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Alex looked up at him, startled at the bitterness of his tone and the blazing light in his eyes. “I am your wife, not your chattel,” she answered softly. “Please refrain from treating me as such.”
She shook her arm free and stalked off, then slowed her steps so as not to arouse curiosity among the guests. Her battles with Drake, his battles within himself, were no one’s business but theirs.
“Alexandria?”
She turned to find Randall Scarborough by her side. He stared appreciatively at her bare shoulders, then continued downward as if he could see right through her clothes. Alex shivered in distaste.
Randall interpreted the shiver to be one of desire, and his smile deepened. “We have not had a chance to get to know each other,” he informed her smoothly, taking her arm and leading her to a secluded corner of the ballroom. “And since my wife and your husband are old friends,” he said with a meaningful emphasis, “I think we should become the same. Do you not agree?”
Alex bit back a scathing reply. If she was going to gain any information, she had to ingratiate herself, to play along with their sickening innuendos … to a point.
She gave Randall a winning smile, her expression friendly and innocent. “I would love to get to know you better, Randall. After all, I am still new to Allonshire, and I know very few of Drake’s friends.” She paused after the word “friends,” allowing the implication to take hold. “Also, I did not get to enjoy my first Season, as I was compelled to travel to York in March. So,” she concluded with a dainty shrug, “I really have had little opportunity to meet the right people.”
Randall nodded sympathetically, still concentrating on Alex’s breasts. “I certainly understand how difficult it must be for you. Anything I can do to help—”
“Oh, you are so kind,” Alex broke in. “But then, I knew you would be.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I must confess that tonight is not the first time I have seen you.”
Her statement actually caused him enough surprise to make him return his attention to her face. “Really?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “I cannot believe that we have met before now. I would never forget so exquisite a creature as you.”
“Oh, we didn’t actually meet,” she assured him, studying his face for a reaction. “And it was just this morning. I was a trifle nervous waiting for the guests to appear, so I took a short walk about the grounds. I suppose you arrived early and had the same idea. When I saw you, you were strolling … let’s see … I believe it was near the stables!” she lied.
Randall looked crestfallen. “Ah, your grace, I wish that it were so. How I would love to be the man you saw and admired earlier today. Unfortunately”—he cast an annoyed glance across the room to where his wife was chattering with a group of women—“we were delayed in our arrival due to a small family spat.” He sighed deeply, dramatically. “Not all men are so fortunate as Drake in their spouses.”
Alex feigned surprise. “I was so certain that it was you.”
He shook his head regretfully. “No, we were quite late. Perhaps it was Lawrence Dragmere you spotted. He and Elizabeth reached Allonshire well ahead of the rest of us, and he does resemble me in height and build, although,” he added, with a suggestive look, “our similarities end there. I am far more proficient than he in the proper way to treat a lady like you.”
“Oh, of th
at I have no doubt,” Alex assured him, already searching the room for Lawrence Dragmere. Her fishing had paid off handsomely. Perhaps she would soon have her answer.
Four hours later she knew otherwise.
Her feet ached from dancing, her head throbbed from idle conversation, and the lace on her bodice was shredded where she had been tugging at it all night. She was half convinced that she was lacking a head and neck, since all the men had seemed to be speaking directly to her bosom.
She was also no closer to the truth than she had been at the onset of the evening. Either she was a very poor investigator or none of their guests was guilty of anything other than flagrant adultery, shameless flirtation, falsely inflated feelings of self-worth, and shallow, boring conversation. She had batted her lashes, simpered and laughed, flattered and marveled, and endured countless scandalous offers until she could barely contain her disdain.
And what had she gained? Nothing, except that now four more men were sniffing at her skirts like ravenous hounds after a slab of meat. Only Stephen Lyndale and Reginald Kensgate had been polite and kind, rather than lecherous— although Lord Kensgate had seemed very uneasy throughout their conversation, mopping at his brow and giving terse, disjointed answers to her probing questions. But she attributed it to his age and his distress about Grayson’s death. After all, they had been very close friends.
The ball was drawing to a close, and Alex felt only relief. She longed for her loose-fitting night rail and her comfortable bed. Politely she bade each of the guests good night, until at last all was quiet, and she could escape to her sanctuary.
It suddenly occurred to her that she had not spoken to Drake in hours. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen him chatting with their guests throughout the evening, and from time to time she had heard his deep baritone permeate the room. But now there was no sign of him in the still, empty ballroom.
Alex’s footsteps echoed as she crossed the polished floor, nodding at the few servants who were hurriedly gathering glasses and straightening furniture. It was just as well that she and Drake had avoided being together, she mused, winding her way up the stairs. He was impossible when he was in one of his foul, dark moods, and she lacked the energy to cope with it tonight. She had too much on her mind, and her body was crying out for sleep.
Instinctively she placed a gentle hand on her abdomen and smiled. There had been no time to revel in her discovery that she carried Drake’s child. Tonight, alone in her bedchamber, she would savor the knowledge. And then perhaps Drake would come to her, in better spirits, and she could share the wondrous news with him.
Her smile grew soft. Perhaps this was just what they needed to solidify their bond—a baby. Despite her unresolved worry for Drake’s safety, renewed hope stirred within Alex. She was suddenly most eager to see her husband.
Drake was totally, utterly foxed.
He stared broodingly down at the richly colored brandy in his glass, then flung himself into one of the high-backed chairs that stood against the wall of his bedchamber. He wondered fleetingly how many drinks he had had, then dismissed the concern. What difference did it make? Hell, he could order a dozen bottles to be brought to him, no matter how late the hour, and it would be done immediately. He was a damned duke, now, wasn’t he?
He put the glass to his lips and swallowed deeply. He could drink until he passed out, but he wouldn’t be able to erase her from his mind. The way she had looked tonight, an apparition of loveliness, a flowing-haired goddess of innocent, regal beauty.
A practiced courtesan who had all but seduced an entire houseful of men before his very eyes.
From the moment Alex had stormed from his side after their waltz, the evening had progressed from bad to worse. He had gone from unreasonable jealousy and possessiveness to infuriated amazement and painful shock to blind, trembling rage as his worst nightmare had unfolded before him.
