She would have continued, but from the viscount’s angry, distant expression, he’d stopped listening. A moment later he blinked and returned his gaze to her. “You’ve been most kind, madame,” he said tightly. “I must leave. Pray give my excuses to your daughter.”
“Of course, Lord Belton. Again, please do not tell Lucien that I spoiled his joke. He’ll be quite angry with me.”
“Your secret is safe with me. And now, good evening.”
Fiona watched the viscount make his way through the crowd, pointedly avoiding both Lucien and Rose. As he departed the room, she smiled. Dear Oscar would be so pleased.
Chapter 16
Alexandra put on her blue bonnet, fastened Shakespeare’s leash, and followed the luggage-laden footmen downstairs. The sun was only a golden sliver above the rooftops as she shook Wimbole’s hand and emerged into the brisk summer morning.
“We shall miss you,” the butler said, and bent down to give Shakespeare a last doggie treat. “Good luck to you, Miss Gallant.”
“Thank you, Wimbole.” Just for a moment she hesitated on the front portico, blushing because she knew the butler must have guessed why. “Lord Kilcairn hasn’t risen yet?” she asked anyway.
“He informed me that he would not be seeing you off this morning.”
“Of course.”
Well, that answered that. She’d refused to go along with his silly games and so now he was upstairs sulking, or worse yet, sleeping. If he’d truly cared about her instead of himself, he would have thought of something—done something—so she could stay.
Blinking another flood of tears away, she lifted the terrier into the coach and then climbed in after him. “Just take me to the nearest mail stage stop if you please, Vincent. You needn’t drive me all the way to Hampshire.”
The young groom doffed his hat. “As it pleases you, Miss Lex, though I’d be happy to drive you all the way.” He shut the door and latched it, and the carriage rocked as he hopped up to the driver’s perch. A moment later the vehicle rumbled into motion, and they were off.
Alexandra sat back in the black, cushioned seat and let the tears run down her face. Once she boarded the public mail stage, she wouldn’t be able to indulge in weeping. She’d spent most of the night crying and feeling sorry for herself, but all it had done was give her a headache. Moping certainly didn’t change anything. She’d fallen in love with a proud, aggravating man who didn’t believe in such nonsense, and she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—be married to someone who only offered to wed her out of his own convenience and to spite his relations.
The coach turned another corner, and a moment later, another. She hoped Vincent wasn’t lost, because he seemed to be taking a very roundabout route to the inn. She wasn’t in any particular hurry, but the sooner she could begin teaching at the Academy, the sooner she could begin trying to put handsome, stubborn, impossible Lucien Balfour out of her mind.
Five or six minutes later, the coach rolled to a stop. “We’re here, miss,” Vincent called, and a moment later pulled the door open.
Shakespeare wagged his tail and hopped to the ground. Alexandra stood and looked out the door—to see the familiar back side of Balfour House.
“What—”
A dark, billowing cloth sailed over her head and enfolded her. Someone grabbed her around the waist, pinning her arms, and dragged her out of the coach. Before she could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth, nearly smothering her beneath the heavy material.
Shakespeare barked, and someone—it sounded like Vincent—shushed him. A moment later wood creaked, and she felt herself lifted bodily over someone’s shoulder and carried down a flight of stairs. The stairs were narrow, because her feet bumped twice and her head once against the wall. That elicited a pained exclamation from her, and a low, barely audible curse from whoever carried her.
Finally he dropped her on something soft and comfortable and let her go. She lay still for a moment, listening, and then Shakespeare came wriggling up through the dark shroud to lick her face. Angry and breathing hard, Alexandra sat up and flung off the covering. She blinked and swiped her disheveled hair out of her face—and saw her abductor.
“Lucien!” she shrieked. “What in God’s name are you—”
“I’m kidnapping you,” he said calmly. “And your little dog, too.”
She scrambled to her feet, and Lucien took a step backward. He wouldn’t put it past her to aim a kick at his sensitive parts. And that would never do, because the two of them still needed to produce the Kilcairn heir.
“You are not kidnapping me!” she yelled, glaring at Vincent and Thompkinson and then returning her gaze to him.
“Yes, I am. And bellowing about it won’t do you any good.”
“This is ridiculous!” She stalked across the room toward the nearest doorway, but he moved over to block her path.
“Perhaps it is a bit odd,” he conceded, wishing his practical miss would calm down a little so he could explain himself and his brilliant plan. “I am, however, completely serious about it.”
“Where are we, anyway?”
“My wine cellar. My secondary wine cellar, actually.”
