Chapter 15 #2
As she turned to see whether Rafe had returned for her yet, an overly loud whisper from the woman in the brocade dress reached her ears. “Look at the shabby looking creature that’s come in with Moreham.”
Her companion, a pinch-faced brunette in a canary yellow dress, turned her sharp eyes toward Alix. “Who do you think she is?”
“Well, I haven’t the slightest idea, and I doubt Lady Anne does either,” the blonde said, leaning toward her companion but raising her voice so her words clearly carried.
“They say the earl invited Lady Anne to his country estate and was all set to propose when poof, he hied off to France without a word. The ton is buzzing with the news; everyone was certain his lordship was finally going to come up to scratch. Of course Lady Anne, being the quality that she is, hasn’t said a word, but you know she must be fit to be tied. She isn’t getting any younger.”
Both women were staring openly at Alix now. “Do you think she’s the reason the earl didn’t propose?” the woman in yellow asked incredulously.
The heavyset woman stifled a snort of laughter. “Well, they do say he likes his French pleasures. Perhaps he’s decided to import them now that they’re having all those troubles over there.”
The yellow clad woman tittered. “Well if he did, then the price couldn’t have been too dear. She looks like something the rag vendor cast off.” Both women snickered into their handkerchiefs.
“Oh Georgie sweetheart, don’t eat all those cakes so fast, you’ll get a tummy ache.” The woman in the brocade turned her attention to the boy who was now busily stuffing his face with sweets, and the conversation shifted away from Alix to the importance of a healthy appetite in the young.
Rafe reappeared and led Alix to a private room that had been set with a light repast. She followed, her brain chattering with this latest piece of information about Rafe Harcrest. Or was it the Earl of Moreham?
She glared at his broad shoulders as he pulled the chair out for her.
All the time he was making love to her he had a fiancée, or something quite close to it, at home. The man was a perfect cad.
He poured her some tea and held out a plate. “Would you care for some cakes, or perhaps some scones with jam?”
What she wanted to do, she thought fiercely, was to upend the jam on his head. Instead, she smiled politely and took a slice of cake.
They ate in silence for a moment, and Alix wondered when and how Rafe would reveal the truth.
“You know,” she said sweetly, “you’ve told me about your sister Elizabeth and your stepmother, but you’ve never spoken about your home. Do you live in London?”
Rafe busied himself with his plate. “I have a place there.”
“Oh,” Alix said, “is it above your shop, or are your living quarters separate?”
“Separate,” he said, “Would you care for more tea?”
“And didn’t you mention something about a country home? You must do quite well with your trade.” His face was expressionless, but Alix noticed the muscles tense around his jaw. “You know, I think it would be fascinating to see your warehouse and your place of business,” she continued.
He glanced up at her. “I think you’d find it all rather dull,” he said quickly. “Not at all the thing a lady of your position would find interesting.”
Alix toyed with her napkin. “But that is all behind me now. I’ve fled my home. I’ve married a merchant. I must forge a new life for myself here.” She waited to see how he would respond, whether he would offer her even the smallest particle of truth.
“Well,” he said at last, “if you’re going to start a new life, I think you could use some new clothes. And I know just the modiste near Leicester Square to get you started.” He smiled. “Soft colors, I think, and for God’s sake, no red, white, and blue.”
No pastels; no red, white, and blue; and definitely no you, she decided as she bit into her scone.
As they left the inn, Alix looked towards where the two women and the boy had been sitting, but they were already gone. She found herself fervently hoping that young Georgie and his mother both got terrible stomachaches from the scones.
They rode for the next several hours in a driving rain that made conversation in the coach difficult, if not impossible. Alix stared through rain-spattered windows as scrubby seacoast gave way to rain-drenched pastureland and then to the dense hamlets that marked the outskirts of London.
Rafe watched Alix, her eyes as overcast as the skies and her hands fisted tightly in her sodden skirt. It must be overwhelming for her, he thought, to be wrenched from her homeland and transplanted among strangers. He would make it all right, he told himself, starting with a fresh new wardrobe.
A smile crossed his lips as he pictured her dressed in silks and satins, in soft shades of blue and sea green to compliment her eyes, rose to match her skin.
He imagined her hair, clean and lustrous, falling free past her shoulders and the fantasy quickly moved from dressing Alix to undressing her.
He closed his eyes, recalling the taste and feel of her skin.
Then he opened them abruptly as he felt the familiar desire for her begin to settle in his groin.
Now, he reflected, was neither the time nor the place to be thinking about making love to Alix, and yet, she was like a melody that had become trapped in his head; he couldn’t seem to break free of her.