Wicked Angel (34 page)

Judging by the sour pucker of his mouth, he did. He glared at her, then the note in her hand. With a low growl, he snatched it from her. "Twenty-four Audley Street," he groused, and would have slammed the door on her shoulder had she not jumped out of the way.

Finch glared at the little man who thrust the note at him and barked, "Sutherland," then turned on his heel and stomped away from the door. The last thing he needed was to bring his grace any more news, of
any
kind. Oh, the duke was in a fine mood. It had begun during the welcome home supper for Lady Marlaine. His grace had ignored all propriety and had actually left the table in the course of the meal to find his butler. Find him, he did, all right, in the servant's dining area, and had dragged him out in full view of the staff.

Finch's second misfortune—the first having been found—was to be the one to tell his grace that the messenger was unable to locate Countess Bergen at Vauxhall Gardens. The duke's face had grown dangerously dark as Finch assured him the messenger had gone to every single fountain in the gardens, big and small alike, but had not located her. He had timidly returned the note that should have been delivered, only to watch his grace rip it into tiny little pieces before marching back to the dining room.

God only knew what news
this
note brought. But there was one thing of which he could be sure, Finch

thought as he walked slowly to the duke's private study, the note held before him on a silver tray.

His grace would not like it.

His grace signaled his displeasure by groaning the moment Finch stepped into the room. "What is it?" he barked.

"A note has arrived, your grace."

He growled, slamming the glass of whiskey down on a table. "What time is it?"

"Half past twelve midnight."

The duke rubbed his temples. "Bring it," he snarled, and tossed aside the book in his lap. Finch carefully handed him the note, and then backed out, shutting the pocket doors
very
softly.

Alex could not bring himself to read it.

He paced around the room, clutching the note tightly in his hand. He could not bear to be reminded of the mess he had created or be filled with a new rash of longing. He took a deep breath, ripped past the seal, and looked at the page.

"Bloody hell.
Bloody, bloody hell!
" he shouted at the ceiling. It was unsigned, but he knew
exactly
who had penned it. Good God, who
else
went about quoting from pages of English poetry? He stumbled backward and into a chair. How could she have come to the conclusion that last night was a lie? How in the bloody hell had she judged it a lie? It was not a
lie
, Goddammit!

God
, what had he done? he asked himself for the thousandth time as bitter disappointment churned in his gut. Reminded of his strange premonition last evening that she was slipping away from him, he realized he had lost her. He had lost the one thing that had ever mattered to him.

His world was rapidly crumbling. He glanced at the clock—a quarter to one. There was nothing he could do at this hour, not a bloody thing. Except drink.

His head felt like stone. Not only that, he must have eaten mud last evening, so foul was his mouth. God help him, but that woman had caused him to overindulge three nights running now and last night had been his best effort yet. Alex lifted his head from the desk and tried to open his eyes, blinking against the shards of sunlight that knifed his brain.

This madness had to
stop
. He was neglecting his responsibilities and scaring Marlaine half to death. She was trying very hard to be understanding, but she was smothering him with her concern, constantly hovering, asking if there was anything she could do for him, if there was anything he needed. There was something he needed, all right, something she could not give him.

He did not look up when the door to the library opened and closed. "God's blood!" Arthur exclaimed.

Alex gestured for him to soften his voice. "You look like hell, man! Judging by the look of you, I suppose there is no need to tell you Countess Bergen has left London—"

"Wh—What did you say?" Alex demanded, pushing himself up in his chair with supreme effort.

"I said you look like hell—"

"Not that!"

Arthur exhaled his aggravation and picked up Alex's discarded neckcloth. "She left. Yesterday."

Sagging, Alex closed his eyes, his head reeling. She was gone. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wished like hell the room would quit moving. "Yesterday?" he croaked.

"In the company of the German."

"Bloody hell," he grumbled.

"God, Alex, when will you end this tiresome brooding of yours? Do you remember you are to be married in a matter of days? You should be treating your fiancée with the adoration she is due on the eve of that fortuitous occasion, and not diving into your cups night after night!"

If Alex had possessed one ounce of strength, he would have cheerfully split his brother's skull open. And Lauren thought
he
was arrogant.

"How long do you intend to let this self-pity continue? How long will you allow the gossip to abound? Do you know that Marlaine attended a concert without you last evening? Told the Delacortes you were ill, but as you managed to make it to White's yesterday afternoon for a
drink
, Delacorte knew it to be a lie.

Oh, but do not worry. Your fiancée had a nice time of it with her cousin, Miss Broadmoore. A
smashing
good time by all accounts. Seems the pendulum has swung the other way—now Marlaine is the object of gossip."

Alex rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to dispel the throbbing. "She will be the source of constant gossip once she is a duchess and may as well get accustomed to it. God knows I have."

Arthur's unsympathetic moan reverberated about the room. "Here now, take Marlaine to the Fremont ball tonight. That will end the worst speculation."

"I don't know," Alex drawled as he slowly sat up, grimacing. "I had already promised my attentions to a bottle of whiskey."

"All right, enough," Arthur said impatiently, throwing up his hands. "Look, I can certainly understand your infatuation for the countess—she is beautiful and charming. But that is all it is, Alex, an infatuation.

She has
left
, for Chrissakes! And according to Paddy, that rather despicable uncle of hers has announced her betrothal to Count Bergen. So you may stop this adolescent pining for her and resume your life!"

"Tell me, Arthur, is there anything else I might do to please you?" Alex asked bitterly.

Arthur wearily tossed the neckcloth aside. "I think you have lost your mind."

Not my mind. My way
, he thought, and forced himself to look at his brother. "I will take Marlaine to the Fremont ball tonight. I will let the entire
ton
see that all is well with Sutherland. We are one very happy family, do not fret."

"Good," Arthur said, and walked to the door. He paused, looking over his shoulder. "Come now, it can hardly be as bad as all that. You will have forgotten her soon enough, just like the others."

Alex snorted as the door closed behind his brother. He would never forget her. There was not enough whiskey in the world for that.

Arthur's indignation, Alex suspected, sent him running to Hannah, as he could think of no other explanation for his mother's sudden appearance. He was sitting in his study, his head lolling against the leather wing-backed chair, staring into the fire. Lauren had left with the Goddammed German, and there was not a bloody thing he could do about it. He himself would be married by the end of the month; he could hardly fault Lauren for doing the same. After all, everyone must make a suitable match, one befitting their station and the
ton's
expectations. Everyone must eventually settle. He would. She would.

Life would go on. And he would learn to endure this agony.

It was that which he was contemplating when Hannah appeared at the door of his sanctuary, her hands on her hips. Hardly in a mood to hear a maternal lecture, he barely glanced at her.

"It would seem my son has a problem," she said imperiously.

That was putting it rather mildly. He sighed impatiently. "What, was there some offense Arthur failed to mention?"

"Sarcasm does not become you, Alexander," she said, gliding into the room. "And Arthur is right. You have behaved abominably these last few days."

"I really must thank Arthur for his complete dossier."

"I spoke with Marlaine earlier," she continued, ignoring his biting sarcasm. "She confided to me that you have been very distant with her. She fears you are suffering from second thoughts. Quite naturally, of course."

"That's rich," he scoffed. "Only Marlaine could make my behavior sound reasonable."

Hannah sat heavily on the edge of a chair next to him. "I have asked myself over and over again why you are behaving this way. You are a fine man, Alex, a decent,
caring
man. You are hardly one to invite gossip or disregard the feelings of others, or intentionally hurt those for whom you care."

"Mother, I apologize, all right?" he said with icy impatience.

But she continued as if he had not spoken. "So I asked myself, Hannah, what on earth would cause him to ignore all civility and act in such a way? What would cause him to cast off the lessons he has learned from the cradle about revering the women in his life?"

"Marvelous. And what did Hannah say?" he said, mockingly.

"That there could be but one reason. That at last, her son had discovered love."

Startled, Alex flicked his gaze to her; she was looking at him pointedly, daring him to disagree. "I have no doubt Hannah had an opinion about that," he said slowly.

She smiled softly. "Only that she prays it is true," she murmured. Alex frowned disapprovingly; it was inconceivable to him that his mother would want what she implied.

But she assured him she did with her smile. "I am a mother, Alexander, and I know my son very well. I know he does not allow his feelings to show, assuming, of course, he actually has any. I know he thinks

he has made a very good match, one that will meet with everyone's approval. I also know he does not love his intended, but carries another in his heart. And that he was never expecting anything like this to happen, not in a thousand years."

Stung that she had pegged him so accurately, he snorted disdainfully. "What has love got to do with anything?" he asked contentiously.

"Don't be an idiot, darling. It has
everything
to do with anything," she smiled. With great condescension, Alex shook his head, but Hannah merely chuckled. "Do you recall the day of Lady Darfield's garden party?"

He nodded suspiciously.

"I found that party to be quite extraordinary. I have never seen you look at a woman the way you looked at Countess Bergen, and I knew instantly what it was. The French say, '
true love is like ghosts, which
everyone talks about and few have ever seen. '
" Alex rolled his eyes in great exasperation.

Hannah suddenly moved to the ottoman directly in front of him and leaned forward, placing her hand on his knee. "Oh my darling, you cannot possibly know how true that is! I was fortunate enough to know true love with your father, and I cannot begin to convey how very precious it is. In this day and age, when marriages are made for little more than gain, I have despaired that you would ever find true love! I was resigned to the idea that you would marry some silly debutante who wants nothing more than to have people bow and scrape to her—"

"Mother!"

"But I
know
what I saw in your eyes that day, as well as I know what I saw in hers! You
love
her, Alex, and I cannot stand by and allow the opportunity to see you happily married slip away!"

He started to deny it, but he could no more lie to her than he could to Arthur. It would have been useless, anyway. She was ready for him to defy her; he could see it in the set of her mouth. "She has left town,"

he said slowly, uncertainly. "In the company of the German."

"Ha!" Hannah scoffed with an airy wave of her hand. "I don't really care for him, do you?"

"I don't think she really cares for me," he muttered.

"Rubbish!"

"She believes I used her."

"Well, did you?"

"
No
," he snapped angrily, then muttered, "I could
never
."

Hannah took his hand and held it tenderly between both of hers. A silence fell over the room as mother and son contemplated one another. It was extraordinary, he thought, that he actually felt relieved. As if a great, secret weight had been lifted from him. At length, Hannah said quietly, "You should go after her, of course. And do not let that German deter you. She does not love him."

Alex was not about to challenge her wisdom on that front. "What of Marlaine?"

Hannah sighed sadly. "Now
that
will not be easy. She will hate you, utterly despise you. But someday she will thank you for being honest with her."

"Rather hard to imagine," he scoffed.

"Well, I suppose it may take years and years. This may sound a little contrived, but your uncertainty is hardly fair to Marlaine. She adores you, and you cannot return that affection. Someday, sooner rather than later, I suspect, the bond between you will crack. And who knows? Maybe she would be relieved in some small way? You have hardly been the attentive fiancé."

Alex cautiously regarded his mother. "You didn't think this way before."

"Yes I did," she said, caressing the back of his hand. "But I suppose I was a bit afraid of the talk. It wasn't until you returned from Tarriton that I realized just how deeply you felt for the countess. And it wasn't until the last few days I realized how devastated you were. Come what may, no mother can see her child suffer so and not want to move heaven and earth to fix it." She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it.

His eyes began to sting; embarrassed, he blinked and hastily looked down. "I… thank you, Mum. I will think on what you have said."