Of course, if she was so happy, she had no real reason to keep reaching into her pocket to touch the letter; and she certainly had no cause to wait and open the stupid thing exactly when and how he instructed. Twice during the recitals she pulled it free and started to unfold it. Both times she put it back, unopened.
As soon as Jane Hantfeld finished her rendition of Haydn, Alexandra stood. The sun had descended halfway through the western band of scattered trees; technically, that made it evening.
“Miss Gallant,” Elizabeth Banks, one of the other instructors, said as she passed, “I do hope you will tell us about your mysterious earl at dinner tonight. All of the girls seem quite mad about him.”
Alexandra paused. “I’ve something of a headache this evening. I think I’ll forgo dinner. Please give my excuses to Miss Grenville.”
No one would believe she had a headache, of course, and they would likely think she was in her bedchamber mooning over her lost love. Well, that was a fair enough description of what she had planned for the evening.
One of the staff had already brought Shakespeare his dinner, and he jumped up on the bed beside her as she lit her lamp and pulled the letter free. The terrier sniffed at it, then wagged his tail and barked.
“You recognize Lucien, don’t you, Shakes?” she asked, scratching him behind the ears.
She unfolded the parchment. To her surprise it wasn’t a personal letter, but rather some sort of legal document. A smaller piece of paper, folded inside the larger, dropped onto her lap. Alexandra turned her attention to it first.
“Alexandra,” it said, in the same scrawling handwriting that characterized Emma’s letter from the earl, “I believe even you will have to admit that you have only two reasons remaining for not wishing to marry me.”
She took a breath. Why was he still bothering with her? She would have given up the attempt some time ago. The rest of the missive beckoned to her to keep going, so she read on.
“The first reason, as I recall, is that you are a convenient vessel on which I might get an heir and thwart Rose and Fiona from receiving an inheritance. I wish to state here for the record that you are not the least bit convenient.” Alexandra stifled an unexpected smile. “The other half of that reasoning will hopefully be answered to your satisfaction by the accompanying addendum to my will. It states, in short, that whether I have offspring or not, Rose’s children shall inherit my title and lands.”
Alexandra stopped. “It’s a joke,” she said aloud. “It has to be a joke.”
She grabbed the larger piece of paper and read through it once, and then a second time. Couched in legal terms and clauses, it nevertheless stated very clearly that Lucien Balfour, upon his death and regardless of any blood heirs, transferred all nonentailed titles and lands to Rose Delacroix and her heirs. A stipend of five thousand pounds a year for any and each of his own children and surviving spouse was all he held back from the Delacroix branch of the family.
“My God,” she whispered, and with shaking fingers returned to the first letter.
“Your second and last remaining objection, I believe, was my belief in love—and more specifically, my lack of ability to love you. I think you already know the answer to that, Alexandra. I shan’t debase either of us by protesting to the sun and the moon and the stars how very much I have come to love you, to desire you, and to need you in my life.
“I, then, have one question for you, for I cannot think of anything else that stands between us. Alexandra, do you love me?”
She closed her eyes for a long moment, then read the short signature. “Yours, Lucien.”
A tear plopped onto the page before she even realized she was crying again. The Lord Kilcairn she’d met when she’d first gone to London would never have relinquished his inheritance to anyone, much less to Rose Delacroix. He had done it, though. That he had done it for her, she could scarcely believe.
Alexandra stood, pacing to the window and back while Shakespeare trotted along behind her. The will’s amendment was signed by Lucien, and witnessed by Mr. Mullins, Lord Belton, and another solicitor. It was real; unmistakably and unfakably real.
She made another circuit of the room, the letter clenched in her fist. He’d done it again: made a point in such a grand fashion that she had no choice but to notice, consider, and explain it to herself. And of course, he’d done it by letter, so she didn’t have the outlet of arguing with him about it.
With a strangled growl she flung the letter to the floor and stomped on it. Then she picked it up and smoothed it against her chest, because she’d never received anything so nice. She swore under her breath, glad there weren’t any students around to overhear her.
“Look at me, Shakes. He’s made me insane.”
Shakespeare only wagged his tail. Sighing, she plunked down on the bed. Insane or not, she knew precisely what she wanted to do now. She wanted to rush back to London and punch him, and then throw herself into his arms and never let go. He’d done this for her, and he’d done it because he loved her. No other explanation fit.
“My goodness,” she breathed, clutching the letter to her breast. Only one person’s motivations remained a mystery, as they had for the past five years. And he was the reason she’d nearly lost Lucien.
“Lex?” Emma knocked at her door.
She started. “Come in.”
The headmistress leaned into the doorway. “I came to ask if you were all right.”
“I don’t know whether I am or not.” She chuckled, wondering whether she sounded as hysterical as she felt.
“I see.” Emma shut the door. “What happened?”
“I finally learned a lesson, I think.” Alexandra stood and dragged her trunk from under the bed. “I’m sorry, Emma. I have to—”
