Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
Alexander
T he sun shone pleasantly on the sprawling expanse of Hyde Park, where Alexander and his two companions, Wycliffe and Harrington, had laid out a fine picnic. The basket had been supplied by Wycliffe, its contents almost absurdly grand: wine imported from Italy, delicacies preserved in fine oils, and a selection of cheeses that must have traveled half of Europe to find their way to this grassy knoll.
Alexander sat apart from them, nearer the shade of a broad oak tree, while the others sprawled lazily on the patterned blanket. Their faces were flushed with the warmth of the sun and the heady indulgence of leisure, though Alexander’s own expression remained tempered. His friends were unusually giddy this day and were putting on quite the show – for his benefit, no doubt.
“French brandy!” Wycliffe exclaimed, flourishing his near-empty glass as though it held ambrosia itself. “Imported at great personal risk, of course. Let us not forget the bravery of obtaining such goods, Harrington—a noble art underappreciated in our times.” He made a mock toast to the horizon before draining the last of it with dramatic flair.
“Oh, and quite a lucrative venture,” Harrington said with an exaggerated air of authority, picking up the bottle with an almost reverent touch. “Alexander, you know Wycliffe here has exquisite taste. Would you care for a glass?”
“I think not,” Alexander said. “My wine from Shropshire will do me.”
“Shropshire wine,” Wycliffe said and rolled his eyes. “How dull. You think too small, my friend,” he added countered with feigned solemnity, plucking a grape from the spread and popping it into his mouth. “Nobody wants wine from Ole Blighty when they can have it from France.”
“Which they cannot, considering the war,” Alexander pointed out though he knew his friends had ways to get their hands on banned products.
“Yes, but that is precisely it. A proper venture could make us rich beyond all imagining. French brandy for the estates, chocolates for the ladies and who knows what else! Alexander, just picture it.” His eyebrows rose in mischievous suggestion, his grin impossible to miss.
Harrington joined in, grinning from ear to ear. “Wycliffe and I, you see, have the most delightful proposition. Something… lucrative.” He leaned toward Alexander with an eagerness that seemed to make the air itself hum. Alexander already had an idea what they wanted and he knew he’d not care for it. “The details, of course, are best shared in the right company. And here you are.” His tone was rich with implication as his eyebrows danced like marionettes.
Alexander’s brow tightened slightly as he sipped his own wine, carefully avoiding their expectant gazes. He tried to find charm in their showmanship, but it slipped through his grasp like the oily sheen of Wycliffe’s imported delicacies.
The corners of his mouth barely moved as he murmured, “Smuggling. That is what you’re proposing.”
“Oh, no need to call it smuggling!” Wycliffe cried in mock indignation, throwing up his hands. “We’re merely redistributing fine goods in pursuit of cultural appreciation—and coin, of course.”
Harrington laughed, raising his glass toward Wycliffe. “Coin above all!”
But Alexander couldn’t bring himself to match their mood. The two of them, for all their antics and good cheer, grated against him in this moment. Their boundless enthusiasm, their unchecked confidence—it exhausted him in ways it hadn’t before. His thoughts strayed to his brothers-in-law, wishing with an ache he didn’t like to name that they were back already. They, at least, had the steady sense these two so utterly lacked.
“Perhaps this new venture of yours should wait,” Alexander said after a long pause, his voice carefully polite, though his tone left no room for argument. “I do not care for what you are proposing.”
“Proposing? Waiting?” Wycliffe laughed, sitting up. “Oh, Alexander, we are well past the proposal stage. Mr Sturgis assures me he has the connections. We merely need capital. Your capital, preferably.” Sturgis was the gentleman who rented them warehouse space where they stored their perfectly legal goods imported from India. Tea, spices, sugar, textiles and the like. That Sturgis would support smuggling did not surprise him, however.
“And my consent, presumably,” Alexander said stiffly.
“Don’t be such a Puritan,” Harrington drawled, taking a bite of something smeared in butter. “The French do not suffer for it; in fact, their merchants positively revel in British guineas, war or no war. And besides, the business itself is flawless.”
“Flawless?” Alexander said, his voice growing firm. “Hardly. It is illegal, for one, and if caught, we are looking at ruin—not just of your reputation, but mine as well. Have you even considered what this would mean for our families? Our associates?”
Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “Spoken like the golden boy you’ve always been. Honestly, Alexander, your conscience must be insufferably crowded with all those lofty ideals.”
“It is better to have some ideals than none at all,” Alexander retorted, a sharpness in his tone that took the others by surprise. For years, he had borne their teasing with quiet reserve, rarely pushing back. Why hadn’t he? He wasn’t quite certain. Part of it was because they were his partners and he did not want to upset their arrangements. He knew his temper. If he had pushed back he would have found himself swiftly in a row of epic proportions and he would have said things that would certainly have led to some sort of fight. A fight he would have won, he was sure. He usually did. He was well aware that he was not only intellectually stronger than his friends, but physically.
Harrington raised his hands, smirking. “Now, now. Do not grow fierce with us, dear fellow. No one is forcing your hand. If you cannot stomach a small bending of the law, we shall take care of it ourselves.”
“You’ll involve the business, though,” Wycliffe said, his grin sly. “When you see the profits roll in, you’ll forget your scruples soon enough.”
Alexander stood, brushing dust from his sleeves with deliberate care. “Our joint business will not so much as touch this scheme. That is my final word.” His grey eyes, so often mild and unassuming, were now as steely as the edge of a blade. “Do you hear me?”
The men exchanged glances, Wycliffe’s smirk faltering, Harrington scratching his neck in discomfort. “Well, if you’re going to bring your entire moral code to bear, I suppose we’ve no choice,” Wycliffe drawled. “Heavens forbid we offend the Duke of Leith’s delicate honour.”
Harrington chuckled, though it sounded half-hearted. “Indeed. There he goes, upright as ever. Though I wonder, Alex, has your bride managed to rub all the polish from you yet?”
“Perhaps,” Wycliffe said, a gleam of mockery returning to his eye. “From what I hear, the Duchess of Leith is as headstrong as a warhorse. Likely enough that she’s trampling your good sense, leaving you as abrasive as you make her out to be.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened at the barb, but his mind, to his own surprise, shifted course. He thought of Lydia’s boldness, her determination, her utter refusal to yield when she believed herself in the right. Was there wisdom in that kind of strength, a wisdom he had never acknowledged? For years, he had tempered his personality, softened it like wax to accommodate the needs and expectations of those around him. Perhaps Lydia was not so wrong to stand firm, to insist.
“You’d both do well to learn the difference,” Alexander said coolly. “Strength is not to be mistaken for abrasiveness, nor conviction for pride. You can jest at honour and principle all you like, but one day you’ll find the world is built on little else.”
“Goodness, marriage has really made you rather tiresome,” Harrington said, shaking his head with mock dismay.
“Indeed,” agreed, brushing a crumb from his trousers. “You’ve grown quite insufferable, Alexander. You should come out with us to the club tonight. Have a few whiskeys, loosen up a bit. Get out of that house with that… creature.”
“Do not speak about her in such a manner. It is unbecoming. She is a lady, a Duchess, no matter how she came to be one. I will not stand for that sort of talk.” His hand itched, wanting to curl into a fist to plant a facer on the insufferable man but he knew to control himself. He didn’t need to cause a scene, not here, not now.
“Better yet,” Harrington chimed in, thumping his knee with a closed fist. “Go to Foxworthy’s ball tonight! A proper spectacle, if ever there was one. I hear he’s invited his cousin Arlington as well as your wife’s sister to push the two of them together.”
Alexander kept his tone steady, though he was bristling inwardly. “Yes, I’ve heard. We received an invitation.”
“We?” Wycliffe raised an eyebrow.
“My wife and I,” Alexander clarified.
“Ah, but are you going?” Harrington’s smile widened as he leaned forward slightly. “I thought your wife would’ve been very eager. Balls seem her kind of affair, if you take my meaning.”
“Meaning what?”
His friend shrugged. “Only that I heard she is keen to go to balls, although if one has had as many suitors as her it must get awkward at times.”
“I think I just made it quite clear that I will not stand for this sort of talk. She is my wife. Show respect or you will regret it.”
“Oh dear!” Wycliffe laughed, “did you hear that? A proper threat from His Grace. You better watch out.”
“That goes for you too,” Alexander said gravely, angry at himself for not having knocked their heads together just yet.
Alexander shifted his gaze to the horizon, feeling the prickle of discomfort run down his spine. He hadn’t even discussed the ball with Lydia. The invitation, formally addressed to the Duke and Duchess of Leith, had felt more like an obligatory curtsy than a sincere entreaty. Surely Lydia would have received her own personal invitation from her sister—hadn’t she? But if so, she hadn’t mentioned it. Should he have asked her? Should he have spoken to her about attending together, for appearances’ sake?
The idea left him strangely uneasy. He thought back to their tense conversation in her dressing room a week ago, the subtle brush of her hand on his arm, the way her breath had quickened when they’d argued. And the moment—the excruciatingly brief moment—when he’d almost kissed her.
He had wanted to. But he hadn’t. He’d held back, tamping down the yearning that had sparked between them. Marriage, children, a family, the very things society demanded of them—they were the last things he could afford, not in his heart nor his soul. He had allowed her too much access to both already. If he opened the gates fully, she would destroy him eventually. He was certain of it.
“A pity if you don’t attend,” Harrington said, shaking him from his thoughts. “Still, I suppose you’ve other plans, eh?”
“Yes,” Alexander said quickly, lowering his gaze.
“Oh, other plans, is it?” Wycliffe smirked. “Would those plans still involve a certain opera singer, by any chance?”
Alexander’s head snapped up. “Certainly not.”
“Miss Fitzroy was rather put out she wasn’t chosen as the Duchess of Leith, wasn’t she?” Wycliffe teased, the glint in his eye betraying his mischief.
“She had every right to believe she might be,” Harrington added with mock solemnity. “All that time you spent ‘courting her charms,’ wasn’t it?”
Alexander fixed them with a glare, his tone icy. “You’re both utterly ridiculous. There was nothing between myself and Miss Fitzroy.”
His protest fell on deaf ears as the pair dissolved into laughter. Alexander clenched his fists at his sides, refusing to take the bait. Yet his mind betrayed him, recalling Matilda Fitzroy with unwanted clarity. Her presence in his drawing room, her laugh low and musical, and the way she’d always reached for his arm as though she had some claim to him.
Their affair, if it could even be called that, had been shallow, brief, and utterly meaningless—or so he told himself. But even as he reassured himself, a nagging thought lingered. Did she think otherwise?
The possibility unsettled him. To imagine she had expected anything lasting or significant filled him with guilt he had no place to lay. Feeling the heat of his friends’ laughter still pressing against him, he stood suddenly, brushing dirt from his trousers.
“Well, if you two plan to while away the afternoon with drink and empty chatter, so be it,” he said, fixing them with a cold look. “But do not let my name be associated with your venture again. If you go forward with your plan, it will be a separate venture from our joint one, and that is final. Now, I will bid you both farewell.”
Wycliffe snorted, but Harrington gave a conciliatory shrug.
“As you like, Your Grace,” Harrington said, the teasing note replaced with something closer to respect.
Alexander inclined his head briefly and turned, his steps carrying him back across the green. Their laughter followed him faintly, but it no longer burrowed beneath his skin. Instead, his thoughts turned once more to Lydia, and the growing certainty that, whether at Arlington’s ball or elsewhere, their paths were inextricably tied—and that perhaps, just perhaps, he had underestimated her entirely.