“Wonderful,” said Claire. “Now that that’s settled, would anybody like to try a bit of plum pudding?”
When nobody reached for it, she said, “Funny. The General and his wife made us promise to try it. They made it weeks and weeks ago, only to learn they would be traveling. Alas, we did the same, never dreaming we would eat so much plum pudding!”
Like a small brown hill, the lump of pudding sat unclaimed, pitifully ignored—like Alexandra. All eyes traveled elsewhere—the ceiling, the walls, the buffet, and Alexandra’s gaze traveled to the door, feeling as lamentable as the lump of pudding. Why, oh why had she come?
Escaping the very instant she could, Lexie found a quiet place to hide in the parterre. What a change—Claire holding court, whilst she hid from the revelry. Only tonight Alexandra felt quite certain Claire wouldn’t be searching high and low for her, because Claire herself was at the center of attention and in rare form.
The entire lot of them were now ensconced in the parlor, drinking arrack punch and playing charades.
Alexandra didn’t need any punch. She’d had more than enough sparkling champagne over dinner—nervous drinking, she supposed. A little time out in the fresh, crisp air would do her good.
Except… now she wished she’d brought herself a heavier coat, especially if she was going to be sequestering herself out in the garden. And nevertheless, at the moment she was far too furious with Ben to be the least bit sad, or even cold. Anger kept her warm as surely as would a hearth fire. And still there was nothing cozy about this holiday—nothing at all to remind her of those days in Shropshire. Those days were done!
You must not grieve them, she told herself.
He’s not worth it!
Peering up at the night sky, she noted that the stars appeared to be completely obscured, not a single one remaining to be wished upon—not that she had wishes to make, mind you.
None beyond the simple fact that she wished her father wasn’t such a scoundrel and that her life wasn’t such a mess. But, really, where to begin?
If there were but one thing she could have undone… what would that be?
Shivering under her pelisse, she wandered through the garden, distracting herself with the flower beds.
Most of the beds were filled with roses and heliotropium—fine, fine choices, particularly during the heat of summer because the scent was bound to conceal even the worst from the Thames. In full bloom, the heliotropium would give off a nice vanilla-almond-scent that attracted butterflies en masse. Smiling, she fingered the necklace, taking pleasure in the thoughtful gift.
This time of the year the flowers were already spent—looking as brittle as she felt. And yet, like dabs of hope against a mantle of gloom, some of the roses were still blooming, peppering the garden with a smattering of pink and white blooms. Drawn instead to one of the heliotropium plants, she wondered if it had any medicinal properties. Most plants did, and she wished she had her notepad with her so she could sketch this particular leaf. That’s what she enjoyed best: sketching flowers, putting notations on the pages. Someday, she might like to bind them, and maybe publish her efforts. Brushing her thumb across the edge of the serrated leaf, considering an appropriate nom de plume, she wondered how many women published in secret…
If not that, what was she supposed to do with her life from here forth? Certainly, she would visit Meridian, but she didn’t wish to move there, nor had Claire even proposed such a thing. In fact, Alexandra had never felt more disconnected from Claire in her entire life.
At some point, she could descend upon her mother in Shropshire. But wouldn’t that be cozy?
She snorted inelegantly over the very notion, although, at some point, she really must make amends. Only considering that her mother hadn’t been very forthcoming, Alexandra supposed she must be the one to make concessions. Lady Eveline was her only remaining blood relation, aside from a few distant cousins she didn’t know well, but, Lady Eveline wasn’t the most forgiving woman. Nor was she very warm.
It might help if Alexandra were already wed by the time they came face to face. But, in truth, no one was good enough for her mother—neither titled nor monied. A gentleman must have both money and title, and it was no wonder that Lady Eveline had pressed her to meet Prince Merrick, only to fume so miserably when he’d dismissed her out of hand. Only a royal prince had ever piqued her mother’s interest—and, if Alexandra could be honest with herself, that, too, had been yet another reason she’d wept so bitterly over Merrick’s unintended insult. She was left stung by her mother’s unvarnished disappointment, and entirely hopeless to make amends for something she’d had no means to change.
Really, she loathed to think what her mother would say if, like Prince Merrick, she chose to marry a commoner. But there again, he was a man, as well as a Prince, and no doubt empowered to do whatsoever he pleased.
Sadly, she’d suffered her father’s scrutiny no less. Unlike her mother, Lord Huntington hadn’t cared overmuch about the financial wellbeing of any particular suitor, but he was incessantly concerned over titles—not that he ever had a chance to obtain a shred of nobility in his wife’s estimation. And now… there wasn’t a soul in London who would raise Lord Huntington above the villain he was.
Really, for all practical purposes, Alexandra had been alone for much of her life. The only bright spots had ever been Claire… and Ben…
Don’t think about him!
Cursing beneath her breath, she plucked a frost-bitten leaf, dreaming about a design for her new conservatory. She should get rid of that stupid ballroom once and for all. She hadn’t a taste for balls anymore. There was more than enough room for a conservatory, and what was more, that particular room overlooked the garden. It would be perfect... and then she could design a parterre like…
Alexandra never heard the footfalls approach. “You,” said Ben, and the single word felt like the pointy end of a dagger.
Alexandra spun to face him, the look on his face openly contemptuous, as though someone were holding a stinker beneath his nose. “Yes, it’s me,” she said flatly. “What do you want, Ben?”
“Not a bloody damned thing,” he said. “Gad! Don’t you have some gown to press, or something?”
Alexandra tilted him an affronted glance, lifting a hand to her breast, crushing the heliotropium leaf. “I was here first,” she pointed out. “Really, Ben, don’t you have some other poor soul to delude?”
In answer, he lifted his brow, drawing forth a cheroot from his coat pocket and putting it between his lips, though he didn’t light it. Alexandra eyed the cigar with open distaste. Before Ben’s sweep through the Gaming Hells, he had never smoked a day in his life—not so far as Lexie knew. And regardless, the Benji she had grown to admire would never have dared smoke in front of a lady, nor would he speak to her so rudely.
“When did you become such an ash mouth?”
His dark brow lifted higher, and he offered Lexie a wintry smirk. “What concern is it of yours, Alexandra?” —Alexandra, not Lexie!— “Despite all the bloody mistletoe hanging about, you’ll never be troubled by my ash mouth… never again.”
His green eyes glinted, and she knew… oh, yes, she knew… he was as tormented by that kiss as she was. Something about that gave her immense satisfaction. And, furthermore, if he thought for one second that she was going handle his effrontery the way she had Prince Merrick’s—with tears—he was sorely mistaken. She was not that sweet, little innocent girl any longer. It might not be a butterfly that had emerged from her chrysalis—only a common, ugly moth—but she was still ready to fly away.