VERYONE WAS BEAMING at her as Alexandra came downstairs in a swirl of heavy ice-blue satin encrusted with a wide border of pearls, diamonds, and blue zircons at the low, square neck and the bottom of the wide sleeves.

Penrose opened the door for her as he had done thousands of times in her life, but today, as she prepared to leave for the huge gothic church where she and Tony were to be married, his kindly old face was wreathed in smiles, and he bowed deeply from the waist.

Filbert's shortsighted eyes swam with tears as Alexandra turned and reached around his neck to give him a hug. "Take care now," he whispered to her, "and mind you don't soil your frock." He had been admonishing her thus forever, and Alexandra felt tears of affection blur her own eyes.

These two old men, and Uncle Monty, were the only family she had in all England. Her mother had sold their home in Morsham and left for a long sojourn in the islands, so she couldn't be here to see Alex marry; Mary Ellen and her husband were expecting their first baby to be born at any hour, so they couldn't come to London either. But at least Uncle Monty was here to give her away. And although Melanie had just discovered she was with child, her pregnancy wasn't yet apparent, so she was able to be Alex's matron of honor.

"Are you ready, my dear?" Uncle Monty beamed, offering her his arm.

"See that you don't step on Alexandra's train," the dowager duchess admonished him sharply, casting a critical eye from the top of his white head to the tips of his highly polished black slippers. For the last three days, she'd been lecturing Sir Montague on his general conduct, his duty at the wedding, and the merits of sobriety so unmercifully that he was now cowed by her. Suddenly her eyes narrowed on the suspicious tint of his round cheeks. "Sir Montague," she demanded with snapping eyes, "have you been at the claret this morning?"

"Certainly not!" Uncle Monty boomed, appalled. "Can't abide claret. No bouquet, no body," he said, puffing up like an offended rooster, even though he'd been liberally imbibing Madeira all morning long.

"Never mind all that," the old duchess interrupted with brusque impatience. "Just remember what I said to do: After you escort Alexandra to the altar, you are to leave her there and return to our pew. You will take your seat there, beside me, and you will not move a muscle until I arise, after the ceremony is concluded. Do you understand? I will signal you when it is time for us to arise and step out into the aisle. Everyone else must remain seated until we do so. Is that clear?"

"I ain't an imbecile, you know, madam. I am a knight of the realm."

"You'll be a dead and dishonored one if you make a single mistake," the worthy lady promised as she pulled on the long silver-grey gloves that Penrose handed her. "I'll not countenance another odious display of irreverence such as the one you gave last Sunday." The diatribe continued all the way into the coach. "I could not believe my ears when you dozed off in the middle of the service and began to snore in that appallingly loud fashion."

Uncle Monty climbed into the coach and cast a long-suffering look at his niece, which clearly said, I don't know how you've managed to reside with this old harpy, my girl.

Alexandra smiled. She knew, and he knew, that the high color at his cheekbones testified to his having consumed the better part of a bottle of Madeira.

Settling back against the luxurious squabs of the crested coach bearing her toward her future husband, she looked out the windows at the sights and sounds of the London streets. Melanie was riding in the coach just ahead of this one, along with Roderick Carstairs, who was acting as Anthony's best man.

Behind and ahead of the two vehicles bearing the bridal party was a veritable sea of elegant equipages—all bound for the same church. They were, Alexandra realized with a wry smile, causing a huge tie-up in traffic several miles long.

How odd, she thought, that she had felt so nervous, so jittery and excited about her wedding to Jordan. Fifteen months ago, when she had walked into that silent drawing room to join her life with Jordan's, her legs had been shaking and her heart nearly bursting with each thunderous beat.

Yet here she was, about to be married to Tony in one hour before three thousand members of the haute ton, and she felt—totally, utterly calm. Serene. Unafraid. Unexcited…

Alexandra hastily cast the disloyal thought aside.

"What's slowing us down?" Jordan demanded of the driver of the carriage that the captain of the Falcon had put at his disposal, which was bearing him with infuriating slowness to his house on Upper Brook Street.

"I don't know, your grace. 'Pears to be somethin' happenin' at that church back there."

Jordan glanced at the sun again, trying to ascertain the time. He had not enjoyed the luxury of a timepiece in over a year, yet he owned at least six solid-gold ones that he had never fully appreciated. He had taken everything he had for granted. After a year and a quarter of deprivation, however, he doubted if he would ever take anything for granted again.

The sights and sounds of London, which had pleased him so much since entering the city an hour ago, began to fade from his consciousness as he considered the shocks he was about to cause to those who loved him.

His grandmother was still alive—that much Jordan had learned from the captain of the Falcon, who said he recalled reading in the Gazette a few months ago that she was planning to reside in London for the Season. With any luck she was staying at her own town house and not at his, Jordan thought, so that he could send word to her first, rather than walk in on her without warning. Tony, if he was in London, would naturally be staying at Jordan's house on Upper Brook Street, believing it to be his own.

More than once, it had occurred to Jordan that Tony might resent having him return and dispossess him of the ducal title and estates, but that possibility was nearly as repugnant as the idea that Tony was involved in a plot to have him murdered. Jordan refused to believe either, until he had reliable proof.

He refused to believe it—but unfortunately he could not banish the nagging suspicion from his mind any more than he could silence the memory of the thug's voice on the wharf the night he'd been knocked unconscious: "The bloke paid us t' kill 'im, Jamie, not t' send him off on no ship…"

Jordan pushed all that aside. It was perfectly possible that some enraged husband—like old Grangerfield—was responsible for the plot to have Jordan killed. There were ways to find out who his enemy was. For today, however, he wanted to revel in the joy of coming home.

He thought about his impending arrival in Upper Brook Street, and he wanted to do everything at once—to walk into the house and shake Higgins' hand, to pull his grandmother into his arms and soothe away the tears of relief and gratitude he knew she and the old butler would shed when they realized he was alive. He would clasp Tony's shoulders and thank him for doing his best to manage the Hawthorne holdings. No matter how badly Tony had bungled Jordan's complex business affairs—and Jordan was discouragingly certain he had—he would always be grateful.

After that, Jordan wanted a bath and his own clothes. And then—then he wanted Alexandra.

Of all the things that lay before him, his interview with his young "widow" was the only thing Jordan was truly worried about. No doubt her childlike devotion to him had caused her to suffer an extreme form of prolonged grief after she learned of his death. She had been thin as a reed when he last saw her, by now she was probably gaunt. God, what a miserable life she had lived from the day she encountered him.

He realized that she would have changed during his absence, but he hoped the changes had not been too many or too drastic. She would have matured into a woman now, one who was old enough to have the responsibilities of a husband and children. He would bring her to London and introduce her to Society himself.

They would not stay long in London, though. He had lost more than a year of his life, but he'd had plenty of time to decide how he wanted to spend the rest of it. He knew now what mattered and what didn't, and he knew what he wanted—what he had probably always wanted. He wanted a life that had meaning, and a real marriage, not the shallow, empty arrangement that passed for marriage in his set. He wanted more of the love Alexandra had tried to give him—the love that had given him a reason to fight to survive. In return, he wanted to pamper her and pleasure her and keep her with him, safe from the corrosive effects of the outside world. Perhaps love was immune to the outside world. Or was that where trust came in? Was a man supposed to trust his wife not to change and to remain loyal to him no matter where she was, or with whom? Obviously, that was the case, Jordan decided. He didn't know much about trust, and he knew even less about love, but Alexandra was the embodiment of both, and she had volunteered to teach him. He was willing to let her try now.

He tried to imagine how she would look, but all he could see was a laughing face, dominated by a pair of magnificent aquamarine eyes. A face that was almost, but not quite pretty. His "funny-face."

She would have spent one year in mourning, he knew, then another six months learning the ropes of Society with his grandmother. She would only now be preparing to make her entrance into Society during the Little Season in the fall, assuming his grandmother had posthumously carried out his wishes to see her "polished."

It was far more likely, and far more alarming, Jordan thought grimly, that Alexandra might have been so grief-stricken and desolate that she had returned to her run-down house in Morsham—or shied away completely from people—or, God, lost her mind after everything she'd been through!

The coach pulled up before No. 3 Upper Brook Street and Jordan got out, pausing on the front steps to look up at the elegant three-story stone mansion with its graceful ironwork and bow windows. It seemed so familiar, and yet so strange.

He lifted the heavy polished knocker and let it fall, bracing himself for Higgins to open the door and fall upon him in a frenzy of joy.

The door swung open. "Yes?" an unfamiliar face demanded, peering at him through wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Who are you?" Jordan demanded, perplexed.

"I might ask the same question of you, sir," Filbert haughtily replied, looking around for Penrose, who hadn't heard the knocker.

"I am Jordan Townsende," Jordan replied brusquely, knowing that he would only be wasting his time if he tried to convince this unknown servant that he, and not Tony, was the Duke of Hawthorne. Brushing past the footman, Jordan stalked into the marble foyer. "Send Higgins here to me."

"Mr. Higgins has gone out."

Jordan frowned, wishing Higgins or Ramsey were here to help prepare his grandmother for his sudden appearance. Walking quickly forward, he looked into the large salon to the right of the foyer and the smaller one on the left They were filled with flowers and empty of people. The whole downstairs seemed to be filled with baskets of white roses and greenery. "Are we giving a party later?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's about to become a 'homecoming party,' " Jordan predicted with a chuckle, then he said briskly, "Where is your mistress?"

"At church," Filbert replied, squinting at the tall, deeply tanned gentleman.

"And your master?" Jordan asked, meaning Tony.

"Also at church, of course."

"Praying for my immortal soul, no doubt," Jordan joked. Knowing that Tony surely would have retained the services of Mathison, Jordan's superior valet, Jordan said, "Is Mathison about?"

"He is," Filbert averred, then he watched in amazement as this unknown member of the Townsende family began walking up the staircase, issuing orders over his shoulder as if he owned the place. "Send Mathison to me at once. I'll be in the gold suite. Tell him I want a bath and a shave immediately. And a change of clothes. Mine preferably, if they're still around. If not, I'll wear Tony's, or his, or anyone's he can steal."

Jordan walked swiftly past the master bedroom suite, which Tony would undoubtedly be occupying, and opened the door to the gold guest suite. It was not quite so lavish, but at that moment seemed like the most beautiful room he'd ever beheld. Pulling off the ill-fitting jacket that the captain of the Falcon had lent him, he flung it on a chair and began unbuttoning his shirt.

He stripped it off and tossed it atop the jacket, and was in the process of unbuttoning his pants when Mathison bustled into the suite like an outraged penguin, his black coattails flapping behind him. "There seems to be some misunderstanding as to your name, sir, good God!" The valet stopped short and gaped. "Good God, your grace! Good God!"

Jordan grinned. This was somewhat more like the homecoming he'd envisioned. "I'm sure we're all very grateful to the Almighty for my return, Mathison. However, at the moment, I'd be nearly as grateful merely for a bath and a decent change of clothes."

"Certainly, your grace. At once, your grace. And may I say how extremely happy, how very delighted I am to—GOOD GOD!" Mathison exploded, this time in horror.

Jordan, who had never seen the indomitable manservant exhibit any sign of fluster even under the most trying circumstances, watched in some amazement as his valet sprinted across the hall, disappeared into the master bedroom suite, then came dashing out again with one of Tony's shirts floating from his fingers and a pair of Jordan's own riding breeches and boots. "I discovered these at the back of the wardrobe only last week," Mathison panted. "Quickly! You must make haste," he gasped. "The church!" he uttered wildly. "The wedding—!"

"A wedding. So that's why everyone's at church," Jordan said, about to toss the trousers Mathison had thrust at him aside and insist on a bath. "Who's getting married?"

"Lord Anthony," Mathison panted in a strangled voice, holding up the shirt and trying to physically force one of Jordan's arms into its sleeve.

Jordan grinned, ignoring the shirt that was now being flapped at him like a flag. "Who is he marrying?"

"Your wife!"

For a moment, Jordan was unable to absorb the full shock of that. His mind was grimly preoccupied with the fact that, if Tony were getting married, he would already have also signed a betrothal agreement as the Duke of Hawthorne and made pledges to his fiancée and her family that he could not keep now.

"Bigamy!" Mathison gasped.

Jordan's head jerked around as the import of what he was hearing slammed into him. "Get out in the street and flag down anything that moves," Jordan commanded shortly, snatching the shirt and pulling it on. "What time are they doing it and where?"

"In twenty minutes at St. Paul's."

Jordan flung himself into a hired hack he snatched from beneath the nose of an outraged dowager in the middle of Upper Brook Street. "St. Paul's," he snapped at the driver. "And you can retire for life on what I'll give you if you get me there in fifteen minutes."

"Ain't likely, guv," said the driver. "There's a wedding goin' on there that's had traffic tied up all mornin'."

During the ensuing minutes, a dozen conflicting thoughts and emotions whirled through the chaotic turbulence of Jordan's mind, the foremost being the need for urgent haste. Left with no way to control the flow of traffic, he had no choice but to sit back and grimly contemplate this enormous debacle.

Occasionally, during his absence, he had considered the unlikely possibility that when the required one-year mourning period had passed, Tony might have met someone and decided to marry her, but somehow he hadn't really expected it. Tony had never been any more anxious than Jordan to bind himself to a woman, not even with the tenuous ties of modern matrimony that left both spouses free to do as they wished.

Jordan had also considered the possibility that Alexandra might meet someone someday and wish to marry him, but not this damned soon. Not while she had supposedly been in mourning! Not when she had supposedly been wildly in love with Jordan…

But the one thing he had never imagined—even in his worst nightmares about the possible complications associated with his return—was that some misguided sense of honor might cause Tony to feel duty-bound to marry Jordan's poor widow. Dammit! Jordan thought as the spires of St. Paul's finally came into view, what could have possessed Tony to do such an idiotic thing?

The answer came to Jordan almost instantly. Pity would have made him do it. The same pity Jordan had felt for the cheerful little waif who had saved his life and looked at him with huge, adoring eyes.

Pity had caused this entire near-catastrophe, and Jordan had no alternative but to stop the marriage at whatever stage it was in when he entered the church, otherwise Alexandra and Tony would be committing public bigamy. It dawned on him that poor Alexandra was about to have her groom snatched from her for a second time, and he felt a brief pang of regret for destroying her peace yet again.

Before the hack had come to a full stop at St. Paul's, Jordan was already bounding up the long flights of steps leading to the doors, praying he might still be here in time to stop the damned wedding before it began. That hope died the moment he yanked open the heavy oaken doors of the candlelit church and saw the bride and groom standing with their backs to the crowded church.

Jordan stopped short, a long string of colorful oaths running through his mind, and then left with no choice, he started walking up the aisle, his booted footsteps echoing like sharp cannon shots in the crowded church.

Near the front, he stopped walking—waiting for the approaching moment when he would have to speak out. Then and only then, as he stood between the rows of lavishly dressed guests who had been his family and friends and acquaintances, did it finally dawn on Jordan that he had not been much mourned and that, if he had been duly mourned, he would not be forced to play this absurd part in the dramatic comedy that was about to unfold in this damned church. The realization sent a sudden surge of cold fury through him, but his features were impassive as he stood in the aisle between the second row of pews, his arms crossed over his chest—waiting for the moment that was nearing.

On both sides of him, guests were beginning to recognize him, and loud whispers were already racing through the crowd, bursting out like a brushfire. Alexandra heard the growing disturbance behind her and glanced uncertainly at Anthony, who seemed to be concentrating on the archbishop, who was intoning: "If there be any man present who knows any reason why this man, and this woman, should not be joined in matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace…"

For a split second there was total silence—the taut, tense quiet that always follows that ancient challenge—but this time the challenge was answered, and the silence was exploded by a deep, ironic baritone voice: "There is onereason—"

Tony spun around, the archbishop gaped, Alexandra froze, and three thousand guests whirled in their seats. An agitated babble of voices broke loose and swept through the church like a tidal wave. At the altar, Melanie Camden's bouquet of roses slid through her numb fingers, Roddy Carstairs grinned broadly, and Alexandra stood there, convinced this was not really happening to her, this was a dream, she thought wildly, or else she had gone mad.

"On what grounds do you protest this marriage?" the archbishop finally barked.

"On the grounds that the bride is already married," Jordan replied, sounding almost amused—"to me."

This time there was no denying the reality of that achingly familiar deep voice, and shock waves roared up and down Alexandra's spine, buffeting her entire body. Joy exploded in her heart, obliterating all memory of his treachery and deceit. Slowly she turned, afraid to look for fear this was some cruel trick of fate, and then she raised her gaze to his. It was Jordan! He was alive. The sight of his handsome, ruggedly chiseled face almost sent her to her knees. He was standing there, looking at her, a faint smile lingering on his firm lips.

Her entire being aglow, Alexandra mentally reached out to touch his beloved face and assure herself he was real. His smile warmed as if he felt her touch; his eyes shifted over her face, registering the changes in her appearance, and then, for no comprehensible reason, Jordan's entire expression froze, and he looked sharply, accusingly at Tony.

In the front pew, the dowager duchess was immobilized, staring at Jordan, her right hand pressed to her throat. In the cataclysmic silence that ensued, only Uncle Monty seemed capable of speech or action—undoubtedly because the full bottle of Madeira he had secretly imbibed had impaired his ability to recognize Jordan's profile. He did, however, vividly recall the dowager's biting lectures about the necessity for decorum at this wedding, and so he took it as his duty to remonstrate with the newcomer. Leaning toward the intruder standing in the aisle, Sir Montague warned in a booming voice, "Take a seat, man! And don't move a muscle till the archbishop walks off—otherwise, there'll be hell to pay from the dowager!"

His voice seemed to break the spell holding everyone in thrall. The archbishop suddenly announced that the ceremony could not continue and walked off; Tony took Alexandra's trembling hand in his and started down the aisle; Jordan stepped aside to let them pass; the stately duchess slowly rose, her gaze clinging to Jordan. In his muddled state, Uncle Monty assumed the wedding was happily complete and, following his previous instructions to the letter, he offered his arm to the dowager and escorted her proudly down the aisle in the bride and groom's wake, beaming benignly upon the gaping spectators who had come to their feet and were staring in mummified amazement.

Outside the church, Uncle Monty kissed Alexandra soundly, took Tony's hand, and was pumping it energetically, when Jordan's harsh voice stopped him cold. "You damned fool, the wedding is off! Do something useful, and take my wife home." Taking his grandmother's arm, Jordan started toward the waiting coaches. Over his shoulder, he said curtly to Tony, "I suggest we get out of here, before that mob in there descends on us. The morning papers will carry the explanation of my miraculous return. They can learn about it there. We'll meet you at my—at the town house in Upper Brook Street."

"No way to flag down a hack, Hawthorne," Uncle Monty said to Tony, taking charge when neither Alexandra nor Anthony seemed capable of movement. "There ain't a hack in sight. You'll ride with us." Forcibly clutching Anthony by one arm and Alexandra by the other, he marched them forward toward Tony's coach.

Jordan ushered his grandmother into her stately coach, snapped orders to her mesmerized coachman, and climbed in beside her. "Jordan—?" she whispered finally, staring up at him with joyous, tear-brightened eyes as the coach lurched forward. "Is it really you?"

A sympathetic smile softened his grim features. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he tenderly kissed her forehead. "Yes, darling."

In a rare show of affection, she laid her hand against his tanned cheek, then suddenly jerked her hand away and demanded imperiously, "Hawthorne, where have you been! We thought you were dead! Poor Alexandra almost wasted away with grief, and Anthony—"

"Spare me the lies," Jordan interrupted coldly. "Tony looked anything but thrilled to see me just now, and my 'grieving' wife was a radiant bride."

In his mind Jordan saw the ravishing beauty who had turned to him on that altar. For one wonderful, mortifying moment he thought he'd barged in on the wrong wedding, or that Mathison had been mistaken about the identity of Tony's bride, because Jordan hadn't recognized her—not until she'd raised those unforgettable aqua eyes of hers to his. Then and only then had he known for certain who she was—just as certainly as he knew in that instant that Tony had not been marrying her out of pity or charity. The intoxicating beauty on that altar would arouse lust in any man, but not pity.

"I was under the impression," he remarked with biting sarcasm, "that a mourning period of one year is customary after a death in one's immediate family."

"Of course it is, and we did observe it!" the duchess said defensively. "The three of us did not go out into company until April, when Alexandra made her bow, and I don't—"

"And where was my grieving wife living during that somber period?" he bit out.

"At Hawthorne, with Anthony and me, of course."

"Of course," Jordan repeated caustically. "I find it amazing that Tony wasn't contented with owning my titles, my lands, and my money—he had to possess my wife, as well."

The dowager paled, suddenly aware of how all this must look to him right now and equally cognizant that in his present mood, it would be a grave mistake to explain that Alexandra's popularity had necessitated her marriage. "You're wrong, Hawthorne. Alexandra—"

"Alexandra," he interrupted, "apparently liked being the Duchess of Hawthorne and therefore did the only thing she could do to secure the position permanently. She decided to marry the current Duke of Hawthorne."

"She's—"

"A scheming opportunist?" he suggested bitingly, as rage and disgust ate at him like acid. While he had been rotting away in prison, lying awake nights worrying that Alexandra was wasting away in seclusion, tormented with grief and despair, Tony and Alexandra had been enjoying all his worldly goods. And in time they decided to enjoy each other as well.

The dowager saw the harshness in his taut features and sighed with helpless understanding. "I know how dreadful all this must look to you, Jordan," she said with a trace of guilt in her gruff voice, "and I can see that you are not ready or able to listen to reason. However, I should very much like it if you would at least explain to me what you have been about all this time."

Jordan sketched in the details of his absence, leaving out the worst of them, but talking about it only made him more furiously aware of the sick irony of the entire situation: While he had been in chains, Tony had happily usurped his titles, his estates, his money, and then he had decided to help himself to Jordan's wife.

Behind them, in a coach bearing the gold crest of the Duke of Hawthorne—an insignia which Anthony no longer had the right to use—Alexandra sat perfectly still beside Uncle Monty and across from Anthony, who was staring out the window. Her mind was racing in wild circles, her thoughts tumbling over themselves. Jordan was alive and well—except that he was much thinner than she remembered. Had he deliberately vanished because he wanted to escape from the pathetic child he had married, returning only when he discovered his cousin was about to become a party to bigamy? Her joy that he was alive and well gave way to bewilderment. Surely he could not have been so revolted by her as that!

No sooner had that thought consoled her dazed spirits than sharper ones began to stab at her in rapid, relentless succession: The man whose return she had just been rejoicing was the very same man who had pitied and despised her. He had mocked her to his mistress. Jordan Townsende, as she now knew and must neverforget, was unprincipled, unfaithful, heartless, and morally corrupt. And she was married to him!

In her mind Alexandra called him every terrible name she could think of, but as their coach neared Upper Brook Street, her fury was already abating. Anger required mental energy and concentration, and at the moment her dazed mind was still nearly paralyzed with shock.

Across from her, Tony shifted in his seat and the movement suddenly made her remember that she was not the only one whose future had just been drastically altered by Jordan's reappearance. "Tony," she said sympathetically, "I'm… sorry," she finished lamely. "It's just as well your mother felt she ought to stay home with your brother. The shock of Jordan's return would surely have brought on an attack."

To her amazement, Tony started to grin. "Being the Duke of Hawthorne was not quite so delightful as I once thought it would be. As I said a few weeks ago, there's little joy in possessing fabulous wealth if one can't find the time to enjoy it. However, it has just occurred to me that fate has handed you quite a boon."

"What is that?" she said, staring at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses.

"Only consider this," he continued, and to her disbelief he began to chuckle out loud. "Jordan is back and his wife is now one of the most desired women in England! Be honest—isn't this exactly what you used to dream would happen?"

With grim amusement, Alexandra contemplated the shock that was in store for Jordan when he discovered that his unwanted, pitiful little wife was now the toast of the ton. "I have no intention of remaining married to him," she said with great finality. "I shall tell him as soon as possible that I want a divorce."

Tony sobered instantly. "You can't be serious. Do you have any idea how much scandal a divorce will cause? Even if you can get one, which I doubt, you will be a total outcast in Society."

"I don't care."

He looked at her and his voice gentled. "I appreciate your concern for my feelings, Alex, but there's no need for you to think of a divorce on my behalf. Even if we were desperately in love, which we aren't, it wouldn't matter. You are Jordan's wife. Nothing can change that."

"Hasn't it occurred to you that he might want to change that?"

"Nope," Tony declared cheerfully. "I'll wager that what he wants to do right now is call me out and demand satisfaction. Didn't you see the murderous look he gave me in church? But don't fret," he continued, chuckling at her look of terror, "if Hawk wants a duel, I'll choose rapiers and send you in as my stand-in. He can't very well spill your blood, and you stand a better chance of drawing his than I do."

Alexandra would have argued tempestuously that Jordan wasn't likely to care that Tony and she had been about to marry, but argument required clear, rational thinking and she could not quite shake off the blur of unreality still surrounding everything. "Let me be the one to tell him I wish a divorce, Tony. For the sake of future family tranquillity, he must understand that this is entirely my decision and has nothing to do with you."

Caught between amusement and alarm, Tony leaned across and took her by the shoulders, laughing as he shook her lightly. "Alex, listen to me. I know you're in shock, and I certainly don't think you ought to fall into Jordan's arms this week or even this month, but divorcing him is carrying vengeance too far!"

"He cannot object in the least," Alexandra replied with a flash of spirit. "He never cared a pin for me."

Tony shook his head, his lips twitching with the smile he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. "You don't really understand about men and their pride—and you don't know Jordan if you believe he'll just let you go. He…" Suddenly Tony's eyes gleamed with laughter and he fell back against the squabs, chuckling with mirth. "Jordan," he declared mirthfully, "hated sharing his toys, and he's never passed up a challenge!"

Uncle Monty looked from one to the other of them, then reached inside his coat and removed a small flask. "Circumstances such as these," he announced, helping himself to a swallow, "require a bit of restorative tonic."

There was no time for further conversation, because just then their coach drew up behind Jordan's at the house on Upper Brook Street.

Carefully averting her eyes from Jordan, who was already helping his grandmother down from the other coach, Alexandra put her hand in Tony's and stepped down. But as Jordan followed her up the steps with his grandmother on his arm, the shock that had blessedly anesthetized Alexandra up until now, abruptly began to dissipate. Less than two feet behind her, his booted heels struck the pavement with sharp, relentless clicks that sent shivers of apprehension dancing down her spine; his tall body and broad shoulders threw an ominous shadow across her path and blocked the sunlight. He was real and alive and here, she thought, and her body began to tremble uncontrollably. This was not a dream—or a nightmare—from which she might awaken.

The group seemed to turn in unison toward the drawing room. Her senses heightened sharply by her growing awareness of his menace to her future, as well as Tony's concern about a possible duel, Alexandra paused inside the drawing room and swiftly surveyed the seating, weighing the psychological advantages and disadvantages of each location. Looking for a neutral position, she decided against the sofa, seating herself instead in one of the two wing chairs facing each other in front of the fireplace, then concentrated all her will on trying to subdue the sudden, quickened pounding of her heart. The dowager duchess apparently opted for neutrality also, for she chose the other chair for herself.

That left the sofa, at right angles to the chairs and facing the fireplace. Tony, with no other choice, sat upon that and was joined by Uncle Monty, who had rushed into the drawing room in hopes of enjoying some libation while simultaneously lending Alexandra his emotional support. Jordan crossed to the fireplace, draped his arm across the mantel and turned, regarding the entire assemblage in cool, speculative silence.

While the elderly duchess gave an extremely brief, nervous account of Jordan's whereabouts for the last fifteen months, Filbert walked in, a beaming smile upon his lips, a tray of champagne in his hands. Unaware of the charged atmosphere or of Jordan's relationship to Alex, the loyal footman carried the tray straight to Alexandra and filled five glasses. As soon as the duchess finished speaking, Filbert handed the first glass to Alexandra, and said, "May you always be as happy as you are at this moment, Miss Alex."

Alexandra felt hysterical laughter well up inside her, combined with escalating panic, as Filbert returned to the table and poured more champagne into the remaining glasses, then passed them out to the silent inhabitants of the room, including Jordan.

Seconds ticked past, but no one, not even Uncle Monty, had nerve enough to be the first one to lift his glass and partake of the vintage champagne that had been brought up from the cellars in advance to celebrate a wedding that had not taken place… No one, except Jordan.

Seemingly impervious to the throbbing strain in the drawing room, he turned the glass in his hand, studying the bubbles in the sparkling crystal glass, then he took a long swallow. When he lowered the glass, he regarded Tony with a sardonic expression. "It's good to know," he coldly remarked, "that you haven't let your grief over my alleged demise prevent you from enjoying my best wines."

The duchess flinched, Alexandra stiffened, but Tony accepted the biting gibe with a nonchalant smile. "Be assured that we toasted you whenever we opened a new bottle, Hawk."

Beneath lowered lashes, Alexandra stole a swift, apprehensive glance at the tall, dark figure at the fireplace, wondering a little hysterically what sort of man he actually was. He appeared to feel no antagonism over Tony's having "usurped" his title, his money, his estates, and his wife—and yet he was angry because his wine cellar had been raided.

Jordan's next words immediately disabused her of the erroneous notion that he was unconcerned about his estates. "How has Hawthorne fared in my absence?" he asked, and for the next hour he snapped rapid-fire questions at Tony, interrogating him in minute detail about the state of each of his eleven estates, his myriad business ventures, his personal holdings, and even the health of some of his retainers.

Whenever he spoke, his deep voice scraped against Alexandra's lacerated nerves and, on those rare occasions when she stole a glance at him, apprehension made her quickly jerk her gaze away. Dressed in tight breeches that outlined his long, muscular legs and an open-necked white shirt that clung to his wide shoulders, Jordan Townsende looked completely relaxed, yet there was an undeniable aura of forcefulness, of power—restrained now, but gathering force—waiting to be unleashed on her. She remembered him as being handsome, but not so… so ruggedly virile, or so formidably large. He was too thin, but the tan he'd acquired after his escape and on board the ship made him look far healthier than the white-skinned gentlemen of the ton. Standing almost within arms' reach of her, he loomed like a sinister specter, a dangerous, malevolent giant of a man who had suddenly imposed himself in her life, again, with the power to blot all happiness from her future. She was not callous enough to be sorry he was alive, but she sorely wished she'd never laid eyes on him.

For what seemed an eternity, Alexandra sat perfectly still, existing in a state of jarring tension, fighting to appear completely calm, clinging to her composure as if it were a blanket she could use to insulate herself against Jordan. With a mixture of terrible dread and utter determination, she waited for the inevitable moment when Jordan would finally bring up the matter of her. When Jordan was finished discussing estate matters with Tony, however, he switched to the status of his other ventures, and Alexandra felt her anxiety begin to escalate. When that topic was exhausted, he inquired about local events, and Alexandra's panic was mixed with bewilderment. But when he switched from that to gossip and trivialities and asked about the outcome of the races at Fordham last spring, Alexandra's bewilderment gave way to annoyance.

Obviously, he considered her less important than Lord Wedgeley's two-year-old mare or Sir Markham's promising colt, she realized. Not that she should have been surprised by that, she reminded herself bitterly, for as she had discovered to her mortification a short time ago, Jordan Townsende had never considered her anything but an irksome responsibility.

When all matters, down to the most trivial, had finally been discussed, an uneasy silence fell over the room, and Alexandra naturally assumed her time was finally here. Just when she expected Jordan to ask to see her alone, he abruptly straightened from his lounging posture at the fireplace and announced his intention to leave!

Prudence warned her to keep silent, but Alexandra could not bear another hour, let alone another day, of this awful suspense. Striving to sound calm and impersonal, she said, "I think there is one more issue that needs to be discussed, your grace."

Without bothering to so much as glance in her direction, Jordan reached out and accepted Tony's outstretched hand. "That issue can wait," he said coldly. "When I've seen to some important matters, you and I will talk privately."

The implication that she was not an "important" matter was unmistakable, and Alexandra stiffened at the deliberate, unprovoked insult. She was a fully grown young woman now, not an easily manipulated, wildly infatuated child who would have done anything to please him. Putting a tight rein on her temper, she said with unarguable logic, "Surely a human being warrants the same amount of your time as Sir Markham's colt, and I would rather discuss it now, while we are all together."

Jordan's head jerked toward her, and Alexandra's breath froze at the hard anger flaring in his eyes. "I said 'privately'!" he snapped, leaving her with the staggering realization that beneath his cool, impassive facade Jordan Townsende was burningly angry. Before she could assimilate that or withdraw her request for his time—as she was on the verge of doing—the duchess swiftly arose and beckoned Uncle Monty and Tony to follow her out of the room.

The door to the salon closed behind them with an ominous thud, and for the first time in fifteen months, Alexandra was alone with the man who was her husband—alarmingly, nerve-rackingly alone.

From the corner of her eyes, she watched him walk to the table and pour himself another glass of champagne, and she took advantage of his preoccupation to really look at him. What she saw made her tremble with foreboding. Wildly, she wondered how she could have been naive enough, or infatuated enough, to imagine that Jordan Townsende was gentle. Seen now, through the eyes of an adult, she could not find a trace of gentleness or kindness anywhere in his tough, ruggedly chiseled features. How, she wondered in amazement, could she ever have likened him to Michelangelo's beautiful David?

Instead of gentle beauty, there was ruthless nobility stamped on Jordan Townsende's tanned features, implacable authority in the tough jawline and straight nose, and cold determination in the thrust of his chin. Inwardly she shivered at the harsh cynicism she saw in his eyes, the biting mockery she heard in his drawl. Long ago, she had thought his grey eyes soft, like the sky after a summer rain, but now she could see they were cold and unwelcoming as glaciers; eyes without kindness or understanding. Oh, he was handsome enough, she conceded reluctantly—devastatingly so, in fact, but only if one were drawn to dark, blatantly aggressive, wickedly sensual men, which she assuredly was not.

Racking her brain for the best way to broach the matter on her mind, she approached the table and poured herself another glass of champagne, oblivious to the fact that her first glass was still full, then she looked around, trying to decide whether to sit or stand. She decided to stand so he would not seem so tall and intimidating.

At the fireplace Jordan raised his glass to his lips, watching her. She could have only two possible reasons for insisting on this meeting, he thought. The first possibility was that she honestly believed she was in love with Tony, and that was why she wished to marry him. If that was the case, she would begin by telling him so—simply and truthfully—as had been her habit. The second possibility was that she wanted to be married to whoever was the Duke of Hawthorne. If that was the case, she would now try to soothe Jordan with some form of tender, feminine theatrics. But first she would wait a bit for his temper to cool—exactly as she was doing now.

Jordan drained his glass and put it down on the mantel with a sharp thud. "I'm waiting," he snapped impatiently.

Alexandra jumped and whirled to face him, appalled by his biting tone. "I—I know," she said, determined at all costs to speak to him with calm maturity and to make it infinitely clear to him that she no longer wished to be his concern or responsibility. On the other hand, she did not want to do or say anything which might reveal to him how hurt and angry and disillusioned she had been when she discovered the truth about his feelings for her, or what a fool she had made of herself grieving for London's most infamous libertine. To add to her dilemma, it was rapidly becoming obvious that in his current mood, Jordan was not likely to react reasonably to the scandalous subject of a divorce. In fact, she instinctively knew he would react the opposite. "I'm not quite certain how to begin," she said hesitantly.

"In that case," he drawled sarcastically as his blistering gaze sliced over her glorious ice-blue satin bridal gown, "allow me to offer a few suggestions: If you're about to tell me very prettily how sorely you've missed me, I'm afraid that gown you are wearing is a little incongruous. You would have been wiser to change it. It's extravagantly lovely by the way." His drawl became clipped and abrupt. "Did I pay for it?"

"No—that is, I don't know exactly how—"

"Never mind about the gown," he interrupted scathingly. "Let's get on with your charade. Since you cannot very well fling yourself into my arms and weep tears of joy at my return, while you're dressed as another man's bride, you'll have to think of something else to soften my attitude toward you and win my forgiveness."

"Win your what?" Alexandra exploded as outrage conquered her fears.

"Why not begin by telling me how deeply grieved you were when you first learned of my 'untimely demise'?" he continued savagely, ignoring her outburst of righteous indignation. "That would have a nice ring to it. Then, if you could manage one tear, or even two, you could tell me how you mourned me, and wept, and said prayers for my—"

That was so close to the truth that Alexandra's voice shook with shamed anger. "Stop it! I have no intention of doing anything of the sort! Furthermore, you arrogant hypocrite, your forgiveness is the last thing I care about."

"That was very foolish of you, my sweet," he drawled silkily, shoving away from the fireplace. "Tenderness and dainty tears are called for at times such as these, not insults. Moreover, softening my attitude ought to be yourfirst concern. Well-bred females who aspire to be duchesses must seek to make themselves agreeable to any eligible duke at all times. Now then, since you can't change your gown and you can't weep, why not try telling me how much you missed me," he insolently suggested. "You did miss me, did you not? Very much, I'll vow. So much so that you only decided to marry Tony because he—ah—resembled me. That's it, isn't it?" he mocked.

"Why are you behaving like this?" Alexandra cried.

Without bothering to answer, he moved closer, looming over her like a dark, ominous cloud. "In a day or two, I'll tell you what I've decided to do with you."

Anger and confusion were warring in Alexandra's mind, sending her thoughts into a complete tumult. Jordan Townsende had never cared about her and he had no right, no reason to act like a self-righteous, outraged husband! "I am not a mindless piece of chattel!" she burst out. "You can't just dispose of me like a—a piece of furniture!"

"Can't I? Try me!" he clipped.

Alexandra's mind groped wildly for some way to neutralize his irrational anger and soothe what could only be his wounded ego. Raking a hand through her heavy hair, she sought desperately for some guiding logic. She was the innocent and injured party in their relationship, but at the moment he was the powerful and potentially dangerous party, and so she tried to reason with him. "I can see that you're angry—"

"How very observant of you," he mocked nastily.

Ignoring his sarcasm, Alexandra persevered in what she hoped was a reasonable tone, "And I can see there is no point in trying to reason with you in this mood—"

"Go ahead and try it," he invited, but the look in his eyes said the opposite as he took a menacing step toward her.

Alexandra hastily retreated a step. "There's—there's no point. You won't listen to me. Anger blows out the lamp of the mind…"

The quote from Ingersoll caught Jordan entirely off guard, reminding him poignantly of the enchanting, curly-haired girl who could quote from Buddha or John the Baptist, depending upon the occasion. Unfortunately, it only made him angrier now, because she was no longer that girl. Instead, she had become a scheming little opportunist. If she truly wanted to marry Tony because she loved him, she would have said so by now, he knew. Since she hadn't, she obviously wanted to remain the Duchess of Hawthorne.

And therein lay her problem, Jordan thought cynically: She could not convincingly throw herself into his arms and weep for joy when he had just witnessed her near-marriage to another man, but neither could she risk letting him walk out of this house without taking the first of many predictable steps toward reconciliation—not if she wanted to continue moving in Society with the full prestige and honor of her rank. To maintain that, the tonwould need to see that she was in the good graces of the current duke.

She had become ambitious in the last fifteen months, he realized with blazing contempt. And beautiful. Arrestingly so at close range, with her glossy mahogany hair spilling over her shoulders and back in masses of waves and curls, contrasting vividly with her glowing alabaster skin, brilliant aqua eyes, and soft, rosy lips. In comparison with the pale blondes he remembered, who were usually the Acclaimed Beauties, Alexandra was incredibly more alluring.

He stared hard at her, convinced she was a scheming opportunist, yet despite all the evidence, he could not find a trace of guile in those flashing eyes of hers or her angry, upturned face. Furious with his inner reluctance to see her for what she had become, he turned on his heel and walked toward the door.

Alexandra watched him leave, buffeted by a myriad of conflicting emotions, including fury, relief, and alarm. He paused in the doorway and she tensed automatically.

"I will move in here tomorrow. In the meantime, let me leave you with some instructions: You are not to accompany Tony anywhere!"

His tone promised terrible consequences should she choose to ignore his order, and although she couldn't imagine what form those reprisals might take, or why she should want to walk out and face a furor of gossip, Alexandra was momentarily quelled by the threat in his voice. "You will, in fact, not leave this house. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

With a magnificent gesture of unconcern that completely belied her alarm, she shrugged lightly and said, "I speak three languages fluently, your grace. One of them is English."

"Are you patronizing me?" he asked in a silken, threatening voice.

Alexandra's courage warred with common sense, but neither of them won. Afraid to advance and unwilling to retreat, she tried to hold her ground by daring to say in the tone of an adult addressing a cranky, unreasonable child: "I have no wish to discuss that or anything else with you when you are in such an unreasonable mood."

"Alexandra," he said in an awful voice, "if you're wondering how far you can push me, you've just reached your limit. In my present 'unreasonable mood,' nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to close this door and spend the next ten minutes making certain you can't sit down for a week. Do you take my meaning?"

The threat of being spanked like a child stripped away Alexandra's hard-won confidence and made her feel as gauche and helpless as she had a year ago in his presence. She put her chin up and said nothing, but bright flags of humiliated color stained her cheeks, and tears of frustration stung her eyes.

He stared at her in silence and then, satisfied that she was adequately chastened, Jordan defied all the rules of courtesy and walked off without so much as a nod to her.

Two years ago, she had been ignorant of the rules of etiquette to which polite ladies and gentlemen always conformed; she had not realized then that Jordan was insulting her when he never bothered to bow to her, or to kiss her hand, or treat her solicitously. For that matter, he had never deigned to permit her to call him by his given name. Now, as she stood alone in the middle of the drawing room, she was acutely, furiously aware of all those bygone slights, as well as the new ones he had heaped upon her today.

She waited until she heard the front door close, and then she walked woodenly out of the salon and up the stairs to her room. Anguish and disbelief poured through her as she dismissed her maid and mindlessly stripped off her wedding gown. He was back! And he was worse than she remembered, worse than she'd imagined—more arrogant, more dictatorial, completely heartless. And she was married to him. Married! her heart screamed.

This morning, everything had seemed so simple and predictable. She had arisen and dressed to be married; she had gone to the church. Now, three hours later, she was married to the wrong man.

Fiercely struggling against her tears, she sat down on the settee and wrapped her arms around her stomach, trying to block out the images, but it was no use. They paraded across her mind, tormenting her with vivid scenes of the mindlessly infatuated, besotted girl she had been… She saw herself looking up at Jordan in the garden at Rosemeade. "I think you are as beautiful as Michelangelo's David!" she had blurted. "I love you." And when he had made love to her, she had nearly swooned in his arms, and babbled to him about how strong and wise and nauseatingly wonderful he was!

"Dear God," Alex moaned aloud as another forgotten memory pranced across her mind: she had actually told Jordan—London's most infamous libertine—that he obviously wasn't well-acquainted with many women. No wonder he had grinned!

Hot tears of humiliation dripped from her eyes, but she brushed them angrily aside, refusing to cry one more time for that—that monster. She had already wept buckets of tears over him, she thought furiously.

Tony's words of a few weeks ago came back to hack at her lacerated emotions: "Jordan married you because he pitied you, but he had neither the DESIRE nor the INTENT to live with you as his wife. He intended to pack you off to Devon when you returned from your wedding trip, and then he meant to continue where he left off with his mistress… He was with his mistress AFTER you were married to him… He told her your marriage was one of INconvenience…"

There was a soft knock at the door, but Alexandra was so immersed in misery she didn't hear anything until Melanie had walked into the bedchamber and closed the door. "Alex?"

Startled, Alexandra turned her head and looked round. Melanie took one look at her friend's anguished, tear-streaked face, and rushed to her side.

"Dear God!" Melanie whispered in horror, kneeling in front of Alexandra and pulling out her handkerchief, almost babbling in her agitated alarm. "Why are you crying? Has he done something to you? Did he rage at you or—or strike you?"

Alexandra swallowed and looked at her, but she could not drag her voice past the lump of tears in her throat. Melanie's husband had been Jordan's closest friend, she knew, and now she wondered where Melanie's loyalties would lie. She shook her head and took the handkerchief from Melanie.

"Alex!" Melanie cried in mounting alarm. "Talk to me, please! I'm your friend, and I'll always be," she said, correctly interpreting the reason for Alexandra's wary expression. "You can't keep this bottled up inside you—you're as white as a ghost and you look ready to faint."

Alexandra had briefly confided to Melanie that she had been an utter blind fool about Jordan, but she had never mentioned his complete lack of feeling for her, and had also concealed her shame behind a facade of amused self-mockery. Now, however, it was there in all its naked, mute misery for Melanie to see, as Alexandra haltingly related all the humiliating details of her relationship with Hawk, leaving nothing out. Throughout the tale, Melanie frequently shook her head in sympathetic amusement at Alexandra's naive outpouring of her heart to Jordan, but she did not smile when Alexandra told her of Hawk's intention to pack her off to Devon.

Alexandra finished by relating Jordan's explanation for his disappearance, and when she was done Melanie patted her hand. "All that's in the past. What about the future—do you have any sort of plan?"

"Yes," Alexandra said with quiet force. "I want a divorce!"

"What?" Melanie gasped. "You can't be serious!"

Alexandra was deadly serious and said so.

"A divorce is unthinkable," Melanie said, dismissing that alternative in a few short sentences. "You would be an outcast, Alex. Even my husband, who gives me my head in nearly everything, would forbid me to be in your company. You'd be barred from decent society everywhere, shut off from everyone."

"That is still preferable to being married to him and shut away somewhere in Devon."

"Perhaps it seems so to you now, but in any case it doesn't matter how you feel. I'm quite certain your husband would have to agree to a divorce, and I can't imagine that he will. Even so, they must be very difficult to obtain, and you'd need grounds, as well as Hawk's consent."

"I was thinking about that when you came in, and it seems to me I already have grounds, and I may not need his consent at all. In the first place, I was coerced into this marriage by—by circumstances. Secondly, at our wedding, he vowed to love and honor me, but he had no intention of ever doing either—that surely must be grounds enough to get either an annulment or a divorce, with or without his consent. However, I don't see why he'll refuse his consent," Alexandra added with a flash of anger. "He never wished to marry me in the first place."

"Well," Melanie shot back, "that doesn't mean he'll like having everyone know you don't want him anymore."

"When he has time to consider the plan, he'll be bound to feel relieved to have me off his hands."

Melanie shook her head. "I'm not so certain he wants you off his hands. I saw the way he looked at Lord Anthony in church today—he did not look relieved, he looked furious!"

"He is ill-tempered by nature," Alexandra said with disgust, recalling their interview downstairs. "He has no reason whatsoever to be angry with Anthony or me."

"No reason!" Melanie repeated in disbelief. "Why, you were about to marry another man!"

"I can't see what difference that should make. As I just said, he didn't want to marry me in the first place."

"But that doesn't mean he'll want anyone else to marry you," Melanie wisely replied. "In any case it doesn't matter. A divorce is simply out of the question. There has to be some other solution. My husband returned from Scotland today," she said enthusiastically. "I shall ask John for advice. He is very wise." Her face fell. "Unfortunately, he also considers Hawk his closest friend, so his advice will be somewhat colored by that. However," she said with absolute finality, "a divorce is positively beyond considering. There must be an alternative."

She fell silent for several long moments, lost in her own thoughts, her forehead furrowed. "It's little wonder you fell like a rock for him," she said with a small, compassionate smile. "Dozens of the most sophisticated flirts in England tumbled head over heels for him," she continued thoughtfully. "But except for indulging in an occasional fling with one of them, he never showed any sign of reciprocating their feelings. Naturally, now that he is back, everyone will expect you to tumble straight into his arms—particularly because Society is, at this very moment, recollecting how blindly infatuated with him you were when you first came to town."

The realization that Melanie was perfectly correct made Alexandra feel quite violently ill. Leaning her head against the back of the sofa, she swallowed and closed her eyes in sublime misery. "I hadn't thought of that, but you're absolutely right."

"Of course I am," Melanie absently agreed. "On the other hand," she declared, her eyes beginning to shine, "wouldn't it be delightful if the opposite happens!"

"What do you mean?"

"The ideal solution to the entire problem is for him to fall in love with you. That would enable you to keep your pride and your husband."

"Melanie," Alexandra said dampingly. "First of all, I don't think anyone could make that man fall in love, because he doesn't have a heart. Secondly, even if he does have one, it's certainly immune to me. Thirdly…"

Laughing, Melanie caught Alexandra's arm, hauled her off the sofa and pulled her to the mirror. "That wasbefore. Look into the mirror, Alex. The female looking back at you right now has London at her feet! Men are quarreling over you—"

Alexandra sighed, looking at Melanie in the mirror rather than her own image. "Only because I've become a sort of absurd, fashionable rage—like damping one's skirts. It's fashionable for the moment for men to fancy themselves in love with me."

"How delightful," said Melanie, more pleased than before. "Hawthorne is in for the shock of his life when he realizes it."

A brief flare of amusement stirred in Alexandra's eyes, then abruptly dimmed. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh, yes, it does!" Melanie laughed. "Only consider this: For the first time in his life, Hawthorne has competition—and for his own wife! Think how Society will relish the spectacle of England's most practiced libertine, trying without early success to seduce and subdue his own wife."

"There's another reason why it won't work," Alexandra said firmly.

"What is that?"

"I won't do it. Even if I could accomplish it, which I can't, I don't want to try."

"But why?" Melanie burst out. "Why ever not?"

"Because," Alexandra declared hotly, "I don't like him! I do not want him to love me, I do not even want him near me." So saying, she walked over to the bellpull to ring for tea.

"Nevertheless, it is still the only and best solution to this coil." Snatching up her gloves and reticule, Melanie pressed a kiss to Alexandra's forehead. "You're shocked and exhausted, you aren't thinking clearly. Leave everything to me.

She was halfway across the room when Alexandra realized that Melanie seemed to have a specific destination in mind and that she was in some haste to get there. "Where are you going, Mel?" she asked suspiciously.

"To see Roddy," Melanie said, turning in the doorway. "He can be depended upon to make certain Hawthorne is informed at the earliest possible moment that you are no longer the naive, unsophisticated country mouse he may think you are. Roddy will adore doing it," Melanie predicted cheerfully. "It's exactly the sort of rabble-rousing he most enjoys."

"Melanie, wait!" Alexandra burst out tiredly, but she did not particularly object to this part of Melanie's plan—not at this moment when exhaustion was beginning to overwhelm her. "Promise me you won't do anything else without telling me."

"Very well," Melanie said gaily and vanished with a wave.

Alexandra leaned her head back and closed her eyes as drowsiness began to overcome her.

The clock chiming the hour of ten, combined with the incessant arrivals of callers in the main hall downstairs, finally brought her fully awake. Leaning on an elbow, Alexandra blinked her eyes in the candlelit gloom of her bedchamber, surprised that she had somehow fallen asleep on the settee at what was normally considered a very early hour of the evening. She listened to the commotion downstairs, the constant opening and closing of the front door, and she sat up, groggily wondering why the entire haute ton seemed to be arriving on their doorstep… And then she remembered.

Hawk was back.

Evidently everyone thought he was here, and they were too eager to see him and speak to him to follow their own precepts of decorum, which would have required them at least to wait until tomorrow to call.

Hawk must have anticipated this, Alexandra decided irritably, as she got up and changed into a silk peignoir and climbed into bed. That was probably why he had chosen to spend the night at the duchess' house, leaving the rest of them here to try to deal with the furor of callers.

Her husband, she had no doubt, was blissfully in his bed, and enjoying a peaceful night.