Chapter 2
Lady Alexandra Lytton burst from the front door of the Countess of Pemberton’s townhouse and out onto the sidewalk with such speed and ferocity that she nearly ran into the gentleman who was walking past.
He started and dropped his walking cane. Grabbing it up again, he gave her a thin, angry glare as he hurried past, not even bothering to tip his hat.
Alexandra didn’t care. She’d had to get out of the countess’s drawing room.
If she listened to the countess, her mother, or any of the other matrons invited to tea make one more veiled comment about how she had failed to hook a husband for the third Season in a row, she was going to throw a cup of tea at them.
That would be infinitely more scandalous than making an excuse about a shopping engagement with Lady Helena and escaping from the room amid a flurry of raised eyebrows and irritated mutterings.
They’ll live, she told herself as she smoothed down her skirts, adjusted her bonnet, and touched her curls to make sure they had held. Anyway, they already think I am far too wayward for my own good.
She looked back over her shoulder to see Lady Helena emerging from the townhouse with considerably more dignity. Her friend’s red hair was shining in the afternoon sun, her pretty face dimpled and round, although her usually smiling mouth was set in a frown.
“Must you always be so dramatic, Alexandra?” Helena scolded as she came down the steps. “You nearly toppled Mr. Hurst!”
“Mr. Hurst did not have to spend the last hour listening to a list of all his failings,” Alexandra harrumphed. “He will be well.”
“They were not exactly listing your failings,” Helena pointed out. “Simply stating that perhaps it is time you lowered your standards and accepted one of the many proposals you have received.”
“That is what made their criticisms so aggravating!” Alexandra cried. “They act as if I am on the shelf already at one-and-twenty, but it is not for a lack of proposals. I am simply waiting.”
“I know,” Helena said with a sigh, looping her arm through Alexandra’s and steering her away from the townhouse. “But sooner or later, you are going to have to wed, and I fear that by the time you do, all the good suitors will be gone. And then you will be forced to accept someone beneath you!”
Alexandra snorted. “I do not care if he is beneath me. I care if he is someone I love.”
Helena smiled and patted her hand. “Ah, yes, the infamous love match. Well, if anyone were to have one, I would put my bets on you, Alexandra. No one is more beautiful or desired.”
As Alexandra’s golden-blonde hair caught the sun, her almond-shaped hazel eyes flashing, she could not disagree with her friend. She was beautiful and desired.
But that was the problem.
Everyone wanted her, but she wanted no one.
“Which is why I am such a disappointment to my parents,” she said with a sigh. “As they remind me constantly.”
Perhaps she was being too picky, Alexandra mused as she and Helena made their way down the street and turned right, then left again, on their way to Bond Street.
Around them, the air was filled with the clatter of noise as laborers worked on buildings, tradesmen passed in carts calling out their wares, and horses clopped past on the cobblestones.
The sounds were overwhelming, and they made Alexandra’s head ache and her thoughts dash wildly through her. She would so much prefer to spend her days out in the countryside, but a London Season could not be missed. Not by an unmarried lady.
Perhaps three Seasons was a great many to go by without a marriage. And yet…
Growing up being told that her purpose in life was to marry a titled man and bring the family wealth and prosperity had given her a rebellious streak. And that rebellion had made her long for the one thing that eluded her: not wealth, looks, or titles, but love.
They stopped outside the modiste, and Alexandra kissed her friend’s cheeks goodbye.
“I will leave you here,” she said brightly.
“Are you sure you do not want to come in?” Helena asked, glancing anxiously around. “I do not like to leave you alone. It is highly improper…”
“I will just be two shops down,” Alexandra assured her. “I am quite capable of picking out a few books on my own.”
“But your mother…”
“She need never know,” Alexandra said with a wink. “And I need some time alone with my thoughts. Just come and pick me up once you are done with your appointment.”
Helena sighed, then pushed the door open to the modiste and disappeared inside. Turning, Alexandra made her way down the street to Hatchard’s. The bookshop was small, and as she pushed open the door, a small bell tinkled to announce her arrival.
Inside, she was immediately hit by the familiar, musty smell of old books.
Pausing in the doorway, she closed her eyes and breathed in, allowing the comforting aroma to wash over her.
There was nowhere else she felt more safe than surrounded by books.
Immediately, she felt her anxieties and frustrations begin to melt away.
“I am telling you, that is the wrong classification!”
The angry voice cut through her thoughts, and Alexandra’s eyes snapped open. She peered around the bookshop, disoriented by the volume and fury of the voice, even when muffled by the books. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the closest bookshelf, and she crept closer.
“This is a Laelia, not a Cattleya,” the voice continued.
It was a man’s, low and powerful. “This book is clearly mistaken, and you should not be selling something that is so blatantly incorrect. It is a disgrace to the botanical community. In fact, I have half a mind to write to the publisher myself and demand he pull it from circulation.”
Alexandra peaked around the corner of the bookshelf.
Standing on the other side were two men.
One she recognized as the bookseller, Mr. Hatchard, a short, wiry man with gray hair, spectacles, and an eternally bemused expression.
He was facing away from her while the other man, whom she did not know, faced her.
The stranger was very tall, with dark hair that was almost black, and which fell around his angular, chiseled face in long, luxurious waves. He was frighteningly handsome, with dark eyes that flashed with passion and high, aristocratic cheekbones.
The darkness of his physique was emphasized by his black jacket, waistcoat, and traveling cloak, all of which were made of the finest materials. Looking at him, she felt as if she were spying on some kind of pirate prince.
This man looked entirely too wild for London.
And he was currently arguing with Mr. Hatchard about a book of botany, which he held in his hand like a saber.
“You are welcome to speak to the publisher,” Mr. Hatchard said. He sounded nonplussed, as if every day he had arguments with customers about the contents of his books. “But I assure you, the book is correct.”
“It is not,” the stranger insisted. “I am an amateur botanist myself, and I assure you, this orchid is listed incorrectly.”
Alexandra felt a small flutter in her stomach. Orchids. She knew orchids.
Clearing her throat, she stepped forward.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hatchard,” she said, keeping her voice measured, “but I might be able to offer some insight into this debate.”
Both men turned to look at her at once. She vaguely registered the look of relief on Mr. Hatchard’s face as he spied her, but it was the stranger’s face she found she could not look away from. His gaze burned into her like a brand, rooting her to the spot.
The stranger’s eyes were like little fires, so fierce and full of burning intensity, and as they settled on her, she felt as if they were seeing all the way through her—her carefully selected clothes, her polished jewelry, her polite manners, all the ways in which she had made herself into the perfect debutante.
“Ahh, Lady—” Mr. Hatchard began, but the stranger interrupted him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice low and salty. “But I very much doubt that you can provide insight on this topic.”
Alexandra bristled at once. “And whyever not? Do you think yourself the only amateur botanist in London? Or is it my age and gender that disqualifies me? I assure you, I am an avid reader of scientific texts, and I am a regular subscriber to Botanical Monthly.”
She took a step forward and held out a gloved hand. “Let me see the book. I will tell you if the orchid is a Laelia or a Cattleya.”
The stranger did not move. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, as if he were trying hard to control his temper. But Alexandra didn’t let herself be intimidated. She merely raised her eyebrows.
“Come now, I do not have all day,” she insisted.
At last, the man handed her the book. As she took it, their hands grazed, and she felt an electric shock ripple up her from where they had touched. She tried not to gasp as the hairs on her arms stood up and her pulse began to race.
She turned the book around and examined the drawing quickly, tracing a hand down the page. The paper was thin and smooth, the book heavy.
After several moments of deliberation, she handed the book back to him, careful not to touch him this time.
“I am afraid it is Cattleya,” she said, repressing a smile. “You can tell by the slight difference in coloring. It is an easy mistake to make, as I believe the differentiation was only recently classified. If you have not been reading the most up-to-date botanical journals, you would not know it.”
“I beg your pardon,” the man said, his face clouding with anger, “but I will not be gainsaid on this topic. I am perfectly aware of the correct orchid varieties.”
Sighing, she reached forward and tapped the picture on the still-open page. “Look closely,” she said. “The colors are all wrong. And the stem—”
“It is the right length.”
“It is too short.”
After much hesitation, the man looked down. There was a long pause. Then the man blinked, and she watched as the color drained from his face and his eyebrows shot up.
There was another long, awkward silence as the man realized she was right.