That left the sofa, at right angles to the chairs and facing the fireplace. Tony, with no other choice, sat upon that and was joined by Uncle Monty, who had rushed into the drawing room in hopes of enjoying some libation while simultaneously lending Alexandra his emotional support. Jordan crossed to the fireplace, draped his arm across the mantel and turned, regarding the entire assemblage in cool, speculative silence.
While the elderly duchess gave an extremely brief, nervous account of Jordan's whereabouts for the last fifteen months, Filbert walked in, a beaming smile upon his lips, a tray of champagne in his hands. Unaware of the charged atmosphere or of Jordan's relationship to Alex, the loyal footman carried the tray straight to Alexandra and filled five glasses. As soon as the duchess finished speaking, Filbert handed the first glass to Alexandra, and said, "May you always be as happy as you are at this moment, Miss Alex."
Alexandra felt hysterical laughter well up inside her, combined with escalating panic, as Filbert returned to the table and poured more champagne into the remaining glasses, then passed them out to the silent inhabitants of the room, including Jordan.
Seconds ticked past, but no one, not even Uncle Monty, had nerve enough to be the first one to lift his glass and partake of the vintage champagne that had been brought up from the cellars in advance to celebrate a wedding that had not taken place… No one, except Jordan.
Seemingly impervious to the throbbing strain in the drawing room, he turned the glass in his hand, studying the bubbles in the sparkling crystal glass, then he took a long swallow. When he lowered the glass, he regarded Tony with a sardonic expression. "It's good to know," he coldly remarked, "that you haven't let your grief over my alleged demise prevent you from enjoying my best wines."
The duchess flinched, Alexandra stiffened, but Tony accepted the biting gibe with a nonchalant smile. "Be assured that we toasted you whenever we opened a new bottle, Hawk."
Beneath lowered lashes, Alexandra stole a swift, apprehensive glance at the tall, dark figure at the fireplace, wondering a little hysterically what sort of man he actually was. He appeared to feel no antagonism over Tony's having "usurped" his title, his money, his estates, and his wife—and yet he was angry because his wine cellar had been raided.
Jordan's next words immediately disabused her of the erroneous notion that he was unconcerned about his estates. "How has Hawthorne fared in my absence?" he asked, and for the next hour he snapped rapid-fire questions at Tony, interrogating him in minute detail about the state of each of his eleven estates, his myriad business ventures, his personal holdings, and even the health of some of his retainers.
Whenever he spoke, his deep voice scraped against Alexandra's lacerated nerves and, on those rare occasions when she stole a glance at him, apprehension made her quickly jerk her gaze away. Dressed in tight breeches that outlined his long, muscular legs and an open-necked white shirt that clung to his wide shoulders, Jordan Townsende looked completely relaxed, yet there was an undeniable aura of forcefulness, of power—restrained now, but gathering force—waiting to be unleashed on her. She remembered him as being handsome, but not so… so ruggedly virile, or so formidably large. He was too thin, but the tan he'd acquired after his escape and on board the ship made him look far healthier than the white-skinned gentlemen of the ton. Standing almost within arms' reach of her, he loomed like a sinister specter, a dangerous, malevolent giant of a man who had suddenly imposed himself in her life, again, with the power to blot all happiness from her future. She was not callous enough to be sorry he was alive, but she sorely wished she'd never laid eyes on him.
For what seemed an eternity, Alexandra sat perfectly still, existing in a state of jarring tension, fighting to appear completely calm, clinging to her composure as if it were a blanket she could use to insulate herself against Jordan. With a mixture of terrible dread and utter determination, she waited for the inevitable moment when Jordan would finally bring up the matter of her. When Jordan was finished discussing estate matters with Tony, however, he switched to the status of his other ventures, and Alexandra felt her anxiety begin to escalate. When that topic was exhausted, he inquired about local events, and Alexandra's panic was mixed with bewilderment. But when he switched from that to gossip and trivialities and asked about the outcome of the races at Fordham last spring, Alexandra's bewilderment gave way to annoyance.
Obviously, he considered her less important than Lord Wedgeley's two-year-old mare or Sir Markham's promising colt, she realized. Not that she should have been surprised by that, she reminded herself bitterly, for as she had discovered to her mortification a short time ago, Jordan Townsende had never considered her anything but an irksome responsibility.
When all matters, down to the most trivial, had finally been discussed, an uneasy silence fell over the room, and Alexandra naturally assumed her time was finally here. Just when she expected Jordan to ask to see her alone, he abruptly straightened from his lounging posture at the fireplace and announced his intention to leave!
Prudence warned her to keep silent, but Alexandra could not bear another hour, let alone another day, of this awful suspense. Striving to sound calm and impersonal, she said, "I think there is one more issue that needs to be discussed, your grace."
Without bothering to so much as glance in her direction, Jordan reached out and accepted Tony's outstretched hand. "That issue can wait," he said coldly. "When I've seen to some important matters, you and I will talk privately."
The implication that she was not an "important" matter was unmistakable, and Alexandra stiffened at the deliberate, unprovoked insult. She was a fully grown young woman now, not an easily manipulated, wildly infatuated child who would have done anything to please him. Putting a tight rein on her temper, she said with unarguable logic, "Surely a human being warrants the same amount of your time as Sir Markham's colt, and I would rather discuss it now, while we are all together."
Jordan's head jerked toward her, and Alexandra's breath froze at the hard anger flaring in his eyes. "I said 'privately'!" he snapped, leaving her with the staggering realization that beneath his cool, impassive facade Jordan Townsende was burningly angry. Before she could assimilate that or withdraw her request for his time—as she was on the verge of doing—the duchess swiftly arose and beckoned Uncle Monty and Tony to follow her out of the room.
The door to the salon closed behind them with an ominous thud, and for the first time in fifteen months, Alexandra was alone with the man who was her husband—alarmingly, nerve-rackingly alone.