Wicked Angel (35 page)

Hannah grinned at him. "I know you will, darling. Now then, if you will excuse me, I shall be off to improve the life of my youngest son."

"I should hardly think it possible to improve two lives in one day, but let me suggest you work on the nasty little habit he has of tattling on his brother."

Hannah rose, chuckling. She stooped to place a kiss on Alex's cheek. "I love you, Alex. I want only the very best for you."

He grasped her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "I know. And I love you for it."

For the remainder of the afternoon, Alex contemplated his mother's wishes, but eventually dismissed them as sentimental. He could not betray Marlaine. No, he was bound by duty and responsibility to go through with his commitment. She deserved that and the
ton
expected it of him. He was an influential peer, and he had to consider the ramifications of his actions in more than one light.

He arrived at Marlaine's home at nine o'clock, having sent a note asking her to attend the Fremont ball with him. Marlaine's hopeful smile faded when he entered the drawing room. It was little wonder; the expensive cut of his evening clothes did not erase the dark circles under his sullen eyes. He knew he looked awful; he just did not give a damn.

"Shall I fetch you a drink?" she asked carefully, trying hard not to look appalled.

"I think not," he said, his stomach roiling at the mere suggestion. She motioned for him to sit, and sat nervously on the edge of a chair, very carefully avoiding his eyes.

"I offend you," he observed indifferently.

"
Never
," she gasped.

"God, Marlaine, admit it. I offend myself," he said wearily.

"Well… I admit I do not understand," she said softly, her gaze dropping to her lap.

"What, that I drank myself into oblivion or that I am paying soundly for it today?" he asked apathetically.

"I do not understand why you have felt compelled to do it two nights in a row," she murmured.

"Three," he corrected her. "Sometimes men drink. They do not require a reason. They just… do."

She nodded, her eyes downcast. "Would you prefer I leave you?"

"Oh no! I think we
must
go to the ball, don't you?"

Her eager response struck him as odd. "We must?"

She smiled a little, her delicate hands anxiously working a seam in her gown. "It's just that people have
asked
about you. I—I think it is best we be seen in public. You know, so they will not talk," she said quietly. "Papa says we must all stand united if your reforms are to be favorably viewed."

Ah yes, a subtle reminder from Whitcomb about the almighty importance of appearances. He was not going to argue the point—normally, he would agree. Gossip grew vicious when individual members of the
ton
did not do what was expected of them. The
ton
could go to hell as far as he was concerned, but he had Marlaine to think of. "Then we shall go. Just keep me away from the whiskey, will you?" She glanced at him, unsmiling. "I will try," she said quietly.

The stifling crowd at the Fremont ball was enough to make a strong man ill; it had Alex downright nauseated. He had danced twice, both times exacerbating his rather enormous headache. For once, he was grateful for David's intervention. Their relationship had been strained since that day at the park, but his cousin seemed to have forgotten it. He paid uncharacteristic attention to Marlaine. He had danced with her twice already, and had even taken her for a garden stroll. But even David, for the sake of propriety, could not prolong her absence. She was back at his side, and his temples were throbbing.

There was no air circulating in the ballroom, and he tugged impatiently at his white silk neckcloth.

"Are you all right?" Marlaine asked anxiously for the third time, worry rimming her eyes.

"I am as well as I was when you asked ten minutes ago," he said gruffly, glancing testily about the room.

"We can go if you like," she offered.

"I am fine, Marlaine. Stop…
fretting
."

She smiled demurely. "I cannot do that. I am afraid fiancée's fret."

"Sutherland?"

Alex glanced over his shoulder at Lord van der Mill, a casual acquaintance. He was in no mood to make idle talk. "Good evening, my lord," he said, bowing slightly.

"Surprised to see you. Heard you were indisposed. Good evening, Lady Marlaine. Lovely ball, eh?" the older man chirped.

"Yes, my lord, quite lovely," Marlaine purred. "His grace is almost completely recovered. It's a horrid little fever going around." If there was one thing Marlaine did well, it was play the game of social graces, Alex thought.

"Fever, that so?" van der Mill muttered, peering closely at Alex. "Not contagious, are you?"

"Hardly," Alex intoned.

"Say, your mother still own that house on Berkeley Street?" van der Mill asked. "Heard you might consider selling it."

Alex shifted restlessly against the wall he was using to support himself. Van der Mill had all the houses he could possibly want, two in London alone. "Looking for another home?" he asked.

"Don't know." Van der Mill shrugged and glanced askance at Marlaine. "Have a friend who might be interested," he said, and winked subtly.

Alex nodded, a little surprised a man of van der Mill's considerable years would still be randy enough to want to keep a mistress. "Why don't we talk? Perhaps you could come around in a day or so?" he suggested, his curiosity piqued.

I'll do just that," van der Mill responded with a queer smile. "Good evening, Lady Marlaine."

"Good evening, my lord."

Van der Mill patted Alex's forearm in a friendly gesture. "Hope you are over that fever soon, your grace,"

he said. He turned to walk away, but hesitated, and looked at Alex over his shoulder. "No one living there at Berkley Street, is that right?"

"That's right."

"Odd. Your driver was not so certain. Said you were there a few evenings ago—with a woman?"

Alex's heart stopped beating; he managed to keep his expression bland as van der Mill shrugged indifferently. "I suppose he was mistaken, then?"

He could have sworn the old man's eyes narrowed slightly as he waited for a reply. "The house is closed for the Season. He was mistaken," he said evenly. Van der Mill's eyes flicked quickly to Marlaine and back to Alex before he nodded curtly and strolled away.

His pulse pounding harshly in his neck, Alex resisted the urge to look at Marlaine.
Damn
that jealous old rooster! And God save his driver, whose
tongue
he would have for breakfast!

"Perhaps… perhaps Arthur was there," Marlaine said softly.

His hands fisted at his side. "He was mistaken. The house is closed."

She nodded slowly, peering up at him. "Is something wrong? You are so pale."

"Would you like to call a physician, Marlaine? Perhaps then you may rest easy I won't expire on you in the middle of the Fremont's dance floor!" he said sharply. Her eyes widened with astonishment, and she quickly looked away. He truly lamented his outburst. "I am sorry, love. I did not mean to snap at you."

"Yes, so you keep saying," she murmured.

He shoved away from the wall. "They are playing a waltz. Would you like to dance with an irritable goat?" She shrugged halfheartedly. Nonetheless, Alex led her to the dance floor and swept her into a waltz. She danced stiffly, holding him at arm's length as was proper, her steps small and precise. It was bloody impossible not to compare her with the way Lauren fit his arms perfectly, the way she flowed with the music. Marlaine gamely attempted small talk, chatting about something to do with the wedding. He hated himself more with every beat of the music. Was he destined to spend his life comparing her with Lauren? It was a wretched way to live; he always comparing, she always trying to measure up to some standard she did not even know existed.
She adores you, and you cannot return that affection
. His

mother's words rattled like a loose ball about his brain. He could not return her affection. He could not even muster the patience for one ball for her.

It was a great relief when Marlaine asked to be taken home. He helped her into the coach and sat across from her, closing his eyes and sinking against the plush squabs with numbing fatigue.

"You work so hard, Alex. You need your rest," she said as the coach rolled away from the curb.

Her constant concern pricked at him, and he was an ogre for resenting it. Unfortunately, it seemed there was little he did
not
resent tonight. "What are your plans tomorrow?" he asked, desperate to avoid another discussion about his health.

"I really must finish the invitations. There are so
many
—"

"The invitations have not yet been sent?" he asked, his entire body tightening in response to some internal, primal warning.

She laughed lightly. "Of course not! They are to arrive exactly a fortnight in advance of the wedding, and Friday would be a fortnight."

He stared at her, his mind a sudden whirlwind tossing thoughts haphazardly about his conscience. The invitations had not been sent. The bloody invitations had not been sent.
She adores you, and you cannot
return that affection
. It was not too late, he thought madly. "Marlaine—"

"I have completed most of them, mounds and mounds of them. Naturally,
everyone
wants to be in attendance at a duke's wedding," she said suddenly, and unconsciously began to wring the gloves in her lap.

"Marlaine—"

"Your mother is such a dear," she quickly interjected. "She has been an enormous help. So many people have worked very hard for this wedding, you know, so that it is just right. The florist wants to go over the church arrangements one last time, and the caterer, well, he is so
particular
, when he discovered the number of distinguished guests that were expected at the breakfast, he was quite beside himself. He sent to Paris for special recipes, can you imagine? The entire
ton
is expecting a magnificent event. I—I will make sure the invitations are delivered to the post tomorrow. I won't delay, I promise. They will all be delivered on time, you must trust me," she said frantically.

Something preternatural had overtaken him; he felt completely detached from himself and Marlaine. He calmly reached for her hand. "
Marlaine
—"

She shook her head violently. "No, Alex," she whispered.

"We must talk, love."

"No!" A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and she bowed her head. Alex moved to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "
Oh, God, please no
," she gasped, and began to sob.

"I am so very sorry," he said, wincing at how violently the sobs racked her slender frame. "But I cannot—"

"Don't do this to me, Alex! Don't make a fool of me!" she sobbed.

"I'm afraid I will make a fool of you if we wed," he said miserably. Marlaine stifled a scream and slid off

the bench, falling to her knees on the floorboards and burying her face against his leg. Grief stricken, Alex bent over her. Darkness enveloped his mind; he felt despicable, the lowest form of humanity.

"Tell me what I have to do, Alex, and I will
do
it! Just tell me what you want, but don't do this!" she cried hysterically.

Alex closed his eyes tightly and buried his face in her hair. "Oh, Marlaine," he breathed, "there is nothing you can do. It is beyond my power to change," he muttered sadly.

With her fist, she hit his leg. "It's
her
, isn't it? You are forsaking me for
her!
" she cried. When Alex did not answer, she hit him again. And again.

By the time the coach reached her father's home on Mount Street, Marlaine had fallen into stunned silence. He tried to help her down, but she pushed away from him and alighted awkwardly on her own. "I will call first thing in the morning and explain to your parents," he said softly, hating the sound of his own traitorous voice.

"Don't bother yourself," she muttered acidly, and pushing past him, walked unsteadily to the door.

After a sleepless night, Alex was shown the next morning to the drawing room of the Whitcomb residence by a butler who regarded him as if he had just crawled up from the bottom of the Thames. As he crossed the threshold, Lord Whitcomb fairly vaulted out of his seat, his face white with anger.

Marlaine refused to look at him.

"I don't know what insanity has overcome you, Sutherland, but you had better assure Marlaine that she has misunderstood you!" Whitcomb roared.

"She has not, Edwin," Alex said in a low voice. "I deeply regret what I must do, but I cannot marry your daughter." Whitcomb gaped at him in horror.

"What sort of monster
are
you?" Lady Whitcomb gasped.

"By God, you had better explain yourself!" Lord Whitcomb shouted.

A faint queasiness rumbled through Alex's gut. There was nothing he could say or do, no fabrication he could create that would ever justify or excuse his actions to the Reese family. Not even the diagnosis of complete madness, which he believed was just shy of true. "I have determined we do not suit," he said simply.

Whitcomb exploded. "Do not
suit?
Goddammit, Sutherland, think of what you are
doing!
You are about to erase forty years of association between the Christian and Reese family, do you
realize
that?"

"I do."

Lady Whitcomb sank, dumbfounded, into a chair. "You are
contemptible!
What manner of
gentleman
,"

she spat, "would abandon the daughter of Earl Whitcomb for a
wanton—"

"Do not," Alex said with deadly calm, "cast aspersions on anyone else but me, madam. There is no one to blame for this but me."

Lady Whitcomb snorted in disbelief and glanced at Marlaine, who had yet to look up. "Make no mistake, your grace. We blame you
completely
," she said haughtily.

"I should have known," Lord Whitcomb growled. "I
defended
you when they called you a Radical! Give the man a chance, I said!
God
, to take it all back now! You must be as mad as they say!"