Something Wonderful
Page 4
At thirteen she believed in the inherent goodness of each of God's children and she had no doubt that honesty, integrity, and cheerfulness were common to all mankind. She was gentle, gay, and incurably optimistic.
Chapter Two
The Duke of Hawthorne slowly lowered his arm, the smoking pistol still in his hand, and gazed dispassionately at the crumpled figure of Lord Grangerfield lying motionless on the ground. Jealous husbands were a damned nuisance, Jordan thought—almost as troublesome as their vain and frivolous wives. Not only did they frequently leap to totally unwarranted conclusions, but they also insisted on discussing their delusions at dawn with pistols. His impassive gaze still resting on the elderly, wounded opponent, who was being tended by the physician and seconds, he cursed the beautiful, scheming young woman whose relentless pursuit of him had caused this duel.
At twenty-seven, Jordan had long ago decided that dallying with other men's wives often resulted in more complications than any sexual gratification was worth. As a result, he had long made it a practice to restrict his frequent sexual liaisons to only those women who were unencumbered by husbands. God knew there were more than enough of them, and most were willing and eager to warm his bed. Flirtations, however, were a normal part of life amongst the ton, and his recent involvement with Elizabeth Grangerfield, whom he had known since they were both children, had been little more than that—a harmless flirtation that sprang up when she returned to England from an extended trip of more than a year. The flirtation had begun as nothing more than a few bantering remarks—admittedly with sexual overtones—exchanged between two old friends. It would never have gone further, except that one night last week Elizabeth had slipped past Jordan's butler and, when Jordan came home, he found her in his bed—all lush, naked, inviting woman. Normally, he would have hauled her out of his bed and sent her home, but that night his mind was already dulled by the brandy he'd been imbibing with friends, and while he deliberated over what to do with her, his body had overruled his sluggish mind and insisted he accept her irresistible invitation.
Turning toward his horse, which was tethered to a nearby tree, Jordan glanced up at the feeble rays of sunlight that streaked the sky. There was still time to get a few hours of sleep before he began the long day of work and social engagements that would culminate late tonight at the Bildrups' ball.
Chandeliers dripping with hundreds of thousands of crystals blazed above the vast mirrored ballroom where dancers attired in satins, silks, and velvets whirled in time to a lilting waltz. Pairs of French doors leading out onto the balconies were thrown open, allowing cool breezes to enter—and couples, desiring a few moments' moonlit privacy, to exit.
Just beyond the furthest pair of doors, a couple stood on the balcony, their presence partially concealed by the shadows of the mansion itself, apparently unconcerned with the wild conjecture their absence from the ballroom was creating among the guests.
"It's disgraceful!" Miss Leticia Bildrup said to the group of elegant young men and women who composed her personal retinue. Casting a ferociously condemning look, liberally laced with envy, in the direction of the doors through which the couple had just exited, she added, "Elizabeth Grangerfield is behaving like a strumpet, chasing after Hawthorne, with her own husband lying wounded from his duel with Hawthorne this very morning!"
Sir Roderick Carstairs regarded the angry Miss Bildrup with an expression of acid amusement for which he was known—and feared—by all the ton. "You're right, of course, my beauty. Elizabeth ought to learn from your own example and pursue Hawthorne only in private, rather than in public."
Leticia regarded him in haughty silence, but a telltale flush turned her smooth cheeks a becoming pink. "Beware, Roddy, you are losing the ability to separate what is amusing from what is offensive."
"Not at all, my dear, I strive to be offensive."
"Do not liken me to Elizabeth Grangerfield," Leticia snapped in a furious underbreath. "We have nothing in common."
"Ah, but you do. You both want Hawthorne. Which gives you something in common with six dozen other women I could name, particularly"—he nodded toward the beautiful red-haired ballerina who was waltzing with a Russian prince on the dance floor—"Elise Grandeaux. Although Miss Grandeaux seems to have gotten the best of all of you, for she is Hawthorne's new mistress."
"I don't believe you!" Letty burst out, her blue eyes riveted on the graceful redhead who had reportedly bewitched the Spanish king and a Russian prince. "Hawthorne is unattached!"
"What are we discussing, Letty?" one of the young ladies asked, turning aside from her suitors.
"We are discussing the fact that he has gone out on the balcony with Elizabeth Grangerfield," Letty snapped. No explanation of the word "he" was necessary. Amongst the ton, everyone who mattered knew "he" was Jordan Addison Matthew Townsende—Marquess of Landsdowne, Viscount Leeds, Viscount Reynolds, Earl Townsende of Marlow, Baron Townsende of Stroleigh, Richfield, and Monmart— and 12th Duke of Hawthorne.
"He" was the stuff of which young ladies' dreams were made—tall, dark, and fatally handsome, with the devil's own charm. Amongst the younger females of the ton, it was the consensus of opinion that his shuttered grey eyes could seduce a nun or freeze an enemy in his tracks. Older females were inclined to credit the former and discard the latter, since it was well-known that Jordan Townsende had dispatched hundreds of the French enemy, not with his eyes, but with his deadly skill with pistols and sabers. But regardless of their ages, all the ladies of the ton were in complete agreement on one issue: A person had only to look at the Duke of Hawthorne to know that he was a man of breeding, elegance, and style; a man who was as polished as a diamond. And, frequently, just as hard.
"Roddy says Elise Grandeaux has become his mistress," Letty said, nodding toward the stunning, titian-haired beauty who appeared to be oblivious to the Duke of Hawthorne's departure with Lady Elizabeth Grangerfield.
"Nonsense," said a seventeen-year-old debutante who was a stickler for propriety. "If she was, he certainly wouldn't bring her here. He couldn't."
"He could and he would," another young lady announced, her gaze glued to the French doors through which the duke and Lady Grangerfield had just departed, as she waited eagerly for another glimpse of the legendary duke. "My mama says Hawthorne does whatever he pleases and the devil fly with public opinion!"
Chapter Two
The Duke of Hawthorne slowly lowered his arm, the smoking pistol still in his hand, and gazed dispassionately at the crumpled figure of Lord Grangerfield lying motionless on the ground. Jealous husbands were a damned nuisance, Jordan thought—almost as troublesome as their vain and frivolous wives. Not only did they frequently leap to totally unwarranted conclusions, but they also insisted on discussing their delusions at dawn with pistols. His impassive gaze still resting on the elderly, wounded opponent, who was being tended by the physician and seconds, he cursed the beautiful, scheming young woman whose relentless pursuit of him had caused this duel.
At twenty-seven, Jordan had long ago decided that dallying with other men's wives often resulted in more complications than any sexual gratification was worth. As a result, he had long made it a practice to restrict his frequent sexual liaisons to only those women who were unencumbered by husbands. God knew there were more than enough of them, and most were willing and eager to warm his bed. Flirtations, however, were a normal part of life amongst the ton, and his recent involvement with Elizabeth Grangerfield, whom he had known since they were both children, had been little more than that—a harmless flirtation that sprang up when she returned to England from an extended trip of more than a year. The flirtation had begun as nothing more than a few bantering remarks—admittedly with sexual overtones—exchanged between two old friends. It would never have gone further, except that one night last week Elizabeth had slipped past Jordan's butler and, when Jordan came home, he found her in his bed—all lush, naked, inviting woman. Normally, he would have hauled her out of his bed and sent her home, but that night his mind was already dulled by the brandy he'd been imbibing with friends, and while he deliberated over what to do with her, his body had overruled his sluggish mind and insisted he accept her irresistible invitation.
Turning toward his horse, which was tethered to a nearby tree, Jordan glanced up at the feeble rays of sunlight that streaked the sky. There was still time to get a few hours of sleep before he began the long day of work and social engagements that would culminate late tonight at the Bildrups' ball.
Chandeliers dripping with hundreds of thousands of crystals blazed above the vast mirrored ballroom where dancers attired in satins, silks, and velvets whirled in time to a lilting waltz. Pairs of French doors leading out onto the balconies were thrown open, allowing cool breezes to enter—and couples, desiring a few moments' moonlit privacy, to exit.
Just beyond the furthest pair of doors, a couple stood on the balcony, their presence partially concealed by the shadows of the mansion itself, apparently unconcerned with the wild conjecture their absence from the ballroom was creating among the guests.
"It's disgraceful!" Miss Leticia Bildrup said to the group of elegant young men and women who composed her personal retinue. Casting a ferociously condemning look, liberally laced with envy, in the direction of the doors through which the couple had just exited, she added, "Elizabeth Grangerfield is behaving like a strumpet, chasing after Hawthorne, with her own husband lying wounded from his duel with Hawthorne this very morning!"
Sir Roderick Carstairs regarded the angry Miss Bildrup with an expression of acid amusement for which he was known—and feared—by all the ton. "You're right, of course, my beauty. Elizabeth ought to learn from your own example and pursue Hawthorne only in private, rather than in public."
Leticia regarded him in haughty silence, but a telltale flush turned her smooth cheeks a becoming pink. "Beware, Roddy, you are losing the ability to separate what is amusing from what is offensive."
"Not at all, my dear, I strive to be offensive."
"Do not liken me to Elizabeth Grangerfield," Leticia snapped in a furious underbreath. "We have nothing in common."
"Ah, but you do. You both want Hawthorne. Which gives you something in common with six dozen other women I could name, particularly"—he nodded toward the beautiful red-haired ballerina who was waltzing with a Russian prince on the dance floor—"Elise Grandeaux. Although Miss Grandeaux seems to have gotten the best of all of you, for she is Hawthorne's new mistress."
"I don't believe you!" Letty burst out, her blue eyes riveted on the graceful redhead who had reportedly bewitched the Spanish king and a Russian prince. "Hawthorne is unattached!"
"What are we discussing, Letty?" one of the young ladies asked, turning aside from her suitors.
"We are discussing the fact that he has gone out on the balcony with Elizabeth Grangerfield," Letty snapped. No explanation of the word "he" was necessary. Amongst the ton, everyone who mattered knew "he" was Jordan Addison Matthew Townsende—Marquess of Landsdowne, Viscount Leeds, Viscount Reynolds, Earl Townsende of Marlow, Baron Townsende of Stroleigh, Richfield, and Monmart— and 12th Duke of Hawthorne.
"He" was the stuff of which young ladies' dreams were made—tall, dark, and fatally handsome, with the devil's own charm. Amongst the younger females of the ton, it was the consensus of opinion that his shuttered grey eyes could seduce a nun or freeze an enemy in his tracks. Older females were inclined to credit the former and discard the latter, since it was well-known that Jordan Townsende had dispatched hundreds of the French enemy, not with his eyes, but with his deadly skill with pistols and sabers. But regardless of their ages, all the ladies of the ton were in complete agreement on one issue: A person had only to look at the Duke of Hawthorne to know that he was a man of breeding, elegance, and style; a man who was as polished as a diamond. And, frequently, just as hard.
"Roddy says Elise Grandeaux has become his mistress," Letty said, nodding toward the stunning, titian-haired beauty who appeared to be oblivious to the Duke of Hawthorne's departure with Lady Elizabeth Grangerfield.
"Nonsense," said a seventeen-year-old debutante who was a stickler for propriety. "If she was, he certainly wouldn't bring her here. He couldn't."
"He could and he would," another young lady announced, her gaze glued to the French doors through which the duke and Lady Grangerfield had just departed, as she waited eagerly for another glimpse of the legendary duke. "My mama says Hawthorne does whatever he pleases and the devil fly with public opinion!"
