LEXANDRA WENT DIRECTLY from Jordan's study to the front hall, where she informed the butler that Penrose and Filbert were not to be restricted to the kitchens, then she asked Higgins to send both men to her in the morning room, and, with a fixed smile on her face, headed down the hall.

Normally the morning room with its sunny yellow appointments and view of the garden brightened her spirits, but today as she walked inside and closed the doors behind her, the smile she had pasted on her face for the sake of the servants abruptly deserted her. The energy she had forced into her steps vanished as she walked slowly over to the windows and stood, staring blindly into the garden. She felt as if she had just done physical battle with an army of giants. And lost.

Shame and terror surged through her as she covered her face with her hands and bitterly faced the awful truth: Physically, she was no more immune to Jordan Townsende now than she had been a year ago. Oh, she could withstand his anger, but not his smile, not his kiss. The sweet violence of his kiss had wreaked havoc on her body, her soul, and her heart. Despite the experience and sophistication she had acquired during the last few months, despite everything she knew of him, Jordan Townsende could still twist her insides into hot, tight knots of yearning, exactly as he had done when she was a green girl of seventeen.

After all this time, his smile could still make her melt and his kisses could make her burn with longing to surrender her will to his. A dismal sigh escaped her as she leaned her forehead against the smooth, cool glass of the windowpane. From the moment they left the church yesterday, she'd been completely confident that he could never make her feel anything for him again. And all it had taken to prove her wrong was one of his lazy smiles, a kiss, a touch. Where he was concerned, she was still as susceptible as she had ever been.

"Dear God," she breathed aloud, what sort of diabolical sorcery did the man employ that he could have this effect on women? On her, when she harbored no illusions about any tender feelings he might have for her.

What was it about the man that made her feel that she had accomplished something rare whenever she made him smile or laugh. And why did she still have to struggle against this stupid, naive feeling that if she tried very hard, she might mean something special to him someday—she might be the one to soften and gentle him, to melt the core of cynicism in his eyes? No doubt he made all women feel that way—that if they tried very hard, theymight mean something to him that no other woman had; no doubt that was why even experienced, sophisticated flirts turned themselves inside out to please him. They, however, were not in the same danger she was, for they were not married to him. And tonight Jordan had more in mind for his wife than kisses. "We can discuss how you can please me in bed tonight."

In bed tonight… in bed… Her traitorous mind began replaying tantalizing memories of their night at the inn, and Alexandra angrily shook her head, trying to deny the warmth already seeping through her. She could not,would not, let him take her to bed this night or any other. How dare he presume to walk back into her life and climb into her bed, and without even pretending to court her, as she now knew gentlemen of the ton were expected to do. Jordan had never bothered to court her, she thought wrathfully and inconsequentially.

As far as she was concerned, tonight he could take his amorous self off to one of dozens of other beds right here in London, occupied by dozens of other women, all of whom—according to gossip—had always been eager for his "affections." No doubt he had done exactly that last night. He had probably gone to his mistress. Tonight, he would probably be engaged in another liaison before he came to her bed.

That thought made her so angry she felt physically sick. Pulling her hands from her face, she looked around the cheerful room as if she were searching for some way to escape. Somehow, some way, she decided desperately, for the sake of sanity and serenity, she had to get away from here. From him. She did not want to face yet another emotional holocaust. Peace was what she wanted. Peace and quiet and reality for the rest of her life.

At the thought of leaving London and her newfound friends, she felt a pang of loss, but it was offset by the thought of finding peace and tranquillity somewhere else. He'd only been home one day, and already jealousy was beginning to torment her. The idea of returning to Morsham, which she'd conceived on the spur of the moment yesterday when she was talking to Melanie, took on new and greater appeal now, looming on the horizon of her mind like a sweet haven waiting for her.

But if she was going to find her way back to her old life, she knew there was no point in waiting idly for fate to lend a hand. Fate, she decided, had never been a reliable ally of hers. Fate had forced her into marriage with a man who didn't want her and who was, moreover, a cad. Fate had brought him back and now she was expected to meekly submit to the whims of a man who still didn't want her and who was not only a cad, but an arrogant, unfeeling, dictatorial one, to boot!

Women, she had learned to her pain, were nothing but chattel, particularly in the upper classes, where they were selected like mares for their bloodlines by men who mated with them for the sake of obtaining a suitably aristocratic heir, and then they were turned out to pasture. She, however, was not a helpless, highborn female, Alexandra reminded herself bracingly. She had taken care of herself, her mother, her house, and two elderly servants quite satisfactorily from the time she was fourteen.

Surely, as a grown woman now, she could return to her former life and continue to manage even better than she had. She would do what her grandfather had hoped she would—she would take up where he had left off, teaching children to read and write. She was a respectably married woman now, and Alexandra felt quite certain the villagers would not ostracize her for her single long-ago lapse in propriety. And even if they did, Alexandra rather thought she would prefer to live like an outcast until they forgave her than continue to be what she was now—a feather blown about by the whims of fate and of one rude, indomitable man.

It was now time, she decided staunchly, to take charge of her own life and to choose its direction. The latter was easy enough—she had only one direction open to her and that was back. She would go back home and be mistress of her own life. But in order to accomplish that, she had to dissuade her unwanted husband from his absurd decision to keep her as his wife. And she needed money.

The second part of that worried her the most. The only money she had was from the last quarterly allowance Tony had given her, but that wouldn't be enough to rent a cottage, buy wood for the winter, and purchase the things she and Filbert and Penrose would require until they could get a vegetable garden started. For that she would need ten times what she had. She couldn't sell the jewels that the duchess and Tony had given her, they were family heirlooms and not truly hers. The only thing of value she owned was her grandfather's watch. She would sell it, Alexandra decided with an awful, wrenching pain. She would have to sell it and quickly, without wasting precious time. Time, she had learned to her mortification, was Jordan's ally and her enemy. Given enough time and proximity, she was terrified that Jordan could and would have her melting in his arms.

Feeling slightly better, now that she had a plan, Alexandra walked over to the table where she always had tea after her fencing matches with Tony and sat down. She was pouring herself a cup from the tray that had been set out for her in advance, when her two faithful, elderly friends presented themselves.

"Lawd, Miss Alexandra, you've gotten yerself into the devil of a coil this time," Filbert exclaimed without tact, formality, or preamble, his nearsighted eyes searching her face through the spectacles she'd bought for him, which enabled him to see a great deal better than before. Almost wringing his hands with anxiety, he sat down across from her at the table—as he had always done when they were a "family" in Morsham. Penrose sat down across from him and leaned forward, straining to hear, as Filbert continued: "I heared what the duke said to you yesterday when the two of you were alone and I told Penrose. Yer husband's a hard man, and that's the simple truth, or he'd not've ripped up at you th' way he done. What," he demanded with anxious concern for her, "are we goin' to do?"

Alexandra looked at the two old men who had cared for her, cheered her, and borne her company for all of her life and smiled wanly. There was no point in lying to them, she knew; although they were slightly impaired physically, they were anything but mentally impaired. They were, in fact, nearly as sharp now as they were in the old days when she could never get by with a trick they didn't anticipate. "I want to take us back to Morsham," she declared, wearily raking her hair back off her forehead.

"Morsham!" Penrose whispered reverently, as if the name were "Heaven."

"But I need money to do it, and all I have is what's left of my last quarter's allowance."

"Money!" said Filbert grimly. "It's always been a lack of money for you, Miss Alexandra. Even when your papa was alive, curse his treacherous—"

"Don't," Alexandra said automatically. "It isn't fitting to speak ill of the dead."

"In my opinion," Penrose announced with lofty dislike, "it's a pity you saved Hawthorne's life. Instead of shooting his assailant, you should have shot him."

"And afterward," Filbert spat, "you should've drove a stake through his heart, so the vampire couldn't come back from the dead like this and haunt yer life!"

That bloodthirsty speech made Alexandra shudder and laugh at the same time. Then she sobered, drew a long breath, and said to Penrose in a resolute voice that brooked no argument, "My grandfather's gold watch is in the drawer beside my bed. I want you to take it to Bond Street and sell it to whichever jeweler will pay the most for it."

Penrose opened his mouth to protest, saw the stubborn set of her small chin, and reluctantly nodded.

"Do it now, Penrose," she said in a pain-edged voice, "before I can change my mind."

When Penrose left, Filbert reached across the table and covered her hand with his blue-veined one. "Penrose and I got a tiny sum we've set aside over the last twenty years. It ain't much—seventeen pounds and two shillings atween us."

"No. Absolutely not," Alexandra said with great firmness. "You must keep your—"

The sound of Higgins' stately marching stride echoed in the hall, coming toward the breakfast room, and Filbert leapt with surprising agility to his feet. "Higgins goes purple every time he sees us talking friendlylike," Filbert explained unnecessarily as he snatched Alexandra's yellow linen napkin from beside her saucer and began energetically flicking it at nonexistent crumbs on the table. And that was the scene Higgins approvingly beheld when he entered the morning room to convey the news that Sir Roderick Carstairs wished to be announced to her grace.

A few minutes later, Roddy strode in, sat down at the table, beckoned to Filbert with a lofty nod of his head to pour him some tea, and then began cheerfully regaling her with the "delicious details" of his visit to Hawk last night.

Halfway through his astounding recitation, Alexandra half rose from her chair and cried in an accusing whisper, "You told him all those things about me? You?"

"Stop looking at me as if I just slithered out from beneath a rock, Alex," Roddy said with bored nonchalance, adding milk to his tea. "I told him all that to ensure he knows you've been the hit of the Season, so that when he discovers—which I assure you he will—that you made a complete cake of yourself over him when you first came to town, he will not be nearly so complacent. Melanie called last night to suggest I do exactly that, but I'd already come up with the idea on my own and gone to Hawk's."

Ignoring her stricken expression, he continued blithely: "I also did it because I wanted to see his face when he heard the news, although this was not my primary reason for going there, as I just explained. Actually," he added after taking a delicate sip of his tea and replacing the Sèvres cup in its saucer, "haring over to Mount Street to see him last night was the first truly noble gesture of my life—an indication, I fear, that I have developed a character weakness, for which I blame you."

"Me?" Alexandra repeated, so distraught and distracted she was beginning to feel dazed. "What character weakness is that?"

"Nobility, my dear. When you look at me with those big, beautiful eyes of yours, I often have the terrifying feeling you see something better and finer in me than I see when I look in the mirror. Last night, I suddenly felt impelled to do something better and finer, so I hustled over to Hawk's filled with noble intent to save your pride. It was quite revolting of me, now that I repine on it." He looked so disgusted with himself that Alexandra hastily hid her smile behind her own teacup as he went on: "Unfortunately, my magnificent gesture may have been for naught. I couldn't be certain Hawk was paying me any heed, despite the fact that I rattled on quite abominably for the better part of an hour."

"He heard you, all right," Alexandra said wryly. "This morning he presented me with a written list of those very same transgressions and demanded I either confess or deny."

Roddy's eyes widened with delight. "Did he, indeed? I thought I was getting under his skin last night but, with Hawk, one can never tell. Did you admit to the list or deny it?"

Too tense and worried to remain seated another moment, Alexandra put her cup down and with an apologetic look, she stood up, restlessly walking over to the little settee by the windows and needlessly plumping its yellow flowered pillows. "I admitted it, of course."

Roddy swiveled in his chair, studying her profile with great interest. "I gather, then, that all is not honey and roses here between the reunited couple?" When Alexandra absently shook her head, he grinned with pleasure. "You realize, I suppose, that Society is already on tenterhooks, waiting to see if you succumb to Hawk's legendary charm again? The odds, at the moment, are four to one that you'll be his adoring wife by the day of the Queen's Race."

Alexandra whirled around, staring at him in angry horror. "What?" she breathed in disgust, unable to believe her ears. "What are you talking about?"

"Wagers," Roddy said succinctly. "The odds are four to one in favor of you putting your ribbon on Hawk's arm and cheering for him at the Queen's Race. Very domestic."

Alexandra didn't know it was possible to feel such revulsion for people she had begun to like. "People arebetting on a thing like that?" she burst out

"Naturally. On Queen's Race day, it's traditional for a lady to show her favor to a gentleman who is riding in the race by removing the ribbon from her bonnet and tying it on his arm herself, for good luck and encouragement. It is one of the few public displays of affection which we of the ton encourage—mostly, I believe, because the discussion of who ultimately wore whose colors provides us with titillating gossip and conjecture for the long winter months that follow. At this point, the odds are four to one in favor of you tying your ribbon on Hawk's arm."

Momentarily diverted from her major problems by a minor detail, Alexandra looked suspiciously at Roddy. "Who are you betting on?"

"I haven't placed my wager yet. I thought I'd stop here first—to test the atmosphere—before I dropped in at White's." Daintily wiping his mouth on a napkin, Roddy stood up, kissed her hand, and said in a challenging voice, "Well, my dear, what's it to be? Will you be showing your affection for your spouse by giving him your colors to wear on September seventh?"

"Of course not!" Alexandra said, inwardly shuddering at the thought of making such a public spectacle of herself over a man everyone knew didn't care a jot about her.

"You're quite certain? I'd hate to loose £1,000."

"Your money is very safe," Alexandra said bitterly, sinking down on the flowered settee and staring at her hands. He was halfway across the room when Alexandra jubilantly shouted his name and shot to her feet as if the cushions beneath her had burst into flames. Laughing with joy, she advanced upon the startled aristocrat. "Roddy, you're wonderful! You're brilliant! If I didn't already have a husband, I'd propose to you!"

Roddy said nothing to that flattering proclamation, but regarded her in wary amusement, one brow arched in inquiry.

"Please, please, say you'll do one little favor for me?" she pleaded prettily.

"What is it?"

Alexandra drew a steadying breath, unable to believe fate had just presented her with a perfect solution to what had seemed a hopeless dilemma. "Could you—possibly—place a wager for me?"

His look of comical shock was instantly replaced by one of dawning understanding, and then of irrepressible glee. "I suppose I could do that. Can you cover your bet if you lose?"

"I can't lose!" she said joyously. "If I understood what you said, in order to win, all I have to do is go to the Queen's Race and not tie my ribbon on Hawk's arm?"

"That's all you have to do."

Scarcely able to contain her excitement, Alexandra clasped his hand, her eyes eagerly searching his. "Do say you'll do it for me, Roddy—it's even more important to me than you realize."

A smile of sardonic delight crossed his features. "Naturally, I'll do it," he said, looking her over with new respect and approval. "There's never been any love lost between your husband and me, as you've undoubtedly guessed." He saw her puzzled smile and heaved an exaggerated sigh at her naiveté. "If your husband had done me the kindness to stay 'dead' and if Tony had cocked up his toes without a male heir, I—or my heirs—would be the next Hawthorne. You've seen Tony's brother, Bertie—he's a frail boy who's been hovering at the brink of eternity for all of his twenty years. Something went wrong at his birth, I'm told."

Alexandra, who had no idea Roddy was so high on the list of ascendant heirs, slowly shook her head. "I knew you were related to us—to the Townsendes, I mean—but I thought it was only a distant kinship, fourth or fifth cousins."

"It is. But with the exception of Jordan and Tony's fathers, the rest of the Townsendes have had the amazing bad luck to continually produce daughters, not sons, and not many of those either. The males in our family seem to die quite young, and we are not very prolific in the production of heirs, although," he added, deliberately attempting to shock her, "it is certainly not for want of trying."

"Too much inbreeding, I fear," Alexandra quipped, managing to keep her face from reflecting her acute embarrassment at Roddy's bald reference to lovemaking. "You see it in collies, too. The entire ton is in need of new blood or they'll soon be scratching behind their ears and losing their hair."

Roddy threw back his head and laughed. "Irreverent chit!" he said, grinning. "You've learned to look quite bland when you're shocked, but you can't fool me yet. Keep practicing." Then briskly, "Back to business. How much do you wish to wager?"

Alexandra bit her lip, afraid to offend Dame Fortune, who was finally smiling upon her, by being too greedy. "Two thousand pounds," she began, but broke off as Filbert, who was at attention behind Roddy, suddenly coughed loudly, then cleared his throat with a meaningful "Ahem."

Her eyes dancing with merriment, Alexandra glanced at Filbert, then at Roddy, and quickly amended, "Two thousand and seventeen pound—"

"Ahem!" said Filbert again. "Ahem."

"Two thousand," Alexandra obediently amended again, "seventeen pounds, and two shillings."

Roddy, who was no fool, slowly turned around and cast his appraising eye over the footman, whom Alexandra had told him weeks ago had been with her since she was a child. "And your name is?" he drawled, regarding Filbert with lofty amusement.

"Filbert, my lord."

"You, I presume, are the owner of the seventeen pounds, two shillings?"

"Aye, my lord. Me 'n' Penrose."

"And Penrose is who?"

"The under-butler," Filbert replied, and then forgetting himself he added wrathfully, "or he were, 'til his noble highness strolled in here this morning and demoted him."

Roddy's expression took on a faraway look. "How utterly delicious," he murmured, then he recalled himself and bowed formally to Alexandra. "I don't suppose you'll be at the Lindworthy ball tonight?"

Alexandra hesitated a scant second before declaring with a mischievous little smile, "Since my husband is already engaged tonight, I can't see why not." Unbelievably, miraculously, she would soon have enough money to live cozily in Morsham for a decade. For the first time in her entire life, she was experiencing a taste of independence, of freedom, and freedom was bliss. It was sweet, it was divine. It tasted headier than wine. It made her daring. Her eyes positively shining with exuberant delight, she said, "And Roddy, if you still wish to test your skill with the rapier against me, I think tomorrow morning would be an excellent time. Invite anyone you'd like to watch. Invite the whole world!"

For the first time, Roddy looked uneasy. "Even our dear Tony, who let you have your own head, refused to let you fence with any of us. It's not quite the thing, my dear, and your husband is likely to turn nasty when he hears of it."

"I'm sorry, Roddy," she said, instantly contrite. "I wouldn't want to do anything which might cause you difficulty with—"

"I was concerned for you, my sweet child, not myself. I'm in no danger. Hawk won't call me out—He and I are much too civilized to stoop to a public display of unconstrained tempers, which is what dueling actually is. On the other hand," Roddy added bluntly, "I feel sure he will soon be looking for any opportunity to privately rearrange my face for me. Never fear," he added with supreme nonchalance, "I can handle myself with my fists. Contrary to what you may have thought, there's a man beneath these fine clothes I wear." Pressing a gallant kiss to the back of her hand, he said dryly, "I shall search you out at the Lindworthy ball tonight."

When Roddy left, Alexandra wrapped her arms around her middle, laughing as she looked heavenward. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she called to God, to fate, and to the ornate ceiling. Roddy had answered the first part of her problem by showing her a source of money, and now she had hit upon the solution to the second half: Jordan Townsende, she had observed during the last two days, was a man who was accustomed to, and demanded, unquestioning, instant obedience from everyone around him, including his wife. He was not a man who was accustomed to being defied by man, woman, or servant.

Therefore, Alexandra gleefully decided, defiance was obviously the key to her freedom. Several immediate and flagrant defiances were called for—ones that would cut up his peace, laugh at his dictatorship, and, most important, illustrate to him in the clearest possible way that he would be far more comfortable with Alexandra out of his way and out of his life.

"His majesty," Filbert disrespectfully declared, "ain't goin' to like yer betting against him or goin' out tonight." With a worried little frown, he said, "I was eavesdroppin' and I heard him say you couldn't."

Alexandra burst out laughing and hugged the concerned old man. "He'll never know about the bet," she cheerfully declared. "And if he doesn't like my going out, I suppose he can"—heading for the door she announced jubilantly—"send me back to Morsham! Or give me a divorce!" Humming a gay, lilting tune, she strolled jauntily down the hall and up the long staircase. In two months' time, when she collected her winnings, she would be able to simply walk away from Jordan Townsende as a wealthy woman by Morsham standards. Equally delightful was the knowledge that she had made the money using her own wit—and that Jordan would never know how she got the funds. In the doorway of his study, where he was about to bid his visitors goodbye, Jordan paused and turned, watching her as she walked jauntily up the stairs, a faint smile touching his lips. Alexandra, he realized, had a very pretty voice. A beautiful voice. Also an inviting sway to her hips. Very inviting.

The confidence that had buoyed her up all afternoon was higher than ever as Alexandra stood before her dressing table, her head turned toward the clock on the mantel. An hour and a half ago, when Jordan had entered the master bedchamber which adjoined hers, she had heard him tell his valet he was going to White's tonight. Twenty-five minutes ago, he had left.

White's was only a short distance from the Lindworthy mansion, and rather than risk the slightest possibility that Jordan might have lingered downstairs, or that she might encounter him en route, she thought it best to give him plenty of time to arrive at his destination before she left for hers.

By now, he surely ought to be there, she decided, and turned to the middle-aged French maid whom the duchess had hired for her. "Will I do, Marie?" she asked brightly, but Alexandra knew she had never looked better.

"You will leave them speechless, your grace," Marie declared with smiling certainty.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Alexandra chuckled ruefully as she glanced in the mirror at the breathtakingly gorgeous lemon chiffon gown that was gathered at the shoulders into tiny pleats that crossed her bodice on a diagonal and emphasized the enticing swell of her breasts and plunged at the neckline into a daringly low V. A wide band of horizontal pleats hugged her narrow waist, then fell into an airy drift of swirling chiffon skirts.

Long matching gloves encased her arms to well above the elbows, and diamonds flashed at her throat and peeped from beneath the soft tendrils at her ears. Her shining hair was twisted into an elegant chignon at her crown, with a rope of diamonds artfully woven into the wide coil.

The stark simplicity of her coiffure set off her finely sculpted features, giving her a more sophisticated appearance to offset her youth and complement her dramatic gown to perfection.

Picking up her little beaded reticule, Alexandra said gaily, "Don't wait up for me, Marie. I'm spending the night at the home of a friend." It was not quite the truth, but Alexandra had no intention of letting Jordan Townsende make love to her again, and for tonight at least she had a plan to prevent it.

White's, the most exclusive private gentlemen's club in England, looked exactly as it had when Jordan had last walked past its wide bow windows more than a year ago. And yet, the moment he walked into its hallowed confines, he was aware that something was subtly different tonight.

It was different, yet everything was the same: Comfortable chairs were still grouped around low tables so a man could lean back and relax while casually losing or acquiring a fortune on the turn of a card. The large book where bets were recorded—a book as sacrosanct to the gamblers of White's as the Bible to a Methodist—was still in its usual place. Except tonight there was a much larger crowd than normal gathered around it, Jordan noted as he strode forward.

"Hawthorne!" a hearty voice exclaimed—too heartily, and the group of men at the betting book lurched erect, then hastily started forward in a group. "Good to have you back, Hawk," Lord Hurly said, shaking Jordan's hand. "Wonderful to see you, Hawk," someone else said as his friends and acquaintances pressed around him, all eager to welcome him back. A little too desperately eager, Jordan thought…

"Have a drink, Jordan," John Camden said grimly and unceremoniously snatched a glass of Madeira from the tray of a passing footman, thrusting it into Jordan's hand.

With a faint, puzzled smile at Camden's odd behavior, Jordan handed the Madeira back to the footman. "Whisky," he said succinctly and, excusing himself, he started toward the betting book. "What sort of nonsense are the young bucks betting on these days?" he asked. "No more pig races, I hope." Six men abruptly blocked his path, fanning around the betting book in a semicircle and all six simultaneously burst into agitated conversation. "Odd weather we're… Devil of a time you had… Tell us about… How's Lord Anthony?… Is your grandmother well?"

Unseen by Jordan, John Camden shook his head, indicating the futility of their human blockade of the betting book, and the loyal band of sympathetic husbands trying to block Jordan's path all stepped awkwardly aside.

"My grandmother is fine, Hurly," Jordan said as he strolled through their midst to the book. "And so is Tony." Bracing his hand on the back of the chair, Jordan leaned slightly forward, flipping backward through the pages as he had flipped backward through old copies of the newspapers earlier today, bringing himself up to date with the world. There were bets on everything, from the anticipated date of the next snowstorm to the weight of old Bascombe's firstborn child.

Eight months ago, Jordan noted derisively, young Lord Thornton had bet £1,000 that his young friend Earl Stanley would take to his bed with a stomach ailment two months later, on December 20. On December 19, Thornton had bet Stanley £100 that he couldn't eat two dozen apples at one sitting. Stanley won that bet. But he lost £1,000 the next day. Jordan chuckled, glancing up at his friends, and remarked dryly: "I see Stanley is still as gullible as ever."

It was traditional, this remarking upon the betting follies of the younger set by the older, wiser, more worldly set. The fathers of the six men gathered around the betting book—and their fathers before them—had all stood there, doing exactly that.

In the past, Jordan's remark would have caused his friends to reply with amusing stories about other bets, or with good-natured reminders about some of his reckless foibles. Today all six men gave him uneasy smiles and said nothing.

With a puzzled, encompassing glance at them, Jordan returned his attention to the book Stillness descended on the entire club as the gentlemen at the gaming tables ceased their play, waiting. A moment later, Jordan felt certain he knew the reason for the peculiar atmosphere all around him—throughout all of May and June, page after page of the betting book was suddenly covered with wagers on which suitor—and there had been dozens of them—Alexandra would ultimately choose to wed.

Annoyed but not surprised, Jordan turned the page and saw bets cropping up about the race on Queen's Day and whether Alexandra would tie her ribbon on his sleeve.

He was, he saw as he glanced idly down the names in the book, a vast favorite to succeed… although, near the bottom of the page, there were a few names betting against him: Carstairs, Jordan noted wryly, had bet £1,000 against him earlier that day. Typical!

The next wager was also against him—a large one in a very odd amount—£2,017.3—guaranteed by Carstairs but placed on behalf of…

Rage exploded in Jordan's brain as he straightened and turned to his friends. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he bit out in a soft, murderous voice, "I have just remembered that I have another engagement tonight." Without a glance at anyone else, he stalked out.

The six men surrounding the betting book gazed at one another in helpless consternation. "He's going after Carstairs," John Camden said grimly, and they all nodded agreement.

They were wrong. "Home!" Jordan snapped at his driver as he flung himself into his carriage. Idly slapping his gloves against his thigh, Jordan endured the ride to No. 3 Upper Brook Street in a state of deadly calm as he contemplated a variety of highly gratifying methods of teaching his outrageously willful, errant wife a badly needed, unforgettable lesson.

He had never been tempted to strike a woman in his life, yet now he could think of nothing more satisfying than the impending prospect of walking into Alexandra's bedchamber, jerking her over his lap, and paddling her until she could bear no more. It was, he decided, an eminently suitable punishment for what had been an eminently childish act of public defiance!

And after that, he decided, he would toss her onto the bed and put her to the use God intended her for!

In the mood he was in, he might well have done exactly that. But—as Higgins informed him when he stalked past the butler and headed up the staircase—Alexandra was "not at home."

A moment ago, Jordan would have sworn he could not have been angrier than he already was. The news that Alexandra had openly defied him by going out, when he had specifically ordered her to stay home, sent his blood to the boiling point. "Get her maid down here," Jordan demanded in a voice that made Higgins press backward against the door before scurrying off to do as he was bade.

Five minutes later, at ten-thirty, Jordan was en route to the Lindworthys'.

At that same moment, the Lindworthy butler was loudly proclaiming the arrival of: "Her grace, the Duchess of Hawthorne!"

Airily ignoring the swiveling heads and searching stares, Alexandra walked gracefully down the grand staircase in the most daring ensemble she had ever appeared in. It suited her perfectly—she felt wonderfully, independently daring tonight.

Partway down the staircase, she glanced casually over the packed ballroom, looking either for Roddy, Melanie, or the dowager duchess. She saw the duchess first, standing with a group of her elderly friends, and Alexandra headed toward her—a shimmering, glowing vision of youth and poise, her eyes shining as brightly as the jewels she wore, as she occasionally paused to nod regally at an acquaintance.

"Good evening, dear ma'am," Alexandra said gaily, pressing a kiss to the duchess' parchment cheek.

"I see you're in high spirits, child," her grace said, beaming at her and clasping Alexandra's gloved hands in her own. "I'm equally happy to see," she added, "that Hawthorne took my excellent advice this morning and removed his foolish restriction against your going out into company."

With a mischievous smile, Alexandra dropped into a deep, respectful curtsy that was a miracle of grace, then she raised her head and jauntily declared, "No, ma'am, he did not."

"You mean—"

"Exactly."

"Oh!"

Since Alexandra already knew where the duchess stood on the matter of her marital obligations, that unenthusiastic reaction to her rebellious behavior didn't dampen Alexandra's spirits in the least. In fact, in the mood she was in, she didn't think anything could dampen her spirits. Until a scant minute later, when Melanie rushed over to her, looking positively panicked. "Oh, Alex, how could you do such a thing!" she burst out, too overwrought to care that the dowager was standing right there. "There isn't a husband here who wouldn't like to wring your neck—including mine when he hears of it! You went too far, it's beyond what is pleasing! You can't do—"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Alexandra interrupted, but her heart was beginning to pound in automatic reaction to her usually imperturbable friend's wild anxiety.

"I'm talking about the wager you had Roddy place in your name in the betting book at White's, Alexandra!"

"In my name—" Alexandra exclaimed in panic-stricken disbelief. "Oh dear God! He wouldn't have!"

"What wager?" the dowager gruffly demanded.

"He would and he did! And everyone in this ballroom knows about it."

"Dear God!" Alexandra repeated faintly.

"What wager?" the dowager demanded in a low, thunderous voice.

Too shaken and angry to answer the dowager, Alexandra left that to Melanie. Plucking up her skirts, she whirled around, searching for Roddy. What she saw was dozens of inimical male faces watching her.

She finally saw Roddy and bore down on him with murder in her eye and pain in her heart.

"Alexandra, my love," he said, grinning, "you look more smashing than—" He reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it away, glaring at him with angry, accusing eyes.

"How could you do this to me!" she burst out bitterly. "How could you write that wager down in some book and put my name on it!"

For the second time since she had met him, Roderick Carstairs lost momentary control of his bland expression. "What do you mean?" he demanded in a low, indignant voice. "I did what you wanted me to do. You wanted to demonstrate to Society that you are not going to fall at Hawk's feet, and I placed the wager for you at the best place to make your feelings public. And it was no easy task," he continued irritably. "Only members of White's are allowed to record wagers there, which is why I had to put my name over yours and guarantee your—"

"I wanted you to place a wager for me in your name, not mine, which is why I asked you to do it!" Alexandra cried in a voice raw with anxiety. "A quiet, confidential, unwritten gentlemen's wager!"

Roddy's brows snapped together as anger replaced his righteous indignation. "Don't be a nitwit! What could you possibly hope to gain from a 'quiet, confidential' wager?"

"Money!" Alexandra exclaimed miserably.

Roddy's mouth dropped open. "Money?" he repeated uncomprehendingly. "You made that wager because you want money?"

"Of course!" she naively replied. "Why else would anyone wager?"

Looking at her as if she were some curious specimen of humanity completely beyond his ken, Roddy informed her, "One wagers because one enjoys winning. You are married to one of the richest men in Europe. Why should you need money?"

That question, although logical, would have required Alexandra to discuss intentions that were entirely private. "I can't explain," she said miserably, "but I'm sorry for blaming you."

Accepting her apology with a nod, Roddy stopped a passing footman and took two glasses of champagne from his tray, handing one of them to Alexandra. "Do you suppose," she said eagerly, after a moment, oblivious to the pregnant hush suddenly creeping over the huge room, "there's a chance Hawk may not discover my bet?"

Roddy, who was rarely oblivious to anything, glanced curiously about him and then upward, following the direction of everyone's gazes.

"Not much," he said wryly and, with a blasé motion of his hand, he directed her attention to the upper balcony at the same moment the Lindworthy butler announced in a booming voice…

"His grace, the Duke of Hawthorne.' "

Jolts of shock and anticipation roared through the crowd and Alexandra's head snapped up, her eyes riveted in alarmed horror on the tall, daunting figure clad in stark black, who was stalking purposefully down the stairs. The staircase was less than fifteen yards from Alexandra, but when Jordan neared the bottom step, the giant sea of people in the ballroom seemed to press forward in a huge wave and an explosion of greetings erupted into a deafening cacophony of sound.

He was taller by half a head than nearly everyone, and from her corner, Alexandra saw him smile slightly as he seemed to listen to what people were saying to him, but his eyes were casually scanning the crowd—searching, Alexandra feared, for her. Panicked, she downed her champagne and handed the empty glass to Roddy, who then gave her his own. "Drink mine," he said dryly. "You're going to need it."

Alexandra looked around like a fox searching for a bolt-hole, her glance skidding to a stop in every direction that might inadvertently put her in Hawk's line of vision. Helpless to move, she pressed back against the wall and unthinkingly lifted Roddy's glass to her lips, just as her eyes encountered the dowager duchess off to her right. The duchess sent her an odd, quelling look, then turned and spoke rapidly to Melanie. A moment later, Melanie was wending her way around the crowd surrounding Jordan, moving toward Alexandra and Roddy.

"Your grandmother says," Melanie said in an urgent voice as soon as she reached Alexandra, "to pray notchoose tonight of all nights to overindulge for the first time in your life, and not to worry because she says Hawthorne will know exactly how to act when he realizes you're here."

"Did she say anything else?" Alexandra begged, desperately needing reassurance.

"Yes," Melanie said with a vigorous nod. "She said I am to stick to your side like glue and not leave you, no matter what happens tonight."

"Dear God!" Alexandra burst out. "I thought she said there was nothing to worry about!"

Roddy shrugged mildly. "Hawk may not know of your wager yet, so don't look so overwrought."

"I'm not worried solely about the wager," Alexandra informed him darkly, watching Jordan, trying to anticipate in which direction he would ultimately move when he disentangled himself from the large crowd around him, so that she could slide in the opposite one. "I'm worried he'll discover I'm—"

Someone on Jordan's right said something to him and he turned his head; his gaze sliding swiftly, searchingly along the wall where Alexandra stood… past Melanie, past Roddy, past Alexandra… and then slashed back, leveling on her like a pair of deadly black pistols. "—here," Alexandra finished weakly, while Jordan looked straight at her, impaling her on his gaze, leaving her in no doubt that he intended to seek her out at the first possible moment.

"I think he's just discovered it," Roddy teased.

Jerking her eyes from Hawk's, Alexandra looked around for a safe place to conceal herself until he moved out of her only path of escape—somewhere where it would not seem to anyone she was hiding. The safest thing to do, she decided quickly, was simply to stroll into the midst of the seven hundred guests and try to melt into the crowd until Jordan lost sight of her.

"Shall we 'mingle,' my dear?" Roddy suggested, obviously arriving at the same conclusion.

Slightly relieved, Alexandra nodded, but the idea of "mingling" lost its appeal a few minutes later when she passed by Lord and Lady Moseby and Lord North, who were all standing on the sidelines near the mirrored wall that ran the width of the ballroom. Lady Moseby held out her hand, detaining Alexandra as she said in a laughing voice tinged with admiration, "I heard about your wager, Alexandra."

Alexandra's polite smile froze on her face.

"It—it was merely a jest," Melanie Camden put in, materializing at Alexandra's side, in accordance with the duchess' earlier instruction.

Regarding Alexandra with a disapproving look, Lord North said stiffly, "I wonder if Hawk will find it amusing."

"I wouldn't, I assure you," Lord Moseby darkly informed Alexandra, then he took his wife's arm and, with a curt nod, firmly guided his lady away from Alexandra, with Lord North right beside him.

"I'll be damned!" Roddy said softly, glowering at the men's rigid backs. After a long, thoughtful moment, he slowly transferred his gaze to Alexandra's stricken face, regarding her with a combination of contrition, annoyance, and irony. "I fear I've done you a grave wrong by placing that wager at White's," he said. "I naturally expected a few of the more prudish of my sex to frown on our little wager. Regrettably, I failed to consider that in openly defying your husband with that wager, you would outrage every other husband in the ton."

Alexandra scarcely heard him. "Roddy," she said hastily, "you're very sweet to stay by my side, but you're quite tall and—"

"And you'd be less easily spotted without me at your side?" Roddy guessed, and Alexandra nodded. "In that case," he said contritely, "I shall take myself off."

"Thank you."

"Inasmuch as I feel inadvertently responsible for part of your dilemma, the least I can do is make myself scarce so you can escape it for now." With a brief bow, he strode into the crowd, heading in the opposite direction from Alexandra and Melanie.

Five minutes later, standing with her back angled toward the ballroom, Alexandra looked anxiously at Melanie. "Do you see him?"

"No," Melanie said, after casting a surreptitious look over the crowded room. "He's no longer by the stairs, nor in your path."

"In that case, I'm going to leave now," Alexandra said quickly, pressing a brief kiss to Melanie's cheek. "I'll be fine—don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow if I can—"

"You can't," Melanie said unhappily. "My husband does not think the London air suitable for my condition. He's bent on taking me back to the country, and staying there until the baby comes."

The thought of having to face the near future without Melanie to confide in made Alexandra feel positively miserable. "I'll write to you," she promised, wondering dismally if she would ever see Melanie again. Unable to say more, Alexandra plucked up her skirts and began making her way toward the staircase. Behind her, Melanie called out her name, but the roar of laughing conversation in the crowded ballroom swallowed the warning as Alexandra walked quickly, staying close to the wall.

Without stopping, she bent to put her champagne glass on a table, then stifled a scream as a hand clamped cruelly onto her forearm and spun her around. At the same instant, Jordan stepped in front of her, neatly isolating them both from view of the ballroom guests. Bracing his hand high on the wall behind her, he managed to imprison her with his body and yet look to all appearances like a relaxed gentleman engaging in somewhat intimate conversation with a lady.

"Alexandra," he said in an ominously calm tone that belied the leaping fury in his eyes, "there are approximately four hundred men in this room, most of whom believe it's my duty to set an example for their wives by dragging you out of here in front of everyone, and then to take you home and beat some sense into you—which I am perfectly willing, no—anxious—to do."

To her terrified disbelief, he paused in that horrible announcement to reach out and take a glass of champagne from the tray on the pedestal beside them and then to blandly hand it to her—a gesture designed to keep up the charade of two people engaged in ordinary conversation. Continuing in that same deadly voice, he said, "Despite the fact that your public wager—and your flagrant disobedience in coming here tonight—more than deserve public retaliation, I am going to offer you two choices." Silkily he said, "I want you to listen to them very carefully."

To her angry shame, Alexandra was so terrified her chest was rising and falling like a frightened bird and she could only nod her head.

Unmoved by her obvious fright, he gave her the first choice: "You can either leave with me right now—quietly and ostensibly willingly, or kicking and screaming—it doesn't matter to me. Either way, if we do leave now, everyone in this ballroom is going to know why I'm taking you out of here."

When he paused, Alexandra swallowed convulsively, her voice a parched whisper. "What is the second choice?"

"To salvage your pride," he replied, giving her the second choice, "I am willing to walk onto that dance floor with you and try to make it appear that we both regard your wager as nothing more than a harmless little jest. But whichever choice you make," he finished ominously, "I am still going to deal with you when we get home, do you understand that?"

His last sentence and the unmistakable threat of physical retribution it carried were dire enough to make Alexandra agree to anything—anything that would delay their leavetaking.

Somewhere in the tumult of her mind, it dimly occurred to her that, in offering her a chance to salvage her pride this way, he was treating her with more consideration than she had done when she placed a public bet against him. On the other hand, she could hardly find it in her heart to be very grateful to him for sparing her public humiliation—not when he was promising private, physical retribution later. With a supreme effort of will, she managed to steady her voice and arrange her features into a reasonably calm mask. "I would prefer to dance."

Jordan stared down into her lovely pale face and had to stifle a spurt of admiration for her courage. Instead, he politely offered her his arm and she placed her trembling hand on it.

The moment Jordan stepped out of her way, Alexandra glimpsed the swift, guilty movements of heads turning away, and she realized that a great many people had been watching their little tête-à-tête. With an outward appearance of unhurried dignity, she strolled with Jordan through the fascinated crowd, which parted like the Red Sea to let them pass, then turned to watch their progress.

Alexandra's control slipped a notch, however, when the couple in their path turned to let them pass and she found herself face to face with Elizabeth Grangerfield, whose elderly husband had recently died. The shock of encountering Jordan's former paramour nearly sent Alexandra to her knees, though Jordan and Elizabeth seemed perfectly at ease as they greeted at each other.

"Welcome home, your grace," Elizabeth said in her husky voice as she held out her hand.

"Thank you," Jordan said with a polite smile and pressed a gallant kiss to the back of it.

Watching them, Alexandra felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Somehow, she managed to keep her expression politely neutral as they walked away, but when they reached the dance floor and Jordan tried to put his hand on her waist, she jerked back, glaring at him.

"Would you prefer to leave now?" he asked silkily, while all around them dancers began to whirl and dip.

Too infuriated to notice that they'd become the object of six hundred pairs of fascinated eyes the instant they stepped onto the floor, Alexandra reluctantly put her hand on the sleeve of his black jacket—but her expression made it eloquently obvious that she found the contact with him quite revolting.

Jordan jerked her into his arms and they moved into the colorful whirl of waltzing couples. "If you have a shred of sense—or if you've learned anything about manners and behavior," he said in an explosive underbreath, "you'll wipe that martyred expression off your face and try to look congenial!"

That remark, with all its attendant arrogant superiority, made Alexandra long to slap his aristocratic face. "How dare you lecture me on manners and propriety, when you have just fawned over your precious paramour with your own wife standing there!"

"What the hell did you expect me to do?" Jordan demanded shortly. "Mow her down? She was standing right in our path!"

"You might have included me in your conversation." Alexandra flung back, too overwrought to consider that such a thing would have been a worse embarrassment to her.

This hostile exchange between the Duke of Hawthorne and his errant wife did not go unnoticed by the occupants of the ballroom. Dancers were colliding with one another in their efforts to eavesdrop; the musicians were leaning from side to side, trying for a better view; and quizzing glasses were focused in unison upon the pair.

"Include you," Jordan blazed in disbelief. "Include you with a woman who—" At the last instant he cut off the words he'd been about to use, but Alexandra provided them for him—"who shared your bed?" she hissed.

"You're scarcely in a position to lecture me on manners, madam. From all accounts, your behavior in the last weeks has been anything but that which befits my wife!"

"My behavior!" Alexandra exploded. "For your information," she informed him with blazing sarcasm, "if Ibehaved in a way that befits your wife, I would have to try to seduce every member of the opposite sex who crosses my path!"

That outburst so stunned Jordan that for a split second he felt like shaking her for her insolence and, at the same time, he was suddenly struck with the realization that she was jealous. His temper slightly mollified, he glanced up and realized that half the dancers had moved off the floor to better observe the unprecedented altercation between him and his infuriating wife, and the rest were openly staring at them.

Jerking his gaze from their audience, he clenched his teeth in an artificial smile aimed at Alexandra's head and snapped, "Smile at me, dammit! The whole ballroom is watching us."

"I most certainly will not," she blazed irrationally, but she managed to smooth her features into a semblance of calm. "I'm still engaged to your cousin!"

That excuse was so inane, so unexpected, that Jordan swallowed a stunned laugh. "What a peculiar code of ethics you have, my love. You happen to be married to me at the moment."

"Don't you dare call me your love, and the least you could do is consider Anthony's position in all this," Alexandra cried. "Think how humbling it will be to him if everyone thinks I've fallen straight into your arms. Have you no loyalty at all to your cousin?"

"A difficult moral dilemma for me," Jordan agreed mendaciously, "but in this case, I find my loyalties are entirely with myself."

"Damn you!"

Jordan stared down at the tempestuous young beauty in the provocative lemon-yellow gown, her face both delicate and vivid with her stormy Aegean-blue eyes and rose-petal lips, and he suddenly saw her as she'd looked the last time she'd worn light yellow—standing in his grandmother's garden, her enchanting face turned up to the sky, while she explained to him in her soft, sweet voice: "Every season of the year comes with a promise that something wonderful is going to happen to me someday. In winter, the promise comes with the smell of snow… In summer, I hear it in the boom of thunder and the lightning that streaks across the sky… Most of all, I feel it now, in springtime, when everything is green and black—"

She'd been hoping for something wonderful, and all she'd gotten was a four-day marriage followed by fifteen months of widowhood, along with what appeared to be a great deal of disillusioning information about the life he had led before he married her.

The fury within him died abruptly and, as he looked down into her glorious eyes, his stomach clenched at the thought of taking her home and making her cry.

"Tell me something," he asked softly. "Do you still think dirt smells like perfume?"

"Do I what?" she said, warily studying his slightly softened features, a bewildered frown creasing her smooth forehead. "Oh—now I remember, and no I don't," she hastily added, reminded that he had found her pitiful. "I've grown up now."

"So I see." Jordan said with a mixture of tenderness and budding desire.

Alexandra saw his expression gentle and hastily looked away, but her own anger had begun to drain. Her conscience reminded her that her public wager and her hostile conduct on this dance floor—where he had taken her to salvage her pride—had been inexcusable. No longer feeling entirely the innocent and injured party, she bit her lip and raised her eyes to his.

"Truce?" he offered with a lazy smile.

"Until we're out of here," Alexandra instantly agreed, and when she gave him a tentative smile, she could have sworn she glimpsed approval in those inscrutable grey eyes.

"What happened to the puppy I bought you?" he asked, his smile deepening.

"Henry is at Hawthorne. Oh, and you were wrong," she added mischievously. "The boy who sold him to you didn't lie—he's a purebred."

"Huge?" Jordan asked. "With paws the size of saucers?"

She shook her head. "Dinner plates."

Jordan laughed and she smiled. The couples on the dance floor renewed their interest in the music, quizzing glasses were lowered, and conversations resumed. When the dance ended, Jordan put his hand under her elbow and guided her forward into the crowd, but their departure was immediately delayed by groups of Jordan's friends who pressed around them, anxious to welcome him home.

Alexandra, who already had a reasonably viable plan to ensure he would not find her in her rooms tonight, expected him to rush her off, but instead he spent the next half hour talking to the people who sought his attention, his hand covering her fingers where they rested on his arm.

Left with no other choice, Alexandra stood reluctantly by his side, trying to appear calm and to look as if standing by Jordan were no different than standing by Tony had been.

But if she tried to treat Jordan as she had treated Tony, she noticed at once that the ton certainly didn't. They had treated Tony cordially, and with the respect due his rank, but never with the near-reverence they were showing to Hawk tonight. As she watched bejeweled ladies curtsy to him and elegant gentlemen bow respectfully and shake his hand, Alexandra realized that, to them, Tony had been merely the custodian of a title, but Jordanwas the title.

He was Hawthorne, as he had been born to be.

Standing at his side, she began to fear she might have overestimated her ability to manipulate him into letting her go back to Morsham once she had money. After being amongst the ton for all these weeks, she'd erroneously equated Jordan with the other aristocrats she'd come to know—polished, fastidious, and urbane. But also soft. Placid.

Now, as she watched Jordan interact with the other men, she was miserably aware that beneath his civilized, urbane facade, he was nothing like them.

Beside her, Jordan bent his head to her and spoke in a polite, but forceful voice. "If you'll give me your word to go straight home, you can leave now. That way, it will appear that you're going on with your evening and I with mine. I'll follow you in a quarter hour."

Amazed by his thoughtful gesture and relieved beyond words because it made her plan even easier to execute, Alexandra nodded and started to step away, but his hand clamped down on her arm. "Your word, Alexandra," he demanded shortly.

"I give you my word to go straight home," she said with a dazzling smile born of relief, and hastily left.

Jordan watched her, his eyes slightly narrowed as he contemplated the reason for that suspiciously bright smile of hers, as well as the wisdom of trusting her. It was not so much his faith in her word that had led him to make his offer, but rather that he could not honestly believe she would defy him again, now that she understood the lengths to which he would go to ensure her obedience to his will. Besides, he decided philosophically, turning his attention back to his friends and acquaintances, where else could she possibly go but home? No one, not even his grandmother, would shelter her from her husband.

Jordan was not the only one who watched Alexandra leave, a great many other guests did so as well, and they were not at all fooled by her apparently harmonious departure from her husband.

"Hawk means to deal with her when he gets home," Lord Ogilvie assured the large group of people around him. "You can be sure he won't let her behavior go unpunished a single night. What's more, he'll wear her ribbon on Queen's Race day."

"To be sure!" agreed young Sir Billowby.

"Indubitably!" seconded the Earl of Thurston.

"No doubt about it," declared Lord Carleton stoutly.

Lady Carleton looked at the Duchess of Hawthorne, who was ascending the staircase, and bravely declared, "I hope all of you are wrong. Hawthorne has broken hearts from all over England. It's time a woman broke his!"

Sir Billowby's shy young wife put up her chin and seconded that opinion. "I hope she gives her ribbon to someone else to wear!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Honor," said her husband. "I'm going to wager £100 that she'll give it to Hawk."

The two ladies looked at each other and then at the gentlemen. "My lord," Lady Honor informed her scandalized husband as she withdrew £100 from her reticule, "I'll take that wager."

"So will I!" Lady Carleton declared.

By the time Alexandra climbed into her carriage, enough money had already been wagered in that ballroom to fatten Prinny's coffers for years, and the odds had soared to 25 to 1 in Jordan's favor. Only the younger ladies held out any hope that Alexandra would be the first female to resist the "irresistible" Duke of Hawthorne.