At that moment, the object of this and dozens of similar conversations throughout the ballroom was lounging against the stone railing of the balcony, gazing down into Elizabeth's glistening blue eyes with an expression of unconcealed annoyance. "Your reputation is being shredded to pieces in there, Elizabeth. If you have any sense, you'll retire to the country with your 'ailing' husband for a few weeks until the gossip over the duel dies down."
With a brittle attempt at gaiety, Elizabeth shrugged. "Gossip can't hurt me, Jordan. I'm a countess now." Bitterness crept into her voice, strangling it. "Never mind that my husband is thirty years older than I. My parents have another title in the family now, which is all they wanted."
"There's no point in regretting the past," Jordan said, restraining his impatience with an effort. "What's done is done."
"Why didn't you offer for me before you went off to fight that stupid war in Spain?" she asked in a suffocated voice.
"Because," he answered brutally, "I didn't want to marry you."
Five years ago, Jordan had casually considered offering for her in the distant, obscure future, but he hadn't wanted a wife then any more than he did now, and nothing had been settled between them before he left for Spain. A year after his departure, Elizabeth's father, intent on adding another title to the family tree, had insisted she marry Grangerfield. When Jordan received her letter, telling him she'd been married off to Grangerfield, he'd felt no keen sense of loss. On the other hand, he'd known Elizabeth since they were in their teens, and he had harbored a certain fondness for her. Perhaps if he had been around at the time, he might have persuaded her to defy her parents and refuse old Grangerfield's suit. Or perhaps not. Like nearly all females of her social class, Elizabeth had been taught since childhood that her duty as a daughter was to marry in accordance with her parents' wishes.
In any case, Jordan had not been here. Two years after his father's death, despite the fact that he hadn't produced an heir to ensure the succession, Jordan had bought a commission in the army and gone to Spain to fight against Napoleon's troops. At first his daring and courage in the face of the enemy were simply the result of a reckless dissatisfaction with his own life. Later, as he matured, the skill and knowledge he acquired in countless bloody battles kept him alive and added to his reputation as a cunning strategist and invincible opponent.
Four years after departing for Spain, he resigned his commission and returned to England to resume the duties and responsibilities of a dukedom.
The Jordan Townsende who had returned to England the year before was very different from the young man who had left. The first time he walked into a ballroom after his return, many of those changes were startlingly evident: In contrast to the pale faces and bored languor of other gentlemen of his class, Jordan's skin was deeply tanned, his tall body rugged and muscular, his movements brisk and authoritative; and, although the legendary Hawthorne charm was still evident in his occasional lazy white smile, there was an aura about him now of a man who had confronted danger—and enjoyed it. It was an aura that women found infinitely exciting and which added tremendously to his attraction.
"Can you forget what we've meant to each other?" Elizabeth raised her head, and before Jordan could react, she leaned up on her toes and kissed him, her familiar body willing and pliant, pressing eagerly against his.
His hands caught her arms in a punishing grip and he moved her away. "Don't be a fool!" he snapped scathingly, his long fingers biting into her arms. "We were friends, nothing more. What happened between us last week was a mistake. It's over."
Elizabeth tried to move against him. "I can make you love me, Jordan. I know I can. You almost loved me a few years ago. And you wanted me last week—"
"I wanted your delectable body, my sweet," he mocked with deliberate viciousness, "nothing else. That's all I've ever wanted from you. I'm not going to kill your husband for you in a duel, so you can forget that scheme. You'll have to find some other fool who'll purchase your freedom for you at the point of a gun."
She blanched, blinking back her tears, but she didn't deny that she'd hoped he would kill her husband. "I don't want my freedom, Jordan, I want you," she said in a tear-glogged voice. "You may have regarded me as little more than a friend, but I've been in love with you since we were fifteen years old."
The admission was made with such humble, hopeless misery that anyone but Jordan Townsende would have realized she was telling the truth, and perhaps been moved to pity her. But Jordan had long ago become a hardened skeptic where women were concerned. He responded to her painful admission of love by handing her a snowy white handkerchief. "Dry your eyes."
The hundreds of guests who surreptitiously watched their return to the ballroom a few moments later, noted that Lady Grangerfield seemed tense and left the ball at once.
However, the Duke of Hawthorne looked as smoothly unperturbed as ever as he returned to the beautiful ballerina who was the latest in his long string of mistresses. And when the couple stepped onto the dance floor a few moments later, there was a glow of energy, a powerful magnetism that emanated from the beautiful, charismatic pair. Elise Grandeaux's lithe, fragile, grace complemented his bold elegance; her vivid coloring was the perfect foil for his darkness, and when they moved together in a dance, they were two splendid creatures who seemed made for one another.
"But then that is always the way," Miss Bildrup said to her friends as they studied the pair in fascinated admiration. "Hawthorne always makes the woman he is with look like his perfect mate. "
"Well, he won't marry a common stage performer no matter how excellent they look together," said Miss Morrison. "And my brother has promised to bring him to our house for a morning call this week," she added on a note of triumph.
Her joy was demolished by Miss Bildrup: "My mama said he plans to leave for Rosemeade tomorrow."
"Rosemeade?" the other echoed blankly, her shoulders drooping.
"His grandmother's estate," Miss Bildrup clarified. "It's to the north, beyond some godforsaken little village called Morsham."
Chapter Three
It defies the imagination, Filbert, it truly does!" Alexandra announced to the old footman who shuffled into her bedchambers carrying a small armload of wood.
Filbert squinted nearsightedly at his seventeen-year-old mistress, who was sprawled across the bed on her stomach, her small chin cupped in her hands, her body clad in her usual ensemble of tight brown breeches and faded shirt.