with Paulina Paton sounded like his definition of hell.
* * *
Damn Paulina, the hateful old battle ax.
Alix planted her slipper against a claw foot, tottering a chair and pacing while she fought for a hold on her temper.
Her failed tryst in the garden had likely been the closest she would come to living out from under Paulina's prying gaze, at least until she could leave the harpy behind for good. Curse John and his good-natured obliviousness for spoiling it. Curse Lord Reed and his mention of the garden, so much salt grinding at her wound.
He was being civil, graciously making conversation with no idea of the trouble he was causing. His attention had stirred up a hive of suspicion in Paulina, making it almost impossible to enjoy his company. She had more than once contemplated engaging him just to spite her sister-in-law, indulge a bit of defiance. Only twice had she dared to defy them. Not heeding Silas’s pompous edicts the first time, Alix recalled how painful it had been learning her lesson the second time, with Edward.
She should have kept going when the ship reached Carolina and never allowed Silas to bully her onto land. She should have been more careful, cleverer about leaving. Silas had used her absence to get control of her shares while Paulina had invented a bizarre tale to explain her absence. Married quickly, Paulina had hinted to their neighbors, and widowed just as quickly. The woman's story had painted Alix in just enough gray to make her an object of disapproval without shaming Paulina or her dear father. It had also guaranteed that Alexandra could entertain no suitors for a year during her imaginary mourning. Meanwhile, she’d been forced to march to the beat of Silas Van der Verre's drum, too fearful of what he might do to Chas or Paton & Son, what he might do to her , to step out of line.
Not fearful enough to marry the bastard. He hadn't managed to compel her, not yet. Alexandra knew better than to think he'd given up. She shuddered against memories of his attempts at courtship, not having to wonder how far he would press her.
Too agitated to sleep, Alix took her candle and slipped out into the darkened hall. The flame spilled light through the scrolled iron railing, casting shadowed vines onto the wall as she padded down the staircase. Gilt frames winked and flickered when she cupped a hand to shield the wick, and ancient brush-stroke eyes followed her progress to the main hall where a single lamp bathed the white marble tiles in amber. Roses overflowed their blue china bowl on a nearby table, a sweet perfume drifting past her. Their presence might have surprised her, out of place in the home of a bachelor, except that she’d noted similar touches throughout the house all day. Flowers, a fine cashmere throw, good chocolate set out in the parlor; it seemed Lord Reed was attentive to his female guests. Alix turned him over in her mind once again, wondering at what lay beneath his brusque exterior.
She had miscounted the doors along the hall, and realized once inside that she’d missed the library. This was Lord Reed’s private study, she guessed. A desk commanded one corner of the room, its domain framed in by the rectangle of a thick Persian rug and set at an angle to a high fireplace.
Good manners demanded she turn back. Private rooms were just that: private. Curiosity whispered for her to dare a step further, creep to the window and see the view as Lord Reed did each day. It urged her to study the bric-a-brac atop his desk and mantle, search for clues to puzzle the man out. Her candle’s light caught the glass front of a floor-to-ceiling case on the far wall, silhouetting its murky contents. With a glance off her shoulder, Alix invaded the
* * *
Damn Paulina, the hateful old battle ax.
Alix planted her slipper against a claw foot, tottering a chair and pacing while she fought for a hold on her temper.
Her failed tryst in the garden had likely been the closest she would come to living out from under Paulina's prying gaze, at least until she could leave the harpy behind for good. Curse John and his good-natured obliviousness for spoiling it. Curse Lord Reed and his mention of the garden, so much salt grinding at her wound.
He was being civil, graciously making conversation with no idea of the trouble he was causing. His attention had stirred up a hive of suspicion in Paulina, making it almost impossible to enjoy his company. She had more than once contemplated engaging him just to spite her sister-in-law, indulge a bit of defiance. Only twice had she dared to defy them. Not heeding Silas’s pompous edicts the first time, Alix recalled how painful it had been learning her lesson the second time, with Edward.
She should have kept going when the ship reached Carolina and never allowed Silas to bully her onto land. She should have been more careful, cleverer about leaving. Silas had used her absence to get control of her shares while Paulina had invented a bizarre tale to explain her absence. Married quickly, Paulina had hinted to their neighbors, and widowed just as quickly. The woman's story had painted Alix in just enough gray to make her an object of disapproval without shaming Paulina or her dear father. It had also guaranteed that Alexandra could entertain no suitors for a year during her imaginary mourning. Meanwhile, she’d been forced to march to the beat of Silas Van der Verre's drum, too fearful of what he might do to Chas or Paton & Son, what he might do to her , to step out of line.
Not fearful enough to marry the bastard. He hadn't managed to compel her, not yet. Alexandra knew better than to think he'd given up. She shuddered against memories of his attempts at courtship, not having to wonder how far he would press her.
Too agitated to sleep, Alix took her candle and slipped out into the darkened hall. The flame spilled light through the scrolled iron railing, casting shadowed vines onto the wall as she padded down the staircase. Gilt frames winked and flickered when she cupped a hand to shield the wick, and ancient brush-stroke eyes followed her progress to the main hall where a single lamp bathed the white marble tiles in amber. Roses overflowed their blue china bowl on a nearby table, a sweet perfume drifting past her. Their presence might have surprised her, out of place in the home of a bachelor, except that she’d noted similar touches throughout the house all day. Flowers, a fine cashmere throw, good chocolate set out in the parlor; it seemed Lord Reed was attentive to his female guests. Alix turned him over in her mind once again, wondering at what lay beneath his brusque exterior.
She had miscounted the doors along the hall, and realized once inside that she’d missed the library. This was Lord Reed’s private study, she guessed. A desk commanded one corner of the room, its domain framed in by the rectangle of a thick Persian rug and set at an angle to a high fireplace.
Good manners demanded she turn back. Private rooms were just that: private. Curiosity whispered for her to dare a step further, creep to the window and see the view as Lord Reed did each day. It urged her to study the bric-a-brac atop his desk and mantle, search for clues to puzzle the man out. Her candle’s light caught the glass front of a floor-to-ceiling case on the far wall, silhouetting its murky contents. With a glance off her shoulder, Alix invaded the
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