about David Ware’s delectable widow. It was no wonder that she had men beating a path to her door. She was spectacular, a striking woman with a cool confidence that hid an inner passion strong enough to kindle a man’s emotions to a blaze. She was a prize, a trophy to rival the greatest conquest a man could make. Who would not wish to have such a woman adorning his home and warming his bed? Alex reflected that he must be the only man in London who did not like Lady Joanna Ware, and even that was no bar to wanting her.
He remembered Ware’s last bitter words about his wife as he lay on his deathbed, the fever ravaging his body, his face white and tight with pain and bitterness:
“No need to ask you to take care of Joanna. She’s always been able to do that for herself …”
Alex could see how it might appear so. There was a cool, brittle self-containment about Joanna Ware that would not appeal to those men who liked their women winsome and obedient. Yet he had also sensed vulnerability in her along with that strength. He had seen it in her eyes when she had used him as a defense against John Hagan. Or he had thought so-but he was probably mistaken. Lady Joanna was no doubt a manipulative woman who used men to her advantage. She had certainly tried to use him and as a result had got a great deal more than she had bargained for.
Lady Joanna’s lover. His body tightened at the thought of it. He had never believed himself to be an imaginative man for he embraced cool reason above all things but now he discovered that he had depths of imagination he had never previously suspected. To take Joanna Ware to bed, to peel that tempting cherry-red gown from her body and expose her pale skin to his eyes and to the touch of his lips, to bury himself in her and drive them both to heights of intolerable pleasure. He almost walked into a lamppost thinking about it. He felt as primed as a callow youth. His body felt constrained with a need he had never previously experienced. A need he could never indulge. Joanna Ware was out of bounds. He did not even like her. And he was a man who had kept tight control over his physical needs and never felt any emotional ones. It had been that way since Amelia had died and he had no intention of changing that situation.
Instinctively he quickened his step although he could never outrun the memories or the guilt surrounding the death of his wife. He had never been able to lose those phantoms. Now, for some reason, he could not dismiss David Ware’s final words either:
“Joanna … devil take her …”
What on earth had given Ware so strong a dislike of his wife? No, dislike was too mild a word to describe that venom. Such hatred. Alex shrugged, trying to shake the matter off. He had fulfilled his duty. He had called on the less-than-stricken widow and he had also delivered to Ware’s lawyer a letter that his comrade had entrusted to him on his death. The matter was closed, obligations discharged. He would retire to his hotel until he had word from the Admiralty on his next posting. He hoped they would not keep him waiting long. Unlike most officers who enjoyed their shore leave he was anxious to be gone. London in May felt ripe and rich and earthy with the promise of summer and yet he did not want to linger. Perhaps London held too many memories for him. Perhaps he had been away from England too long for it to feel like home anymore. In truth he had no home. He did not want one, had not wanted one for seven years-until he had walked into Joanna Ware’s library and had felt that sensation of warmth and welcome. But such domestic comforts could never be for him.
“Alex!” Someone hailed him from across the street and Alex turned to see a tall, fair, excessively handsome young man threading his way through the throng of pedestrians and carriages. Despite his relative youth he carried himself with supreme assurance and he was drawing openly admiring glances from every woman he passed, young or old, impressionable debutante or respectable matron. Heads turned, jaws dropped. The ladies fluttered and swayed in his wake like a field of poppies going under the scythe and in return he scattered on them smiles that were so wicked Alex thought that sooner or later one of the ladies would inevitably swoon and require resuscitation. As the man reached his side, grinning broadly, Alex gave a resigned sigh.
“Stopping the traffic as usual, Dev?”
“What else was I supposed to do?” his cousin said. He held out his hand to shake Alex’s with enthusiasm. “You’re a difficult man to catch up with, Alex. I’ve been hunting you all over London.”
They fell into step, Dev accommodating his stride to Alex’s slight limp. “I thought that you were with the East India Squadron,” Alex said. “When did you get back?”
“Two weeks since,” James Devlin said. “Where are you staying? I asked after you at White’s but they had no word.”
“I’m at Grillon’s,” Alex said.
His cousin stared. “Why on earth?”
“Because it’s a good hotel. And I did not want to be found.”
Devlin laughed. “Now, that I do understand. What have you done? Ravished a few debutantes? Ransacked a Spanish merchant ship or two?”
Alex’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Ravishing debutantes isn’t my style. Nor is piracy.” He looked at his cousin thoughtfully. “I heard that you sailed into Plymouth last year with Spanish-gold candlesticks five foot tall strapped to your masthead.”
“You’re mistaken,” Devlin said, grinning. “That was Thomas Cochrane. I had a diamond chandelier swinging from the mainsail.”
“Hell’s teeth,” Alex said involuntarily. “Didn’t that interfere with your navigation? No wonder the Admiralty thinks you are a scoundrel.” He looked Devlin over. His cousin was wearing a flamboyant blue waistcoat that matched his eyes and had a pearl swinging from one ear. It should have looked effeminate but Devlin somehow managed to get away with it, possibly because he was so undeniably masculine. Alex shook his head. “And that pearl earring does not help matters,” he said. “Who are you modeling yourself on? Blackbeard? For God’s sake, remove it should you be planning to set foot before the board of the Admiralty.”
“The ladies love it,” Devlin said. He gave his cousin a sideways look. “Speaking of which, I thought you might be in town to find a bride.”
“Did you?” Alex said dryly.
“No need to cut me dead,” Dev said, unabashed. “Everyone knows that Alasdair’s death means that Balvenie is now in need of an heir, and as you have a taste for dangerous adventure you might wish to produce one before your next expedition.”
“That would be quick work,” Alex said.
“I can see you do not mean to tell me your plans,” Dev said.
“Well spotted.” Alex shrugged his shoulders irritably. His Scottish estate of Balvenie was indeed without an heir since his young cousin Alasdair Grant had died the previous winter. The lad’s death from scarlet fever, a tragedy in itself, had been a double blow since Alasdair had been the sole heir to the Grant barony. Alex, who had successfully managed to ignore the pressures on him to remarry and beget an heir whilst Alasdair was alive, was now uncomfortably aware that this was yet another responsibility, another duty he did not wish to perform. To take some simpering little debutante or some colorless widow and make her Lady Grant for the sake of a son was deeply repugnant to him. To remarry at all was the very last thing he wished to do. And yet what choice did he have if Balvenie was to be safeguarded for the future? He felt the guilt and obligation-those twin ghosts that always dogged his steps-press a little closer.
“I have no current matrimonial plans, Devlin,” he said a shade wearily. “I would make the devil of a husband.”
“Some
