No.
But perhaps for Louisa—who, like him, had not sought this marriage—it would be the best way for her to find happiness.
The frown turned to bleakness. For him, happiness seemed unlikely.
Once more his eyes chilled. Once more his iron self-control hammered down—familiar and exacting. And absolutely essential.
‘More champagne?’
Alexa gave a slight shake of her head. ‘Not for the moment. I’m doing fine.’
She was, too—and not just in consuming the champagne that was circulating generously at this crowded charity gala. She was doing fine just being out for the evening with Richard. As fine as could be expected. She’d had cold feet half a dozen times since she’d given in to Imogen, but each time she’d gone through the same dogged loop of facing up to the unalterable truth that she simply could not go on living like a hermit for the rest of her existence. She had to get on with her life.
Even so, when Richard had disclosed that he was inviting her to be his partner at this charity gala, she had almost backed out. Something more low-key would have been preferable for a first evening. On the other hand as she’d gone on to consider, a charity gala was preferable to some kind of quiet, intimate tête-á-tête over dinner. Nevertheless, it had taken a stern degree of resolution to get herself ready for this evening and come here on Richard’s arm.
Although he could not be faulted as an evening companion, she knew she was far from relaxed. The commercial property company where he was a consultant architect was supporting this event. At his table was a mix of fellow architects and their partners, and she was conscious of being reserved—even for her. Conscious, too, of the presence of so many glitteringly arrayed guests—the charity had clearly captured a good number of London’s seriously wealthy people. The realisation made her uneasy. Evoked memories and associations she did not want. She felt the familiar scrape across her heart.
But the last thing she wanted was to spoil Richard’s evening by being anything other than a good guest, and so, despite her reserve, she entered into the general conversation at the table. As the evening wore on, a sobering truth came to her. Had she not ever gone through that rash, misguided affair with Guy de Rochemont—or rather, she amended, had she not committed the folly of allowing herself to so stupidly fall in love with him—she would have enjoyed Richard Saxonby’s attentions far more.
It makes such sense to fall for him…
Surely, with time, she could make herself do so? Surely, with time, she could start to feel for him, finally expunge the hopeless, dead-end love she’d felt for Guy that was keeping her in this pointless limbo? Surely, she thought, as she smiled pleasantly at Richard, accepting his invitation to dance as the dinner, speeches and charity auction finally gave way to a general mingling around the huge room, surely it would not be too hard to take pleasure in lifting her eyes to his, letting their warmth set a glow in hers, letting his well-made mouth kiss hers? It should not be too hard to come to desire him. To fall—one day, when the time was right and they had come to know each other and desire each other—in love with him?
Then the music ended, and the couples on the floor relinquished each other and started to disperse back to their tables. Across the wide expanse of the room, as Richard let go of her and she started to head to her seat again, the pattern of people shifted and her eyes went through a newly opened gap, far across the ballroom. She stopped absolutely, totally still.
And knew that never in a hundred years could she fall in love with Richard or any other man.
Because the man she still loved was looking straight at her.
It was Alexa.
For a moment Guy’s line of sight encompassed only her—a tall, slender column of wine-rich burgundy—then it widened to take in her arm, resting on the sleeve of one
of the many tuxedos, and the wearer of the tuxedo looking proprietorially down at her.
Instinctively Guy moved forward. It took only moments, and Alexa hadn’t moved. Only her expression had changed. The initial flare of shock in her eyes as they had lighted on him was now veiled, and she seemed to wait, immobile, for his approach across the floor of the ballroom.
‘Good evening, Alexa.’
His voice was smooth, the accent, as ever, hardly noticeable.
Unlike the rest of him.
Her eyes, beneath their veil, were sucked to him. In her limbs she felt a sudden debilitating weakness, as if they might not hold her upright. But she must force them to. Must force herself not, not to let her eyes feed on that tall, effortlessly elegant figure that instantly, immediately, made every other man in the room look clumsy and lumpish. She must not feast on the fabulous planes of his face, the sable feathering of his hair, and not, above all, drown unstoppably in those deep green eyes that were resting on her and making her feel dizzy, weightless, breathless.
Oh, dear God, let this not be happening…
She could hear the call in her head, hear all the sense that she was possessed of decrying what was happening, what she was doing, and her fatal reaction. She was totally unprepared for this, her guard helplessly, hopelessly absent, so that there was nothing she could do except reel from the impact of his presence.
Another cry sounded in her head, coming from deeper yet.
It shouldn’t be like this!
She shouldn’t be so overcome like this. She shouldn’t! She’d had four months—four whole months to come to terms with the end of the affair. Four months to build up that vital, essential distance from what had been to what her life now had to be. Four months to do without Guy de Rochemont in her life. To get him out of her head.
And it took a single moment now to make her realise that all her efforts to get over him had been utterly in vain.
Dismay drenched through her, mingling with the emotion that had seized her throat, her lungs, as she’d recognised him—that was still seizing her now, making it impossible for her to speak, impossible to do what she must, which was simply to say his name, in a calm, level voice, suitable for the occasion, in acknowledgment of his greeting. Then they would exchange pleasantries, he would wish her well, and stroll away again. Back to his life. Back to his world. Back to the woman he was going to marry.