The duchess digested that for a moment and then slowly inclined her white head in a regal nod. "You're entirely correct, of course."
"Of course," Anthony said, hiding a smile. "And you needn't worry that Alexandra will betray her background."
"I'm as concerned about her revealing her mind as I am her background. I can't think what her grandfather could have been about when he filled her head with bookish nonsense. You see," she admitted anxiously, "I so wish for her to have a wonderful Season, to be admired for herself, and then to make a splendid match. I wish Galverston hadn't offered for the Waverly chit last week. Galverston's the only unmarried marquess in England, which means Alexandra will have to settle for an earl or less."
"If those are your hopes, Grandmama, you're bound to be disappointed," Tony said with a sigh. "Alexandra has no interest whatsoever in the Season's amusements or in being admired by any of the town beaux."
"Don't be absurd—she's been working and studying and looking forward to this for months!"
"But not for the reasons you evidently think," Anthony said somberly. "She's here because you convinced her Jordan wanted her to take her rightful place in Society as his wife. She's been working all these months for one reason only—that she may be worthy of that honor. She has no intention of remarrying. She told me that last night. She's convinced herself that Jordan loved her, I think, and she fully intends to 'sacrifice herself' to his memory."
"Good God!" said the duchess, thunderstruck. "She's barely nineteen years old! Of course she must marry. What did you say to her?"
"Nothing," Anthony replied sardonically. "How could I tell her that, in order to fit in with Jordan's crowd, she should have studied flirtation and dalliance, rather than drawing-room conversation and Debrett's Peerage."
"Go away, Anthony," her grace sighed. "You're depressing me. Go and see what's keeping Alexandra—it's time to leave."
In the hall outside her. bedchamber, Alexandra stood before a small portrait of Jordan which she'd discovered in an unused room when they first came to London, and which she'd asked to have rehung here, where she could see it every time she passed. The painting was done the year before last, and in it Jordan was sitting with his back against a tree, one leg drawn up, his wrist resting casually atop his knee, looking at the artist. Alexandra loved the lifelike, unposed quality of the painting, but it was his expression that held her like a magnet and made her pulse quicken—because Jordan looked very much as he had often looked when he was about to kiss her. His grey eyes were slumberous, knowing; and a lazy, thoughtful smile was hovering about his mobile lips. Reaching up, Alexandra touched her trembling fingertips to his lips. "Tonight is our night, my love," she whispered. "You won't be ashamed of me—I promise."
From the corner of her eye, she saw Anthony coming toward her and hastily snatched her hand away. Without taking her eyes from Jordan's compelling features, she said, "The artist who painted this is wonderfully talented, but I can't quite make out his name. Who is he?"
"Allison Whitmore," Anthony said curtly.
Surprised by the notion of a female painter and by Anthony's abrupt tone, Alexandra hesitated, then she shrugged the matter aside and pirouetted slowly in front of Anthony. "Look at me, Anthony. Do you think he would be pleased with me if he could see me now?"
Stifling the urge to give Alexandra a taste of reality by telling her Lady Allison Whitmore painted that picture while Jordan was indulging in a torrid affair with her, Anthony took his eyes from the portrait and did as Alexandra asked. What he saw stole his breath away.
Standing serenely before him was a dark-haired beauty wrapped in an alluring, low-cut gown of shimmering aquamarine chiffon the exact shade of her magnificent eyes. It draped diagonally across her full breasts and clung to her tiny waist and gently rounded hips. Her gleaming mahogany hair was pulled back off her forehead, falling in waving swirls over her shoulders and partway down her back. Diamonds nestled in the burnished waves, twinkling like stars on gleaming satin; they lay at her slender throat and sparkled at her wrist. But it was that face of hers that made it hard for Anthony to breathe.
Although Alexandra Lawrence Townsende was not beautiful in the classic tradition of fair hair and pale skin, she was nevertheless one of the most alluring, provocative creatures he had ever beheld. Beneath her sooty lashes, eyes that could enchant or disarm gazed candidly into his, completely unaware of their mesmerizing effect. Her rosy, generous mouth invited a man's kiss, yet her poised smile warned one not to get too close. At one and the same time, Alexandra managed to look seductive yet untouchable, virginal yet sensual, and it was that very contrast that made her so alluring—that, and her obvious unawareness of allure.
Some of the color drained from Alexandra's high, delicately carved cheekbones as she waited for the silent man before her to tell her Jordan would have been pleased with her appearance tonight. "That bad?" she asked, joking to cover her dismay.
Grinning, Anthony took both her gloved hands in his and said truthfully, "Jordan would be as dazzled by the sight of you tonight as the rest of the ton is going to be when they clap eyes on you. Will you save me a dance tonight? A waltz?" he added, gazing into her huge eyes.
In the coach on the way to the ball, the duchess issued last-minute instructions to Alexandra: "You needn't worry about your waltzing, my dear, nor any of the other social amenities you'll be expected to perform tonight. However," she warned in a dire tone, "I must remind you again not to allow Anthony's"—she paused to cast him a severely disapproving look— "appreciation of your intellect to mislead you into saying anything tonight which could make you appear bookish and intelligent. If you do, you will not take at all, I assure you. As I have told you time out of mind, gentlemen do not like overeducated females."
Tony squeezed Alex's hand encouragingly as they alighted from the coach. "Don't forget to save me a dance tonight," he said, smiling into her bright eyes.
"You may have all of them, if you wish." She laughed and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, as unselfconscious of her beauty as she was unaware of its effect on him.
"I'm going to have to stand in line," Anthony chuckled. "Even so, this is going to be the most enjoyable evening I've had in years!"
For the first half hour of Lord and Lady Winner's ball, Tony's prediction seemed to come true. Tony had deliberately preceded them into the ballroom so that he could watch his grandmother and Alexandra make their grand entrance. And it was worth watching. The Dowager Duchess of Hawthorne marched into the ballroom like a protective mother hen shepherding her chick—her bosom puffed out, her back ramrod straight, and her chin thrust forward in an aggressive stance that positively dared anyone to question her judgment in lending her enormous consequence to Alexandra or to consider ostracizing her.