her mother shouted, her face only inches from Alexandra's. "Did that man
touch
you?"
Growing increasingly alarmed by her mother's hysteria, Alexandra said matter-of-factly, "You know he did. You saw him carry me in here and—"
"Not that way!" Mrs. Lawrence cried, positively shaking with rage. "Did he put his hands on you? Did he
kiss
you? Answer me, Alexandra!"
Alexandra actually considered defying the principles her grandfather had ingrained in her, but before she could open her mouth to lie, her mother had already spotted the telltale flush blooming brightly in her cheeks.
"He did, didn't he!" she screamed. "The answer is written all over your face." Mrs. Lawrence reared back and stood up, pacing frantically back and forth in front of Alexandra's bed. Alexandra had heard of women who became so overwrought that they tore at their own hair, and her mother looked on the verge of doing just that.
Swiftly climbing out of bed, she put her hand out to stop her mother's aimless pacing. "Mama, please don't upset yourself like this. Please don't. The duke and I did nothing wrong."
Her mother almost ground her teeth in rage. "You may not understand that what you did was wrong, but that low, conniving, corrupt degenerate knew it.
He
knew. He waltzed in here as bold as brass, knowing you were too naive to understand what he'd done. God, how I hate men!"
Without warning, she pulled Alexandra into her arms in a fierce hug. "I'm not the blind fool I used to be. I let your father use us for his own amusement and then discard us, but I'll not let Hawthorne do that to us. He ruined you, and I'll make him pay, you'll see. Ill force him to do what's right."
"Mama, please!" Alexandra burst out, pulling free of her mother's suffocating embrace. "He did nothing wrong, not really. He only touched my limbs, looking for broken bones, and bade me farewell by kissing my forehead! That can't be wrong."
"He destroyed your reputation by taking you to a public inn. He's ruined any chance of your making a decent marriage. No other man will have you now. From this day forward, wherever you go in the village, scandal will follow you. For that he must pay, and dearly. When he returned to the inn last night, he gave the doctor his direction. We shall go after him and demand justice."
"No!" Alexandra cried, but her mother was deaf to all but her own inner voice that had been screaming for vengeance these three long years.
"I've no doubt he'll be expecting us to call," she continued bitterly, ignoring Alexandra's pleas, "now that we've learned the whole truth of last night's debacle."
Chapter Five
« ^ »
T he dowager D uchess of Hawthorne regarded her grandson with a stern smile on her lips and an attentive expression in her hazel eyes. At seventy, she was still a handsome woman with white hair, regal bearing, and the aloof, unshakable confidence and poise that comes from living a thoroughly privileged life.
Despite the stony dignity that characterized her every gesture, she was no stranger to grief, having already outlived her husband and her sons. Yet so rigid was her self-control that not even her closest acquaintances were certain she had loved them in life or that she was aware they were dead—and so enormous was her consequence among the
ton
that none of them ever dared to ask.
She betrayed no sign of alarm now as she serenely listened to her eldest grandson, who was sitting on one of the sofas in her drawing room, a booted foot propped upon the opposite knee, casually explaining that he was delayed because two highwaymen had tried to kill him last night.
Her other grandson, however, made no effort whatsoever to conceal his feelings about his cousin's explanation. Lifting his brandy glass to his lips, Anthony grinned and said drolly, "Jordan, admit it—the truth is you wanted another blissful evening with your beautiful ballerina. Er, your pardon, Grandmama," Anthony added belatedly when the dowager duchess sent him a withering look.
touch
you?"
Growing increasingly alarmed by her mother's hysteria, Alexandra said matter-of-factly, "You know he did. You saw him carry me in here and—"
"Not that way!" Mrs. Lawrence cried, positively shaking with rage. "Did he put his hands on you? Did he
kiss
you? Answer me, Alexandra!"
Alexandra actually considered defying the principles her grandfather had ingrained in her, but before she could open her mouth to lie, her mother had already spotted the telltale flush blooming brightly in her cheeks.
"He did, didn't he!" she screamed. "The answer is written all over your face." Mrs. Lawrence reared back and stood up, pacing frantically back and forth in front of Alexandra's bed. Alexandra had heard of women who became so overwrought that they tore at their own hair, and her mother looked on the verge of doing just that.
Swiftly climbing out of bed, she put her hand out to stop her mother's aimless pacing. "Mama, please don't upset yourself like this. Please don't. The duke and I did nothing wrong."
Her mother almost ground her teeth in rage. "You may not understand that what you did was wrong, but that low, conniving, corrupt degenerate knew it.
He
knew. He waltzed in here as bold as brass, knowing you were too naive to understand what he'd done. God, how I hate men!"
Without warning, she pulled Alexandra into her arms in a fierce hug. "I'm not the blind fool I used to be. I let your father use us for his own amusement and then discard us, but I'll not let Hawthorne do that to us. He ruined you, and I'll make him pay, you'll see. Ill force him to do what's right."
"Mama, please!" Alexandra burst out, pulling free of her mother's suffocating embrace. "He did nothing wrong, not really. He only touched my limbs, looking for broken bones, and bade me farewell by kissing my forehead! That can't be wrong."
"He destroyed your reputation by taking you to a public inn. He's ruined any chance of your making a decent marriage. No other man will have you now. From this day forward, wherever you go in the village, scandal will follow you. For that he must pay, and dearly. When he returned to the inn last night, he gave the doctor his direction. We shall go after him and demand justice."
"No!" Alexandra cried, but her mother was deaf to all but her own inner voice that had been screaming for vengeance these three long years.
"I've no doubt he'll be expecting us to call," she continued bitterly, ignoring Alexandra's pleas, "now that we've learned the whole truth of last night's debacle."
Chapter Five
« ^ »
T he dowager D uchess of Hawthorne regarded her grandson with a stern smile on her lips and an attentive expression in her hazel eyes. At seventy, she was still a handsome woman with white hair, regal bearing, and the aloof, unshakable confidence and poise that comes from living a thoroughly privileged life.
Despite the stony dignity that characterized her every gesture, she was no stranger to grief, having already outlived her husband and her sons. Yet so rigid was her self-control that not even her closest acquaintances were certain she had loved them in life or that she was aware they were dead—and so enormous was her consequence among the
ton
that none of them ever dared to ask.
She betrayed no sign of alarm now as she serenely listened to her eldest grandson, who was sitting on one of the sofas in her drawing room, a booted foot propped upon the opposite knee, casually explaining that he was delayed because two highwaymen had tried to kill him last night.
Her other grandson, however, made no effort whatsoever to conceal his feelings about his cousin's explanation. Lifting his brandy glass to his lips, Anthony grinned and said drolly, "Jordan, admit it—the truth is you wanted another blissful evening with your beautiful ballerina. Er, your pardon, Grandmama," Anthony added belatedly when the dowager duchess sent him a withering look.
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