A Dare to Defy Novel Read online

  He froze in the doorway. Mrs. Gill was not within.

  Instead, he beheld a vision of supreme loveliness.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Watson, naked and glowing, was sitting in a bathtub before the blazing hearth.

  Thomas knew he had no right to be seeing this. He should leave, this instant. Instead, he stood on the threshold, drinking in the sight of her, a perusal which would be forever after imprinted on his brain.

  She looked like something out of a painting by Botticelli. Firelight glimmered on ivory skin and round, perfect breasts with luscious pink nipples. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were closed, and her lips were curved in a smile of serene contentment as she slowly emptied a pitcher of water over herself. Rivulets streamed over her long hair and down the lush curves of her body. Beneath the water, he glimpsed her crossed legs and a hint of the dark patch that lay between.

  Damnation. His reaction was almost primeval. Heat consumed his face. His mouth went dry. His heart pounded like a hammer. All the blood in his veins thrummed through his body and arousal flared up within him.

  His conscience bore down on him as he struggled to regain his wits. He should not be staring at her like some despicable Peeping Tom. He had no right invading her privacy, had seen far more than was proper or decent.

  Thank heavens her eyes were still closed, and she didn’t appear to have sensed his presence. Backing away, Thomas quietly shut the door.

  Alexandra thought she heard a sound. Was it the door? With a flash of unease, she set down the empty pitcher, wiped moisture from her eyes, and opened them—but the door was shut, and there was no one else in the room.

  Alexandra stood and toweled off, shivering. She put on the nightgown, grateful that Mrs. Gill had also left her a shawl of pale gray wool to wrap around her shoulders.

  She found the landlady asleep in the front parlor, her knitting in her lap.

  “And how was your bath?” Mrs. Gill asked, awakening and heaving her plump form out of her chair.

  “Very nice, thank you.” Alexandra never would have guessed that a bath in a tin tub in a kitchen could prove to be so revitalizing.

  She followed Mrs. Gill up the stairs to a small bedroom where another fire burned in a tiny fireplace. The furnishings were simple: a bed, a dresser, a small corner table, a chair. The carpets were as threadbare as those in the hall, and the wooden floor equally scuffed.

  “My rooms on the top floor are all let,” Mrs. Gill explained. “I hope this will do for the night.”

  “It’s great. Thank you so much, Mrs. Gill.”

  Alexandra dried her hair by the fire and drank the bowl of soup and dose of aspirin Mrs. Gill brought up on a tray.

  “I hope you feel better in the morning, dearie,” Mrs. Gill said as she cleared away the tray.

  Alexandra climbed into bed and lay back against the pillow, weariness descending on her like a cloud. The night before, she’d been so tense she hadn’t slept a wink, and her long walk through the London streets, not to mention the bump on the head, had done her in.

  “You’ve gone to so much trouble on my behalf, Mrs. Gill,” she murmured. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You just did.” Mrs. Gill turned down the light with a warm smile. “You get a good rest now, Miss Watson. Tomorrow is another day.”

  When Alexandra opened her eyes the next morning, to her relief, her headache was gone. A glance at a bedside clock revealed it to be half past eleven. Dear Lord, she’d slept nearly half the day away! As she sat up in bed and remembered where she was, the anxiety over her situation came flooding back.

  Her desperate attempt to run away had gone disastrously awry. In one fell swoop, she’d removed herself from all familiar comforts and privileges and was stuck in a frightening limbo, dependent on the kindness of strangers. As good-hearted as Mrs. Gill was, she likely expected Alexandra to depart that very morning.

  Which meant she was going to have to figure out her next move, and quickly.

  Rising, Alexandra discovered a pitcher of water and a basin atop the dresser, along with a hairbrush and a dish containing hair pins. All of her clothes lay on the corner chair, dry and neatly pressed, and the black dress had been brushed clean.

  Such kindness, Alexandra thought.

  A stab of guilt pierced through her. How could she ever repay Mrs. Gill? Judging by her modest home, Mrs. Gill wasn’t a wealthy woman. She depended on the income of boarders like Mr. Carlyle to make a living. Yet she’d given Alexandra shelter and cleaned her clothes without asking a thing in return.

  What had Alexandra done to deserve it? Nothing, other than to arrive on the doorstep unconscious. Then she’d given a false name and, hoping to gain Mrs. Gill’s pity and hospitality, had allowed that good woman to draw erroneous conclusions about her.

  It wasn’t right.

  Maybe she ought to come clean. Tell Mrs. Gill and Mr. Carlyle who she really was. Go back to Brown’s hotel, to her real life. That’s all it would take: a simple admission, and she would be Alexandra Atherton again, dining in five-star hotels, bathing in marble bathrooms, and not beholden to total strangers.

  Instead, she’d be beholden to her mother.

  She’d have to marry Lord Shrewsbury.

  No, no, Alexandra’s mind screamed. Anything but that.

  “We’ll start with you, Alexandra,” her mother had gloated when she first brought up this London Season nonsense, “then introduce Madeleine and Kathryn, one at a time. That will open every door to New York society for your father and myself!”

  Alexandra had tried to do her part, hoping she’d meet someone she could respect and perhaps love, and make her mother’s dream come true. But the past five weeks had been a real eye opener. The gentlemen she’d met talked of nothing but hunting and horses. They complained about being in debt, but did nothing about it. Compared to the men Alexandra knew in New York, who were ambitious and worked hard for a living, British noblemen seemed dull and lazy. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending her life buried in the country on some crumbling English estate with such a man in exchange for the dubious prestige of a title. Especially Lord Shrewsbury. Just thinking about him make her skin crawl.

  As she freshened up and got dressed, Alexandra considered what to do. She still wanted to go home. She wanted to go back to school. Her mother had forced her and her sisters to leave college to prepare for this title-hunting madness. Madeleine and Kathryn were back at Vassar now, waiting their turn for a Season, and Alexandra wanted to join them. If her father refused to pay for another year’s tuition, Alexandra determined that she’d make it happen. There must be someone who’d be willing to give her a loan. Her parents might try to force Alexandra to marry someone else someday, but she wouldn’t do it. She’d support herself if need be. How, she didn’t know—she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  In the meantime, she had to figure out how to get home.

  A second-class ticket on a steamship would cost ten pounds. Could she wire her father and ask him to send money? No, he’d just alert her mother to Alexandra’s whereabouts, and tell her to do whatever her mother wanted.

  The irony of her situation wasn’t lost on her. Once, ten pounds would have been such a paltry sum. All her life, whenever Alexandra had needed money, her mother or father had given it to her. She’d never worried about where her next meal was coming from, or given a thought to how much that meal might cost. Even as a child, when her father had earned a comparatively modest living as the owner of the local bank, there’d been enough money for anything she or her sisters wanted—a new sled and skates in winter, Bavarian china tea sets for their dolls in summer, the newest fashions in spring and fall. And ever since her father had become obscenely rich, there’d been an endless well of money at their disposal.

  Now, she was cut off, entirely on her own.

  To the average person, she knew, ten pounds was a great deal of money. How was she going to get her hands on it?

  With a sigh
, Alexandra buttoned up the bodice of her black cotton dress, studying her reflection in the small looking glass. The dress was truly ugly, such a step down from the exquisite gowns she’d been wearing recently, created especially for her by Frederick Worth in Paris.

  She quickly chastised herself for the thought. At least the dress wasn’t wet or dirty anymore. For that she was extremely grateful.

  Picking up the brush from the dresser, Alexandra tugged it through the tangles of her long hair, perplexed as to how to style it. She’d never done her own hair before. Even while at Vassar College, she and her sisters had lived at their family home in Poughkeepsie and commuted to classes, relying on servants to take care of their every need. During the Season, an expensive French hairdresser had curled and woven Alexandra’s locks into elaborate styles, while she’d sat reading magazines or novels. She had no idea how to do this on her own.

  Her fingers were clumsy as she struggled to pin her hair up into a simple bun at the back of her head. It took several tries to get it looking halfway presentable. She still wasn’t satisfied with her efforts, but there was a light tap at the door. Alexandra answered it to find Mrs. Gill holding a tray.

  “Ah, at last you’re up! I was getting worried, and didn’t want to wait any longer. Did you sleep well? I hope your headache is gone?”

  “Yes to both questions.” Alexandra stood back to allow Mrs. Gill entry. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Gill, for drying out all my clothes and cleaning my dress.”

  “It’s the least I could do, after what you’ve been through.” Mrs. Gill set down a tray holding a cup of tea and a dish covered by a metal dome. “I’ve got a hot breakfast for you, for all that it’s after noon. Mr. Carlyle was finished with his newspaper so I brought it along, in case you wanted something to read.”

  Glancing at the newspaper, Alexandra caught sight of a small headline announcing an article to be found in the society pages: American Heiress Leaves Country. Involuntarily, she let out a gasp.

  “What is it, Miss Watson?”

  Alexandra’s mind raced. She wondered if the article was about her, and if Mrs. Gill suspected who Alexandra was. A brief glance at the landlady calmed her fears; the woman was merely gazing at her with concern. “It’s nothing. I’m just hungry. This smells wonderful.”

  “My tenants do seem to like my cooking. Well, enjoy your breakfast, Miss Watson. Set the tray on the table in the hall when you’ve finished, and Mary will fetch it. When you’re up to it, we can discuss what’s to be done with you.”

  “Thank you.” As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. Gill, Alexandra dropped into the chair, flicked open the newspaper to the society pages, and began to read:

  American Heiress Leaves Country

  No Word for Peer Fiancé

  Returning to New York aboard Maritime

  American heiress Alexandra Atherton, 24, who dangled her charms and fortune before the elite of London society in the first five weeks of the Season hoping to exchange cash for a coronet, has reportedly left London and is en route to New York.

  Miss Atherton is the daughter of American millionaire and banking tycoon Colis Atherton. Considered by many as a featured prize this season, her dowry was said to be $1 million, the equivalent of £200,000.

  The heiress reportedly received two proposals of marriage before her abrupt departure from these shores. The first offer, this reporter was told, came a fortnight ago from the Baron Reginald Waterbeach-Stokes but was refused, suggesting that Miss Atherton may have set her sights on landing a higher-ranking peer.

  That appeared to be the case, as Miss Atherton’s engagement to Viscount Shrewsbury was reported yesterday in this newspaper.

  Such transatlantic alliances have become increasingly common of late, featuring title-seeking young American women whose fortunes provide a much-needed injection into the estates of cash-strapped British peers.

  Not everyone, however, is enamoured of the trend. Some feel that this influx of Americans threatens the British way of life, and dilutes the blood of the peerage by producing heirs that are half-American—a people who, little more than a hundred years ago, declared their freedom from our country via a violent war.

  Other views are more personal. One debutante this season was recently overheard commenting: “What chance does a British girl have against these wealthy, social-climbing Americans, who can afford elaborate jewels and endless new dresses from France? If they continue to shuttle across the Atlantic and invade our Season, who will be left for us to marry?”

  Alexandra Atherton has apparently shuttled across the Atlantic in the opposite direction, without a chaperone, and with no word for her fiancé.

  According to our source at Scotland Yard, the young lady’s mother, Mrs. Josephine Atherton, discovered her daughter missing from their rooms at Brown’s Hotel yesterday morning. Fearing that Miss Atherton had been abducted, Mrs. Atherton immediately informed the authorities, who began an investigation.

  A few hours later, Mrs. Atherton insisted that they call off the search. A letter had apparently been discovered explaining her daughter’s whereabouts. Miss Atherton, it seems, made her way to Liverpool, where she boarded the steamship Maritime, bound for New York.

  The reason for Miss Atherton’s departure is unknown. It remains equally unclear whether or not a union between Atherton and Lord Shrewsbury will now take place.

  Viscount Shrewsbury and Colis Atherton could not be reached for comment.

  Alexandra flung the newspaper down on the table with annoyance. To describe her as someone who’d “dangled her charms and fortune before the elite” was unfair. She hadn’t come to London by choice. She’d never wanted to “exchange cash for a coronet.” It had all been her mother’s idea.

  The thing that really raised Alexandra’s hackles, though, was that from reading this article, no one would know how vile Lord Shrewsbury was. He’d been after Alexandra’s money and had tried to take physical liberties with her. She’d never even accepted his proposal; her mother had arranged it behind her back. This article lay all the blame at Alexandra’s feet, making her seem like a spoiled princess. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  Alexandra’s irritation was momentarily diverted by the aromas rising from the food tray. She realized she was famished. Lifting the dome, she discovered a full English breakfast: eggs, bacon, grilled tomato, browned mushrooms, and a slice of buttered toast.

  Alexandra picked up the fork and dug into the meal, savoring every bite.

  As she ate, Alexandra mulled over her situation. Her mother thought Alexandra was on board the Maritime. Presumably, her father would send someone to fetch her when the ship docked in New York in ten days. Which gave Alexandra ten days to come up with a new plan.

  Her best bet, she decided, would be to try to stay here until she had money and a safe place to go. This gave her three immediate objectives. Somehow, she had to

  1. Extend her stay at the lodging house.

  2. Figure out a way to recompense Mrs. Gill for room and board.

  3. Acquire the money for passage to New York.

  How was she going to accomplish all that?

  Could she find a job? Alexandra had never worked a day in her life. Who would hire her, and to do what?

  Still stewing over this dilemma, Alexandra left the room with her empty breakfast tray. Moving down the hall, she noticed that the door to a room across the way was slightly ajar, and a pungent odor emanated from inside.

  She paused in surprise, recognizing the smell: it was oil paint.

  Her curiosity aroused, Alexandra set the breakfast tray on the hall table and knocked lightly on the door. “Hello?”

  No answer. Unable to restrain herself, Alexandra quietly pushed the door open.

  The spacious sitting room clearly served as an art studio. No one was there. The two large windows were open, filling the room with light and admitting a slight breeze. All the tools of the oil painter’s trade were scattered about: brushes, paints, palettes. A privacy
screen stood next to a rack of clothing. The sofa was piled high with books and props. Against one wall, a cream-colored backdrop hung from floor to ceiling. An inner doorway led to an adjoining chamber, where she spied a bed.

  The most arresting focal points of the room, however, were two large portraits painted in oils, standing on easels. Drawn like a moth to a flame, Alexandra crossed the room to study them more closely.

  The first painting—a gentleman in fine clothing—appeared to be completed. It had been rendered with such mastery and attention to detail, Alexandra couldn’t take her eyes off it. The subject’s expression was so real and captivating, she felt as if he lived and breathed. The portrait was signed in the bottom right corner: T. Carlyle.

  So, this was Mr. Carlyle’s room. Mrs. Gill had mentioned something about him keeping to himself and just doing his work. Now Alexandra knew what he did for a living. She had always admired artists, oil painters in particular. A thrill ran up her spine, to think that the man who’d rescued her—had carried her in, unconscious, from the street—was a portraitist. And what a tremendous talent he was!

  She turned to examine the second portrait. It was far along, but unfinished. It featured a tall, slender woman in a spectacular white satin evening gown. Alexandra guessed the subject to be in her late twenties. Small pink roses adorned the young woman’s upswept dark hair. Her dress was embellished by a glimmering silver sash that crossed over her chest just beneath the bustline, and billowed in stiff folds at the shoulder. The pale skin of her face and chest appeared almost luminescent. The subject’s arms and hands were as yet only hastily sketched in, as was part of the sash, and the background was still incomplete.

  “What are you doing in here?” a male voice called out crossly.

  Alexandra started with surprise and whirled to find Mr. Carlyle behind her, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop, Mr. Carlyle. I was walking by and smelled paint. The door was open, and I just had to look.”