“Because of me?”
“Only partly.”
“Then, I must apologize, Lexie. I wasn’t myself.”
“Who were you then?”
He sighed. “Some angry bloke who mistook a lady for her father.”
“And now you are?”
“Myself?”
Alexandra nodded very warily.
Ben lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, the look on his face oh, so glum. Of late, she felt that way rather often as well, so perhaps they were not so far apart, after all.
They fell into silence, only this time something about Ben’s demeanor drew Alexandra out. The words came out in a rush. “I feel as though I don’t belong here,” she confessed.
“So much has changed,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“But you don’t sound as though you like the changes?”
“Some, I do,” Alexandra confessed.
“Same,” he disclosed. “Our dearest Claire is off to be Queen, and we are left… alone… to communicate by letters, and perhaps to see her only on occasion.”
Alexandra swallowed hard, flattening her hand atop the arm of the chair, a bit of a haze clouding her vision. She didn’t want to weep anymore. She wanted to be sober and mature, but everything Ben was saying was perfectly true, and it called to the child within her. Once upon a time… she and Claire… and Ben… they had been a team. Alexandra would be hard-pressed to say which Wentworth was her closest confidante… sometimes Claire… sometimes Ben.
“Alexandra,” he said, and his tone sounded entirely too sober.
Suddenly, Alexandra was wholly afraid of what he would say. “Please,” she begged.
“I really don’t blame you,” he said, sitting upright and crossing his legs, wiggling his foot a bit nervously. This was the old Ben, she realized… and though it warmed her heart to see him, it terrified her as well. “Lexie… I don’t suppose you will forgive my rudeness?”
“I do,” she said. “Can you forgive mine?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said gently, and Alexandra nodded dumbly.
“And nevertheless,” she said, “I am so sorry for all that my father did to you, and what he tried to do to Claire. I only wish I had come to say it sooner.” She looked away. “I was… embarrassed.”
“I understand,” he said. “I think I would have been as well.” And there was no censure in his words, only candor. They sat a while, discussing the ordeal, why Alexandra believed her father had done all the things he had done—a sense of just desserts, perhaps, or anger over her mother’s judgment. In the end, none of it was any sort of comfort or excuse. And yet, it was a good conversation, perhaps the most sober discourse she and Ben had had in years and years.
“Do you like him?” she asked.
“Ian?” He nodded. “I do. He seems to love Claire very much.”
“I can hardly believe he and Merrick are twins, or, for that matter, that their father never had the first inkling when Ian arrived in London after all those years!”
“My father would have noticed at once,” said Ben.
“Oh, yes, he would have,” Alexandra agreed. “My mother might have, as well. She lives to scrutinize me. But perhaps not my father,” she confessed. “He scarce paid me any mind at all, even after I took his side in his bitter feud against my mother.”
Alexandra sighed ruefully. “In retrospect, I believe I did it to spite her for—”
“The kiss?”
Alexandra nodded, her cheeks blooming as she peered up at Benjamin. It was the first time since the kiss that they were addressing it so frankly, and it was long, long overdue.
“Well… Bloody Norah! I suppose I should say sorry for that, as well… but in truth… I am not.”
Alexandra’s heart skipped a beat.
Unwittingly, her fingers lifted to her lips, where she could, inexplicably, still taste him.
“Has she called you home?”
“No, and she will not. But she does write, though her letters are still quite full of censure: I should have done this, I should have done that.”
“Really, Lexie… I cannot imagine your mother without complaints. And therefore, so as long as you are on speaking terms… there must be hope.”
Alexandra smiled, taking heart in his advice. “Yes, well… I do suppose one day I shall have to pay her a visit”
Benjamin smiled. “Perhaps I will join you,” he said, and Alexandra’s eyes stung again.
“For moral support,” he explained. “Though she would be apoplectic,” he said, still smiling.
“Incandescently furious,” Alexandra agreed, and the two of them laughed… like old times.
And then Ben said, “So… is that a yes… or a no?”
Alexandra’s brows lifted in surprise. “You mean go with me… to visit my mother?”
He nodded, and her cheeks burned hotter. “I—” She felt suddenly tongue-tied. Her eyes swam. Uncertain whether he was serious, and heartily afraid he might not be, she bounded up from the chair, and said, “Oh, dear! I almost forgot! I promised Claire I would come play charades!” And then she quickly made apologies and ran away… abandoning Ben … and her book.
* * *
Ben watched her go… yet again… only this time entirely bemused.
So much for olive branches, he thought, and then his gaze fell upon the book where it fell on the seat… and he spied the bit of paper peeking out from the top… along with the pencil.
Curious, he reached out to lift up the book, opening it and plucking out the piece of paper, unfolding it…
His eyes widened at the sight that greeted him… a caricature… though very well done.
The subject sported not horns nor fangs. But there was, indeed, a bit of youthful mischief in the very familiar eyes. And in his hand he held a top hat, and inside the top hat was a single sprig of mistletoe…
It was Ben.
It was his hat…
Not from the other day, but from a long-ago Christmas in Shropshire.
That morning, bored and full of piss and vinegar, he’d bedeviled Alexandra with a sprig of mistletoe, following her about the house whilst his sister sat reading in the library. He’d worn that top hat all morning long, pulling it off and on and hanging that mistletoe over their heads every chance he got, until finally Alexandra agreed to kiss him…
He sat back, staring at the rendering… and then picked up the book from his lap, turning it to read the spine: Harold Glover’s Book of Botany.
Really?
What a mystery she was turning out to be… botany books, caricatures… what next?
Not in all the time he’d ever known her had she ever cracked the spine of a book in his presence, and yet this was not the sort of tome of particular interest to an empty-headed miss whose greatest desires were ballgowns or a well-planned season. He flipped through the pages… drawings of every conceivable verdure… with notations that bent toward medicinal speculation.
Well, well, well…
So, it seemed, there was more to Alexandra Grace Huntington than met the eye, and perhaps it was high time to unravel that mystery for himself…