Paulina's gaze. There were pursed lips, sideways glances, and many a clearing of the throat. Paulina was a harridan whose reason for existence appeared to be ruining everyone else’s sport, with the bulk of her ire directed at Alexandra.
For Alexandra’s part, it wasn't intimidation he saw in her downturned expressions, but a quiet resignation. The attitudes were one and the same as far as he was concerned. He wanted a moment unchaperoned to flush out the woman in the garden rather than the woman who sat silently in his drawing room. Wanting and getting were desires keenly separated at the moment by the snooping nose of Paulina Paton.
“Mrs. Rowan.” He stopped behind her, close as he dared, leaning on the mantle and watching her. They’d been listening in silence to Laurel's mastery of the pianoforte.
“Lady Hastings plays beautifully.” Alexandra's words were an awkward bridge strung between them. They were stilted, obligated, and Spencer sensed he was a victim of politeness.
“Lady Hastings boasts all manner of accomplishments.” He dared a half step closer, breathing her in. “She has taken Broadmoore in hand. Arranged a very fine garden with some exotic specimens. I wonder if you had an opportunity to see it during the ball last week.”
Holding his breath, he pierced her, searching for any reaction – a flinch, a blink.
Alexandra exhaled at a forlorn pace, nearly a sigh. “It was dark.”
There was something cryptic hidden in her words, he would swear it, but it was not a hint for his benefit. She showed no sign of being his paramour from the masquerade. Once more, he was at a loss.
A few notes trailed between their silence, and then she sighed in earnest. Turning, she curtsied in a half-hearted dip before moving away. He watched her, down the hall and to the stairs, a whisper of dove gray silk over marble filling the growing distance.
Despite their exchange in the garden, and whatever her feelings, Alexandra was giving him nothing but sand to grab. He watched until she slipped from view above the staircase, resolving for now to let her go.
“...Reed can take us all up to the promontory for a basket lunch.” Laurel had stopped playing, addressing the little gathering.
“There is no grasping the English fascination with dining out of doors. Eating on the ground like savages.” Paulina shuddered.
“The savages don't eat off of the ground,” said Chas.
“Don't contradict.”
Silence filled the room wall to wall, Laurel dusting at her music stand, John picking an imaginary thread at his sleeve. Spencer hardly noticed. He was too busy wondering what kept any man married to Paulina from taking his own life. Or hers.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have matters that require my attention. As Lady Hastings knows and loves her little spot, I shall promote her and place her in command of your party.” He raised a hand, cutting protests and tongue clucking. “A diversion Saturday night. You have my word.”
“I am fatigued,” announced Paulina, as though he hadn't been speaking.
“We do not walk to the promontory,” offered Laurel, “We ride. Your husband accounts you a fine horsewoman; you would appreciate the terrain.”
A sniff. “My skill is rarely tested. I suppose we'll see if the course is all you claim.”
Silently thanking the Lord, Spencer exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. He flushed with the same near death sensation he’d had on the battlefield; the prospect of being alone in the house an entire day
For Alexandra’s part, it wasn't intimidation he saw in her downturned expressions, but a quiet resignation. The attitudes were one and the same as far as he was concerned. He wanted a moment unchaperoned to flush out the woman in the garden rather than the woman who sat silently in his drawing room. Wanting and getting were desires keenly separated at the moment by the snooping nose of Paulina Paton.
“Mrs. Rowan.” He stopped behind her, close as he dared, leaning on the mantle and watching her. They’d been listening in silence to Laurel's mastery of the pianoforte.
“Lady Hastings plays beautifully.” Alexandra's words were an awkward bridge strung between them. They were stilted, obligated, and Spencer sensed he was a victim of politeness.
“Lady Hastings boasts all manner of accomplishments.” He dared a half step closer, breathing her in. “She has taken Broadmoore in hand. Arranged a very fine garden with some exotic specimens. I wonder if you had an opportunity to see it during the ball last week.”
Holding his breath, he pierced her, searching for any reaction – a flinch, a blink.
Alexandra exhaled at a forlorn pace, nearly a sigh. “It was dark.”
There was something cryptic hidden in her words, he would swear it, but it was not a hint for his benefit. She showed no sign of being his paramour from the masquerade. Once more, he was at a loss.
A few notes trailed between their silence, and then she sighed in earnest. Turning, she curtsied in a half-hearted dip before moving away. He watched her, down the hall and to the stairs, a whisper of dove gray silk over marble filling the growing distance.
Despite their exchange in the garden, and whatever her feelings, Alexandra was giving him nothing but sand to grab. He watched until she slipped from view above the staircase, resolving for now to let her go.
“...Reed can take us all up to the promontory for a basket lunch.” Laurel had stopped playing, addressing the little gathering.
“There is no grasping the English fascination with dining out of doors. Eating on the ground like savages.” Paulina shuddered.
“The savages don't eat off of the ground,” said Chas.
“Don't contradict.”
Silence filled the room wall to wall, Laurel dusting at her music stand, John picking an imaginary thread at his sleeve. Spencer hardly noticed. He was too busy wondering what kept any man married to Paulina from taking his own life. Or hers.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have matters that require my attention. As Lady Hastings knows and loves her little spot, I shall promote her and place her in command of your party.” He raised a hand, cutting protests and tongue clucking. “A diversion Saturday night. You have my word.”
“I am fatigued,” announced Paulina, as though he hadn't been speaking.
“We do not walk to the promontory,” offered Laurel, “We ride. Your husband accounts you a fine horsewoman; you would appreciate the terrain.”
A sniff. “My skill is rarely tested. I suppose we'll see if the course is all you claim.”
Silently thanking the Lord, Spencer exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. He flushed with the same near death sensation he’d had on the battlefield; the prospect of being alone in the house an entire day
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