Bewitching (65 page)

"I say, there. It could take us another hour just to reach the line to the gates,"
Seymour
said. He scowled when Downe removed a silver brandy flask from his coat.

"It's not for me," Downe said, handing it to Alec. "Here, Belmore."

Alec gazed out the window, his mind back on the roof of
Belmore
Park
, his senses filled with the scent of roses.

"Belmore?"

Stephen leaned over and with one finger poked him in the arm. "Alec!"

He shook his head and looked up. "What?"

Stephen pointed at the earl, who held out the flask and said, "You look as if you could use this."

Alec shook his head, then turned back just in time to catch a glimpse of a faded red hat bobbing through the crowd. "Bloody hell!" He threw open the carriage door and stood, gripping the open window to keep his balance. "It's the flower seller! It's her!" He jumped onto the street and threaded his way through the crush of carriages, moving onto the walk and running as best he could through the crowd. He lost sight of the red hat and shoved his way through. Women screeched and men swore, but he didn't give a damn. He would not lose her. He leapt onto the top of Harbinger's gig and searched the crowd. A few hundred feet ahead he could see the old woman's hat.

"Stop her!" he shouted, pointing. "Stop that old woman!" But the hat bobbed onward, the crowd looking at him as if he was as insane as he felt.

"Belmore!"

Alec ignored the murmurs and turned. Seymour, Stephen, and Henson ran toward him, and Downe, with his cane, hobbled along behind swearing the air blue.

"Over here!" he shouted and waved them forward. Then he took off again, seeing an opening between the carriages. He ran, ran as fast as he could around mincing teams and rolling wheels. It was her. He knew it was her. She was his only hope, his last chance. His breath came in pants. He ran faster, weaving his way through the crowd and yelling at the woman to stop, not caring who or what was in his way.

A carriage shifted, blocking his way. The team started to balk and the carriage rocked. He couldn't get through. Like thunder, panic beat through him. And desperation. Overwhelming desperation. This was his only hope. His last chance.

"Damn!" He shifted left, then right, then dashed through a small opening between teams. He was in the crowd again, but he'd lost sight of her. He stretched upward to try to spot her. Then, frustrated as hell, he shoved his way to the iron fence that circled the royal residence. He grabbed it and pulled himself up, hanging on to the fence with one hand.

"The Duke of Belmore has a thousand pounds for anyone who can hold that old flower woman in the red straw hat!"

A loud murmur traveled wavelike through the crowd. He yelled it again, and then, ignoring the stares, forged his way through. There was another shout.

"There she is!"

Alec ran in that direction, pushing and shoving his way past the gates. He spotted her. About thirty young bloods, most of them known for their lack of funds, blocked his path in their rush to reach her.

Like the waters of the
Red Sea
the men parted. He ran at her, just as she held up a posy, her back to him.

"A lovely posy fer yer lady!"

He grasped her small shoulders and spun her around. "Where is she? Where is my wife?"

A pair of sharp and familiar gray eyes stared up at him. "Who?"

Panting, he rasped, "You know who! My wife!"

"Who be ye?"

"You damn well know who I am. I'm the Duke of Belmore!"

The old woman eyed him for a long time, silently, then dismissed him and said, "Don't know what yer talkin' 'bout." She turned around to the crowd and held up her flowers. "Lovely posy fer yer lady!"

His breath still coming in staggered spurts, Alec stood there, frustrated and helpless. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned to face Downe, Seymour, and Stephen. "She won't tell me anything." He ran a hand through his hair, helpless.

Downe reached into his pocket and took out a money pouch. He limped to the old woman and shoved the money in her basket. "Tell him where she is."

The old woman turned very slowly. She looked from the earl to Alec, then at the pouch. "Ye wish to buy me whole basket o' posies, yer lordship?"

"Tell Belmore where his wife is. You told his fortune. Said he would meet her. Months ago . . . On the steps of White's. Where is she now, old woman?"

"I just sell posies, yer lordship."

"Those months ago you sold more than that."

Seymour and the others stood beside him. The viscount dropped his purse into her basket, then took off every charm, fob, and amulet on his person and dropped them in her flower basket. "Bring her back."

Stephen looked at the hag and stated simply, "Alec needs Joy. Look at him."

She remained silent.

"Damnation, woman!" Alec shouted. "Tell me where she is. What do I have to do? I've torn London apart looking for an old flower woman in a red hat. I finally find you and you won't tell me anything. What do I have to do?"

She remained silent, but watched him closely.

"I've hugged every tree from Wiltshire to London." He turned around and spotted a maple a few feet away. He strode over and wrapped his arms around it. "Where's the magic, woman? Where?"

The crowd began to titter. He ignored them. "I eat gingerbread. Hell, I don't even like gingerbread! I look for fairies. I wish on stars. I sleep with roses. Pink roses. I wake up calling her name at night. What do I have to do? Tell me! Please . . . ” His voice tapered off, and he was quiet for a moment before he said, "I love her."

There was absolute silence. Those wise gray eyes pinned him for the longest time, then she slowly turned and walked away. "A lovely posy fer yer lady! A lovely posy fer yer lady!"

He watched her walk away. His hope went with her. He sagged back against the tree and stared at the ground. The crowd stood frozen, thinking God only knew what. He could feel their stares. He didn't give a damn.

After a few minutes the crowd began to murmur, then move and Downe limped over to Alec. "Come on inside, Belmore."

Alec took a deep breath and pushed away from the tree. Wordlessly he followed them inside, purposely sidestepping the reception line. He didn't want to talk to anyone now. He made his way across the ballroom, but something touched his arm. He turned in hope.

Lady Agnes Voorhees, flanked by her gossips, stood there looking as if she could burp feathers.

He just looked at them, feeling nothing.

"Why, Your Grace! I've never seen anything like that! You poor man. Well, I said to my Henry, isn't that just like a Scot to run out. Can't face anything. Weak blood. Which reminds me . . . I just met Stephen. Over there with His Royal Highness? Why, your brother is as sweet as can be for someone who"—she leaned closer and whispered—"who isn't all there. But that's still no excuse for that girl to leave you."

He looked at London society's version of the witches from
Macbeth
and said, "I should have let her do it."

"Do what, Your Grace?"

His eyes narrowed. "Both warts and frogs." He spun around and walked away, not seeing the little bump that had just popped onto Lady Agnes's beak of a nose. Two days later, a nice black hair would grow from it, and from the other wart on her chin . . . forever.

Like a cipher, Alec moved toward the terrace doors. He needed air. He needed space. He needed isolation. A few seconds later he sat on a stone bench under a tree in a dark corner of the garden, his head leaning against the trunk as he stared upward. Through the dark crown of the tree, he looked up at the sky, at the stars Scottish saw such wonder in, wished upon and believed in.

Without her, he had nothing to believe in anymore. He had nothing.

The orchestra struck up a waltz. It was that same waltz. He smiled a bittersweet smile. He bowed his head and sat there, elbows on his knees, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes and relived the memory.

What had she said that time? Something about having to make memories. Memories were all he had.

"I love her," he said to the ground, needing to hear himself say it again.

He thought he heard something and looked up. The garden was empty.

He exhaled. "My Scottish."

The trees rustled slightly, a breath of a breeze whispering, "Alec."

He looked upward at nothing. But he could have sworn 'twas her voice.

"Alec."

Frowning, he looked before him, some small amount of hope still flickering inside him. There was nothing. An empty garden.

"Alec."

God . . . He was insane. He'd go through life hearing her voice.

"My Alec."

At that he straightened, and turned around.

She stood there. Scottish stood there, a smile on her face, that wonderful face. Three mindless steps and she was in his arms. Real. Alive. He gripped her so tightly she gasped.

"I love you." He buried his face in her sweet neck and said, "God, Scottish . . . . How I love you."

Her hands held his head. "My Alec," she whispered, then their mouths touched and he knew this was real, for he tasted all he loved, his world, his life, his wife. Eternity.

Long moments later, he pulled back, looking at her, touching her, holding her, afraid for an instant to let go lest she disappear again. As if reading his mind, she smiled and whispered, " 'Tis forever this time."

The notes of the waltz drifted on the air. He pushed back, looked at the golden light of the ballroom, then back at her face. That face.

A second later he pulled her with him. "Alec! Where are we going?"

He said nothing, just ripped open the terrace doors and stormed inside until they stood in the middle of the dance floor. The dancers slowed, then stopped.

Surrounded by the ton, he gripped her head in his hands and finished kissing her.

A gasp ran through the room, the ton suddenly witness to a new scandal. The music ceased. Voices twittered. Fans flew up to shield ladies' faces, yet their curious eyes peered over, watching. Some ladies fainted. Some ladies smiled. Most ladies envied. He didn't notice. He didn't care.

There was the feeble sound of applause, and at that, Alec broke the kiss, looking a few feet away where three people stood—the only people in the room beside Scottish whose opinion mattered. Stephen hung his head and muttered "mush."
Seymour
grinned and held up his crossed fingers. Downe leaned on his cane, but it was he who was awkwardly clapping.

Alec felt Scottish shift, then turn slowly, following his gaze. He saw her look at the earl's cane, then she turned back to him. There was a pause, a flash of laughter in her eyes. They both spoke at the same instant: "Letitia Hornsby."

He caught her laughter with another kiss, held her close and ignored the mumble of outraged sensibilities.

He swept her into his arms and she pulled back, smiling up at him as he carried her through the stunned crowd.

"Alec?" Sighing, she leaned her head against his shoulder.