Something Wonderful
Page 64
"On what grounds do you protest this marriage?" the archbishop finally barked.
"On the grounds that the bride is already married," Jordan replied, sounding almost amused—"to me."
This time there was no denying the reality of that achingly familiar deep voice, and shock waves roared up and down Alexandra's spine, buffeting her entire body. Joy exploded in her heart, obliterating all memory of his treachery and deceit. Slowly she turned, afraid to look for fear this was some cruel trick of fate, and then she raised her gaze to his. It was Jordan! He was alive. The sight of his handsome, ruggedly chiseled face almost sent her to her knees. He was standing there, looking at her, a faint smile lingering on his firm lips.
Her entire being aglow, Alexandra mentally reached out to touch his beloved face and assure herself he was real. His smile warmed as if he felt her touch; his eyes shifted over her face, registering the changes in her appearance, and then, for no comprehensible reason, Jordan's entire expression froze, and he looked sharply, accusingly at Tony.
In the front pew, the dowager duchess was immobilized, staring at Jordan, her right hand pressed to her throat. In the cataclysmic silence that ensued, only Uncle Monty seemed capable of speech or action—undoubtedly because the full bottle of Madeira he had secretly imbibed had impaired his ability to recognize Jordan's profile. He did, however, vividly recall the dowager's biting lectures about the necessity for decorum at this wedding, and so he took it as his duty to remonstrate with the newcomer. Leaning toward the intruder standing in the aisle, Sir Montague warned in a booming voice, "Take a seat, man! And don't move a muscle till the archbishop walks off—otherwise, there'll be hell to pay from the dowager!"
His voice seemed to break the spell holding everyone in thrall. The archbishop suddenly announced that the ceremony could not continue and walked off; Tony took Alexandra's trembling hand in his and started down the aisle; Jordan stepped aside to let them pass; the stately duchess slowly rose, her gaze clinging to Jordan. In his muddled state, Uncle Monty assumed the wedding was happily complete and, following his previous instructions to the letter, he offered his arm to the dowager and escorted her proudly down the aisle in the bride and groom's wake, beaming benignly upon the gaping spectators who had come to their feet and were staring in mummified amazement.
Outside the church, Uncle Monty kissed Alexandra soundly, took Tony's hand, and was pumping it energetically, when Jordan's harsh voice stopped him cold. "You damned fool, the wedding is off! Do something useful, and take my wife home." Taking his grandmother's arm, Jordan started toward the waiting coaches. Over his shoulder, he said curtly to Tony, "I suggest we get out of here, before that mob in there descends on us. The morning papers will carry the explanation of my miraculous return. They can learn about it there. We'll meet you at my—at the town house in Upper Brook Street."
"No way to flag down a hack, Hawthorne," Uncle Monty said to Tony, taking charge when neither Alexandra nor Anthony seemed capable of movement. "There ain't a hack in sight. You'll ride with us." Forcibly clutching Anthony by one arm and Alexandra by the other, he marched them forward toward Tony's coach.
Jordan ushered his grandmother into her stately coach, snapped orders to her mesmerized coachman, and climbed in beside her. "Jordan—?" she whispered finally, staring up at him with joyous, tear-brightened eyes as the coach lurched forward. "Is it really you?"
A sympathetic smile softened his grim features. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he tenderly kissed her forehead. "Yes, darling."
In a rare show of affection, she laid her hand against his tanned cheek, then suddenly jerked her hand away and demanded imperiously, "Hawthorne, where have you been! We thought you were dead! Poor Alexandra almost wasted away with grief, and Anthony—"
"Spare me the lies," Jordan interrupted coldly. "Tony looked anything but thrilled to see me just now, and my 'grieving' wife was a radiant bride."
In his mind Jordan saw the ravishing beauty who had turned to him on that altar. For one wonderful, mortifying moment he thought he'd barged in on the wrong wedding, or that Mathison had been mistaken about the identity of Tony's bride, because Jordan hadn't recognized her—not until she'd raised those unforgettable aqua eyes of hers to his. Then and only then had he known for certain who she was—just as certainly as he knew in that instant that Tony had not been marrying her out of pity or charity. The intoxicating beauty on that altar would arouse lust in any man, but not pity.
"I was under the impression," he remarked with biting sarcasm, "that a mourning period of one year is customary after a death in one's immediate family."
"Of course it is, and we did observe it!" the duchess said defensively. "The three of us did not go out into company until April, when Alexandra made her bow, and I don't—"
"And where was my grieving wife living during that somber period?" he bit out.
"At Hawthorne, with Anthony and me, of course."
"Of course," Jordan repeated caustically. "I find it amazing that Tony wasn't contented with owning my titles, my lands, and my money—he had to possess my wife, as well."
The dowager paled, suddenly aware of how all this must look to him right now and equally cognizant that in his present mood, it would be a grave mistake to explain that Alexandra's popularity had necessitated her marriage. "You're wrong, Hawthorne. Alexandra—"
"Alexandra," he interrupted, "apparently liked being the Duchess of Hawthorne and therefore did the only thing she could do to secure the position permanently. She decided to marry the current Duke of Hawthorne."
"She's—"
"A scheming opportunist?" he suggested bitingly, as rage and disgust ate at him like acid. While he had been rotting away in prison, lying awake nights worrying that Alexandra was wasting away in seclusion, tormented with grief and despair, Tony and Alexandra had been enjoying all his worldly goods. And in time they decided to enjoy each other as well.
The dowager saw the harshness in his taut features and sighed with helpless understanding. "I know how dreadful all this must look to you, Jordan," she said with a trace of guilt in her gruff voice, "and I can see that you are not ready or able to listen to reason. However, I should very much like it if you would at least explain to me what you have been about all this time."
Jordan sketched in the details of his absence, leaving out the worst of them, but talking about it only made him more furiously aware of the sick irony of the entire situation: While he had been in chains, Tony had happily usurped his titles, his estates, his money, and then he had decided to help himself to Jordan's wife.
"On the grounds that the bride is already married," Jordan replied, sounding almost amused—"to me."
This time there was no denying the reality of that achingly familiar deep voice, and shock waves roared up and down Alexandra's spine, buffeting her entire body. Joy exploded in her heart, obliterating all memory of his treachery and deceit. Slowly she turned, afraid to look for fear this was some cruel trick of fate, and then she raised her gaze to his. It was Jordan! He was alive. The sight of his handsome, ruggedly chiseled face almost sent her to her knees. He was standing there, looking at her, a faint smile lingering on his firm lips.
Her entire being aglow, Alexandra mentally reached out to touch his beloved face and assure herself he was real. His smile warmed as if he felt her touch; his eyes shifted over her face, registering the changes in her appearance, and then, for no comprehensible reason, Jordan's entire expression froze, and he looked sharply, accusingly at Tony.
In the front pew, the dowager duchess was immobilized, staring at Jordan, her right hand pressed to her throat. In the cataclysmic silence that ensued, only Uncle Monty seemed capable of speech or action—undoubtedly because the full bottle of Madeira he had secretly imbibed had impaired his ability to recognize Jordan's profile. He did, however, vividly recall the dowager's biting lectures about the necessity for decorum at this wedding, and so he took it as his duty to remonstrate with the newcomer. Leaning toward the intruder standing in the aisle, Sir Montague warned in a booming voice, "Take a seat, man! And don't move a muscle till the archbishop walks off—otherwise, there'll be hell to pay from the dowager!"
His voice seemed to break the spell holding everyone in thrall. The archbishop suddenly announced that the ceremony could not continue and walked off; Tony took Alexandra's trembling hand in his and started down the aisle; Jordan stepped aside to let them pass; the stately duchess slowly rose, her gaze clinging to Jordan. In his muddled state, Uncle Monty assumed the wedding was happily complete and, following his previous instructions to the letter, he offered his arm to the dowager and escorted her proudly down the aisle in the bride and groom's wake, beaming benignly upon the gaping spectators who had come to their feet and were staring in mummified amazement.
Outside the church, Uncle Monty kissed Alexandra soundly, took Tony's hand, and was pumping it energetically, when Jordan's harsh voice stopped him cold. "You damned fool, the wedding is off! Do something useful, and take my wife home." Taking his grandmother's arm, Jordan started toward the waiting coaches. Over his shoulder, he said curtly to Tony, "I suggest we get out of here, before that mob in there descends on us. The morning papers will carry the explanation of my miraculous return. They can learn about it there. We'll meet you at my—at the town house in Upper Brook Street."
"No way to flag down a hack, Hawthorne," Uncle Monty said to Tony, taking charge when neither Alexandra nor Anthony seemed capable of movement. "There ain't a hack in sight. You'll ride with us." Forcibly clutching Anthony by one arm and Alexandra by the other, he marched them forward toward Tony's coach.
Jordan ushered his grandmother into her stately coach, snapped orders to her mesmerized coachman, and climbed in beside her. "Jordan—?" she whispered finally, staring up at him with joyous, tear-brightened eyes as the coach lurched forward. "Is it really you?"
A sympathetic smile softened his grim features. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he tenderly kissed her forehead. "Yes, darling."
In a rare show of affection, she laid her hand against his tanned cheek, then suddenly jerked her hand away and demanded imperiously, "Hawthorne, where have you been! We thought you were dead! Poor Alexandra almost wasted away with grief, and Anthony—"
"Spare me the lies," Jordan interrupted coldly. "Tony looked anything but thrilled to see me just now, and my 'grieving' wife was a radiant bride."
In his mind Jordan saw the ravishing beauty who had turned to him on that altar. For one wonderful, mortifying moment he thought he'd barged in on the wrong wedding, or that Mathison had been mistaken about the identity of Tony's bride, because Jordan hadn't recognized her—not until she'd raised those unforgettable aqua eyes of hers to his. Then and only then had he known for certain who she was—just as certainly as he knew in that instant that Tony had not been marrying her out of pity or charity. The intoxicating beauty on that altar would arouse lust in any man, but not pity.
"I was under the impression," he remarked with biting sarcasm, "that a mourning period of one year is customary after a death in one's immediate family."
"Of course it is, and we did observe it!" the duchess said defensively. "The three of us did not go out into company until April, when Alexandra made her bow, and I don't—"
"And where was my grieving wife living during that somber period?" he bit out.
"At Hawthorne, with Anthony and me, of course."
"Of course," Jordan repeated caustically. "I find it amazing that Tony wasn't contented with owning my titles, my lands, and my money—he had to possess my wife, as well."
The dowager paled, suddenly aware of how all this must look to him right now and equally cognizant that in his present mood, it would be a grave mistake to explain that Alexandra's popularity had necessitated her marriage. "You're wrong, Hawthorne. Alexandra—"
"Alexandra," he interrupted, "apparently liked being the Duchess of Hawthorne and therefore did the only thing she could do to secure the position permanently. She decided to marry the current Duke of Hawthorne."
"She's—"
"A scheming opportunist?" he suggested bitingly, as rage and disgust ate at him like acid. While he had been rotting away in prison, lying awake nights worrying that Alexandra was wasting away in seclusion, tormented with grief and despair, Tony and Alexandra had been enjoying all his worldly goods. And in time they decided to enjoy each other as well.
The dowager saw the harshness in his taut features and sighed with helpless understanding. "I know how dreadful all this must look to you, Jordan," she said with a trace of guilt in her gruff voice, "and I can see that you are not ready or able to listen to reason. However, I should very much like it if you would at least explain to me what you have been about all this time."
Jordan sketched in the details of his absence, leaving out the worst of them, but talking about it only made him more furiously aware of the sick irony of the entire situation: While he had been in chains, Tony had happily usurped his titles, his estates, his money, and then he had decided to help himself to Jordan's wife.
