameo. “Do you believe that I did not love
you?
”
The dark depths of his eyes caught her. “I believe you
could not accept that I could truly love you. As a man.”
Vanessa spun around. The lock of hair she’d been pinning loosened again. Dear lord, he was so handsome. He stood close to her, and yet a mountain range might have separated them. His dark hair caught the light from the chandelier above. Rich brown highlights burned into the silk of it, beckoning her fingers. In contrast, his severe suit shut her out. He dressed as she did, respectable, subdued, firmly keeping the outside world away.
“I told you to go because I would ruin you!” she cried.
“You did ruin me,” he said tightly. “I never loved another woman after you, Vanessa. Never. God knows I tried.” He smiled a feral smile, and her heart turned over. Of course he would have gone to other women. It had been five years, after all. But she had not expected that the thought would tear her in two.
“If you had been free,” he asked, his voice savage, “would you have come with me?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. I was ten years older than you.”
“You still are,” he said. “And I still love you.”
She tried to take a step back, but the dressing table impeded her. “What do you want me to say, Robert?”
His dark eyes went hard. “That you never loved me. That I will never have a chance. I want you to tell me so I can be quit of you at last.”
He was offering her peace. She only had to say that what they’d had in Oxford had been nothing—a lonely professor’s wife taking her amusement with a handsome lad. Then they could freeze into mere acquaintances and put the past behind them. She opened her mouth to tell him so.
“I loved you.” The words spilled out before she could stop them. “I loved you so much, Robert. You taught me
how to open my heart and love as I had never loved before. It killed me to send you away. I did it because I feared scandal would cling to you when you were just starting your life.”
His chest rose and fell. He reached to her, then clenched his fist. “And now?”
She touched his closed hand. His fingers were so cold. “I love you,” she whispered. “I always have. I will never stop.”
He studied her for a long moment. Then he made a raw noise in his throat, as if a rage and longing that he had kept bottled for too long had suddenly burst free. He seized her, his grip like iron, and crushed her to him. She closed her eyes in surrender. Sweet desire and hopelessness crashed over her as his strong mouth covered hers.
Downstairs, Grayson entered the main reception room, leading his daughter by the hand. Maggie had dressed in a new gown of light pink silk, courtesy of her previous shopping expedition with Mrs. Alastair. Her black hair had been woven into loops and braids, courtesy of Mrs. Fairchild. Light shimmered through the facets of the huge chandeliers high above like fire through a jewel box and rained a rosy glow to the company below. A trio of violins played madly in a corner partitioned by potted palms. Jeffrey, stiff in red livery and a new powdered wig, bellowed into his ear: “His lordship, Viscount Stoke and the Honorable Miss Maggie Finley!”
All heads swiveled. Quizzing glasses and lorgnettes rose, conversation dipped. Even the violins squawked to a halt. Grayson and Maggie stopped, just inside the doorway.
The glittering crowd looked their fill, from those who glanced at Grayson in mild curiosity to the obvious gawpers who stared and nudged their neighbors. Ladies began
fluttering fans and smiling covertly. The plump, black-haired Mrs. Waters sent him a come-and-get-me smile, her eyes promising that she’d changed her bedchamber into a passenger’s cabin. He suppressed a watery chill and made a small bow to the collected company.