In the beginning of his imprisonment, when weeks of torture and deprivation drove him to the brink of madness, it was Alexandra he focused on to escape the pain that racked his body and tried to devour his mind. In his imagination, he relived, slowly, every second he had spent with her, concentrating fiercely on each minute detail of their surroundings, recalling every word, every inflection. He made love to her in the inn, time after time, undressing her and holding her, clinging to the memory of her incredible sweetness and the way she felt in his arms.

But as weeks faded into months, his memories of their brief time together were no longer enough to counteract the torment; he needed another weapon to silence the sweetly insidious voice that urged him gently to give up the fight to live, to let himself succumb to the pleasant anesthesia of death. And so Jordan began to invent scenes and build them around her, using them to reinforce his flagging will to survive because he knew from his experience with wounded men in Spain that when despair set in, death soon followed.

In his mind, he invented all sorts of scenes—pleasant ones in which Alexandra ran ahead of him, laughing her musical laugh, then she turned, holding out her arms to him—waiting for him to come to her, frightening scenes where he saw her cast out on the streets by Tony and living in a London slum—waiting for Jordan to come home and rescue her; tender scenes where she lay in naked splendor on satin sheets—waiting for him to make love to her.

He invented dozens of scenes, and the only feature each one had in common was that Alexandra was always waiting for him. Needing him. He knew the scenes were fantasy, but he concentrated on them anyway. Because they were his only weapon against the demons in his brain that shrieked for him to give up the struggle, to loosen his grip on sanity—and then on life.

And so, in the squalor of his vermin-infested cell, he had closed his eyes and planned his escape so that he could go home to her. Now, after a year of looking back on the bleakness of his former world, he was ready to let Alexandra show him her world, where everything was fresh and alive and unspoiled—where "something wonderful" was waiting just around the comer. He wanted to lose himself in her sweetness and surround himself with her laughter and joie de vivre. He wanted to cleanse himself of the filth of that prison and then rid himself of the tarnish of his misspent life.

Beyond that, he had only one other goal, and it was less noble, but equally important to him: He wanted to discover the identity of whoever had twice tried to end his life. And then he wanted vengeance. Tony had the most to gain from his death, Jordan knew, but he couldn't bear to think about that yet. Not here. Not without proof. Tony had been like a brother to him.

Chapter Seventeen

Alexandra awakened feeling oddly refreshed after her awful night of tearful self-recriminations. The discovery of Jordan's treachery had destroyed her illusions, but as she slowly went about her morning routine of bathing and dressing, she began to realize that what she had learned last night had released her from the bonds of loyalty and devotion that had kept her tied to his memory for over a year.

She was free of Jordan Townsende now. A faint, wry smile touched her lips as she sat down before the dressing table and began brushing her long, heavy hair. How funny it was that, in trying to become "worthy" of being Jordan's wife, she had turned herself into a rigidly prim and proper female who would have suited a cleric, but never, ever the wife of a scandalous, unprincipled rake. Which was really rather funny, she thought wryly, because her true nature was any thing but rigid and starched.

She had always done that, Alexandra realized suddenly; she had always tried to be what those she loved wanted her to be: For her father, she had been more like a son than a daughter; for her mother, she had become the parent, rather than the child; for Jordan, she had become… a complete antidote.

However, from this day forward, all that was going to change. For better or for worse, Alexandra Lawrence Townsende was going to enjoy herself.

In order to do that, however, she first needed to eradicate the reputation for hauteur and boundless idiocy she had unwittingly earned amongst the haute ton. Since Sir Roderick Carstairs was her most vocal, and most influential, detractor, he was obviously the best place to start. Anthony intended to speak to him this morning, but perhaps she could say or do something to change his opinion of her while he was here.

While she was contemplating that problem, she suddenly remembered the last part of her conversation with Melanie Camden last night. Lady Camden had said her friends thought Alexandra was "the veriest greenhead ever to appear at a London ball," so she had obviously known Alexandra was persona non grata amongst the ton, yet she had still wanted to befriend her. She had, in fact, been hinting at the same thing Tony had said later. The brush stilled in Alexandra's hand, and a surprised smile lit her face. Perhaps she was going to have a true friend in London, after all.

Feeling more lighthearted than she had in over a year, she pinned her heavy hair atop her head and hurriedly pulled on a pair of the tight breeches and one of the shirts she wore each morning when she and Tony practiced their fencing. Snatching her rapier from the closet and picking up her face mask, she walked from the room, humming a cheerful tune, her steps light and buoyantly carefree.

Tony was standing alone in the center of the deserted ballroom where they practiced each, morning, idly tapping the tip of his rapier against the sole of his boot. He turned at the sound of her brisk footsteps upon the polished floor, his face mirroring his relief at her appearance. "I wasn't certain you'd feel up to this, after last night…"

Alexandra's flashing smile told him she harbored no grudge against him for his silence on the matter of Jordan's perfidy, but she said nothing about last night. She wanted to forget it and Jordan Townsende. Picking up the padded chestplate from the ballroom floor, she put ft on, then she put on her face mask, adjusted it, and touched her rapier to her forehead in a jaunty salute to her worthy opponent "En garde—" she said gaily.

"My word, Hawthorne," Roddy Carstairs' drawl stopped Alexandra and Anthony in the middle of a furious parry. "Isn't it rather early to be cavorting about in such an energetic fashion?" Shifting his lazy gaze to Anthony's unknown fencing partner, he said admiringly, "Whoever you are, you're a damned fine swordsman."

Waiting for her labored breathing to even out, Alexandra stood with hands on her hips while she quickly weighed the relative merits of showing herself to Carstairs as she now stood, or waiting to see him in the salon later, as she had intended. Recalling what Anthony had told her about him last night, she decided to be daring, rather than cowardly.