A Stolen Heart

“Is that where we are going?” Alexandra asked in some astonishment.

“Yes. Why?”

“But it—it can’t be more than four blocks from my house.”

“Probably.” He looked at her, faintly puzzled.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to walk?” She looked at the stalled line of carriages again. “Faster, too?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then why did we take the carriage?”

He smiled. “It wouldn’t do to be seen arriving on foot, my dear Miss Ward—as if one didn’t own a carriage.”

Alexandra gazed at him for a moment, unsure whether he was joking. “That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a balmy night, the distance is short, and in a carriage we will have to wait substantially longer. Yet we don’t walk because it would look wrong?”

His eyes danced. “I think that about sums it up.”

“I presume it would be too gauche for words to get out of the carriage now and walk the rest of the way instead of sitting inside it for twenty minutes.”

He nodded. “Decidedly déclassé.”

She shook her head. “Sometimes I think my aunt is right.”

“What? That we English are all debauched?”

“No. That the nobility are rather absurd.”

“Absurd? I have never heard that one. Arrogant, yes, prodigal, yes, impractical and even decadent. But absurd?”

“Of course. It’s too silly a concept to be taken seriously. What else would you call a system where the wealthiest and most highly regarded people have done nothing to earn their position but are there simply because they are descendants of other people?”

“Family is often considered a good indication of character, I believe. Do you have no regard for bloodlines? For what is passed from one generation to the next? Do you not believe that families instill their values in their offspring, and so on and so on, for generations?”

Alexandra felt a slight chill run down her spine at his mention of bloodlines. She wondered what he would think if he knew what sort of mother she had and what she might have passed on to her daughter.

“Family is an indication of character, yes, and certainly there are families who instill courage and honesty and all sorts of commendable traits in their children. My point, however, is that in England it doesn’t matter whether one’s family is good or bad, but simply what one’s family name is.”

“Are there no leading families in America?”

“Of course there are, but at least they have done something to earn it. They have worked hard, built up wealth, been educated or simply been honest, decent people.”

“But let us say one’s grandfather did that. His descendant today is regarded highly because of who his grandfather is. Isn’t that right?”

“Sometimes.”

“It is the same principle. It is just that with us the ancestors were farther in the past.”

“What did they do to deserve their titles to begin with?” Alexandra asked tartly. “Wage war? Take lands from others who were not as strong?”

“Service to King and country,” he countered.

“Ha! Catering to the whims of another man who is revered solely because of his ancestors!”

Thorpe let out a short bark of laughter. “I am looking forward to this evening! I can just imagine what furors your conversation will stir up.”

Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you invited me? To stir up a social tempest?”

“No. That is simply an added benefit.”

Alexandra studied him for a moment. “Why did you ask me?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Thorpe admitted. “I think because you intrigue me.” He paused, then asked, “Why did you agree to come with me?”

A smile curved Alexandra’s lips as she said, “Perhaps for the same reason.”

They inched their way along the line until their carriage was at last in front of the door. They climbed down and followed the family in front of them across the red runner laid over the front steps and through the imposing double front doors, held open by two liveried footmen.

They stepped into an entry hall that was, by any standards, grandiose. Black and white marble tiles checker-boarded the floor, and the walls rose to the second floor. It was large enough to fight a pitched battle in, Alexandra thought. At the far end a double staircase curved upward, the mahogany balustrades twined with masses of white flowers. Candles burned in a multitude of wall sconces and struck sparks off the glass drops of two enormous chandeliers, casting soft prisms of light over the people. Huge portraits of people in various styles of dress hung around the walls of the entry room. In the place of honor hung an enormous portrait of a bay horse.

“Where are we?” Alexandra asked, glancing around the room, aware of an unaccustomed feeling of awe.

“This is Carrington House, the town house of the Duke of Moncourt. That is the second Duke’s favorite mount,” he added, noticing the direction of her gaze. “It’s said that he ordered the painter to make sure that its portrait was twice as large as that of his wife.”

“What an odd man.” Alexandra’s gaze went from the surroundings to the people going in a line up the graceful staircase, to where a couple waited at the top to greet them. The woman was dressed all in black, with diamonds around her neck and arms and a diamond spray in her hair. “Obviously this Duke must value his wife more.”

She nodded toward the bejeweled woman.

“Ah, yes. The Carrington diamonds. Been in the family for centuries. This Duchess had the temerity to have the earrings reset. The Dowager Duchess hasn’t stopped talking about it yet.”

Alexandra could see that she had been right when she had assumed that most of the women here would be dressed more elegantly than she. Lace, satin and velvet were everywhere, sewn in the latest styles by London’s most fashionable modistes. Jewels winked at ears and throats. Hair was curled and upswept, decorated with roses, feathers, jewels, combs. It was, Alexandra thought, the most breathtaking display of extravagant beauty that she had ever seen.

She was therefore rather surprised to realize, after they had passed through the receiving line and gone into the ballroom, that she was the woman who was the most at the center of stares. She was too busy for a few minutes looking around at the mirrored and gilt walls and the crush of people to notice the whispers and the sidelong looks. Finally, however, she did. Alexandra shifted uneasily and glanced at Thorpe. He was gazing coolly across the room, seemingly oblivious to the small ripples they created wherever they went.

“Lord Thorpe,” she whispered. “What is going on?”

“What do you mean?” He glanced at her with polite inquiry.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it. People keep looking at us. They’re whispering.” She heard with a little chill the eerie echo of her mother’s words, but she shoved the thought aside. This was entirely different.

“I would think you would be accustomed to that. It is often the fate of beautiful young women.”

“Don’t be obtuse. I look the same as I always do, and I am not usually talked about.”

He cast her a wry look. “With your tongue? You must give me leave to doubt that.”

“Rudeness is not called for.”