The Sherbrooke Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 1)

He shrugged, staring at her intently. “What I find odd is you, my dear. You married to Douglas Sherbrooke. You appear warm and quite joyous, really, whilst your husband is a cold man, hard and severe, truth be told.”

“My husband cold? Are we speaking of the same man, sir? Cold? It is too funny,” and Alexandra laughed.

“Beecham, a surprise to see you.” Douglas neatly inserted himself between the man and Alexandra. She said, frowning at her husband, “I thought he was Heatherington.”

Douglas was infuriated with the young man who was nevertheless a seasoned roué. The dog had the gall to flirt with his wife. He said, “It is Lord Beecham.”

“Heatherington is my family name,” he said, giving her an intimate look. “I congratulate you, Northcliffe. She is charming. Very different from her sister. An original, I should say. I see that a quadrille is forming itself and I am promised to Miss Danvers, who fancies herself the soul of charm and discretion. I doubt she is worth your time, Northcliffe.”

“No, she isn’t,” Douglas said.

Heatherington managed a shadow of a grin. “I doubt she’s worth my time either.”

“Keep away from that man,” he added to Alexandra as he stared after Baron Beecham, who was making languid progress toward Miss Danvers. “He’s known to have a woman’s skirts over her head before he even has learned her last name.”

“He is so young.”

“He is but two years my junior. But you’re right. His is a strange past. Keep away from him.”

“He must have excellent fashion sense and a deep purse to have such success at such a tender age.”

“It isn’t funny, Alexandra. I don’t like the way he was looking at you. Keep away from him.”

“Very well, I shall, if you will keep away from that French hussy who had her hand on your sleeve and was practically speaking into your mouth.”

“What French—” He frowned ferociously down at her. “Don’t gesticulate so wildly. I can see every white inch of you to your waist. I will have that damned bodice raised before you wear that gown again.”

“You will not distract me, Douglas! Who was that wretched hussy?”

He stared at her, surprise and satisfaction in his eyes, eyes that had grown darker if that were possible. “Good God, you’re jealous.”

She was, and it was humiliating that he had caught her at it. “If I knew anyone, I would walk away from you and go conduct a well-bred conversation with that person. But if I walk away, I will be alone and that isn’t a good thing.”

“Her name is no concern of yours. She is simply someone I know, nothing more.”

“What was she telling you?”

He lied, but it wasn’t clean and neat. “That her grandmother was ill.”

“Bosh,” Alexandra said.

“Very well. I went to France to rescue her and sent Tony to Claybourn Hall. The result wasn’t quite what either of us had intended.”

“Ah, so that is that Janine person you told me about. She’s that bloody woman who offered herself to you.”

“Your memory is beyond frightening. I won’t say another word. I beg you to dismiss what I said that day. It makes no mind now. Stick to your own affairs, Alexandra.”

“Come along then and dance with me since I don’t wish to force you to more confidences, though the ones you gave me were meager indeed.”

He danced with her, then took her into dinner, then introduced her to young matrons he hoped she would like. And he kept a wary eye open for Georges Cadoudal. Damnation, the last enemy he wanted on this earth was that maniac, Georges.

Why the hell wasn’t the man in France where he was supposed to be? Maybe he was, maybe Janine was just hysterical. And that’s who he’d been speaking to, Janine Daudet, the woman he’d rescued in France.

“I wish to meet Teresa Carleton.”

“So, Beecham told you about her, did he? He enjoys making mischief. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he himself slept with the lady in question.”

“Did she break off the engagement with Tony?”