“And your hair, mademoiselle. How are we going to hide all that hair?”
“We’ll twist it into one long plait, tuck it down the back of this great oversized coat and then put the wig on top.”
Ginny cast her a dubious look, then turned her aroundand began braiding, pulling the hair tight to communicate her disapproval.
“If anything shows, I can toss a muffler around my neck to cover it. It is getting a bit cold out these days anyway.”
Ginny was still wondering how her mistress had talked her into such a mad scheme when she left the house a short time later, accompanied by a slight footman in a too-large jacket and a muffler.
Twenty-Seven
Rafe Moreham sat alone in his study the following afternoon, trying to focus on his business correspondence, but his mind kept wandering. He’d always loved this room; the deep greens of the walls, curtains, and carpet, and the dark wood of the furniture had always made him feel as if he had escaped to some hidden forest. It was at the back of the house, away from the busy front rooms and the street, and the thick velvet curtains and plush wool carpet quickly absorbed any sound that managed to permeate the heavy paneled door. The only sound was the ticking of an ornate clock on the mantle, reminding him that time was passing and that he still had not attended to his work.
He forced his eyes back down to the pile of papers on his desk and exhaled deeply. He had been so many places and done so many things in the last three days, and yet it felt as though important details were slipping through his hands. He’d seen Lamartine safely dispatched to France, convinced his cousin to grant him a special marriagelicense, found what he hoped was the perfect ring for Alix, and even visited with Anne Dinsmore to let her know about the wedding announcement that would appear in the papers.
His jaw tensed as he thought about his meeting with Anne. She’d greeted him with a warm smile as he’d been ushered into her cream and yellow sitting room. Gesturing gracefully to a comfortable seat by the fire, she’d poured him some tea and served him, talking easily of the most recent goings on of the ton. When he’d indicated his need to speak seriously with her, she’d sat with her back straight and her head held as still and precise as an egret. She’d been polite and pleasant throughout, and when he’d finished, she’d wished him a happy future with Alix.
And yet, as he’d left he’d had the sense that he’d behaved like a cad.
He couldn’t put his finger on what she’d said or done that had made him feel that way. He tugged at his stock, loosening the knot. Perhaps it had been her knowing smile as she’d hinted that he’d lost his head over a younger woman and was being ruled by passion rather than thoughtful planning. Or how she’d cast him a sympathetic look through her pale lashes as she’d said she hoped everything would turn out for the best. As if, he thought with some annoyance, just beneath the surface she believed he and Alix hadn’t a chance in hell.
He reached again for the pile of invoices on his desk. Anne had played to his deepest fears. He realized he was doing all these things for Alix, rearranging his life, and he still was uncertain about how she felt. He’d even told her he loved her, and she’d said nothing in return. He was placing a lot of faith, he thought, in how their bodies seemed to meld into one whenever they were together. Damn Cole Davenport and his talk of impulses.
There was a light knock on the door, and Rafe heard the ever-polite tones of his butler.
“Come,” he said, more gruffly than he meant.
The door opened and Ferguson, a tall, dark-haired man with a face that looked as if it had been carved from limestone, stepped into the room. “There is a footman from Lady Melbourne’s who insists upon seeing you, sir.” He paused, then continued in an apologetic tone. “He claims he has words for your ears alone and insisted I give you this.” Ferguson held out a gloved hand, and Rafe could see his ruby signet ring stark against the white cotton.
He held his hand out for the band, wondering what excuses Alix had sent now to delay accepting her position as his wife. As he felt the heavy metal slip into his hand, he felt the anger and frustration of the past few days began to fuse into a white heat. She might return the ring, he thought bitterly, but she was going to find that it was not so easy to break the ties that bound them.
“Send the man in, Ferguson,” he said sharply.
Rafe sat turning the signet ring about in his hands when the footman dressed in Melbourne livery entered the room. He heard the man’s footfalls step slowly across the thick green carpet, but he didn’t bother to look up.
“Go ahead,” he muttered, “deliver your message.” There was no answer. Annoyed, Rafe ceased toying with the ring, and glanced up. Lady Melbourne’s butler must be getting slack, he thought critically, eyeing the slight frame in the ill-fitting clothes.
The footman cleared his throat nervously, and Rafe focused an impatient gaze on the man. Or was it a man? he wondered, his mind slowly registering the familiar features beneath the white wig. “Alix,” he murmured in disbelief, as he rose, moving in front of the desk to get a better look.
She stepped uncertainly back. “You left so abruptly the other night, you didn’t give me a chance to say a word.”
“Did you come across town in that get up?” he demanded, pulling the white wig off and dropping it to the floor.
She pulled herself up defiantly. “Well, it’s been three days, and I haven’t heard a word from you.”
“I sent you a ring,” he said defensively.
“With a note that said nothing more than that you hoped it fit.”
“And does it?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding rather annoyed. “And it’s beautiful.”
“But?” he queried, leaning back against the edge of his desk and eyeing her expectantly. “What is the problem this time?” He paused and, as his anger got the better of him, resumed speaking without waiting for her answer. “No, let me guess. You don’t love me, you don’t trust me, you don’t want to spend your life with me. Is that what you’ve come to tell me?” His voice gained momentum. “Well, Alexandre Charlotte de Rabec de La Brou,” he said, “it doesn’t matter. You’re my wife and that’s how it’s going to stay, no annulments, no divorces, no separate residences.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, warming to his theme. “After December you are going to live with me, have my children, and God willing, grow old with me. And if you don’t love me, well, it’s too damn bad, because I love you. I love your hair and your eyes, every inch of your delectable body. I love the way we never run out of things to talk and laugh and even fight about. God help me, I even love you when you stand in front of me readyto protest that our marriage is some colossal mistake.”
“Are you quite finished?”
