The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [108]
Douglas stared grim-faced into the darkness even as his hands stroked down her back and molded around her hips. He finally fell asleep with her breath against his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, her heartbeat soft and steady against his.
The Sherbrooke town house was a three-story mansion on the corner of Putnam Place. It had been built sixty years before to grand expectations of an Earl of Northcliffe with more groats than good taste. Still, the Greek columns were inspiring to some—those in their cups, Douglas would say with a snort—and the interior with all its niches for statuary were filled now mostly with flowers and books, the abundant Greek statuary exiled to the attic. It was the same earl, Douglas told Alexandra, who had filled the Northcliffe gardens to overflowing with Greek statues. “So I have pleased myself,” Douglas said, as he pointed to exquisite crimson brocade drapes that were drawn in the large central drawing room. “I expect that my heirs just might think I’m short in the upper works and do something else.”
He frowned then, saying, “Perhaps you will wish to make alterations. I did nothing to the countess’s rooms.”
“All right,” Alexandra said, still so dazed and overwhelmed by their actually being in London, a city of grace and wealth and poverty and excitement—and the smells—that she would have agreed to anything he said. He had pointed out everything to her and she’d gawked through the carriage window. Douglas grinned down at her. “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”
She nodded, touching her fingertips lightly to a lovely Spanish table.
“You will grow accustomed soon enough. As for the house, Mrs. Goodgame will show you everything. Burgess, our plump London butler, is as efficient as Hollis. You can trust him. We will remain in London for two weeks, enough time for you to be fitted for new gowns and bonnets and the like and to meet society. Do you wish to rest now or can we visit Madame Jordan?”
Madame Jordan was genuinely French, born and raised in Rennes. She had six shop assistants, an impressive establishment in the heart of Piccadilly, and a doting eye for the Earl of Northcliffe. Alexandra stood there, an unimportant member of Douglas’s entourage, listening to Madame and her husband discussing what was to be done with her. She was measured and clucked over. When she was to the point of screaming at Douglas that she wasn’t invisible and she did have good taste, Madame suddenly splayed her fingers over Alexandra’s bosom and went off with a salvo of rapid, intense French. Ah, Alexandra thought, grinning at Douglas, whose face was closed and hard, she wants my bosom to be fashionable. “I agree with Madame,” she said loudly, and Douglas turned on her, a wonderful target for his ire. “Be quiet, Alexandra, or you will go sit in the carriage! This has nothing to do with you!”
“Ha! You want me to look like a nun and Madame disagrees, as do I. Give in, Douglas, and stop being strange about it. I am a woman like every other woman on the face of this earth, and all women are built just like me. No one will care, no one. If you insist that I be covered to my chin, why everyone will wonder if I have some sort of horrible deformity!”
“I agree with the countess,” said Madame Jordan in perfect English. “Come, my lord, you are too possessive of your bride. It isn’t at all fashionable to wear your heart on your sleeve.”
“I’m not,” Douglas roared, slamming his fist on the glossy painting of a woman at least seven feet tall draped in willowy garments, as wispy and insubstantial as the ghost’s had been. “It’s just that she’s too innocent and doesn’t realize what men want and—” He ground to a stop. He was furious and felt impotent. He was outnumbered and outgunned and he knew it. Both women were regarding him with tolerant scorn. He had reason on his side, surely he did, only he sounded ridiculous. “Blessed hell! Do as you wish!” And he stomped out, saying over his shoulder, “I will await you in the carriage. Lower every bloody neckline to your bloody waist, I don’t care!”
“Ah,