A Stolen Heart. Candace Camp
ignored the little thrum that started along her nerves and smiled at him. “It is a lovely dress.”
“It was not the dress of which I spoke.” His gaze dropped significantly, if fleetingly, to the expanse of bosom that swelled above the square-cut neckline.
Alexandra wrapped the shawl more tightly around her, covering the swell of her breasts. “I think it’s time to leave,” she said repressively. “Good night, Aunt.”
She smiled across the room at her aunt, who was glowering suspiciously at their whispered conversation. Lord Thorpe sent the other woman a polite bow, and they left the room.
Outside, he helped her into the same elegant carriage that had taken her home this afternoon, and they settled across from each other on the plush seats.
“I was beginning to fear that your aunt was about to question me about my intentions toward you,” Thorpe said dryly.
“I am sure she would have, given enough time. Her first concern, of course, was the wickedness of the place you were taking me. Aunt Hortense has a collection of stories of what has happened to innocent girls in the Babylon of London.”
“I don’t doubt that. What intrigued me was why she presumed I was going to introduce you to these evils.”
“That is easy,” Alexandra replied with an impish grin. “The English are given to wicked pursuits, but those who are most given to them are English noblemen, who, apparently, spend most of their time abducting or seducing innocent maidens.”
“Indeed? I suspect that abducting you would prove to be a tiresome experience, so I must stick to seduction.” His sensual mouth curved up in a way that made Alexandra’s heart pound.
“Indeed?” Alexandra smiled, striving to keep her voice light. “I’m afraid you might find that experience equally tiresome.”
“Oh, no.” His eyes glittered in the dim light. “Lengthy, perhaps, but never tiresome, I assure you.”
Alexandra’s mouth went dry, and she had to glance away from his gaze. She looked out from beneath the rolled-up curtain of the carriage window, watching the houses go by as she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Why did this man have such a strange effect on her?
After two blocks, the carriage turned and joined a long line of carriages stretching down the block. At the front of the line stood a house ablaze with lights.
“Is that where we are going?” Alexandra asked in some astonishment.
“Yes. Why?”
“But it—it can’t be more than four blocks from my house.”
“Probably.” He looked at her, faintly puzzled.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to walk?” She looked at the stalled line of carriages again. “Faster, too?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then why did we take the carriage?”
He smiled. “It wouldn’t do to be seen arriving on foot, my dear Miss Ward—as if one didn’t own a carriage.”
Alexandra gazed at him for a moment, unsure whether he was joking. “That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a balmy night, the distance is short, and in a carriage we will have to wait substantially longer. Yet we don’t walk because it would look wrong?”
His eyes danced. “I think that about sums it up.”
“I presume it would be too gauche for words to get out of the carriage now and walk the rest of the way instead of sitting inside it for twenty minutes.”
He nodded. “Decidedly déclassé.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes I think my aunt is right.”
“What? That we English are all debauched?”
“No. That the nobility are rather absurd.”
“Absurd? I have never heard that one. Arrogant, yes, prodigal, yes, impractical and even decadent. But absurd?”
“Of course. It’s too silly a concept to be taken seriously. What else would you call a system where the wealthiest and most highly regarded people have done nothing to earn their position but are there simply because they are descendants of other people?”
“Family is often considered a good indication of character, I believe. Do you have no regard for bloodlines? For what is passed from one generation to the next? Do you not believe that families instill their values in their offspring, and so on and so on, for generations?”
Alexandra felt a slight chill run down her spine at his mention of bloodlines. She wondered what he would think if he knew what sort of mother she had and what she might have passed on to her daughter.
“Family is an indication of character, yes, and certainly there are families who instill courage and honesty and all sorts of commendable traits in their children. My point, however, is that in England it doesn’t matter whether one’s family is good or bad, but simply what one’s family name is.”
“Are there no leading families in America?”
“Of course there are, but at least they have done something to earn it. They have worked hard, built up wealth, been educated or simply been honest, decent people.”
“But let us say one’s grandfather did that. His descendant today is regarded highly because of who his grandfather is. Isn’t that right?”
“Sometimes.”
“It is the same principle. It is just that with us the ancestors were farther in the past.”
“What did they do to deserve their titles to begin with?” Alexandra asked tartly. “Wage war? Take lands from others who were not as strong?”
“Service to King and country,” he countered.
“Ha! Catering to the whims of another man who is revered solely because of his ancestors!”
Thorpe let out a short bark of laughter. “I am looking forward to this evening! I can just imagine what furors your conversation will stir up.”
Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you invited me? To stir up a social tempest?”
“No. That is simply an added benefit.”
Alexandra studied him for a moment. “Why did you ask me?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Thorpe admitted. “I think because you intrigue me.” He paused, then asked, “Why did you agree to come with me?”
A smile curved Alexandra’s lips as she said, “Perhaps for the same reason.”
They inched their way along the line until their carriage was at last in front of the door. They climbed down and followed the family in front of them across the red runner laid over the front steps and through the imposing double front doors, held open by two liveried footmen.
They stepped into an entry hall that was, by any standards, grandiose. Black and white marble tiles checker-boarded the floor, and the walls rose to the second floor. It was large enough to fight a pitched battle in, Alexandra thought. At the far end a double staircase curved upward, the mahogany balustrades twined with masses of white flowers. Candles burned in a multitude of wall sconces and struck sparks off the glass drops of two enormous chandeliers, casting soft prisms of light over the people. Huge portraits of people in various styles of dress hung around the walls of the entry room. In the place of honor hung an enormous portrait of a bay horse.
“Where are we?” Alexandra asked, glancing around the room, aware of an unaccustomed feeling of awe.
“This is Carrington House, the town house of the Duke of Moncourt. That is the second Duke’s favorite mount,” he added, noticing the direction of her gaze. “It’s said that he ordered the painter to make sure that its portrait