A Stolen Heart

He smiled. “Whatever you may think, Miss Ward, you are unusually attractive.” He cast a look at her smooth, sculptured face, the dark glowing eyes, the thick mass of dark hair that made her head look too heavy for the fragile support of her slender white neck.

“There are many women in this room just as pretty as I and doubtless others who are prettier.”

“But none as…arresting.” She was tall and statuesque among a ballroom of dainty women, vibrantly black-haired among a plethora of sweet-faced blondes. Alexandra Ward was different. Thorpe felt sure that there were as many biting comments being made about her as there were admiring. But whatever the words, they came because it was impossible not to notice her.

“Bosh,” Alexandra retorted rudely. “Actually, I think they are looking at you.”

“I am not a usual guest at such events,” Thorpe admitted. “The London social world is such a stagnant pond that even so small an event as my appearing at a party will cause a ripple. When I appear with a stunning beauty on my arm, and no one has the least idea who she is, the ripple turns into a wave.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Sebastian!” As if to prove his point, a man’s deep voice rang out, and they turned to see a large, broad-shouldered man shoving his way through the crowd toward them, a fragile-looking beauty walking with him, her hand tucked into his arm. “What the devil are you doing here? Beg pardon, ma’am, Nicola.” He nodded toward Alexandra, then glanced at his companion, who smiled with easy grace, obviously used to the man’s unbridled speech.

“Hello, Bucky,” Thorpe answered. “I had an invitation, actually, so I came.”

“Not like you, old fellow,” the man whom Thorpe had called Bucky responded cheerfully. He had an open, pleasant sort of face, with wide-set blue eyes that looked out on the world with an expression of vague bonhomie. “Everyone’s wondering what brought you out.” He smiled at Alexandra. “And who your lovely companion is.”

“It always astonishes me how interested everyone is in my comings and goings, considering that I scarcely know half the people at this gathering.”

“That’s what happens when you’re marriageable.” Bucky shrugged. “They’ve been after me for years, and I’m nothing but a Baron.”

“Ah,” the willowy blonde with him said, smiling and casting a significant look at Lord Thorpe. “But you are a man of charm, Buckminster, which gives you a certain advantage over others.”

“Nicola, you wound me,” Thorpe said, looking anything but hurt. “I’m sorry. Allow me to introduce you to Miss Alexandra Ward. Miss Ward is visiting from the United States. Miss Ward, this is Lord Buckminster and his cousin, Miss Nicola Falcourt.”

“How do you do?” Nicola said, smiling at Alexandra, and Alexandra decided that her initial impression of the woman as fragile was wrong. It was her slenderness and pale beauty that made her look deceptively frail, but in her eyes and warm smile, Alexandra sensed a definite strength.

“An American, eh?” Lord Buckminster repeated with affable astonishment, as if he had never expected to meet such a person. “Pleased to meet you. However do you know Thorpe?”

“She is a friend of the family,” Thorpe said smoothly before Alexandra could open her mouth to explain the relationship. She shot him an odd look, but said nothing.

When, after a few more pleasantries, the couple moved on, Alexandra turned to him, eyebrows soaring. “A friend of the family? Afraid everyone will shun you for associating with someone in trade?”

“Since I rarely seek out anyone’s company, the prospect of being shunned scarcely frightens me,” Thorpe retorted. “I was trying to shield you a bit from the gossip.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“An apology? I am shocked.” He held out his arm toward her, crooked at the elbow. “Shall we stroll around and let everyone look their fill at us?”

Alexandra smiled. “All right.”

She tucked her hand in his arm. They had taken only a few steps when a man turned away from a knot of people, almost running into them. He stopped abruptly and stared at Alexandra. It seemed to her as if for an instant he turned deathly pale. He looked at her for a full beat, then drew in a breath, the color returning to his face.

“Lord Thorpe,” the man said stiffly. “I’m sorry. I was—a trifle startled to see you.”

“Lord Exmoor.” Thorpe nodded briefly at the man, his face carefully devoid of expression. Alexandra, feeling the tensing of his muscle beneath her hand, glanced at him. He did not like this man, Alexandra thought, though she was not sure how she knew.

Intrigued by the change in attitude that she felt in Lord Thorpe, Alexandra looked with interest at the stranger. He was tall and slender, with light brown hair and eyes a hazel color. Wings of silver ran from his temples. Everything about him was long and angular, from his hands to his narrow nose to the careful eyes beneath his straight eyebrows.

Lord Exmoor returned her gaze inquiringly, and Thorpe, with a sigh, went on. “Miss Ward, allow me to introduce you to the Earl of Exmoor. Lord Exmoor, Alexandra Ward.”

“How do you do?” Alexandra nodded politely toward him.

“Are you an American?” Exmoor asked.

“Yes.”

“How interesting. I thought I detected it in your speech. You are here visiting relatives?”

“No. I have no relatives in England,” Alexandra replied, finding that she had little desire to tell the man anything about herself. “I am traveling with my mother and my aunt.”

“Ah. I see. I hope you are enjoying your visit.”

“Very much, thank you.”

“I had no idea you knew anyone from the United States, Thorpe,” Exmoor went on.

“I am sure that I have many acquaintances about which you know nothing, Lord Exmoor.”

“Yes. No doubt.” He sketched a bow toward them. “Good evening. It was nice to meet you, Miss Ward. I look forward to running into you again.”

He turned and walked away. Alexandra glanced at her companion. “Why don’t you like him?”

Thorpe looked at her coolly. “Exmoor? What makes you say that?”

Alexandra raised a sardonic brow. “I was standing right here. Even one as ignorant as I of the behavior of the English nobility could tell that you were nothing more than polite to him.”

Thorpe shrugged. “We are not friends,” he said carefully. “We are not enemies, either. Merely two people who are not interested in extending our acquaintanceship. Now…would you care to dance?”

It was hardly a subtle change of subject. Alexandra felt that there must be more to the story, but she let him lead her onto the dance floor without protest. The waltz began, and they swept around the ballroom with the other dancers in time to the music. Alexandra’s hand rested lightly in Thorpe’s; his other hand was at her waist. It was quite proper, yet a little titillating, too, to be standing so close to him, gazing into his eyes only inches from hers, feeling the heat of his hand at her waist, as if at any moment he might pull her tightly against him.

Alexandra wondered how he felt about her. It was not a question that normally concerned her. She was sure of her own worth, and while men usually were attracted by her beauty, it did not worry her if they were equally dismayed by her brains or bluntness. But this time, it did matter, just as this time she found his nearness, his touch, his smile, all disconcerting.

After the waltz, Alexandra danced with several other men, but she found them dull compared to Thorpe. She was relieved when Thorpe reclaimed her after the cotillion and escorted her to the informal supper on the floor below. Alexandra sat in a chair against the wall while Thorpe went to get plates of food for them. She started to protest that she was quite capable of getting her own food, but she saw that most of the other couples were doing the same thing, and she decided to say nothing. It seemed remarkably silly to her, but the English were attached to their customs.

As she sat, idly watching the other people in the large room, she noticed that a woman across the room was watching her. She was a small woman, even delicate, and that image was amplified by the gauzy, floating dress she wore. She was quite beautiful, with fair skin and golden hair. Alexandra wondered who she was and what she found so interesting about her.

The woman cast a quick look at the buffet tables, where Thorpe stood, then floated—there was no other word for the graceful, dainty way she walked—over to where Alexandra sat. Alexandra watched her approach with interest. As she drew nearer, Alexandra could see that the woman was older than she had initially thought, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth and a certain brassiness to the gold in her hair that Alexandra thought betokened the touch of something other than Nature. Still, she was lovely in a cool, elegant way.

“I see Thorpe has taken you up,” she said without preamble.

“I beg your pardon?” Alexandra looked at her in surprise. Did the woman not realize how rude she sounded?

“They say you are an American,” the woman went on, ignoring Alexandra’s comment.

“Yes, I am. What does—”

“Then you obviously don’t know about his reputation.”