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‘We had a good time.’ Alice gave a shrug of her shoulders as if it was nothing so very special. ‘But these things aren’t meant to last.’ A parody of the words Razeby had said to her, standing there in that bedchamber.
‘Was it an amicable separation?’ Sara’s curiosity was getting the better of her. She looked surprised, making Alice wonder just what the gossipmongers had been saying, given that they had so little to go on. Maybe she needed to give them a little grist for their mill.
‘Sorry to disappoint the girls, but, yes, it was.’
‘We thought you were upset, you’ve not been seen out anywhere on the town.’
‘I’ve been busy. Give me a chance. I’ve not even finished my first opening week!’
‘I suppose so,’ said Sara.
‘And I’m not upset in the slightest.’ Alice smiled to prove it.
Sara gave a grin and looked like she believed her. ‘So you’ll come tomorrow?’
‘I’m looking forward to it already.’
The door closed behind Sara.
Alice took a deep breath. There could be nothing of avoidance. Avoidance was tantamount to admitting that she cared, that she was hurt, that she could not bear to face him. And none of that was the case, as London would see soon enough.
She was getting on with her life. And if Razeby happened to cross her path, then so be it.
It would make not one jot of difference to her. He would make not one jot of difference to her.
Within Hyde Park Miss Pritchard was strolling by Razeby’s side, her concentration more on the people in the park who were looking at them than anything else. Behind them, Mrs Pritchard, her younger daughter by her side, was espousing on the merits of good breeding and outlining a detailed Pritchard family lineage in the process.
The Pritchards were wealthy and well connected. A suitable alliance for Razeby. But Razeby did not know if he could suffer Mrs Pritchard’s incessant boasting. Or, indeed, Miss Pritchard herself. All he had to do was marry her and bed her. It should be simple enough, especially for a man like him who had bedded no shortage of women in his life. But the prospect left him cold. He stared into the hazy afternoon distance and tried to not to think about it.
The last time he had been here in Hyde Park was with Alice. She had shunned the use of his curricle and insisted they walk. She did not care about being seen on his arm or not. What she had cared about were simple things—the glory of the sunshine, the freshness of the air, the birdsong and the furls of new green buds on the trees; riches for the eyes, as she called nature or art or anything that she liked to look at. He had been unable to prevent his fingers from curling in hers. And she had smiled and not given a damn about who was watching them.
The memory made his heart swell.
He felt Miss Pritchard’s hand upon his arm stiffen. Mrs Pritchard was still talking, but he could hear the increased arrogance and volume of her tone, that sudden slight edge of superiority and distaste.
And then he saw the reason why. Ahead, rounding the corner was a small party of men and women, out taking the air and being seen at this most fashionable of hours in the park. But not just any men and women. The men were some of the highest in the ton. Of the women, Razeby only noticed one. A woman who stood out from the others because she was golden and beautiful and she just seemed to glow with life and with happiness. He could hear the playful banter within the little party, the laughter, the teasing, flirtatious air.
Alice, clad in her plain pale-yellow walking dress and contrasting cream spencer and gloves, was walking by Hawick’s side, listening to something the duke was saying to her. Perched at a jaunty angle on her head was a small stylish hat he had not seen her wear before. Beneath it her fair hair, so haphazardly pinned up, had allowed pale golden strands to escape and waft artlessly around her neck. It was fresh and simple. He had watched her so many times twist her hair up and pin it all within a minute, only to have him unpin it and slip his fingers through those long silken skeins and take her into his arms and kiss her.
She looked comfortable, confident and yet with that same slight shyness that had always intrigued him. Her eyes were lowered as she listened to something that Hawick was saying, but she was smiling. The sight of her made Razeby feel things he did not want to feel. Not now that it was over and he had set his mind to doing what must be done. There was the hard thud of his heart. The fast rush of his blood.
And the awful sinking sensation of his predicament.
Miss Pritchard was by his side, her mother and sister walking behind. Razeby realised what he was going to have to do. What any gentleman in his position would have to do. And the prospect of it sent a chill all the way through him.
Alice had been his mistress. The woman walking by his side could be his wife.
Duty. The word seemed to resonate with every beat of his heart.
Du-ty.
Du-ty.
Du-ty.
He had no choice.
He turned his eyes away from Alice. Kept his focus steadfastly elsewhere. Cutting her, as the rules of polite society dictated. As if she were some stranger. As if she were not the woman he had loved every night of the past six months.
But he could see her in his peripheral vision, that blur of yellow and cream and blonde, slight beside the tall loom of Hawick’s darkness. And he could hear the rustle of the silk of her skirts, hear the distinctive lilt of her softly spoken words, smell the faint scent of her perfume.
His heart beat faster.
He could sense her, feel her, the awareness as sharp as if his eyes were studying her every detail.
He measured every step that brought them ever closer on this path, knowing that they must pass one another, that it was far too late for retreat. Neither of them could turn away from this.
He knew that Alice’s attention was all fixed on Hawick. As if she had not even noticed Razeby. As if she were cutting him every bit as much as he were cutting her. And he should be glad of it. Truly he should. But it was not gladness that he felt as the little group strolled towards him and his party through the sunshine.
Every step brought her nearer.
Five feet… She was so close now that he could hear the soft breathiness of her laughter at Hawick’s joke.
Four feet… Everything sharpened. Everything focused. The hushed ripple of grass blades in the breeze. The sweep of her eyelashes, soft as a butterfly’s wing.
Three feet… The sound of his breath. Alice.
Two feet. The beat of his heart… and of hers. Alice.
One foot… Razeby turned his gaze to Alice. And in that very last moment, that second in which all of time seemed to slow and stop, she raised her eyes to meet his.
The jolt hit his stomach and rippled right through his body. It was as if they were the only two people in the park. As if all of the past six months flashed between them in stark vivid clarity. As if the dark blue depths of her eyes swallowed him up and submersed the whole of him in this moment and this woman and all that was beating through him.
Their gazes locked and held. And he could not look away, not if all of the future depended on it, which in a way it did.
And then the moment was past.
She was past.
Walking on with Hawick and the others. Walking away from him.
His steps never faltered. He kept on walking. As if nothing had just happened.
No one else noticed. Everything else went on just the same. Miss Pritchard’s fingers still lay upon his arm. Mrs Pritchard was still selling the family pedigree behind him, her younger daughter chipping in smart little comments here and there.
But Razeby was not the same.
Something had just happened and the force of it shook him more than he wanted to admit. Something had just happened, something which Razeby did not understand.
Alice did not hear what it was that Hawick had been saying to her, all she could hear was the rush of her own blood too loud in her ears and all she could feel was the tremor that vibrated through her body. She deliberately kept her gaze low as if playing coy with Hawick, when in truth, it was to hide the storm of emotion suddenly raging within her.
She had seen Razeby and his party, the rich, beautiful young woman clinging so possessively to his arm, and the women who could only be her mother and sister walking so proudly behind, the minute she had rounded the corner. And she had prepared herself. Knowing that he had no choice but to cut her. Knowing she had no choice but to not give a damn. To cut him right back.
And she had almost done it. Would have done it, despite the pound and throb of her heart, and the raw rush of air that rasped in her lungs, and the tight knot that worked itself ever tighter in her stomach, except for that last moment, when it felt like his voice had whispered her name, calling her. The sound of it stroking right down her spine. Tingling against her skin. And she had answered without pausing to think. Yielded to it instinctively.
And when she looked, those liquid brown eyes had been on hers, not looking away, not cutting her, only holding her as intensely as they ever had done, perhaps even more so. As if all that had gone between them had not ended, but grown only stronger. Her heart was still beating nineteen to the dozen.
By her side Hawick shifted infinitesimally closer.
‘So you will come, Miss Sweetly?’ he was saying.
She calmed herself, hid the shock of what had just passed between her and Razeby. By the time she raised her eyes to meet Hawick’s she had herself under control again.
She smiled at him, although she had not the slightest idea of what he had just invited her to. ‘If I’m free,’ she said. ‘I’ll need to check my diary.’ Truly the consummate professional. Venetia, her teacher, would have been proud of her.
Hawick smiled, too, with a particular interest in his eyes that made her want to shiver in the warmth of the spring sunshine. She hid the urge, along with all the others.
The party walked on through the park.
Hawick began another story, but Alice was not listening to Hawick or his story. She was thinking of Razeby and why, despite everything, it felt just like it had done when she had seen him for the very first time.
Chapter Seven (#ue4f0f10f-a38d-5358-aa6e-4787ba8a1f26)
Razeby dreamed that night that Alice was with him in the bed, that they were still together and all was as it had been.
‘Razeby,’ she had whispered in her soft Celtic lilt and stroked her fingers against his cheek. ‘Razeby.’
Alice. In the dream he had whispered her name through the darkness. ‘Alice,’ the word murmured aloud on his lips as he held her to him, so glad she had found him, to save him from the terrible thing that was coming, although in the dream he could not remember the nature of the dawning threat, no matter how hard he tried.
The early morning sunlight danced across his eyes, waking him from sleep, dragging him back from his dream world to reality. His body was primed and hard, his erection throbbing for release, but Alice was not in his arms.
He was alone.
And he knew the terrible dark thing that was coming.
The warm comfort of the dream world fell away, leaving in its place the hard coldness of reality and a sinking feeling in his gut. His arousal deflated.
The sunlight that had crept through the crack in his curtains dimmed behind the greyness of cloud. Razeby threw aside the covers and sat up, swinging his legs round to sit on the edge of the bed, relishing the sting of the cool morning air against the nakedness of his skin. It helped clear his mind of Alice and the bittersweet echo of the dream.
The clock chimed nine just before his valet knocked on the door and entered, followed by a maid bearing a pitcher of hot water and his secretary carrying a diary that Razeby knew was crammed full of appointments. He pushed aside the dream as surely as he had pushed aside what had happened yesterday in Hyde Park. Guilt, lust, desire—whatever it was. He could not name it otherwise. He would not name it otherwise.
Not Miss Pritchard, he thought. But tonight there was dinner at Mrs Padstow’s at which twenty young respectable women would be present. And tomorrow afternoon, a débutante picnic organised by Lady Jersey. Then there was Almack’s, and Lady Routledge’s matchmaking ball. And he would find a wife at one of those.
He raked a hand through his hair and, taking a deep breath, rose to face the day.
Alice came offstage to rapturous applause that night. Three curtain calls and still the audience were whistling and calling for more. Her dressing room was so crammed with flowers there was scarcely room for the rail of costumes and table of face paints with its peering glass. Their perfume filled the air of the little room: roses, lilies, sprays of blooms she did not recognise. All with letters and cards attached. All sealed with red wax which displayed the crests or monograms of their senders so prominently. Her eyes scanned over the seals, searching for one in particular. She could not help herself. He had been too much in her mind since yesterday and Hyde Park. Although heaven only knew why. She caught what she was doing and, with a harsh sigh of annoyance, averted her eyes and got on with wiping the make-up from her face. Then she slipped into the fawn-silk evening dress that was hanging over the dressing screen.
A knock sounded on the dressing-room door. The stage hand’s voice shouted through the wood.
‘Five minutes to the Green Room, Miss Sweetly. Mr Kemble says to tell you that both the Duke of Hawick and the Duke of Monteith are in again tonight.’
‘Right you are, Billy. I’ll be right there.’ She checked her appearance in the peering glass. The woman that looked back from the glass was pale without the thick grease and colour of the stage make-up. And she thought again of that moment in Hyde Park.
‘Don’t be such a damned fool, Alice Flannigan, you’re imagining things,’ she whispered to herself, using the name with which she had been born, rather than that she had taken for the stage. ‘You put a smile on your face and get through there, girl. Life goes on—if you’re lucky. And he isn’t worth it.’ She rubbed a little rouge on to her cheeks, added a spot to her lips and tucked an errant strand of hair into place.
Taking a deep breath, she held her head high, fixed a smile on her face and went to sparkle and entice the gentlemen of the Green Room, just as her contract required.
‘Razeby,’ Viscount Bullford exclaimed, wandering over to where Razeby stood filling a plate with choice selections at the débutante picnic. ‘Thought Aunt Harriet would have lampooned you into coming this afternoon.’
‘Bullford.’ Razeby gave a nod.
The weather was sunny and dry, although a slight chill still sat about the fine spring day. The trees surrounding this corner of the park lent a level of protection against the breeze, but not enough to stop the gentle flutter of bonnet ribbons and muslin skirts amongst the ladies milling all around.
Bullford lifted a small, perfectly formed pork pie from one of the serving dishes on the nearby table and took a bite. ‘Couldn’t get out of it myself. Pater had m’arm up my back. Insisted I had to bring m’friends with me. Apparently too many ladies and not enough gentlemen.’
‘You managed to persuade the others to come?’ Razeby raised an eyebrow in surprise.
‘Not an easy task, I can tell you, old man.’ Bullford took a deep breath as if the memory of what that had entailed was difficult to bear. ‘Will be years till I can clear the favours owed over this one.’
Razeby smiled.
Fallingham, Devlin, Monteith and a few others wandered up, glasses of champagne and large chunks of food in hand.
‘How goes the bride search, Razeby?’ Devlin asked.
‘Well enough.’ He felt himself tense just at the question.
‘Found one yet?’ Fallingham enquired.
‘Not yet.’ He kept his face impassive, his manner cool.
‘Don’t seem quite yourself of late, Razeby,’ Monteith observed.
He smiled at the irony of Monteith’s remark. Would any man be the same were he to stand in Razeby’s shoes? ‘Can’t imagine why,’ he said drolly.
‘Losing one’s freedom, weddings, wives and nurseries,’ Devlin supplied and gave a shudder.
The rest of the group chuckled as if that was the reason.
‘Not regretting giving up the delightful Miss Sweetly, are you?’ Monteith asked as he helped himself to a bottle of champagne from a passing footman and topped up all their glasses.
Nonchalantly uttered words, yet they cut through everything to touch some raw inner part of Razeby. It was all he could do not to suck in his breath at the sensation.
‘Not at all,’ he said smoothly and held Monteith’s gaze, denying the suggestion all the more.
‘Do not know why.’ Monteith smirked. ‘The common consensus is that you have run mad. Dismissing such a little gem when all of London is panting after her.’
It took every bit of willpower to keep his jaw from hardening and the basilisk stare from his eyes, and to prevent the curl of his fingers into a fist.
