“May I speak plainly?”
“I thought you were speaking quite plainly,” Michael muttered.
Ryan gave him an assessing glance. “Let me put it like this then shall I? So far, you’ve argued with her at every available opportunity. And when you weren’t doing so, you were lusting after her like a dog in heat.”
Michael merely arched an eyebrow in response. He could not deny the claim without an obvious lie.
“Clearly, you like her, for if you didn’t, you wouldn’t have been so determined to make her your bride. But, rather than court her with flowers and bouts of conversation like any other decent gentleman might have done, you rushed in and trapped her.
“It was neatly done, I have to give you that, but you certainly haven’t dealt yourself an easy hand. You’ll have to work at winning her forgiveness now, and I daresay the way to do it is by courting her.”
“But she’s a hoyden!” Michael exclaimed before he could help himself. “A desirable one, but one nonetheless. You really think she’d be swayed by flowers and poetry?”
“Look past it, Michael,” Ryan urged him. “She’s a woman, a unique woman, whom, I don’t believe, has ever received much flattering attention from any young gentleman before.”
“She’s never received a gentleman caller?” Realization struck Michael. He could scarcely believe that a woman of her beauty and with her figure would not have caught the eye of somebody by now.
“She’s never had a season in London.” There was something distressing about the way he said it that instantly sparked Michael’s curiosity. “We haven’t had any social gatherings at Moorland in the last few years, not since . . .” Was that pain in his eyes? Michael wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, he quickly recovered. “Papa has been very . . . withdrawn for a number of years and . . . well, the last thing on his mind, I suspect, was to turn a boisterous chit of a daughter into a lady refined enough for the London ballrooms.”
Michael couldn’t help but frown. How could Lord Moorland have allowed his responsibilities toward his daughter to slip in such a way? It seemed unforgiveable.
“I know it sounds harsh,” Ryan continued. “But it is what it is. Sometimes circumstance steps in the way and trips one up, causing one to fall so hard it’s almost impossible to get back up again.”
What the devil is he going on about, Michael wondered. He didn’t say anything though, sensing that Ryan might have more to say.
Ryan paused for a moment to take a sip of claret. He looked at Michael and there was something very emotional behind those bright blue eyes of his—something protective, if Michael wasn’t entirely mistaken. He knew that Ryan loved his sister tremendously—he’d told him so in fact—so it was only natural that he should concern himself with her welfare. “The point is that if you care for Alexandra,” Ryan was now saying. “And if you want her to be happy, then you ought to make the effort to sweep her off her feet. She deserves at least that much, don’t you agree?”
“Do you know, Ryan—I never would have taken you for a romantic, though I haven’t the faintest idea why. But you are a romantic, and I do believe you’ve just given me the soundest advice I have ever received. Shall we drink to my success?”
Ryan grinned and held his glass forward to clink against Michael’s. “We shall indeed.”
It was well past midnight when Alexandra finally decided to get out of bed. She couldn’t sleep and had finally had enough of the endless tossing and turning. Taking her wrapper from the hook behind the door, she tied it firmly about herself before stepping quietly out into the hallway.
She found the kitchen easily enough and, pushing the door open with a soft squeak, she advanced, her eyes seeking out any furniture that might pose as an obstacle. The bare floor was cold and smooth against her nak*d feet, forcing her to inadvertently curl her toes. Perhaps she should have worn slippers? Well, she wasn’t going back for them now.
Lifting the lid of a large chest that stood against the wall, she opened what she presumed to be the icebox. It was. The light was too dim for her to make out the contents, so she reached inside, fumbling around between stored meats, butter, and cheeses, until she found the bottle of milk she’d been seeking.
Now, if she could only find a mug.
She opened one cupboard containing dishes—all neatly stacked, side by side. In the next there were pots and pans and what appeared to be a kettle. Closing the door, Alexandra glanced about, drumming her fingers thoughtfully upon the countertop. There! Against the opposite wall she spotted the vitrine—the glass doors casting off a warped reflection in the darkness. I should have brought a candle, she thought as she opened its doors and reached inside for the desired mug.
Her wrist brushed against something that quietly shifted before giving way. A soft clang of glass hitting glass followed, just as a cold sweat swept through her. She pulled her hand back to catch the tumbling glass, but it was too late—her hand clutched at empty air instead. And then the silence splintered as the glass shattered upon the floor.
Damn!
Alexandra took a deep breath and carefully pushed the vitrine doors shut. She knew the worst of the shards would be scattered at her feet, so if she could just take a big step over them.
The kitchen door swung open, light flooded the room and Alexandra jumped.
“Ow!” A sharp pain tore through the sole of her right foot. She lifted it reflexively and in so doing put all her weight on her left. “Ow!” she cried again as a piece of glass sliced through that one as well.
Before she could stop herself, she was jumping from foot to foot in an impossible attempt to escape the fragments embedded in her feet.
“For the love of God, stop moving!” Michael implored. “You’re making it worse.”
She sent him a scowl that would have sent the hounds of hell scurrying. “Easy for you to say,” she hissed. “You’re not the one with bloodied feet. Besides, I wouldn’t have jumped if it hadn’t been for you startling me.”
Setting his lantern on the table, Michael moved to Alexandra, picked her up and carried her across to one of two chairs. He pulled it out from under the table and dropped her into it. Without a word, he fetched the remaining chair, brought it round to her side of the table and placed it before her. She watched, stupefied as he eyed the bowl of fruit on the table, then picked the thing up, emptied out the fruit and marched across to the sink where he filled it with water instead. He then grabbed the two white linen towels that hung next to the sink and returned to take his place in the empty chair.
“Put your feet up,” he said, clapping his hand against his thigh.
Alexandra stared at him. “Surely you must be joking.”
“I hardly think so. Come now, Alex, put your feet up so I can have a look at the damage.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” she cried. “Look at them, they’re bleeding all over the place. I shall damage your clothes.”
He gave her a stern look of authority similar to that of a father dealing with an unwilling child. “You are being more than just a little bit silly about this, do you know that? Now stop arguing and put your damn feet up.”
With a heavy sigh of resignation Alexandra lifted her legs and placed her feet in Michael’s lap.
“Good God,” he exclaimed. “There is blood everywhere!”
Alexandra rolled her eyes and moved to remove her feet, but he held on to her ankles. “Don’t move,” he told her. “For the love of Christ just sit still will you?”
Soaking one of the towels, Michael wrung it and began dabbing gently at the bloodied mess. Alexandra winced as he inadvertently pushed against a piece of glass. He looked up at her, concern visible upon his face. “Sorry. I just need to clean it a bit so I can get a better look.”
She gave a quick nod of consent, gritting her teeth against the pain.
“It looks as though you’ve got a couple of pieces lodged in your right foot, but there’s only one in your left. With a bit of care, I ought to be able to pull them out without causing you too much pain.”
“Well, there’s little sense in wasting time,” she breathed, pasting a brave smile on her face. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Very well,” he muttered.
With the nimblest of touches, Michael set about his work while Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on taking deep, regular breaths. She cursed her own stupidity for not bringing a light with her on her midnight errand. How dimwitted he must think her. She was hardly the vision of grace and sophistication that she’d been hoping to portray two days ago in her smart day dress and Spencer. He’d kissed her with greed in his eyes then, but had made no attempt to do so since. Not once.
Who can blame him?
It was true that she’d been unconscious for half the day yesterday, but still. She flinched as a sharp pain cut through her foot. They were betrothed now, which very likely meant that he’d lost all interest. Well, he’d said he liked her, but hell, people liked their friends and their pets . . . not in the least bit reassuring. Then again, what should she expect? She’d practically thrown herself at him like a harridan of the worst order. How many times had she heard her brothers talk about the “chase” being the most enticing aspect of a relationship—the challenge, so to speak. Well, she certainly hadn’t posed much of a challenge for Michael, had she?
Damnation.
“That should do it,” Michael told her while he gently wiped her feet. “I’ll have to clean the cuts, which will most likely hurt like blazes, but it must be done I’m afraid. I’ll be back in just a moment. Stay right where you are.”
She grimaced as she watched him go. Somehow she’d find a way to escape marrying him. Already, her brain had become a muddled mess because of him, her heart more so. She’d already accepted liking him. What if she fell in love with him? An unthinkable outcome that she must avoid at all cost. Even now, the very thought of it sent her pulse racing as familiar fear clutched at her insides, lacing through her ribs to constrict her lungs. She gripped the seat of her chair in a desperate attempt to gain control.
“Alex?” It was Michael’s voice.
Just focus on his voice, Alex. Easy does it.
Her breathing slowed.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she gasped. “It’s just my feet.”
He sat back down and opened the bottle of whiskey that he’d brought with him. “They’re about to hurt even more I fear. Time to disinfect the wounds, Alex.”
She looked across at him with wary apprehension. “Tell me about your family,” she told him suddenly. “I understand that you have what, four sisters?”
“Five, actually,” he replied, pouring some of the alcohol over a white towel.
“And you are number?”
“Two,” he told her. “Claire’s the oldest. She’s married to the Duke of Heinsworth. After her there’s me, naturally, followed by Chloe who’s married to Viscount Harrington, Charlotte who’s married to Lord Devon, and finally Caroline and Cassandra who are both yet unmarried.”