Chapter Six
Alexander was ushered into the Canterbell drawing room by their butler, who introduced himself as Powell.
He fervently wished, as he was waved forward, that he could be anywhere but here, preferably between the thighs of his latest mistress.
Florenza was a soprano from Milan. Not a very good one, grant you, but she did have other talents.
Paying calls and sipping tea wasn’t an enjoyable activity.
Alexander had paid only a handful of calls in his life and didn’t intend to make it a habit.
But at the insistence of his uncle, Alexander was forced to call upon his new betrothed and sip tea in this overly feminine drawing room decorated in pale yellow and cream.
Given the story circulating that he and Lady Sophia had been courting in secret for some time, and had been “discovered” in Lady Perswick’s garden, it would seem strange if Alexander didn’t call upon Lady Sophia and her mother, Lady Canterbell.
Perhaps, Alexander mused as he observed his surroundings, was that Canterbell’s drawing room was empty.
The audacity.
Powell, the stern looking little troll of a butler, eyed Alexander with dislike, before gesturing to one of the chairs decorated with a motif of butterflies across the back cushion. “Lady Canterbell and Lady Sophia will be along in a moment, Your Grace.”
Dukes, Alexander wanted to remind Canterbell’s snide little butler, did not wait upon others; they waited upon him. But he merely inclined his head and settled into the chair, repulsed by the pattern of monarch butterflies.
His eyes caught on the settee—a horrid thing of green velvet the exact hue of mashed peas—where an embroidery hoop had been discarded on one of the cushions.
An uninteresting design of a basket of flowers, partially finished, decorated the linen.
Dull. Alexander had to keep from flinching at the sight.
Boredom loomed and its name was Lady Sophia.
Alexander had every intention of tolerating Canterbell’s daughter for the duration of this “betrothal” and the eventual moment the vicar addressed them as man and wife.
He’d promised Damon to be on his best behavior.
But once wed, Alexander had every intention of ignoring Lady Sophia.
His London home was large. She could have an entire wing to herself.
Go about town and pay calls as the Duchess of Roxboro.
Damon warned Alexander to have as little contact as possible with his new wife, nor make any attempt to bed her.
Eventually, the silly little chit would complain to her parents and Alexander would reluctantly admit his inability to consummate the marriage.
It was all part of Damon’s plan to secure the eventual annulment, though Alexander couldn’t fathom anyone believing his cock didn’t work.
He countered that he could claim marriage under false pretenses, after all, Alexander was certain he hadn’t been at that bloody ball.
But Damon reminded him there had been too many witnesses attesting to Alexander’s appearance there that night. All confirmed by his uncle.
Alexander’s next suggestion was to claim Lady Sophia suffered from some physical ailment that precluded sexual activity. Improperly formed lady parts, for instance. But Damon rejected that notion. Easily disproved and it would only serve to anger Canterbell.
So, impotence it was.
Alexander was known for any manner of sexual proclivities, some of which were, unfortunately, true.
Not the bit about the sheep. That was completely false.
But being bathed by six women in the middle of Madame Forand’s establishment was…
not an exaggeration. And while Florenza was his only mistress at present, he usually kept more than one.
He couldn’t fathom anyone believing that his cock wouldn’t rise to the occasion…
but Damon insisted it was the best way to dissolve the marriage to Lady Sophia.
That also meant Alexander had to say goodbye to Florenza. If his cock didn’t work for Lady Sophia, it couldn’t work for his mistress either.
Not one soul in London dared to refute the tale that Alexander had been courting Lady Sophia in secret, though he doubted anyone believed it. Most assumed he’d had far too much brandy, stumbled upon her in the Perswick gardens, then had the misfortune to be seen by Lady Brokeburst.
Old bat.
Alexander had sent word to Oakhurst’s staff asking for his friend’s location, but was surprised to have the messenger return, claiming Lord Oakhurst’s home was closed.
Only the housekeeper, Mrs. Launton and a groom remained to oversee the stable, which meant Oakhurst had no plans on returning any time soon.
He questioned Timmons again, but outside of knowing that Oakhurst was leaving and apparently with Lady Maxwell, Alexander’s butler knew little else.
Entirely frustrating because only Oakhurst knew what really happened that night.
He was forced to wait for his friend to make contact, which Oakhurst would undoubtedly do at some point.
Alexander recalled absolutely nothing of that night after leaving the brothel and couldn’t imagine why he’d gone to a ball, especially one he hadn’t been invited to.
Women. Dancing. The smell of perfume. And…nothing else.
Alexander gritted his teeth.
I can’t remember.
His gaze landed on a decanter of brandy sitting on Canterbell’s sideboard, resisting the urge to pour himself a small glass.
The inability to recall the night with Oakhurst bothered Alexander a great deal.
Yes, he drank far too much, but…he’d never not remembered his whereabouts or whether he’d kissed a woman, let alone an entire bloody ball.
And while he likely needed that entire decanter of brandy to get through the next hour, Alexander had vowed earlier to keep a clear head.
He didn’t trust Canterbell or his twit of a daughter.
I’ll drink myself senseless later.
Canterbell’s dislikable butler reappeared, waving forward a maid carrying a tray. A steaming pot of tea. Biscuits. Tiny finger sandwiches. Scones. Jam.
None of it appealed to Alexander.
An older woman clothed entirely in fuchsia, paused at the entrance to the drawing room, before following in the wake of the tea tray. The bright color of her gown had him blinking, as did the array of small bits of brilliants glittering among the folds of her skirts.
Good lord.
He came to his feet.
“Your Grace.” Beringed fingers were extended in his direction. “We’re so pleased you’ve called.”
“Lady Canterbell.” He took her hand. “A pleasure. And your gown is exquisite,” he said smoothly. “The hue in particular is one of my favorites.”
A blush crested over her cheeks. “I’ve been warned of your charm, Your Grace.”
“I’m only being truthful. Lord Canterbell is lucky indeed.”
A soft, girlish sound of pleasure left her lips. “You flatter me.”
“I only speak the truth.” He released her hand, giving her the half-smile that had ladies all over England swooning. Alexander was not ignorant of his effect on the opposite sex, after all, there was a reason for his reputation.
A disgusted sound reached his ears.
Oh, yes. Almost forgot.
Lady Sophia, Alexander’s unwanted bride, strolled into the room, fingers clenched in her skirts, dark eyes glowing with barely controlled hostility.
The little twit had no reason to be hostile and her manner greatly annoyed Alexander. Why should she be so antagonistic? She’d taken advantage of him. The girl before him was either a clever liar or so bloody blind she couldn’t tell him apart from her butler. Or merely an ambitious schemer.
Alexander shot her a bland, bored look.
Her shoulders stiffened. She seemed about to hurl herself at him.
Why wasn’t she more thankful Alexander was so bloody honorable? Or that Uncle Damon had political aspirations? Lady Sophia was going to be a duchess, albeit for a brief time. You’d think she could at least…be polite.
Ungrateful chit.
If Alexander had had his way, this contentious little shrew would be left to twist in the wind. He didn’t give a fig for her reputation. Even now, there was nothing about her he recognized. Nothing familiar. Not her scent. Nor the sound of her voice.
Absolutely nothing.
Outside of the shape of her mouth which he appreciated.
Alexander was something of an expert, after all, in female mouths.
Lower lip full and plush, like a small pillow. The upper, curved into a bow. Sinful. Decadent. Likely capable of a great many…misdeeds. Could those lips have been enough to lead Alexander to stupidly take her into Lady Perswick’s gardens?
I’d remember that mouth.
A finger flicked against one thigh in annoyance. Alexander didn’t want to appreciate anything about her. Her unwanted presence would be gone within a year.
There wasn’t any way to disprove Lord Canterbell or his daughter, not with so many witnesses at the ball claiming to have seen him.
Alexander had finally come to the unwelcome conclusion that…
maybe he could have been there. How or why, he’d no idea.
It did explain why Lady Maxwell hadn’t been at the gambling hell or brothel, but he recalled conversing with her.
The only explanation was that he and Oakhurst must have retrieved her from the Perswick ball.
Lady Maxwell’s face swam before him. She’d been smiling. Patted his coat. Asking him when he’d changed. The memory faded as quickly as it came.
The delicate scent of roses hovered in the air as she dipped into yet another awkward curtsey, almost as if her legs didn’t bend properly.
“Lady Sophia. How lovely to see you today.”
Roses. A soft, feminine scent. Completely unwelcome on this termagant. She should smell of…rotted plums.
“Bravo,” she ground out in a whisper. “For recalling my name.”
“Scheming liar,” his lips said along her knuckles.
“Feckless sot,” she returned under her breath while straightening.