“Put the whole thing out of your mind. That’s what I intend to do.” She looked away, though the crowd was a mere blur of muddled colors. “It’s not as if I’ve been silly enough to form a tendre for the dratted man—or have imagined he has any such feelings for me.”
She shrugged. “I think I shall see if Aunt Aurelia is ready to leave, I find the evening has become exceeding dull.”
Branford gavea snort of frustration as he folded the sheets of paper and put them back into his coat pocket. Alex’s father had clearly been a very complicated and unconventional thinker, which made his code that much more difficult to break. Addingto the difficulty were the strange little symbols —they looked like hatchets—interspersed among the random letters?
Damnation. Unraveling the logic of a professional soldier was child’s play compared to that of an introverted scholar.
To add to the mystery, the servant who had been hovering on his deathbed had unfortunately passed away before Branford arrived in East Anglia, leaving him with only fragments of a jumbled story—and a very odd one at that. From the account Simms had given him, the man’s mind was already wandering. What was truth and what were mere figments of a dying man’s imagination was difficult to discern.
All in all, it had been a waste of nearly a week.
As Branford shifted impatiently against the squabs, the crackling of a very different sort of paper caused him to amend his assessment.
The trip hadn’t been complete waste, he corrected himself. He had been close enough to Riverton to stop and attend to one other important matter. The local bishop had been more than happy to comply with his request for a special license, handing it over with unctuous wishes for the quick arrival of an heir.
The journey had also provided him with many long hours of contemplation. Mental arguments had raged back and forth. But in the end, all the careful reasonings and rigid logic were no more than meaningless words. The essence of it all was that his life would be sadly flat—and yes, lonely—without Alex.
He was tired of living within a carefully constructed shell of emotional armor The thought of watching her eat toast and jam at breakfast … of seeing her paint-smudged face furrow in concentration as she worked … of sharing laughter and arguments brought a poignant smile to his lips.
And the thought of her in his bed every night …
Miss Alexandra Chilton had somehow found a chink in his defenses.
And yet he was more than willing to make himself vulnerable. She had trusted him from the beginning—trusted that he was more than the monster painted by the gossips … trusted that he would never hurt her.
That meant everything to him.
The carriage hit a rut in the road as it passed through the outskirts of London, causing the small band box on the seat beside him to jostle against his elbow. Another smile lit in his eyes as he contemplated which of his offerings would please Alex more—the marriage license or the rare specimen ofHippeastrumthat he had asked the gardener at Riverton dig up for her.
He was well aware that she didn’t have a high regard for men in general, and given the puffed-up conceit and condescending attitude most of them showed to women, he didn’t blame her. Still, Branford felt confident that he could win her trust and convince her that their marriage would be a true partnership,
He glanced out the carriage window, impatient to arrive at Lady Beckworth’s townhouse … yet oddly nervous as well. Polite Society might regard him as the Icy Earl, but at the present moment he felt like an awkward mooncalf.
After another few turns, the horses slowed and wheels rolled to halt.
Pushing aside his musing, the earl gathered up his gift and made his way up the entrance stairs to the front door. The elderly butler took Branford’s coat and cane with his customary grimace at having to shuffle from a comfortable chair to open the door.
“Miss Chilton is working in the library, milord,” he intoned, hunching his shoulders at the prospect of having to walk down the corridor.
Branford suppressed a smile. “If you don’t mind, Givens, I shall announce myself.”
With his precious box under his arm, he approached the room with a mounting sense of anticipation.
Alex was indeed at work. Branford paused to regard her through the half-opened door—she was so intent on her painting that she hadn’t heard his approaching steps. Frowning in concentration, she bent close to the textured paper on the easel to lay in a delicate wash of color. There was a smudge of jade green pigment on her left cheekbone, accentuating the intriguing hue of her hazel eyes.
He realized with a jolt that was almost physical how much he had missed her.
And yet, Branford was reluctant to intrude, his attention captivated by the nuances of her expression … the deft movement of her graceful hands … the delicacy of her touch. Unaware of being observed, she worked with an inner confidence while he felt a strange sort of shyness rooting him in place.
Chiding himself for acting like a lovestruck schoolboy, he waited until she lifted her brush from the paper before moving quietly into the room.
“I hope this means my hibiscus is finished.”
Alex whirled around at the sound of his voice. Her features were pinched and there were dark hollows beneath her eyes, as if her nights had been fitful. And rather than the usual warm smile of welcome, there was a veiled grayness to her expression.
He walked to the table and put the box down. “What’s wrong, Alex?”
He caught a flicker of some inscrutable emotion at the sound of her given name before she turned away to slowly rinse her brush, and then wipe it on a clean rag.
