Alexa had met him quite by accident. Lady Tuttle had taken ill one day, fainting dead away as she and Alexa had toured the gardens of the Plaza de Oriente. Carlos had come to the rescue out of thin air, speaking flawless English with a lovely accent, and had directed his servants to see Lady Tuttle to the hotel where she and Alexa were staying. When he understood they had no doctor, Carlos had sent his personal physician to see after Lady Tuttle. When the physician had declared Lady Tuttle must convalesce before resuming her travels, Carlos had offered a cottage that belonged to his family for Alexa and Lady Tuttle’s use.
And so had begun their torrid affair. He was tall and darkly handsome, with dancing brown eyes and a smile as sparkling as the Mediterranean Sea. He called every day to see after Lady Tuttle’s welfare, and within the week, he was escorting Alexa out into the streets of Madrid to show her about.
Alexa had never intended for anything to happen between them. Admittedly, she was taken by his physical beauty. And she’d been so grateful for his help and held in thrall by his buoyant company. But she was not prepared for how quickly she’d fallen in love with him! Her eyes teared just thinking about it. God help her, she had loved him.
He was charming and sophisticated. He’d taught her Spanish history and the Spanish language. He’d wanted to know everything about her, and he’d looked at her in a way that had made Alexa’s heart pound and her palms dampen.
One month turned to two, and two to three. Carlos grew bolder, teasing her with kisses and playful touches. And Alexa grew softer, welcoming each touch, smiling with pleasure when he kissed her. Then had come the day of rain, when it was too awful to go out but too tedious to remain within the two-room cottage Alexa shared with Lady Tuttle.
Carlos had come, and while Lady Tuttle slept in one room, Carlos led Alexa to a place she’d never before been—into a man’s arms, and his body into hers. It was physically magical, and emotionally enthralling. Alexa had felt as if she was his, and that he belonged to her. She’d never felt anything so deeply in her life.
Alexa continued to have intimate relations with him, assuming that they would marry. It wasn’t entirely her imagination; Carlos had said things such as, “One day, we will be like that old couple,” and point to an elderly couple strolling together. Or, “Our children will be fearless.”
Alexa had believed it with all her heart.
He spoke eloquently of his life and his work. He described where he and his family lived in an ancient fortress in the hills, which they had turned into a home. While Lady Tuttle snored down the hall, Alexa would lie in the bed with him, imagining his family. She imagined a raucous gathering of siblings, some married with children, others not. She imagined their family meals, and she imagined, heaven help her, she imagined sitting among them, one of the family.
“I want to meet them,” she’d said one day.
“
Si,
of course. When the time is right,
mi amor,
” he would say, and Alexa trusted him.
Lady Tuttle began to mend. She wanted to go home to England, to be near her son, and Alexa began to think about how she would tell the old woman she didn’t intend to return to England. She’d even penned a letter to Olivia with the news that she would remain in Spain with Carlos.
But she never sent that letter.
One day, Carlos did not come. Nor did he come the next day. By the end of that week, Lady Tuttle was determined to carry on with their tour, and Alexa was frantic—she knew by then that she was carrying his child.
She played another few notes on the pianoforte in the dowager house, then settled in with both hands to play a song she remembered from her childhood as her mind wandered through her memories of Madrid.
At first she’d been angry with herself for not knowing more about where Carlos lived. She’d wondered if he’d intentionally kept her in the dark, for she had only a few vague descriptions of where the house was. So it was astounding that she was able to discover where Carlos lived. It had taken a bit of ingenuity to find her way there—a discreet question to the florist who delivered his flowers to her, a smattering of Spanish words to help wend her way through Madrid’s crowded and confusing streets. But Alexa had done it—she’d found him.
She could recall standing at the bottom of the hill and admiring the old castle. It looked just as Carlos had described it, with wisteria climbing the walls and a fountain at the bottom of the drive. Alexa had walked up the hill to the gate. She’d intended to send a note in to him, and she’d never imagined she would see him standing on the drive, almost as if he was waiting for her.
But he was not waiting for her.
It was interesting, Alexa thought numbly, the things she remembered about that sun-filled morning. Such as his horse, and the saddle with the tassels and a red scroll embroidered on the seat. That the bougainvillea along the stone wall at his back needed trimming.
Alexa remembered with painful, searing clarity, that as she lifted her hand to call to him, a woman came bounding onto the drive. That was when she noticed the other horse, and that the woman was dressed for riding, as was he. And she was beautiful, with inky black hair and dark red lips. The two of them had been laughing and speaking in their native tongue at a pace Alexa hadn’t been able to understand.
She’d stood outside the gates, unnoticed, watching with a nauseating swell as Carlos had taken the woman’s elbow and leaned in to kiss her cheek. The woman had pressed her hand on his back and rested her cheek against his shoulder, and Carlos put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her close.
A light of understanding had shone in Alexa’s head at that moment. Without a word, without a whimper, she had turned and walked down the cobblestone hill. And she’d kept walking, heedless of the people or the animals or carts that crowded the street, seeing nothing but the image of Carlos kissing the beautiful woman. She’d kept walking until she’d reached the cottage where Lady Tuttle had commanded a small army to pack their things.
Even now, a month later, the memory was still too painful to bear.
Alexa played more of her song, but it sounded dreary. She was determined to put the past behind her; what else could she do? She’d done something wretched—she’d fallen in love with a Spaniard, and fallen so far, and so deep, that she had conceived his child. Happily conceived it, eagerly conceived it. And then she had discovered that he was married.
There was no other explanation. His sudden disappearance from her life, the kiss to the woman’s cheek . . . Alexa guessed that his wife had been away while he seduced her. He’d left her one rainy afternoon with kisses and promises and a bright smile and he’d gone home, apparently, to his wife.
Alexa never saw Carlos again. She’d left him a note thanking him for the use of the cottage, and she’d come running home to Everdon Court and Olivia, the only place she could go.
She couldn’t say what she thought would happen once she arrived at Everdon Court. She supposed she’d wanted to sweep it all under the rug and pretend it hadn’t happened.
But Olivia had guessed the truth. That was the way with her, and it had always been. She was so perfect in her conduct, so terribly clever. All of Alexa’s life, Olivia had been held out as the ideal, what Alexa should strive to be. It didn’t matter that Alexa did not care to be as prim and proper as Olivia. She was told she must be if she wanted a match when she grew older. Alexa had never been as concerned about appearances as her sister. She had believed Olivia was making a bad situation even worse with her insistence that they tell Edward, who was so cold and distant. She didn’t want to end up like Olivia, married to a cold-hearted man.
But then Alexa had seen the bruise on Olivia’s lip, and that had given her pause. The physical evidence had made her realize that she had to stand up and face the consequences of what she’d done, for if she didn’t, Olivia would.
If only Alexa knew
how
to face the consequences without being banished to Ireland! She really had no options, but the more she resisted, the more Olivia would pay the price for her mistake with her beast of a husband.
Alexa knew she’d been awful to Olivia and Mr. Tolly, and truly, she’d not meant to be. But she’d been feeling so many confusing, conflicting emotions. She did not want to
marry.
She pined for Carlos still, as hurt as she was. She’d agonized over everything he’d said, wondering how she could imbue his words with so much promise, or how he could have lied to her as easily as he had. She cried herself to sleep more times than she could count and had given up all hope. She wanted only to return to the cottage where she and Carlos had spent so many blissful afternoons, and wake up tangled in his legs and arms, her head on his shoulder. Alexa had struggled mightily to let that dream go. But she did not want to live in a convent, and she would
not
give up her child.
Today, Olivia had managed to penetrate the fog that had surrounded Alexa since that day in Madrid and convinced her that her situation was dire. This afternoon, Alexa had methodically examined her options and found them distressingly absent. She thought of what Harry had said about his life. She thought of the child she was carrying. What if it was a boy, like Harry? Would he be shunned? Not allowed in school? Alexa didn’t have jewels to sell, and the thought of doing what his mother had done to provide for her child made her shudder.
Olivia was right. She had to marry.
Mr. Tolly seemed to be as good a candidate as any. He was agreeable, he was handsome, and he had inherited something, so hopefully her child would not want. But the most appealing thing about him was that the alternatives were too grim. He simply would have to do.
Harrison returned to the dowager house without actually recalling the walk—his head was full of Lady Carey’s kiss, his body still thrumming, his nerves skating on a guilty edge. He’d held back his desire for her for so many years that he was startled by how quickly he’d succumbed. As if he’d been blown off his precipice by a slight spring breeze. In a single moment, his life had forever changed and he would never be the same man he was only hours ago.
Worse, he knew he would do it again without a moment’s hesitation.
Harrison walked into his foyer with the intention of retiring to his study and a bottle of whiskey, and was brought up short by the surprising sound of music. It was the old pianoforte from his mother’s salon, though he’d never heard her play it.
Curious, he walked to what he optimistically called the music room.
Alexa was seated at the pianoforte, her golden head down, her play light, and a frown of concentration on her face. Harrison cleared his throat; she looked up and smiled thinly. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” he said as he moved into the room. “Please carry on. This house has not heard music during my tenure. It might shake loose a few old cobwebs or hidden treasure.”
She smiled shyly and put her hands in her lap. “I am not very practiced at it. I was merely biding my time, waiting for you. May I have a word, Harry?”
Harrison suppressed a groan. He was hardly in the mood for her at present, as he had his own bad behavior to sort out. “Could it possibly wait? I have quite a lot of work—”
“It won’t take but a moment,” she said, rising from the pianoforte, holding her hands tightly at her waist. “Please, sir. I know I have been wretched, but on my word, I shall not be so again.”
The contrite little promise surprised Harrison. She even
looked
contrite. Still, Harrison was wary. “Go on, then.”
“I, ah . . .” She took a deep breath, then began again. “I have thought quite a lot about what you and my sister have said.”
Harrison was no longer interested in aiding her—quite the opposite. He wished she’d flit away.
“And . . . I have come to the conclusion that you are quite right.”
Now there was a heavenly miracle if ever he’d seen one. Did she truly expect him to believe that? He gave her a dubious look. “Have you, indeed? Pardon me, Alexa, but that does not sound like the young woman I have come to know.”
“I am aware of that.” She swallowed hard. “You were so kind to offer me marriage and a name for my baby, given my impossible predicament, and I . . . and I realized I have been foolish and ungrateful in return. But upon reflection . . .”
She paused and swallowed once more, and Harrison resisted the roll of his eyes, waiting for what he suspected she would say next.
I cannot marry you, et cetera, et cetera.
“Upon reflection,” she said again, her voice soft, “I have come to the conclusion that we might indeed find our way, and perhaps even be . . . happy. Therefore, I should like to accept your offer of marriage.”
He couldn’t feel his heart beating; he couldn’t feel anything, for everything had stopped moving. The air, his breath. Time. He stared at Alexa; she pressed her lips together, her chest rising and falling with each anxious breath. He had no idea what to say—his entire world had been turned on its head after kissing Lady Carey in the garden, and his heart was a twisted, tangled mess. And now
this
? He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.
Miss Hastings paled. “I know what you must think. That I am petulant and uncooperative, and for that I apologize. But on my word, sir, I have never in my life faced such a dilemma. I apologize for my poor behavior.”