Forbidden or For Bedding? (11 page)

Then the music ended, and the couples on the floor relinquished each other and started to disperse back to their tables. Across the wide expanse of the room, as Richard let go of her and she started to head to her seat again, the pattern of people shifted and her eyes went through a newly opened gap, far across the ballroom. She stopped absolutely, totally still.

And knew that never in a hundred years could she fall in love with Richard or any other man.

Because the man she still loved was looking straight at her.

 

It was Alexa.

For a moment Guy's line of sight encompassed only
her—a tall, slender column of wine-rich burgundy—then it widened to take in her arm, resting on the sleeve of one of the many tuxedos, and the wearer of the tuxedo looking proprietorially down at her.

Instinctively Guy moved forward. It took only moments, and Alexa hadn't moved. Only her expression had changed. The initial flare of shock in her eyes as they had lighted on him was now veiled, and she seemed to wait, immobile, for his approach across the floor of the ballroom.

‘Good evening, Alexa.'

His voice was smooth, the accent, as ever, hardly noticeable.

Unlike the rest of him.

Her eyes, beneath their veil, were sucked to him. In her limbs she felt a sudden debilitating weakness, as if they might not hold her upright. But she must force them to. Must force herself not,
not
to let her eyes feed on that tall, effortlessly elegant figure that instantly, immediately, made every other man in the room look clumsy and lumpish. She must
not
feast on the fabulous planes of his face, the sable feathering of his hair, and
not
, above all, drown unstoppably in those deep green eyes that were resting on her and making her feel dizzy, weightless, breathless.

Oh, dear God, let this not be happening
…

She could hear the call in her head, hear all the sense that she was possessed of decrying what was happening, what she was doing, and her fatal reaction. She was totally unprepared for this, her guard helplessly, hopelessly absent, so that there was nothing she could do except reel from the impact of his presence.

Another cry sounded in her head, coming from deeper yet.

It shouldn't be like this!

She shouldn't be so overcome like this. She shouldn't!
She'd had four months—four whole months to come to terms with the end of the affair. Four months to build up that vital, essential distance from what had been to what her life now had to be. Four months to do without Guy de Rochemont in her life. To get him out of her head.

And it took a single moment now to make her realise that all her efforts to get over him had been utterly in vain.

Dismay drenched through her, mingling with the emotion that had seized her throat, her lungs, as she'd recognised him—that was still seizing her now, making it impossible for her to speak, impossible to do what she must, which was simply to say his name, in a calm, level voice, suitable for the occasion, in acknowledgment of his greeting. Then they would exchange pleasantries, he would wish her well, and stroll away again. Back to his life. Back to his world. Back to the woman he was going to marry.

That was what she must do.

But there was nothing. She could not speak.

Then, like a knight to her rescue, Richard was speaking. Prompting her.

‘Alexa?'

There was nothing in his voice but appropriate social enquiry, but thankfully it served to catalyse her into responding. A quick smile parted her lips.

‘Richard—this is Guy de Rochemont. I had the privilege of painting his portrait a while ago.'

A glint showed in the green eyes. ‘The privilege was mine, Alexa.' He paused minutely. ‘I did not think you would be here this evening…' There was the slightest Gallic intonation in the comment, so that it sounded like no more than a passing remark.

She made herself give her quick smile again.

‘Nor I,' she said. She glanced at Richard, encompassing him in her reply. ‘Richard was kind enough to invite me.'
Her escort smiled acknowledgement. Without noticing it, Alexa leant slightly towards him. There was a flicker of enquiry on Guy's expression. Richard held out his hand.

‘Richard Saxonby—Guy de Rochemont,' she said, her voice and manner relaxed.

Guy took the outstretched hand, which was firm and solid. Like the man. Good-looking, too, he acknowledged, with intelligent eyes and a face that found it easy to smile. Personable. Attractive. He could see why Alexa was with him. There was nothing to dislike in this Richard Saxonby.

Which made it illogical, therefore, that he should have a sudden impulse, ruthlessly controlled, to wrest Alexa's hand from the man's sleeve, clamp it in his own grip, and walk off with her.

Walk off with her, pile her into a car, take her back to her apartment, his hotel—any damn place, providing it had a bed in it and no Richard Saxonby or any other damn male!—and then strip Alexa of that utterly unnecessary evening dress, loosen the clips on her hair to let its pale waterfall cascade like silk over her shoulders, cover her opening mouth with his and get her beautiful naked body to himself. Completely, luxuriously, satiatingly to himself.

His jaw tightened, and he slammed down on his overpowering impulse. That wasn't going to happen. Despite the flash of desire momentarily possessing him, Alexa Harcourt was in the past. Everything to do with her was in the past. He'd made his decision, terminated their relationship. So if she wanted to have a relationship with another man, such as this Richard Saxonby, what was it to him? Nothing.
Rien de tout
.

The familiar sense of self-control settled over him, shutting out everything that had to be shut out, kept down. Smoothly he exchanged the socially required introductions
with the man who was now clearly enjoying Alexa's beautiful body—an enjoyment which was nothing to do with Guy any more, nor would be ever again, and therefore something about which he was unconcerned. Any other reaction was inappropriate to the circumstances. He no longer had Alexa for himself—a decision which had been his and his alone—and therefore if she wished, as
evidemment
she did wish, to bestow herself upon this man—any other man, in fact—it was of no moment to him at all. None.

And, because it was so, all that was required now was to do as he proceeded to do: loose the man's hand and give an acknowledging nod of his head towards Alexa. He ignored the fact that her shoulder was brushing that of this Richard Saxonby, with his good-looking face and well-made body and his air of masculine assurance—and why not? He had Alexa in his bed—a presence which would make any man satisfied. With a brief indentation of his mouth in farewell, Guy took his leave and walked away from her and her bed-partner of choice these days, and returned to his own party.

It had been the work of a few moments only—a fleeting episode in an evening which was like a thousand other evenings in his life spent at some social gathering in which he had no particular interest, but where his attendance was expected and therefore was provided. He had not even had to take regard, for those few brief, inconsequential moments, of his fiancée and her
gaucherie
at this first social outing at his side. For, just before his glancing gaze had lighted on the unexpected sight of Alexa Harcourt, Louisa had murmured her excuses and slipped away to what he assumed was the ladies' room.

She had still not returned, but he did not begrudge her her respite—indeed, he found himself glad she had not witnessed his exchange with Alexa. Not that it was any
concern of his fiancée, or anyone else. Although he had never drawn attention to Alexa's role in his life, it would have been more marked had he
not
acknowledged the presence that evening of the woman whom he had commissioned to make his likeness in oils. He had no wish for Louisa to be in a social situation of any kind with any female who had occupied a place in his life that she, as his fiancée and then wife, would never occupy. They were orbits that would never meet, never intersect.

As he resumed the party, slipping back into the banal chit-chat of his company, for a few brief moments in his mind's eye he saw that eagle again, soaring away over the peaks, far, far beyond. Ahead of him opened the tunnel, leading into the mountain's stony depths.

 

‘Richard, would you excuse me a moment?'

Alexa's voice was steady, her manner just as it had been five minutes earlier.

But only on the outside. On the inside her nerves were jangling as if a current had been set through them. She had to get away.

Hardly waiting for his acknowledgement of her intention, she turned away, threading through the throng towards the blessed respite of the ladies' room. There was a sickness in her insides, and her throat was tight. The moment she was in the Ladies she plunged into a stall, shutting fast the door and clinging to it. How long she was in there she didn't know—knew only that her heart was pounding, her mind ragged. Gradually, very gradually, the shock—more than shock—of seeing Guy again started to recede. With intense effort she forced herself to calm the hectic beating of her heart, banned herself from letting the scene replay in her head. It didn't matter—it didn't matter a jot that she had seen Guy again! She would not
let
it matter!

She dared not…

She took the deep breath, steadying herself. Then, unlocking the door, she stepped out of the stall. Running on automatic, she crossed to the washbasins and mechanically started to wash her hands. As she did so, she noticed a large, opulent ring, with a glittering stone inset, on the surrounding vanity unit. There was no other person present—not even an attendant. Alexa glanced around. It was not the kind of ring to be left lying there. The area was deserted, but just as she was wondering what she should best do, reluctant to pick the ring up in case she might open herself to accusations of theft, there was a bustle behind her and a little cry of relief.

‘Gott seie Danke!'

Alexa turned to see a young woman dive on the ring and jam it back on her finger. As she did so, Alexa could not but help catch her eye.

‘I'm not used to wearing it,' the girl said by way of explanation.

There was a slight Germanic cast to her accent. She smiled at Alexa, who found herself answering with a smile as well as she reached for one of the stash of folded linen towels by the basin.

‘I'm glad you remembered it,' she remarked. ‘I was wondering who I ought to alert that it was here. It's not the sort of ring one would want to lose.'

The girl made a face. ‘I would have got into such trouble,' she said. ‘It's some kind of heirloom. Every bride for a million years has had it!' She didn't sound very impressed by the fact, and as she examined it on her finger she didn't look very impressed by the ring either, despite the vast size of the diamonds in the opulent setting.

‘It's a magnificent ring,' said Alexa politely.

The girl grimaced. She was pretty, a dusky brunette,
but the gown she was wearing was too overpowering for her, Alexa thought critically. It was in a very stiff lemon silk, with a sweeping panelled skirt and a tight bodice that seemed to crush the girl's breasts.

‘It doesn't suit me,' the girl said flatly, still eyeing the ring.

‘Well, perhaps you need only wear it for formal occasions,' Alexa answered tactfully. ‘Maybe you could ask your fiancé for something simpler, more to your taste, for everyday wear.' Judging by the vastness of the gems, providing a second engagement ring for casual wear would not be a problem for what was evidently a very wealthy fiancé.

The girl's expression changed. ‘No, he wouldn't do that. I have to be formal all the time.' She looked down at her dress. ‘Like this dress. It doesn't suit me either.'

Alexa frowned slightly. It seemed a shame that the girl couldn't choose a gown she liked. Something in a more youthful style, in a softer material. ‘
Your
gown's beautiful!' the girl said impulsively. Then she grimaced again. ‘But that wouldn't suit me either—I'm not tall enough for it. Anyway,' she went on, her expression downcast once more, ‘I don't like evening clothes. I'm too clumsy for them.'

‘Oh, you don't seem clumsy at all!' Alexa said immediately. The girl seemed to do nothing but deprecate herself, which was completely unfair—just because she was wearing a dress that no one with any sense should have put her in.

‘I am,' responded the girl. ‘My mother always says so! And my fiancé thinks it—I can tell.'

Alexa frowned again. ‘Surely not?'

‘He does. I know,' the girl averred. ‘And if he doesn't think me clumsy, he thinks me very gauche and boring,
even though he tries to hide it. He's used to beautiful, elegant women. Women like you,' she said artlessly. ‘But it doesn't matter.' She gave a heavy, resigned sigh. ‘Because he's marrying me all the same—it's all arranged.'

Alexa felt her unease mount. Part of her knew she should not really be allowing this conversation, but part of her—the greater part—could not help but feel disquieted by this artless but clearly self-deprecating girl and what she was depicting about her engagement.

‘You know, these days,' she ventured carefully, busying herself wiping her fingers on the handtowel, ‘women don't
have
to marry men they've been “arranged” to marry…'

The girl only shrugged. ‘Well, it's better than the alternative. Being nagged to death by my parents! They're actually pleased with me for the first time in my life—even though my mother keeps going on at me about how to behave, and so on and so on. My fiancé won't take any more notice of me when we're married than he does now—he'll keep a mistress, one of those beautiful, elegant women that he prefers. I won't mind, really.' She lifted her chin, as if to confirm her assertion, but Alexa saw a bleakness in her eyes and felt her disquiet increase.