"And brave, apparently," Anthony added.
Nodding, Jordan said, "I'm going to send her a bank draft—a reward for saving my life. God knows they can use the money. Based on things she said—and things she was careful not to say—I gathered that the responsibility for the entire outlandish household rests on her shoulders. Alexandra will undoubtedly be offended by the money, which is why I didn't offer it last night, but it will ease her plight."
The duchess sniffed disdainfully, still irked by Miss Lawrence's definition of conventionality. "The lower classes are always eager for coin, Jordan, regardless of the reason it's given. I'm surprised she didn't try to wheedle some sort of monetary reward last night."
"You've become a cynic," Jordan teased blandly. "But you're wrong about this girl. She's without guile or greed."
Startled by this announcement from Jordan, whose opinion of the female character was notoriously low, Tony suggested helpfully, "In a few years, why don't you have another look at her and set her up as—"
"Anthony!" the duchess warned in tones of direst disapprobation. "Not in my presence, if you please!"
"I wouldn't dream of taking her from where she is," Jordan said, completely inured to his grandmother's ferocious scowl. "Alexandra is a rare jewel, but she wouldn't last a day in London. She's not hard enough or brittle enough or ambitious enough. She—" He broke off and looked inquiringly at the butler, who had coughed politely to obtain recognition. "Yes, Ramsey, what is it?"
Ramsey drew himself up ramrod straight, his face contorted with distaste, his eyebrows positively levitating with ire. Directing his remarks to Jordan, he said, "There are three persons here, your grace, who insist upon seeing you. They arrived in a cart that defies description, drawn by a horse which is unworthy of the name, wearing clothing which no person of any merit would be seen in—"
"Who are they?" Jordan interrupted impatiently.
"The man claims to be Sir Montague Marsh, and the two ladies with him are his sister-in-law Mrs. Lawrence and his niece Miss Alexandra Lawrence. They say they've come to collect upon a debt owed by you."
The word "debt" caused Jordan's eyebrows to snap together into a frown. "Show them in," he said shortly.
In an uncharacteristic lapse from her normal hauteur, the duchess permitted herself a satisfied, I-told-you-so glance at Jordan. "Miss Lawrence is not only greedy, she's pushing and encroaching. Imagine, calling upon you here and claiming you owe a debt."
Without replying to his grandmother's undeniable assessment of the situation, Jordan walked over and sat down at the carved oaken desk at the far end of the room. "There's no reason for either of you to sit through this. I'll handle it."
"On the contrary," said the duchess in a glacial voice. "Anthony and I shall be present as witnesses in case these persons should resort to extortion."
Keeping her eyes focused on the back of the butler, Alexandra followed reluctantly in the wake of her mother and Uncle Monty, her entire being engulfed in mortification, her misery increased a thousandfold by the magnificence of Rosemeade.
She'd expected a duke's grandmother to occupy a grand home, but nothing in her imagination or experience had prepared her for the sight of this gigantic, brooding place set amid acres of gardens and lawns. Until they arrived here, she'd clung to the vision of the duke as he had seemed the other night—friendly and accessible. Rosemeade, however, had banished that absurd notion from her mind. He was from another world. To him, Rosemeade was "a small country home." Instead, it was a palace, she thought miserably, as her feet sank into thick Aubusson carpet, a palace that made her feel even smaller and more insignificant than she already felt.
The butler swept open a pair of carved oaken doors and stepped aside to admit them to a room lined with paintings in ornate frames. Repressing an urge to curtsy to the stiff-backed servant, Alexandra walked forward, dreading the moment when she would have to confront her newfound friend and see what she knew would surely be contempt written all over his features.
She was not wrong. The man seated behind the richly carved desk bore little resemblance to the laughing, gentle man she'd met only two days ago. Today, he was an aloof, icy stranger who was inspecting her family as if they were bugs crawling across his beautiful carpet. He did not even make a pretense at politeness by standing or by introducing them to the other two occupants of the room. Instead, he nodded curtly to Uncle Monty and her mother, indicating they should be seated in the chairs before his desk.
When his gaze finally shifted to Alexandra, however, his granite features softened and his eyes warmed, as if he understood how humiliated she felt. Coming around his desk, he drew up an additional chair especially for her. "Does the bruise cause you much pain, moppet?" he asked, studying the bluish mark upon her cheek.
Absurdly flattered by his courtesy and concern, Alexandra shook her head. "It's nothing, it doesn't hurt a bit," she said, immeasurably relieved because he didn't seem to hold her in aversion for invading his house in this brassy manner. Awkward in her mother's ill-fitting gown, Alexandra sat down on the edge of the chair. When she tried to wriggle demurely backward, the skirt of her gown caught on the velvet nap of the chair and the entire gown tightened until its neckline jerked at her throat and the high collar forced her chin up. Trapped like a rabbit in her own snare, Alexandra gazed helplessly up into the duke's inscrutable grey eyes. "Are you comfortable?" he asked, straight-faced.
"Quite comfortable, thank you," Alexandra lied, morbidly certain that he was aware of her predicament and was trying hard not to laugh.
"Perhaps if you stood up and sat down again?"
"I'm perfectly fine as I am."
The amusement she thought she'd glimpsed in his eyes vanished the moment he sat back down behind his desk. Looking from her mother to her Uncle Monty, he said without preamble, "You could have spared yourselves the embarrassment of this unnecessary visit. I had every intention of expressing my gratitude to Alexandra by means of a bank draft for £1,000, which would have been delivered to you next week."
Alexandra's mind reeled at the mention of such an enormous sum. Why, £1,000 would keep her entire household in relative luxury for at least two years. She'd have firewood to waste, if she wished, which of course she didn't…
"That won't be enough," Uncle Monty announced gruffly and Alexandra's head jerked around.