The broad Palladian facade of Radcliffe House seemed designed to intimidate the encroaching. “Chin up, Belle,” Alex said as they mounted the steps. “Save your broadsides till the countess comes yardarm to yardarm with you.” Annabelle giggled at his nonsense but clung to his arm as they entered.
“Lord Kingsley and Miss Annabelle Kingsley,” Alex said crisply to the butler. Anyone who had faced down the churlish porters at the Admiralty could handle a mere butler.
The servant bowed. “If you will wait in the salon,” he said, gesturing across the broad foyer to the right. “The earl and the countess will be with you momentarily.”
At the entrance to the room, Annabelle whispered, “Alex, I think I am going to have a disaster with one of my stockings. I’ll ask the butler where I can make repairs and join you in a moment.” She almost pushed him into the room, then raced off.
Alex looked after her in surprise. She really was skittish! He hoped the countess proved less of a dragon than expected for he wasn’t sure how much Belle’s nerves could stand.
He wandered into the salon, admiring the high molded ceilings and sumptuous furnishings. Everything was rich but not vulgarly so. There was an air of quiet confidence that reflected well on the owner. He had heard that Lord Radcliffe was a man of honor, and from the look of this house, there was taste and wealth as well. The earl seemed a much more suitable match for Annabelle than the appalling Sir Edward Loaming.
The salon opened into another room from which emerged the rippling notes of a pianoforte. Idly curious, he drifted to the open double doors and looked through. Perhaps the formidable Countess of Radcliffe was playing? In the midst of the Mozart, he did not hear the bolt click in the door behind him.
Alex entered the music room, admiring the erect back of the pianist. As he studied the mass of dark shiny curls and slim figure, he felt a prickling at the base of his neck. It looked like Christa . . . but it couldn’t be.
He was drawn across the room without conscious volition. It was utterly impossible, and yet, and yet . . .
The sonata flowed to a close and in the silence his steps sounded clearly. The woman turned, her mouth opened to speak—and then she halted, her eyes widening at the sight of her unexpected listener.
Alex felt a curious kind of duality. It was Christa, and yet not quite. The face and figure were hers, but with an elegance of dress and manner that made her seem a stranger. It was like meeting the identical twin of a well-known friend—the same, yet indefinably different.
* * *
As usual when she was alone, Christa had been thinking of Alex. The closer his wedding day came, the more blue-deviled she felt. Most of the time she could maintain her usual vivacity, but now she let her feelings go in the music.
At least she was unlikely to meet Alex, or to see him with his wife. It might be years before he was in England again. If he was unlucky, perhaps he would never return, a thought that produced such a wrench, she forced her mind into a marginally less depressing direction. If their paths crossed ten years from now, perhaps she wouldn’t care anymore.
Ha! She smiled faintly as her fingers stroked the slow finale of the sonata. It was quite simply impossible to believe that she would ever cease to be affected by Alex. If they met at some dim time in the future, would he recognize her? And could she bear it if he didn’t?
As she gazed unseeing at the ivory keys, a man’s footsteps sounded behind her. It must be Charles. Grateful for the interruption, Christa turned to greet him, then froze.
The sudden appearance of the object of her reverie was too great a shock for her to deal with, and she was immobilized by a combination of joy and horror. Looking at the tall figure, she gasped, “Alex!”
Even though Christa had seen his face in her mind for weeks, the reality of him was overpowering. She tried to absorb every detail—the vitality, the broad-shouldered strength, the thick golden hair refusing to stay quite as it ought—and feared that her face must show her naked longing.
Alex’s expression blazed with happiness as he exclaimed, “Christa!” and closed the distance between them, reaching down to catch her hands and pull her to her feet. His touch sent sparks running through her and she jerked free of his grasp, sidestepping away from the piano bench.
Alex stood stock-still, the happiness leaching out of his face as he watched her efforts to escape. The amber eyes lost their warmth, and his voice was flat as he asked quietly, “What are you doing here?”
Christa gave a brittle laugh as she vainly attempted to pretend this was a simple social call. “I live here, of course. My circumstances have obviously changed for the better.” She smiled distractedly in his general direction and edged toward the door.
As Alex stared at the smoky-quartz eyes, now wide and drained of laughter, the realization exploded in his mind. Charles, Lord Radcliffe. Both times when he had heard Christa call out the name, it was the soft French “Sharl,” and he had assumed her lover was a Frenchman.
Charles, Lord Radcliffe, missing and presumed dead in France for two years, was the man who had come to reclaim his sweetheart. The earl who was courting Annabelle, and who was almost certainly the missing lord that Sybil Debenham had broken her betrothal for. The insane idea flashed through Alex’s mind that someone was trying to strike at him through the women around him.What in the name of God have I ever done to the Earl of Radcliffe?
Alex thrust the thought out of his mind to deal with the incontrovertible, agonizing fact in front of him. He said harshly, “Of course. Stupid of me not to guess.”
Christa gasped at his expression, unable to understand. To her horror, she found herself near tears under the angry gaze. She had no idea why Alex was so furious, but knew that if she didn’t get out of the roomright now, she was going to disgrace herself, either by throwing herself into his arms or by bursting into tears, or quite possibly both at the same time.
She made a dash for the music room door, only to find it wouldn’t open. Christa twisted the knob frantically, escape the only thought in her mind, while Alex followed, his clipped words coming with icy precision.
“So you are Lord Radcliffe’s mistress. I have absolutely no right to criticize you. But I find itappallingthat you are living in the same house as his mother and as he entertains a woman he claims to want for a wife.” His eyes raked her, hard with anger and contempt. “Lord Radcliffe is said to be an honorable man. I would have expected better of him!”
Christa shook her head dazedly, too stunned to refute the charges. “No . . . no, you don’t understand.”
“That’s obvious,” he said, his full bitterness erupting. “I had thought you were a woman who could not be bought. Or are you living in this gilded cage for love alone?”
He reached out and lifted the opal pendant around her neck, the brush of his fingers scalding her. “A pretty bauble. Was that your price? Would you have accepted me had I offered a dozen such?”
