Irrationally, the thing that infuriated him the most was that they called her "Alex."

Apparently everyone called her Alex. The entire population of the ton seemed to be on the most intimate terms of friendship with his wife—particularly the male population.

Jordan glanced at the footman hovering in the doorway and imperceptibly shook his head, indicating that his guests' glasses were not to be replenished. Waiting until Carstairs paused to draw a breath, Jordan lied curtly, "I know you'll excuse us, Carstairs. These gentlemen and I have business matters to discuss."

Roddy nodded amiably and stood up to leave, but not before he got in one more verbal thrust: "I'm happy to have you back among us, Hawk. A pity for poor Tony, though. He's as mad for Alex as Wilston, Gresham, Fites, Moresby, and a few dozen others…"

"Including you?" Jordan speculated coolly.

Roddy's brows lifted imperturbably. "Of course."

As Roddy strode off, two of Jordan's friends, Lords Hastings and Fairfax also arose to leave, looking apologetic and embarrassed. Lord Hastings, casting about for something to say to diffuse the tension, seized on the subject of the Queen's Race, a two-day steeplechase event, which all the nobility traditionally either participated in or attended. "Do you mean to ride that black stallion of yours in the Queen's Race in September, Hawk?" Lord Hastings asked.

"I'll ride one of my horses in it," Jordan said, simultaneously trying to control his raging ire at Carstairs and call to mind the reckless joy of riding in the most important steeplechase of the year.

"Knew you would. My money's on you, if you decide to ride Satan."

"Aren't you entering it?" Jordan asked without interest.

"Naturally. But if you ride that black brute, I'm betting on you, not me. He's the fastest devil I've ever seen."

Jordan's brows snapped together in confusion. Satan, the prize foal of Jordan's stables, had been an evil-tempered, unpredictable three-year-old when Jordan was impressed a year ago. "You've seen the black run?"

"Indeed! Saw your wife race him in—" Hastings broke off in horrified chagrin when Jordan's jaw hardened with granite displeasure.

"She… er… handled him quite well and didn't press him too hard, Hawk," Fairfax put in desperately when he saw Jordan's reaction.

"I'm sure your duchess is merely high-spirited, Hawk," Lord Hastings inserted in a bluff voice with more volume than conviction as he clapped Jordan on the shoulder.

Lord Fairfax nodded instantly. "High spirits, that's all it is. Tighten her rein just a bit, and she'll be docile as a lamb."

"Docile as a lamb!" Lord Hastings concurred promptly.

Outside, both men who were avid horse-breeders and inveterate gamblers, paused on the steps to exchange dubious, looks. "Docile as a lamb?" Lord Hastings' repeated his friend's words incredulously, "If Hawk but tightens her rein?"

Lord Fairfax grinned. "Of course—but first he'll have to get the bit between her teeth, and to do it he'll have to hobble her. She's going to fight him when Hawk tries to tame her to his hand, you mark my word. She has more spirit than the average female—and, I suspect, more pride."

Hastings closed his eyes in amused disagreement. "You're discounting Hawk's extraordinary effect on women. In a few weeks, she'll be doting on him. By the day of the Queen's Race, she'll be tying her ribbon on his sleeve and cheering for him. Young Wilson and his friend Fairchild have already placed bets on exactly that. The odds in the book at White's are already four to one in favor of Hawk wearing her ribbon."

"You're wrong, my friend. She's going to give Hawk a devil of a time."

"Not a chance. She was besotted with him when she came to town. Have you forgotten what a complete cake she made of herself over him a few weeks back? Since Hawk walked into church this morning, that's all everyone's talking about."

"I know, and I'll wager she hasn't forgotten it either," said Fairfax bluntly. "I'm acquainted with Hawk's duchess and the lady has pride—her pride will prevent her from falling easily into his arms, you mark my words."

With a challenging lift of his brows, Hastings, declared, "I have £1,000 that says she'll give Hawk her ribbon to wear in the Queen's Race."

"You're on," Fairfax agreed without hesitation, and they headed off to White's to relax and gamble in that exclusive gentlemen's club—but not to record this particular bet. It would be kept private, out of respect for their friend.

When Fairfax and Hastings were gone, Jordan walked over to the side table and refilled his glass. The anger he had carefully concealed from the others was evident now in the tautness of his clenched jaw as he glanced at his closest friend, John Camden. "I sincerely hope," he drawled with biting irony, "that you haven't remained here because you, too, know of some further indiscretion of Alexandra's, which you perhaps feel compelled to repeat to me privately?"

Lord Camden gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Hardly. When Carstairs was speaking of your wife's race in Hyde Park and her duel with Mayberry, he distinctly mentioned the name 'Melanie.' I believe he indicated that Melanie was cheering your duchess on to victory in both cases."

Jordan took a swallow of his drink. "So?"

"Melanie," John declared, "is my wife."

The glass in Jordan's hand stopped en route to his mouth. "What?"

"I'm married."

"Really?" Jordan dourly replied. "Why?"

Lord Camden grinned. "I couldn't seem to help myself."

"In that case, permit me to offer my belated congratulations," Jordan said sardonically. He lifted his glass in a mockery of a toast, then checked himself as years of good breeding came to the surface. "I apologize for my rudeness, John. At the moment, marriage is not high on my list of reasons for celebration. Is your Melanie anyone I know? Have I met her?"

"I should hope not!" John declared with laughing exaggeration. "She made her bow just as you left town, which is all to the good. You'd have found her irresistible, and I'd have had to call you out now that you've returned."

"Your reputation was not a great deal better than mine."

"I was never even in your league," John joked, making an obvious attempt to lighten his friend's spirits. "If I cast an appraising eye over an appealing Miss, her mama summoned an additional chaperone. When you did it, every mama in sight fell into spasms of terror and violent hope. Of course, I didn't have a dukedom to offer, which accounts for part of their anxiety and eagerness."