Something Wonderful (Sequels 2)

Within the mansion at No. 45 Regent Street, dancers continued to dance and laughing guests continued to laugh, oblivious to the momentous event that was taking place outside the French doors. Only the twinkling stars noticed that on a deserted London balcony, two kindred spirits had found each other at last.

"In that case," Melanie grandly decreed when they had stopped chuckling, "I shall consider you a most suitable and enjoyable companion." Blithely setting aside any remaining pretense of formality, Lady Camden said quietly, "My close friends call me Melanie."

For an instant, happiness radiated through Alexandra's entire being, then harsh reality shattered it as she realized that Melanie Camden's friends wouldn't want her included in their circle. The entire ton, including Melanie's sophisticated friends, already regarded Alexandra as a complete antidote. She had been judged by all of them and found sadly lacking. Evidently Melanie Camden hadn't been back in London long enough to know that yet. Alexandra's stomach clenched at the thought of the derisive looks Lady Camden would receive were she to walk back into that ballroom with Alexandra.

"What do your friends call you?" Melanie prompted, watching her.

I don't have friends anymore, Alexandra thought and hastily bent to brush off her skirts, carefully hiding the tears that burned her eyes. "They called—call me Alex." Deciding it was best to end this association now, herself, rather than bear the humiliation of having Melanie Camden cut her dead when they next met, Alexandra drew a deep breath and said in a painfully awkward rush, "I appreciate your offer of friendship, Lady Camden, but you see, I'm very busy these days with balls and luncheons and… and all sorts of amusements… And so I very much doubt that you… we… would be able to find time… and I'm certain you already have dozens and dozens of friends who—"

"—who think you are the veriest greenhead ever to appear at a London ball?" Melanie prompted gently.

Before Alexandra could react to that, Anthony walked out of the shadows onto the balcony, and she rushed to him in relief, talking swiftly so that he couldn't gainsay her. "Have you been looking for me, your grace? It must be time to leave. Good evening, Lady Camden."

"Why did you decline Melanie Camden's offer of friendship?" Tony demanded angrily, as soon as they were ensconced in his coach on the way home.

"I… It would not have worked out," Alex prevaricated slightly, her mind on Melanie Camden's softly spoken parting remark. "We do not 'move in the same circles,' as you say here."

"I know that, and I also know why," Tony said tightly. "Roddy Carstairs is part of the reason."

Alexandra started at the realization that Tony was aware of her lack of popularity; she had thought—hoped—he was oblivious to her mortifying predicament.

"I've asked Carstairs to call upon me tomorrow morning," Tony continued bluntly. "We'll have to do something to change his opinion of you and pacify him for the slight you gave him when you left him on the dance floor that first night—"

"Pacify him!" Alexandra exclaimed. "Anthony, he said dreadful—wicked—things to me about your grandmother!"

"Carstairs says objectionable things to people all the time." Tony's reassuring smile was preoccupied. "He particularly enjoys trying to shock or fluster or intimidate females, and if he succeeds he despises his victim for her cowardice and stupidity. Carstairs is like a bird who flits from tree to tree, dropping seeds of dissension wherever he goes. Much of what he says is very amusing—so long as it isn't about oneself. In any case, you should have stared him right out of countenance or said something equally shocking to him."

"I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know that."

"There is a great deal you don't know," Tony said between his teeth, as they drew up before his house on Upper Brook Street. "But once we're in the house, I'm going to remedy that."

Alexandra felt a terrible, unexplainable premonition of dread that mounted as they walked into the salon. Tony motioned for her to sit down on the light-green brocade settee and then poured whisky into a glass for himself. When he turned toward her, he looked angry and unhappy. "Alex," he said abruptly, "you should have been a tremendous success this Season. God knows, you have all the requisite attributes for it—and in sinful abundance. Instead, you've become the decade's most notorious failure."

Shame almost doubled Alexandra over, but Anthony hastily held up his hand, awkwardly explaining, "It's my fault, not yours. I've kept things from you, things I would have told you before, but my grandmother forbade it—she couldn't bear to disillusion you. Now, however, we both agree that you must be told, before you destroy what's left of your chances to find happiness here—if it isn't already too late."

Lifting his glass to his lips, Anthony swallowed the whisky straight down, as if he needed it to give him courage, then he said, "Since you've come to London, you've heard many of Jordan's friends and acquaintances refer to him as 'Hawk,' have you not?" When she nodded, he said, "Why do you think they call him that?"

"I assume it's some sort of shortened name—a nickname—derived from 'Hawthorne.' "

"Some people mean it in that way, but especially among the men it means something different. A hawk is a hunting bird with a faultless eye and the ability to snare its prey before its prey even knows it's in danger."

Alexandra gazed at him with polite interest and complete lack of understanding, and Anthony raked his hand through his hair in frustration. "Jordan got that name years ago, when he made a conquest of a particularly proud young beauty for whom half the bachelors in London had been hanging out for months. Hawk did it in one evening by asking her to dance."

Leaning down, Anthony braced his hands on the arms of her chair. "Alex," he said sharply, "you've convinced yourself you loved, and were loved by, a man who was practically a… a saint. The truth is, Hawk was much closer to a devil than a saint where women were concerned, and everyone knows it. Do you understand me?" he asked bitterly, his face inches from hers. "Every single person in London who's heard that you speak of him as if he were some damned knight in shining armor, knows you are just another one of his victims… just another one of the countless women to fall prey to Hawk's fatal attraction. He didn't try to seduce them—half the time, he was more irritated than pleased when women fell in love with him, but they did it anyway, just as you did. But unlike his other victims, you are too guileless to hide it from anyone."