“You may rest easy for your cousin’s virtue,” she said. “I am not interested in callow youths, whatever you may think.” She looked him up and down. “Nor in adventurers, for that matter, however romantic and mysterious others may find them.” She squared her shoulders. “Lord Grant, I do not know what my husband said about me to make you have such an aversion to me, but I do not care for either your disapproval or your judgmental attitudes.”
“David never spoke of you to me,” Alex said. “Other than just before he died.”
Joanna was gripping her fan so tightly between her gloved hands now that she heard the struts creak. She could see a most indiscreet crowd of guests jostling in the doorway of the room, eager to witness the scene playing out between Lady Joanna and her supposed lover.
“Well,” she said sarcastically, “if David was on his deathbed then whatever he said must be true.”
“Perhaps,” Alex said. His mouth was set in a thin, angry line. “You may tell me if it was true or not. David told me never to trust you, Lady Joanna. He said that you were deceitful and manipulative. Can you tell me what you had done to incur such hatred from your husband?”
Their eyes met and locked and Joanna could feel the burn all the way through her body. Alex’s gaze was narrowed on her face with dark intensity and suddenly she hated him, too, for believing her faithless, feckless husband, for taking David’s word without question, for damning her unheard. She wanted to explain to him; she wanted it with a passion that shocked her, that stole her breath and made her heart ache-but she knew she could not confide in Alex Grant, a man who was practically a stranger. “Trust no one” was her maxim when it came to the ton and she had held true to it ever since the day, as a new bride, she had walked into Madame Ermine’s gown shop in Bond Street and had heard two women discussing her intimate affairs in exquisite scandalous detail. It was from that gossip she had first learned of David’s infidelity. As a result, she trusted no one with her secrets, especially not her late husband’s closest friend, colleague and ally.
“You assume that I am the one who was in the wrong,” she said bitterly, now. “I am sorry you believe that.”
She saw a hint of doubt in Alex’s eyes; or at least she thought that she did. It was faint and fleeting like a shadow that came and went in the blink of an eye. Then he shook his head slightly.
“That is not good enough, Lady Joanna.”
Joanna’s temper snapped. She had been estranged from David for five long years before he had died and had nursed her grief silently through every one of them. This man was trying to force it out into the light of day and in doing so was destroying all the layers she had built up to protect herself.
“Well, Lord Grant,” she said, “it will have to do. I owe you nothing, and nothing I could say would change your opinion of me anyway, so I shall save my breath.” She squared her shoulders. “I recall that you wanted me to end our supposed liaison. Let me oblige you and then we need not see one another again.”
She turned to the ice sculpture and broke off the sword in the man’s hand. The ice gave a very satisfying crack as the sword came free. Mrs. Cummings’s guests caught their collective breath on a gasp.
Joanna snapped the sword sharply in two and handed Alex the pieces.
“That is what I think of explorers and their amatory abilities,” she said clearly so that the entire company could hear her. “It is to be hoped that you can navigate your way better across the frozen wastes than you can around a woman’s body, or you may end in Spain rather than Spitsbergen.” She smiled. “Consider yourself jilted, Lord Grant,” she added sweetly. “Good night.”
Chapter 3
MRS. LOTTIE CUMMINGS stood alone in her dining room surveying the detritus her guests had left behind. In a rare gesture of generosity she had given the servants what was left of the night off and told them they could finish cleaning and tidying the following day. The candles were snuffed and the air smelled faintly of smoke. What light filtered into the room came from the first rays of dawn that streaked the eastern sky over London. Her ice sculptures were melting, dripping sadly into the large cut-glass bowls beneath with a splash that sounded like tears. Lottie felt depressed and she could not, for the life of her, understand why.
The evening had been the most tremendous success, a complete crush, and she knew it would be spoken of for months to come. Even without the thrilling quarrel between Lady Joanna Ware and her alleged lover, Lord Grant, it would have been deemed vastly entertaining. The food had, as always, been exquisite, the music perfection itself and the ice sculptures were the finishing touch. So why, Lottie wondered, trailing her fingers in the remainder of a bowl of rose-petal cream and licking it off thoughtfully, did she feel as though she had lost a guinea and found a farthing? It was true that her husband, Gregory, had barely shown his face at the rout, but then he never did. They went their separate ways and had done since the beginning. She had married him for his money not his personality, which was just as well, Lottie thought, since he did not have one. No, indeed, Gregory’s neglect was not the cause of her blue devils. She did not want his attention. But she wanted someone’s attention, someone more exciting, more daring, someone altogether more thrilling than poor old Gregory.
It was a pity that Alex Grant had turned down her whispered offers of a liaison. Lottie had not expected to be rejected. It happened to her very seldom. She had known Alex’s reputation for coldness but had thought she would be just the woman to thaw him. She had not for a moment believed the twaddle other impressionable women whispered that he was still mourning his dead wife or some such rubbish. He was a man, wasn’t he, and therefore led by his lusts. She had seen the way Alex had been looking at Joanna and she knew he wanted David Ware’s luscious widow. But he was wasting his time there. Lottie sucked the remaining cream from her fingers. Joanna really was frigid, poor girl-David had told Lottie that when they had been in bed together one day. No, indeed, far better for Lottie to be the one to show the lovely Lord Grant the comforts she could offer a dashing adventurer. Except that Alex had rejected her advances. He had done so courteously, charmingly even, but it was still a rebuff and Lottie was still offended. She had immediately sent a servant to Gregory to tell him that on no account should he fund Alex’s scapegrace cousin on his ridiculous Mexican voyage. It had been a petty revenge, perhaps, but it had made her feel better …
The click of a door closing softly and the sound of a footfall on the marble tiles of the hall made her turn swiftly. She had thought that she was alone, but now she saw that a tall shadow had fallen across the doorway.
“I thought that you had left some time ago,” she said as James Devlin came forward into the room.
Dev shook his head. “Your husband and I were talking.”
“And?” Lottie prompted. Had blasted Gregory defied her and offered the stupid boy his money anyway? She felt infuriated.
But Dev was shaking his head. “He won’t fund me. Says the venture is too risky.”
“I am so sorry.” Lottie swam forward and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You must be so disappointed, darling.” He looked disappointed, she thought, all youthful spirits downcast, so sweetly handsome she wanted to kiss him better. She pressed a glass of champagne on him. It was flat from standing but he still drank it down in one go and she gave him another, picking up a glass herself and clinking it against his in salute.
“Where does that leave you now?” she said sympathetically.
“With a half share in a ship and no money to sail it anywhere.” He sounded philosophical. Bless him, Lottie thought, he really was the dearest boy. Perhaps he was not as mature or as forceful as his cousin, a boy to Alex’s man, but he was here and he was extremely handsome and she was bored and miserable.
She