Alexandra stared at him for a moment. “Your parents certainly had a liking for names beginning with the letter C. I cannot help but ask, why is your name Michael?”
Michael’s eyes held hers for a moment, the alcohol doused towel suspended in his hand. “I have no idea,” he told her plainly. “Though I must admit I’m quite relieved they didn’t brand me with either of the names they initially had in mind, or I would have ended up a Charles or a Cyril. They named me after my paternal grandfather instead, thank God.”
Alexandra snorted. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the sound, but her eyes danced with merriment. “Cyril?” she half choked. Michael frowned at her, which only made her laughter bubble up even higher in her throat. She thought for a moment she might choke on it. “Charles isn’t all that bad—but Cyril?”
She snorted with laughter again.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” she grinned. “But such a name brings to mind a dandy with his nose up in the air.”
“I’ll get you for that.” And before Alexandra could utter another word of insult, Michael pressed the towel against both feet at the same time.
“Yeaow!” she screeched, tears springing to her eyes. “I hate you, Lord Trenton,” she muttered as he set about binding her feet in another linen towel that he’d torn into two equally wide strips.
“I know, my lady, but you will thank me for it tomorrow when there’s no sign of infection.”
Alexandra merely groaned as she pulled her feet out of his lap and placed them carefully on the floor.
“Now, if you do not mind my asking—what were you doing rummaging about in here in the dark anyway?”
“I was unable to sleep,” she muttered miserably. “So I thought I’d have some milk.” She glanced at the bottle that stood on the table. She couldn’t remember putting it there and wasn’t sure if she had, or if Michael had taken it from her and put it there himself.
“I see.” He regarded her for a moment before continuing. “And were you planning to heat it?”
“What? Oh yes, of course, I was.”
“Aha. And you were planning to do so in the dark?”
“I suppose so,” she said cautiously.
“So let me get this straight. You were planning on operating the stove, in the dark—an appliance filled with red-hot coals and putting out an average temperature of four hundred degrees. Is that right?” Alexandra responded with a faint nod. “Are you absolutely mad? You couldn’t even retrieve a mug from the vitrine without injuring yourself. Lord only knows what might have happened if you’d set about such a thing!”
“You really needn’t remind me,” she groaned. “I am clumsy enough as it is. I’m sure you must think me a complete imbecile.”
Michael’s gaze softened marginally, for which she was truly grateful, considering how embarrassed she felt, but he apparently couldn’t stop himself from adding one last thing. “You truly are the most stubborn woman I have ever known, Alex, but I would never think you an imbecile. I wouldn’t have the courage,” he grinned. She sent him a doubtful frown. “I think instead your passionate nature has a tendency to war against your logical reasoning. It forces you to forge ahead despite your better judgment, though your intentions are always noble. On top of that, you won’t allow the dictates of society to control your life. You want something more, though you don’t always consider the consequences that such wants might have.”
Alexandra stared at him in amazement. She felt what he described to the very depth of her soul, but this was the first time that somebody had captured the essence of her being with mere words. Somehow Michael Ashford understood her better than anyone else ever had. It was shocking yet comforting all at once.
“Now then,” he added with a chuckle that instantly lightened the mood. “How about that warm milk?”
“I’ve no idea how to work a stove,” she admitted, not daring to meet his eyes.
“Then it is fortunate that I do,” he said.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. She was grateful that he didn’t reprimand her further, and so sat quietly on her chair instead, watching him open up the vents and stoke the coals. There was something very domestic about it that warmed her heart.
He found a pot for the milk, and a few minutes later, he placed her cup before her with a smile. He moved the chair he’d been using around to the other side of the table so he could sit across from her instead. “Try it,” he suggested, nodding toward her cup.
She took a small sip, savoring the warmth of the liquid as it flowed down her throat, heating her insides. “Perfect,” she murmured.
“So tell me about your family,” Michael prodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well, there’s not that much to tell really. I don’t have a very large family, and when Mama passed away nine years ago, it seemed to shrink significantly.” Alexandra stared at the table for a moment, caught up in her own thoughts. “She was awfully good at keeping in touch with everyone, but then she got so terribly sick, and when she finally died . . . well, Papa just didn’t have the energy to host the kind of soirees and house parties she’d been so renowned for.”
“How did she die?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Alexandra grimaced. “From the usual ailment that targets even the healthiest of us.”
“Consumption?”
She nodded and lifted her gaze to meet his.
“I’m so sorry, Alex,” he told her in an earnest voice.
She shrugged, suddenly overcome by emotion but trying desperately not to show it. “It was a long time ago,” she whispered.
“It must have been very difficult for you. You can’t have been more than what . . . twelve?”
“Thirteen, actually.” She rapped her fingers nervously on the tabletop. This was ridiculous. It had been so long and yet she felt those awful tears pricking at her eyes again.
“A difficult age for a girl to lose her mother,” he told her sympathetically.
She nodded slowly before taking another sip of her milk. As she put the mug down, she brushed the back of her hand against the corner of her eye, wiping away the wet spot that had been forming there. “However difficult it was for my brothers and me, I believe it was so much worse for Papa.” Her voice quivered, and she tried to smile, fighting for control. “Children eventually leave the nest in search of their own destinies, but Papa had already found his. He lost it the day she died.
“She was the love of his life, his best friend, his future. She was his shoulder to lean on, the mother of his children, the very epicenter of what he considered to be his family. It broke his heart. The whole ordeal tore us apart . . . he locked himself away in his study, avoiding the world and drowning himself in lament. It took time for him to heal—such a terribly long time.”
“At least you had your brothers.”
Alexandra forced a smile. “Ryan was fifteen and William was seventeen—they both attended Eton and weren’t home much during that time.” She looked across at Michael whose vision seemed to have clouded as if he were trying to picture what it must have been like. She appreciated his efforts, even though he couldn’t possibly understand.
“He eventually recovered though—Papa that is. One day he simply emerged from hiding. He took one look at me and then pulled me into his arms. He kept berating himself for letting me down, for deserting me when I needed him most.
“We spoke for hours that day, but not about my mother. To this day he refuses to talk about her. I think he’s afraid he might cry. He doesn’t want anybody to see that.”
Michael watched as Alexandra stared off into a distant past he couldn’t see. The sense of loss was etched upon her face. There was pain there, but there was something else as well—something much more powerful.
Fear.
“What are you so afraid of, Alex?” he asked her in a soft whisper.
“What?” she darted a panic stricken look in his direction.
“Perhaps I can help. If there’s something you’d like to talk about—”
“No! It’s nothing.” The force of her tone startled him. He suspected he must have touched a raw nerve. Whatever the case, it clearly wasn’t something that she wished to discuss, at least not with him, at this moment. Not over a warm cup of milk anyway.
“I’m going to bed,” she told him as she staggered to her feet in a most inelegant fashion, wincing as she did so.
“My apologies. I . . . Alex, let me help you.” Getting up, he was beside her in a second. He lifted her into his arms, took the lantern and carried her back to her room. “I’m surprised we didn’t wake Mr. and Mrs. Bell with our ruckus. You especially—you’re not very dainty you know.”
She grinned at that, much to his relief. He’d enjoyed their conversation and was sorry to have ruined it for her, though he still wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed it. “They must be sound sleepers I suppose.”
“A valuable piece of information, should we ever decide to raid the larder.” Again she smiled, though she didn’t respond. “Here we are then, my lady, right to your doorstep.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, biting ever so gently down on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry I got upset before, it’s just . . . I can’t talk about it . . . sorry.”
“No worries,” he told her. “I won’t press you. Sleep well, Alex. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Kissing her gently on the forehead, he moved away in the direction of his own room. He cast a quick backward glance just in time to see her door close. With a heavy sigh and a great deal to think about, he then made his way to bed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next week flew by in a haze with each day swallowing up the next. Michael had insisted that Alexandra stay in bed and allow her feet to heal, promising to visit her daily to help her pass the time. Alexandra naturally found it ridiculous to remain abed for an entire week. Her injuries really didn’t warrant such fussiness, but she was pleased to find that Michael kept his promise, so she decided to humor him.
Each morning, Michael would arrive at her bedroom door with a fresh bouquet of flowers for her. These varied, though they generally consisted of yellow tulips—which, Alexandra soon discovered, happened to be Michael’s favorite.
Shortly after Michael’s arrival, Mrs. Bell would bring in a tray with tea and biscuits for them to share and would then depart, leaving the door slightly ajar for propriety’s sake. Ryan had been very firm about following this convention.
They talked of everything between heaven and earth during those days, discovering which artists and musicians they each preferred, which books were their favorites, and which places they each dreamed of one day traveling to. Alexandra had made a few sketches on a couple of occasions and when Michael had hesitantly asked if he might have one of the drawings, she’d happily obliged him after scribbling her name in the bottom right hand corner.