The thought brought a smile to her mouth. Surely someday he'd fall in love. She couldn't wait to see it. The smile froze on her face. Love. Was that what she suffered from? Surely not. No. Absolutely not. She would not let it be love.
The second day of the party tumbled by, rushed and seemingly endless. Alex discovered that she'd grown quite used to her solitary life in the country. Having so many people underfoot overwhelmed her when it had seemed a delightful thing a few years ago.
But now . . . Now it was just too much. Breakfast, then riding, then luncheon. A stroll around the grounds, teatime, a short rest in her room. Finally, dinner and a small musical show. She managed to avoid a private conversation with Robert Dixon, though he made every effort to edge her away from the crowd. She could not imagine why she was avoiding him.
Hadn't she kissed every man who'd ever caught her eye? Well, perhaps not every man, but given the opportunity, she hadn't shied away from the excitement of a flirtation.
Confusion weighed her down by the time she fell into her bed at two in the morning. She was exhausted, but her mind buzzed with the remnants of meaningless conversations, so she lay in bed and played absently with the end of her braid, trying to puzzle out her new attitude.
Collin Blackburn had to be the cause. What else could it be?
She pressed her hands to hot cheeks. Collin. She had hoped her reaction to him had only been something to do with her own body, some new maturity that gave her greater pleasure in men and their touches. But that couldn't be the case. Just being near Collin had felt different than being close to other men. He'd tainted her blood.
She knew Robert Dixon to be attractive, but he did not attract her.
So she wanted only Collin, and he lived God knew how many miles away and was determined not to be had. He'd only written once after all, and not a personal word to be found in the whole letter. And perhaps "letter" was the wrong word altogether. Paragraph. That was it.
He eluded us again, by mere minutes. If he suspects you, he likely won't write again. My appreciation for your help.
"Blackburn," he'd signed it. No closing. Not one personal word. She'd spent ceaseless nights fantasizing about him and he'd revealed nothing.
He was not pining for her, why should she waste her time? Time to set thoughts of him aside.
But at night. . . At night, she couldn't help remembering his mouth, his hands, the silky steel of his body. She relived that tension and that release, that release that nothing in life had prepared her for. She wanted more.
It was beginning to annoy her, really. Why did it have to be him? Or maybe she had an affinity for Scotsmen. Maybe she should travel north to explore the possibility. The thought pulled her eyes open.
Scotland. Hmm.
No, she told herself, absolutely not.
Alex punched her pillow several times, laid her head back onto the lumpiness, then groaned in frustration. The pillow hit the far wall with a soft thump which was followed immediately by a delicate scratching.
Scratching? Alex sat up and stared at the white shape of her pillow on the floor. Had it grown fingers? The scratching again, not from that direction. The door, not the pillow.
She slid from the bed and padded to her door, aware now of the shadow of feet beneath it. "Yes?"
"Mr. James, missus," a girl whispered. "He says to tell you that the mare is taking food again."
Alex yanked the door open, surprising the maid into a jump. The girl's hair had started to escape from her sleeping cap, her eyes were heavy despite the surprise.
"Did he say anything else?"
"Just that she may recover after all, milady."
"Thank you."
"Shall I call your maid?"
"No, no . . . I'm fine. Get to bed."
Alex closed the door and leaned against it. Queenie was recovering. The poor thing had been in steady decline since she'd delivered a stillborn foal at the end of spring. The stable master had wanted to put her down, but Alex had ordered that he wait for one more week to see if she could recover from the infection. But she had not held out much hope.
She allowed herself a smile, then headed for her wardrobe to pull out an old pair of breeches. Tonight, at least, would not be spent thinking of Collin Blackburn.
Alex froze, heart like a trapped animal in her throat. Her eyes flew over the dark, picking out familiar shadows until they caught on the fiery tip of a cigar.
She hovered, uncertain what to do. The red spot moved, bobbed closer until she could hear footsteps against the grass.
"Not a ghost, I suppose. I can hear you breathing."
Her mind finally placed the man's voice and her chest ceased to strangle her. "Mr. Dixon."
"Lady Alexandra? Whatever are you doing outside at this small hour?"
"I. . ." She stuttered, caught her breath. "I have business to see to."
"Business?"
Alex clutched her cloak tight at her throat and glanced toward her destination. This was exactly what she'd hoped to avoid, being spied in her scandalous attire. But she couldn't wear dinner dress into a horse stall.
"Lady Alexandra, I fear I have interfered with a . . . a private meeting. Forgive me."
She could just make him out now, still dressed for the party. His dark coat turned away from her.
"No," she whispered, then with more ease, "No, of course not. One of my mares is sick. I'd like to see her myself. There is no rendezvous, I assure you."
He drew a little closer at her words. She watched the bright spark of his cigar die beneath a boot heel. "Do you not fear for your safety, out alone in the dark?"
"This is my home."
"Yes, of course."
"Allow me to escort you to the stables, at least."
"Oh, I don't know. I mean, I suppose . . ." He held out his arm. She wanted to refuse him, claim that it wouldn't be proper, but it wasn't precisely decent to be out alone, after all.
So she slid a hand out from under the folds of her cloak and took his arm. His teeth flashed white in the moonlight when he smiled. "Are you often called to your duties at odd hours?"
"Not often. Actually, I'm sure the stable master would rather I stay away, but I am not easily dissuaded."
"Your brother despairs of your strong will."
"Does he?"
"A little, only."
Alex pushed aside the prick of hurt. Why shouldn't he despair? "Well, I am strong-willed. I'm sure that comes as no surprise."
"No. But some men do not mind a bold woman."
"Oh?" Alex hesitated. "Do you mean yourself?"
"I do."
When he stopped, Alex tensed. She'd been kissed often enough in London to read the signs of desire. Even as she was trying to decide whether to allow it, he leaned forward. His lips were firm and warm against hers, his technique measured and pleasant. Alex's nerves did not even twitch.
His did, it seemed. He sighed and kissed her harder, easing one arm around her as he coaxed her mouth to open to his tongue. It tasted of cigars.
Ignoring the ashy smell, she tried to muster the interest to kiss him back, tried to give him a fair chance, and succeeded in her pretending, apparently. The arm around her waist tightened and pulled her into his body until she could feel him harden against her stomach.
His mouth pulled away with a gasp that echoed her own. "What. . . What are you wearing?"
Alex blinked up at him, hands trapped against his chest, and realized that his fingers had stolen under her cape. He folded back the fabric before she could stop him and stared in disbelief at the boy's clothes she wore. Even before his eyes cleared and sharpened, his fingers swept down to cup her bottom.
"My God," he moaned and yanked her back to the press of his body.
"Wait," she said into his mouth, but his tongue had slipped between her lips again, stabbed, really, until the force of the kiss smothered her breath.
Alex pushed against his muscles, arms straining to win a few inches, but her arched back pressed her harder into his erection, and he moaned and gripped her bottom with bruising force. His hand left her as quickly as it squeezed, but her relief was short-lived. Her shirt tugged and slid against her skin, pulled from her breeches as he tried to find a way beneath her clothing. His smothering mouth sucked at her—pulling, taking.
A fizz of panic bubbled into her veins, burned through her limbs. She was aware in a way she'd never been before of her small stature, and of the muscles that corded a man's arms with strength. He could take her here, drag her to the ground and cover her mouth and push himself inside her, and she could fight with all her will and not damage him in the least.
Just as his hand slid beneath her shirt, she managed to twist her face away from his assault. "Don't! What are you doing?"
"Oh, God," he groaned again, words wet against her jaw.
She shuddered, tried to think. She could scream, but she could not be caught like this again, not by a guest, not by one of the men who worked for her.
"Mr. Dixon, please. Let me go."
"I knew you were a hot piece, but I had no idea." His hand swept over her naked back as he spoke, then slithered around to rub her breast in a shock of clammy cool.
"Let me go," she hissed and shoved as hard as she could. He stumbled, still wrapped around her, jerking her back toward him until her legs gave way and she fell to her knees. She felt the hard cushion of the earth, felt the sting of his button where it had scratched her face, then a breeze touched her chest, colder than his hand.
His dark shape loomed, fingers still clutching the raised hem of her shirt, eyes glazed, as shocked by the sight of her breasts as she was to have them exposed. Alexandra recovered first, grabbing the fabric with both hands to jerk it from his fist. That sudden jolt released him from his trance and he nodded, reached to unbutton his trousers.
"Yes, take off the shirt, Alexandra. I want to suckle those tits."
"You are mad," she whispered, wishing her voice sharp instead of scared.
She pitched to the side and crawled away, pushed to her feet just as his hand snagged her braid.
"Where are you going?"
"To my brother."
"Your brother?" His hand fell away, letting her lurch back from the sight of his open trousers. Robert Dixon gaped. "You can't mean to leave me like this?"
Alex caught a glimpse of hair and hard red flesh before she retreated further into the night. Anger fought to replace her fear. Her voice hissed instead of shaking. "I granted you a kiss. You . . . You attacked me."
"I attacked you? You are sneaking about by yourself at three in the morning. You flirted with the first man you came across, and. . . and you're wearing breeches! Do not play coy now. You're not even wearing a shift!"
"I. .." Alex shook her head, prayed that the rustle of cloth was Mr. Dixon putting himself away. "I was seeing to my horse. I hardly sought you out."
He moved closer and she fought the impulse to cringe and bolt. This was her land, her home. And she held the power here, for if she did tell her brother, Mr. Dixon would wish himself dead.
"You should take care in the future, miss, not to offer your lips to a man in privacy of the blackest night. Any man would assume you invited more."
"A gentleman would have waited for an actual invitation."
"A gentlewoman would never find herself in the position of pondering this question."
The breeze came again, cooling her skin as her blood boiled. "Do not chastise me. I offered you nothing more scandalous than a kiss. You disgraced yourself."
"Ha. You dare speak of disgrace."
"Mr. Dixon, I do not want you near me. I would suggest you find an excuse to depart in the morning lest I take this debate to my brother. Let him decide what was invited and what taken."
She heard the growl of his frustrated sigh, the slap of hand striking leg.
"Fine." His boots still muffled by the grass, his step drew closer until the white of his bared teeth passed her by. "But let me warn you again. Be careful whom you toy with in the future. Men are not designed to stop once they are started."
"Perhaps you speak of boys."
"You shall find out some day soon, I do not doubt." With that insult, he stomped toward the house, hopefully to wake his valet and prepare his packing.
She prayed he spent a few years, at least, harboring the fear that she would tell the duke. Perhaps he would sweat each time he greeted her brother, waiting for the cut. It was her only consolation. She had no doubt he would speak ill of her to all of England.
Alex toed the short grass with her boot, kicked at it with her heel. Guilt tensed her shoulders, then frustration that his words could wound her. True, the rules of society helped to protect women from the baser instincts of men. If she hadn't been wandering alone in the night, she certainly wouldn't have stumbled over Mr. Dixon, wouldn't have tempted him to drop his pants in a maelstrom of lust. But really, she had enough work controlling her own impulses, why should it be her responsibility to help men control theirs as well?