He stared. What the devil?
She was trying to teach herself French. All because she wanted to help him if she could.
Douglas simply stood there, staring at his wife, slowly shaking his head, grappling with what he saw and what was happening to him. Something deep and sweet began to fill him, something he hadn’t felt before in his life, something new and wondrous and rich, something he’d never expected simply because he hadn’t realized there was something to be felt and he hadn’t known . . . hadn’t known that he was lacking.
He continued to stare at her. She was sitting there in her white nightgown with its collar to her chin, her dark red hair in a braid that fell over her right shoulder. She was using her hands as she repeated the words in French. The candlelight flickered over her face, making her eyes luminous, breaking shadows on her cheeks and hair. She continued speaking, repeating endlessly the same phrases, over and over.
He could understand the French. If he really tried.
“I am helping him. Je l’aide. Ah, what is this?” She fell silent, then said very softly, “I love him. Je l’aime. I love Douglas. J’aime Douglas. I love my husband. J’aime mon mari.”
He stood there, letting the feelings expand and overflow in him, and then he smiled, a gentle smile that he could feel inside himself, and even that smile warmed him, made him feel incredibly lucky and that smile of his was his acceptance of her, of what she was to him and of what he knew he would always feel for her, his wife.
Very quietly he closed the door and walked thoughtfully back upstairs. He lay awake, reveling in the newness of his feelings, waiting.
When she eased into the bed beside him an hour later, he pretended sleep. For ten minutes. Then he turned to her and took her into his arms and began kissing her.
Alexandra gave a start of surprise, then returned his kisses with enthusiasm, as always. But there was no frenzy, no wild urgency this time. When he came into her, it was tender and gentle and slow, something he’d never been able to accomplish with her before, and he continued to kiss her, teasing her with his tongue, nipping at her lower lip, stroking her as he gave himself over to her. And it was good and she sighed in soft pleasure when it was done; she was bound to him now. She would be bound to him forever.
And when he knew she was asleep, he kissed her temple and said very quietly against her warm cheek, “Je t’aime aussi.”
Seven hours later, at t
he breakfast table, Douglas slammed his fist so hard his plate jumped and a slice of bacon slid off onto the white tablecloth.
“I said no, Alexandra. If Sinjun asked you to fetch her a book at Hookams, it is just too bad. I haven’t the time to accompany you and you will go nowhere without me with you. Do you understand?”
She was silent.
“Tell me you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now, see to our packing. I’m sorry we can’t leave this morning, but there is business I must attend to. I will return later.” And just as he was at the door, he froze, hearing her say “Merde!”
He pretended not to hear her and was gone. Alexandra stared at her eggs and wondered why one could rhapsodize so stupidly in the middle of the night and imagine that it would last beyond a man’s passion.
She remained busy the remainder of the morning although, truth be told, Mrs. Goodgame had little use for a mistress who was clearly distracted and really didn’t care if her gowns were packed carefully in tissue paper or simply thrown into the trunk.
Douglas didn’t return for luncheon. Alexandra was near to screaming with vexation and with fear for him. Why couldn’t she make him promise that he would go nowhere without her in attendance? She tried to study her French but she was so angry with him that she spent most of the time searching for more curse words.
“You have the fidgets, my lady,” Mrs. Goodgame finally told her, her voice weary with aggravation. “Why don’t you take a nice ride in the carriage? There is nothing needing your attention here, I assure you.”
So Douglas hadn’t told his staff that his wife was to be a prisoner. Her mouth thinned. She would go fetch Sinjun her novel and Douglas be damned. However, just to be on the safe side, she removed a small pistol from Douglas’s desk in the library that she’d come across the night before when she was resting from her French lesson, and slipped it into her reticule. She had no idea if it were primed. Just looking at it scared her; she prayed if she had to use it, the person she was using it on would be equally frightened just seeing it. She asked one of the footmen to accompany her, sitting next to John Coachman. What more could Douglas ask? She had two armed guards and a pistol.
Burgess did know that Her Ladyship was to remain indoors but he wasn’t at his post when Alexandra slipped out, James the footman in tow.
The carriage bowled up Piccadilly, past Hyde Park corner to St. Edward’s Street. John Coachman remained with the carriage and James accompanied Alexandra into Hookams. It was a drafty place, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full with books. It was dusty with little space between the aisles, but nonetheless, it had been pronounced a meeting place by the ton and thus the aisles were crammed with chatting gentlemen and ladies. Near the front of the shop, maids and footmen waited to relieve their mistresses and masters of their parcels. Alexandra left James to eye a pretty maid and allowed a harried clerk to lead her to where Sinjun’s novel was. Ah, yes, there, on the third shelf. She reached for The Mysterious Count then froze when a man’s voice hissed low into her right ear.
“Ah, the little pigeon leaves the nest, eh?”
It wasn’t Heatherington, she thought. No, he’d been the sheep and the shepherd. She sighed and said, not looking back at the man, “Your approach is not to my liking, sir. It lacks originality. It lacks grace and charm. It lacks wit. You should hire someone to instruct you. I do like your affectation of a French accent though, but it really doesn’t fit all that well with your excellent English. You don’t reverse your words, you know?”
“Damn you, I do not mean to charm you! I speak three languages fluently!”
“Well, then, what is your purpose?” She turned as she spoke and stared up at a gaunt, very tall man, dark-haired, eyes blacker than Douglas’s, garbed in gentleman’s morning wear. She knew suddenly that this was Georges Cadoudal. Oh dear, this man’s accent was quite legitimate.
“My purpose? Well, I will tell you. I have a very small and very deadly pistol here in my right hand and it is pointed at your breast. I suggest, madame, that you come with me, and keep that charming smile on your face. Consider me your lover and we shall deal together famously, eh? Let’s go.”