Slowly Alexandra took a seat. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “He must have sent this to you days ago.”
“It seems you’ve captured a rogue’s heart, my dear.”
She shook her head, rereading the last few sentences of his letter. “No, I haven’t. It’s only that he’s very charming.”
“And why would the Earl of Kilcairn Abbey attempt to charm me?”
“I…Well, he may have felt this way—or perhaps he thought he did—before his stupid dinner party. I know he doesn’t feel like this any longer.”
“Are you certain of—”
“Besides, admiring someone highly and being in love with her are two very different things, Emma. I admire Lord Liverpool, for instance, but I could hardly consider myself in love with him.”
“You—”
“And he only wants to marry me because he’s comfortable with me, and he can produce his heir with the least bit of inconvenience to himself.”
Emma stood rather abruptly and snatched the letter back. “He wants tomarryyou? Lex, you never told me—”
“No!” she interrupted sharply. “I’ve worked too hard to give in and live my life on someone else’s terms. Even his. Especially his. I’ll take care of myself, and my own problems.”
“You’re arguing with yourself again.” Emma returned the letter to her. “You know Lord Kilcairn far better than I ever will, Lex. I will take your word that he is plotting and arrogant and cares for no one but himself.”
“Thank you.”
Emma gestured Alexandra toward the door. “And you will teach dinner conversation and how to discuss literature without sounding like a bluestocking, starting tomorrow. We’ll get you better settled on Monday.”
Alexandra nodded as she and Shakespeare followed Emma to the dining hall. All she needed was something to occupy her. With her first class tomorrow, she would begin the task of forgetting Lucien Balfour.
“Forget her, then,” Robert said, guiding his gelding among Hyde Park’s trees. “You made an effort—a titanic effort—and nothing came of it. The end.”
Lucien kicked Faust into a trot, not bothering to see if the viscount followed. His head ached, reminding him that he’d drunk far too much whiskey at Boodle’s club last night. At least, though, his pounding skull gave him something else to fuel his foul temper without admitting how damned lost he felt without Alexandra Beatrice Gallant.
“Lucien, there are a hundred ladies in London who would happily agree to marry you.”
“Not happily,” he retorted, starting another wide loop around the deserted carriage track.
“Yes, happily. You’re wealthy, handsome, and titled. Not many bachelors can claim all three.”
“Don’t try to placate me. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’ve noticed. That’s what I’ve been attempting to rectify.”
Scowling, Lucien pulled up Faust. “Who was your second choice?” he asked, as the viscount drew even with him.
“My second choice for what?”
“For a wife. If I had intended on marrying Rose, or if she had refused you, whom would you be pursuing now?”
Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. Lucy Halford, or maybe Charlotte Templeton,” he mused. “But I’ve found Rose, and we are both exceedingly happy about it.”
Lucien looked down at his gloved hands as he twisted the reins around and around his fingers. “For me,” he said quietly, “there is no one else. She is…who I looked for, the entire time I was looking. Even before that.”
“But she refused you,” Robert said in a solemn voice. “So now you must look elsewhere.” He hesitated, glancing about the nearly empty park. “She seemed a bit too…intractable, anyway. A wife can’t support you if she’s always disagreeing with everything you say.”
Lucien shook himself and nudged the bay into motion again. “You’ve got it ass backwards, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t trust me—or my motivations, rather—and there’s not much I can do about that unless I give away my title and everything that goes with it and become a chimney sweep. And I don’t intend to do that.”
“So you’ll forget her and move on.”
