From the corner of her eyes, she watched him walk to the table and pour himself another glass of champagne, and she took advantage of his preoccupation to really look at him. What she saw made her tremble with foreboding. Wildly, she wondered how she could have been naive enough, or infatuated enough, to imagine that Jordan Townsende was gentle. Seen now, through the eyes of an adult, she could not find a trace of gentleness or kindness anywhere in his tough, ruggedly chiseled features. How, she wondered in amazement, could she ever have likened him to Michelangelo's beautiful David?
Instead of gentle beauty, there was ruthless nobility stamped on Jordan Townsende's tanned features, implacable authority in the tough jawline and straight nose, and cold determination in the thrust of his chin. Inwardly she shivered at the harsh cynicism she saw in his eyes, the biting mockery she heard in his drawl. Long ago, she had thought his grey eyes soft, like the sky after a summer rain, but now she could see they were cold and unwelcoming as glaciers; eyes without kindness or understanding. Oh, he was handsome enough, she conceded reluctantly—devastatingly so, in fact, but only if one were drawn to dark, blatantly aggressive, wickedly sensual men, which she assuredly was not.
Racking her brain for the best way to broach the matter on her mind, she approached the table and poured herself another glass of champagne, oblivious to the fact that her first glass was still full, then she looked around, trying to decide whether to sit or stand. She decided to stand so he would not seem so tall and intimidating.
At the fireplace Jordan raised his glass to his lips, watching her. She could have only two possible reasons for insisting on this meeting, he thought. The first possibility was that she honestly believed she was in love with Tony, and that was why she wished to marry him. If that was the case, she would begin by telling him so—simply and truthfully—as had been her habit. The second possibility was that she wanted to be married to whoever was the Duke of Hawthorne. If that was the case, she would now try to soothe Jordan with some form of tender, feminine theatrics. But first she would wait a bit for his temper to cool—exactly as she was doing now.
Jordan drained his glass and put it down on the mantel with a sharp thud. "I'm waiting," he snapped impatiently.
Alexandra jumped and whirled to face him, appalled by his biting tone. "I—I know," she said, determined at all costs to speak to him with calm maturity and to make it infinitely clear to him that she no longer wished to be his concern or responsibility. On the other hand, she did not want to do or say anything which might reveal to him how hurt and angry and disillusioned she had been when she discovered the truth about his feelings for her, or what a fool she had made of herself grieving for London's most infamous libertine. To add to her dilemma, it was rapidly becoming obvious that in his current mood, Jordan was not likely to react reasonably to the scandalous subject of a divorce. In fact, she instinctively knew he would react the opposite. "I'm not quite certain how to begin," she said hesitantly.
"In that case," he drawled sarcastically as his blistering gaze sliced over her glorious ice-blue satin bridal gown, "allow me to offer a few suggestions: If you're about to tell me very prettily how sorely you've missed me, I'm afraid that gown you are wearing is a little incongruous. You would have been wiser to change it. It's extravagantly lovely by the way." His drawl became clipped and abrupt. "Did I pay for it?"
"No—that is, I don't know exactly how—"
"Never mind about the gown," he interrupted scathingly. "Let's get on with your charade. Since you cannot very well fling yourself into my arms and weep tears of joy at my return, while you're dressed as another man's bride, you'll have to think of something else to soften my attitude toward you and win my forgiveness."
"Win your what?" Alexandra exploded as outrage conquered her fears.
"Why not begin by telling me how deeply grieved you were when you first learned of my 'untimely demise'?" he continued savagely, ignoring her outburst of righteous indignation. "That would have a nice ring to it. Then, if you could manage one tear, or even two, you could tell me how you mourned me, and wept, and said prayers for my—"
That was so close to the truth that Alexandra's voice shook with shamed anger. "Stop it! I have no intention of doing anything of the sort! Furthermore, you arrogant hypocrite, your forgiveness is the last thing I care about."
"That was very foolish of you, my sweet," he drawled silkily, shoving away from the fireplace. "Tenderness and dainty tears are called for at times such as these, not insults. Moreover, softening my attitude ought to be your first concern. Well-bred females who aspire to be duchesses must seek to make themselves agreeable to any eligible duke at all times. Now then, since you can't change your gown and you can't weep, why not try telling me how much you missed me," he insolently suggested. "You did miss me, did you not? Very much, I'll vow. So much so that you only decided to marry Tony because he—ah—resembled me. That's it, isn't it?" he mocked.
"Why are you behaving like this?" Alexandra cried.
Without bothering to answer, he moved closer, looming over her like a dark, ominous cloud. "In a day or two, I'll tell you what I've decided to do with you."
Anger and confusion were warring in Alexandra's mind, sending her thoughts into a complete tumult. Jordan Townsende had never cared about her and he had no right, no reason to act like a self-righteous, outraged husband! "I am not a mindless piece of chattel!" she burst out. "You can't just dispose of me like a—a piece of furniture!"
"Can't I? Try me!" he clipped.
Alexandra's mind groped wildly for some way to neutralize his irrational anger and soothe what could only be his wounded ego. Raking a hand through her heavy hair, she sought desperately for some guiding logic. She was the innocent and injured party in their relationship, but at the moment he was the powerful and potentially dangerous party, and so she tried to reason with him. "I can see that you're angry—"
"How very observant of you," he mocked nastily.
Ignoring his sarcasm, Alexandra persevered in what she hoped was a reasonable tone, "And I can see there is no point in trying to reason with you in this mood—"
"Go ahead and try it," he invited, but the look in his eyes said the opposite as he took a menacing step toward her.
Alexandra hastily retreated a step. "There's—there's no point. You won't listen to me. Anger blows out the lamp of the mind…"