An Unforgettable Rogue (11 page)

“Indeed not,” Bryce said, nearly smiling. “I do not suppose your new master is to home?”

“He is, your grace.”

“There is a pleasant surprise,” Bryce said to Alex. “We may get this settled much sooner than we expected. Good day to you, Leggins, and thank you. Alex, shall we face the lion in his den?”

“Now we may witness that seizure you worried about last night,” she said with a grin. “If Baxter does not yet know that you are alive.”

But Bryce did not smile. As a matter of fact, as they climbed the front steps, his jaw set decidedly more firm, and his lids lowered, shuttering his reaction.

When the door was opened, they saw immediately that Hawk’s old footman had been replaced. The current retainer bowed politely and did not so much as quirk a brow or twitch a face muscle when Bryceson gave his name, but led them directly to the blue salon.

“Everything is the same,” Bryce said, with stifled longing, as he gazed about the cerulean room, snowy clouds drifting upon its azure ceiling, and Alex’s heart near broke for his loss.

“Well, this is a surprise,” said a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Chesterfield? What are you doing here?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Chesterfield raised a surprised brow. “I might ask you the same question. My man said you wanted to see me.”

“No. We came to see Hawk’s heir. Are you staying with Baxter?”

“I do not know where Baxter has run off to, but you must have asked to see the master of Hawks Ridge, and since Hawks Ridge is now mine—”

“No,” Bryce said without thought. Then he regarded Alex and raised his hand in a sign of defeat. “I know; I sound like my uncle.”

“This makes no sense,” Alex said. “How came you to be in possession of Hawks Ridge?”

“Hawk’s cabbage-headed heir wagered and lost it to me in a card game not six weeks ago. I do think I will be changing its name. To my ears, there is something decidedly annoying about its current appellation.”

Bryce cursed.

Chesterfield nodded. “Precisely how I felt at the church the day before yesterday.”

“Hawk loves his home,” Alex said.

“Alexandra,” Hawk warned.

Chesterfield regarded Hawk with a raised brow. “You want Hawks Ridge? I will trade you … for Alex.”

“Do not be an ass,” Hawk said.

“Judson, be serious. You cannot keep Hawk’s home.”

“Hawks Ridge was Baxter’s estate to wager at the time I won it, and unless someone can pay me the fifteen thousand pounds that whelp of Satan owes me, I am bloody well going to keep it.”

Hawk cursed again.

“It would be a bargain at double the price,” Chesterfield said, his gaze moving between Alex—very much aware that he thought of her as his lost bride—and her bristling husband, who would as soon strike the man as look at him. “Whatever you wanted of Baxter,” their unexpected host said. “Is it something with which I can help you?”

“Yes,” Alex said.

“No,” Hawk replied as fast.

“Ah, a stalemate then. Can I offer you refreshment, or shall I have my man show you out?”

“Judson, really, there is no need to be rude.”

“Is there not? Odd I thought I was being civil to the blackguard who took my bride from me. It might interest you to know, Alexandra, that were it not for your fondness for this estate, I would not have been so anxious to acquire it. It was to be your wedding present, you see. Half the countryside kept the secret of my ownership, so I could surprise my bride on our wedding day. Otherwise, I might have called Baxter out, rather than accept it.”

“And done us all a favor,” Hawk snapped.

“Hawksworth!”

“God’s teeth, Lexy, you cannot blame me for wanting to thrash the blighter. He has run my entire fortune into the ground.” Bryceson regarded Chesterfield. “Your pardon for airing our dirty linen in your home. We will bid you a good day.”

“Well I’ll be dashed,” Chesterfield exclaimed. “That was damned near polite of you, Hawksworth. Will wonders never cease.”

“Go to the devil!” Bryce strode from the room, barely using his cane, and gleaning a modicum of respect from Chesterfield, Alex thought, from their host’s approving look.

After seeing Bryce rise from the floor this morning, she understood the likely cost to him in pain for that exit, and because of it, she too experienced a frisson of pride.

Hurrying to catch up, she passed by Chesterfield, who caught her arm and stopped her. “I will send his personal belongings over later today. He looks as if he could use them.”

“Thank you Judson. You are a good man.” Alex stepped near and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head and caught her lips, extending the kiss. By the time Alex got her wits about her, Chesterfield was pulling away with a grin.

Alex blushed and stepped back, and when she did, she saw that her husband stood not two feet away, straight and proud and looking fit to kill. Were she guilty of the crime for which he silently accused, the fury in his expression might turn her to salt.

He most certainly had witnessed the kiss, if not their discussion about his clothes, for even from here, she could see that frenetic tic working in his cheek.

Chesterfield chuckled. “I am not so good a man that I cannot find amusement in this situation.”

“Shame on you,” Alex said. “I do believe I misjudged you.”

“You did. But do you not agree that a kiss, in exchange for what is owed me, is not too much to ask?”

Alex gasped. “I most certainly do not.”

Chesterfield chuckled as Bryce left the house, seeming not to care whether Alex followed or not.

Having been abandoned by her husband, Alex left shortly thereafter, but took the long circuitous route home, hoping Bryce would wonder if she was dallying with Chesterfield.

Let the dolt be jealous, if he was fool enough to think she cared to kiss anybody but him.

When she got back to the Lodge, the letter from Sabrina, which she had been anxiously awaiting, had arrived. Except that, after Alex read it, her emotions were mixed. Yes, she received the answer for which she hoped. But she also learned something that made her so angry, she wished she
had
dallied with Judson, or at the least kissed him back.

Though she would rather trounce her husband as speak to him at the moment, she marched straight to the study.

The French doors leading to the overgrown garden stood open, curtains fluttering in the early fall breeze. A light scent of roses wafted upon the air from the few remaining blooms tenacious enough to have survived death by strangulation.

Hawk stood before the hearth, resting one elegant, booted foot upon the cool grate. He twirled a raised goblet of brandy before his eyes, examining it as if it held the answer to all of life’s mysteries … if only he could find a way to make it give them up.

Tall, dark and perilously devastating, he was Hawksworth, not Bryce, imperious, rigid, in control. Here, she saw for the first time, the man who had expected to be a Duke, cold, arrogant, a woman-slayer.

A ledger lay open upon the desk. Atop and all around it sat boxes of assorted estate receipts, as if Hawk had attempted and failed to make some sense of the monumental task. On the instant, Alex was sorry for her lack of bookkeeping skills. Then again, it served him right for staying away so bloody long.

When he bothered to look in her direction, as if he could care less where she had been, who she had been with, or for how long, he raised his secret-laden goblet higher in her direction and gave her an arrogant, brow-raised salute. Then he took a long, slow swallow.

She did not know whether he was angrier about the kiss or losing Hawks Ridge. Though she would place her wager on the estate as being of greater import to his mind.

Despite his show of nonchalance, there was something soulful lurking in her husband’s eyes that made him appear more human in his vulnerability. Grief, or sorrow, filled their topaz depths, and being allowed so much as a glimpse, jarred her.

But rather than step into his arms, which she longed to do—to ease those burdens and console him—Alex crushed Sabrina’s letter in her trembling hand and hardened her heart.

Damn the rogue.

He had let more than a year go by since Waterloo, with nary a word from him, and according to the information in Sabrina’s letter, he could have contacted her at any time for all of the past five months, at least.

He might be her long-lost husband, and a Duke of the realm, when he got his title back, but he had a great deal of explaining to do.

Yes, she had some little explaining to do, herself, but not on his scale. Oh no, nothing like.

Again Alex wanted to berate him. Again, she kept her peace. “I have had a letter from Sabrina,” she said, when the silence stretched—her, raging inside, Hawk, daring her with his look to let loose, almost as if he ached for a good brawl. “She sends news I think you should hear.”

Hawk sighed. “Then hear it I must, I suppose.” He poured another liberal brandy and slouched into a butternut leather wing chair to listen, more or less.

Annoyed by his cavalier attitude, Alex stepped closer as she perused the missive, deciding to give him every foolish bit of news, prattle and promise alike, for which he pretended indifference. “Sabrina says that Juliana is growing like a weed, and at the advanced age of ten months, she has her father even more tightly wrapped about her smallest finger.”

A near-smile altered Hawk’s expression for a blink.

Alex faltered but continued. “Since Gideon has been relating the story of the American Indians, as told by James Adair, and embellished upon by adventurous travelers to the American West, the twins have formed a passion for Indians and have been war-whooping about the house for weeks. Just the other day, they tied Gideon to the stake.”

Alex chuckled. “Not to worry, says Sabrina, the fire they set was quickly contained and barely singed his eyebrows. Though the boys may not be able to sit for a week, nor may they leave the nursery for as long, not to mention their trip to the Royal Menagerie, which has been cancelled.”

Alex took the chair across from her husband, enjoying the letter, despite her ire at his haughty arrogance. Suddenly, she could think of him as nothing less than a Duke. Where had Bryceson gone? she wondered. Had he never returned from war? Had she been deluding herself?

Only time would tell.

“Gideon is Bree’s new husband, I take it, the Duke of Stanthorpe? The match you made for her?” Alex asked.

Hawksworth nodded. “They are top over tail in love.”

“I do not believe it. Not Sabrina.”

Hawk shrugged. “I saw it for myself.”

“You saw that some time ago, as I understand it. About five months, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah. So that is your quarrel with me?”

“Quarrel? I have no quarrel with you, though I do wonder where we would be if I had not decided to marry and you had not been forced to stop me.” Alex held up her hand. “No, do not answer that. Spare me some dignity, please,” she said, using his words, gratified to see him wince.

“The reason I sought you out,” Alex said. “After your rude and abrupt departure from Hawks Ridge, was to tell you that Sabrina has arranged for Stanthorpe’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Basingstoke, to sponsor Claudia in London during the coming fall season. Since now is the little season and of shorter duration than the actual spring season, the cost will be much less and, therefore, easier to manage.”

Hawk sat forward. “We cannot afford either this year.”

Did you know that Claudia has formed a
tendre
for Chesterfield?”

On the instant, a maelstrom of fury darkened her Duke’s brow. “The devil you say.”

Alex gave a half nod, satisfied she had made her point. “The Duchess is inviting us to stay with her at her townhouse on St. James’s Square, which eliminates the cost of taking a house. Sabrina arranged everything. We need only pay for Claudia’s wardrobe to fire her off properly.”

Hawk slammed his glass on the near table, dashing it to fragments.

Alex ducked to evade the spray of glass and brandy.

“God’s teeth,” Hawk snapped, coming to his feet in one furious and shocking lunge, his shout of pain for the move, as piercing to Alex as one of those shards might have been. Then he pulled her up and into his arms to crush her so close, she could feel him tremble, taste his fear.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you get cut?” He held her away then, examining her face, her arms and hands, kissing her brow, her fingers, disregarding the glass shards and brandy defacing his frockcoat, the blood at the tip of his thumb. “I might have hurt you. God, forgive me. I might have hurt you.”

“What is the matter with you today?” Alex asked. “Your restlessness is contagious. I have never seen you like this before.”

“I am so … unsettled, unsure—”

“Of what?”

“Of—” He hauled her back into his arms and opened his mouth over hers, drawing a response from her, even as anger boiled inside him—anger through which she could feel his power. But she did not regard it any more than he did. She simply gave and took succor at the only source from which she cared to give or receive it.

“There,” he said stepping back, leaving her breathless. “There. I am calmer now. What was the question?”

“I … do not remember. Oh, of what are you unsure?”

“I, who used to be certain of everything, am now uncertain of same.” He ran his hand through his untamed hair, certainly not the first time in the last hour. “You ask me to accept charity when I am used to giving it. I do not care for my sake, but it is driving me daft that I cannot provide for my own niece’s immediate needs. All these changes are too devilish much to swallow.”

“Especially for a proud man like you,” Alex said. “I know. But I am going to ask you to swallow again, because your own clothes are being packed for you as we speak.” She examined his frockcoat. “And with the results of your fury now mottling your coat, it seems you have no choice but to accept.”

Hawk tore away from her, wavered in his balance, and grabbed up his cane as if he might break it in half. Then he smacked the thing hard against the floor, leaned against it, despite himself, and made his way to the open French doors. “No and again no,” he said, not looking her way. “I
will
go about in my under drawers before I take that man’s charity.”

Alex went and placed her arms about him, laying her cheek against his strong, unbending back. “Ah my prideful rogue. They are
your
clothes, purchased with your money, clothes that were relegated to the rag bag when it was thought you died. Surely your pride will allow you to wear rags?”

He turned to face her. “No.”

Alex stepped nearer. “If you could bring yourself to do so, Claudia might have her season this fall.”

Her final words, or her stroking the hair from his brow, appeared to snuff his ire. “I hate London Society.”

Alex pulled her hand away and stepped back. “I wonder you spent so much time there earlier this year, then.”

He cursed. “Leave it be, Alex.”

“How can I leave it be when you left us struggling for months without caring whether we were fed or sheltered?”

“Of course you were fed and sheltered. I knew you were, besides which, I had every faith in your ability to care for everyone, otherwise I would not have left them with you in the first place.”