"But the truth is, there were no highwaymen, and no twelve-year-old girl came to your rescue. Right?"
"Wrong," Jordan said imperturbably.
The duchess watched the by-play between the two cousins. They were as close as brothers and as different as night and day, she thought: Jordan was more like her, reserved, cool, detached, while Anthony was easy to know and incurably good-natured. Anthony had two doting parents who loved him; Jordan had never known real affection from either of his. She approved wholeheartedly of Jordan's demeanor; she disapproved of Anthony's easygoing ways. Disapproval—in varying degrees—was the only emotion the dowager duchess permitted herself to display.
"It happened exactly as I said, although it wounds my pride to admit it," Jordan continued wryly as he stood up and walked to the sideboard to replenish the port in his glass. "One moment I was staring down the barrel of a pistol and the next moment there she was—charging straight into our midst atop a swaybacked nag, with her visor down, brandishing a lance in one hand and a rifle in the other."
He poured more of the Portuguese port he especially preferred into his glass and returned to his chair. In a voice that was matter-of-fact rather than critical, he continued, "Her armor was rusty and her house is straight out of a bad gothic novel—complete with cobwebs on the beams, faded tapestries, creaking doors and damp walls. She has a butler who's deaf as a post, a blind footman who walks into walls, an old sot of an uncle who calls himself Sir Montague Marsh…"
"Interesting family," Anthony murmured. "No wonder she's so… ah… unconventional."
" 'Conventionality,' " Jordan quoted dryly," 'is the refuge of a stagnant mind.' "
The dowager, whose entire life had been religiously and scrupulously dedicated to the precepts of convention, glowered. "Who said such a ridiculous thing?"
"Alexandra Lawrence."
"
Very
unconventional." Anthony chuckled, studying the almost fond smile upon his cousin's rugged face as he spoke of the girl. Jordan seldom smiled, Anthony knew—unless the smile was seductive or cynical—and he rarely laughed. He had been brought up by a father who believed sentimentality was "soft," and anything that was soft was abhorrent, forbidden. So was anything that made a man vulnerable. Including love. "What does this extraordinary female look like?" Anthony asked, anxious to discover more about the girl who'd had such an unusual effect on his cousin.
"Small," Jordan said as a picture of Alexandra's laughing face danced across his mind. "And too thin. But she has a smile that could melt rock and a pair of the most extraordinary eyes. They're the color of aquamarines and, when you look at her, they're all you see. Her speech is as cultured as yours or mine, and despite that morbid house of hers, she's a cheerful little thing."
"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
"Wrong," Jordan said imperturbably.
The duchess watched the by-play between the two cousins. They were as close as brothers and as different as night and day, she thought: Jordan was more like her, reserved, cool, detached, while Anthony was easy to know and incurably good-natured. Anthony had two doting parents who loved him; Jordan had never known real affection from either of his. She approved wholeheartedly of Jordan's demeanor; she disapproved of Anthony's easygoing ways. Disapproval—in varying degrees—was the only emotion the dowager duchess permitted herself to display.
"It happened exactly as I said, although it wounds my pride to admit it," Jordan continued wryly as he stood up and walked to the sideboard to replenish the port in his glass. "One moment I was staring down the barrel of a pistol and the next moment there she was—charging straight into our midst atop a swaybacked nag, with her visor down, brandishing a lance in one hand and a rifle in the other."
He poured more of the Portuguese port he especially preferred into his glass and returned to his chair. In a voice that was matter-of-fact rather than critical, he continued, "Her armor was rusty and her house is straight out of a bad gothic novel—complete with cobwebs on the beams, faded tapestries, creaking doors and damp walls. She has a butler who's deaf as a post, a blind footman who walks into walls, an old sot of an uncle who calls himself Sir Montague Marsh…"
"Interesting family," Anthony murmured. "No wonder she's so… ah… unconventional."
" 'Conventionality,' " Jordan quoted dryly," 'is the refuge of a stagnant mind.' "
The dowager, whose entire life had been religiously and scrupulously dedicated to the precepts of convention, glowered. "Who said such a ridiculous thing?"
"Alexandra Lawrence."
"
Very
unconventional." Anthony chuckled, studying the almost fond smile upon his cousin's rugged face as he spoke of the girl. Jordan seldom smiled, Anthony knew—unless the smile was seductive or cynical—and he rarely laughed. He had been brought up by a father who believed sentimentality was "soft," and anything that was soft was abhorrent, forbidden. So was anything that made a man vulnerable. Including love. "What does this extraordinary female look like?" Anthony asked, anxious to discover more about the girl who'd had such an unusual effect on his cousin.
"Small," Jordan said as a picture of Alexandra's laughing face danced across his mind. "And too thin. But she has a smile that could melt rock and a pair of the most extraordinary eyes. They're the color of aquamarines and, when you look at her, they're all you see. Her speech is as cultured as yours or mine, and despite that morbid house of hers, she's a cheerful little thing."
"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
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