Dream Island

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CHAPTER ONE June 19, 1811 London Damn, it was hot. Not that Alex minded heat ordinarily. Indeed, he liked few things better than shucking off his clothes on a sun-drenched beach and letting the golden warmth touch every inch of his body. But that was a thought for a different time, so far removed from his present circumstances that it might have belonged to a world entirely apart from benighted England. Worse yet, the heat stank. The combined smells of two thousand bodies, all liberally perfumed, were bad enough but the candles set everywhere in silver sconces and crystal chandeliers throughout the ballroom added the weight of melting wax to the already stultifying air. The odor clung to the heavy blue silk draperies festooned with the white fleur-de-lis in honor of the evening's exalted guests, the exiled French royals whose presence provided a fragile excuse for the Prince Regent to show off his latest extravagance. The tall windows stood open, admitting not the relief of a freshening breeze but the stench of the London streets beyond and the crowds that still thronged them. Only the select few, if two thousand could be called that, had received the coveted invitation to the unveiling of the newly redecorated Carlton House. For weeks, the sound of teeth gnashing had competed with the frantic drumbeat of entreaties as the neglected jockeyed to avoid social catastrophe. How gladly he would have yielded his entree to anyone who would have it but that had never been a choice. He was, for better or worse, compelled to be precisely where he was, if only for a few more hours. It was truly a challenge to decide which was worse, the heat, the smell, or the ever-mounting noise as the chattering guests struggled to be heard over each other and the combined efforts of the musicians playing manfully despite the total absence of any room in which to dance. Briefly, he sought distraction of a minor sort with the charming brunette who had attached herself to him shortly after his arrival. Lady Eleanor Lampert was the well-endowed widow of a wealthy lord who had married her when she had scarcely seventeen summers and he had solidly seventy. Presumably, he understood the risk. Dead six months later, it was widely rumored that he departed this world with his banner at an impressive full mast. So now did Lady Lampert keep herself well amused. She shunned remarriage, being sensible about maintaining her independence, and chose her pleasures with care. He found her a skilled and worldly bedmate, which suited him perfectly. A woman clinging to his arm was acceptable in the short term; one clinging to his life was another matter entirely. When that happened, not if but when for there was no question that he would wed, it would be in that entirely other world for which he found himself so unexpectedly yearning. Duty intervened, keeping him in England longer than he would have liked. But duty was life, life duty. He could hardly complain of the course he himself had set. All the same, he had to leave soon. Not only this damnable ball but the country itself. His responsibilities were fulfilled, for a time at any rate, and he had been away too long. Just a few more days and he would be free . . . A few days. Hard to believe she had been searching for him only that long. It seemed a lifetime. Tromping about London, calling at his residence, leaving her card, ever ignored, slowly realizing he must have given orders after the first day that she was not to be admitted or given any information as to his whereabouts. Her cheeks still flamed at such treatment but she was determined. Embarrassment and frustration mattered no more than did discomfort. Even anger counted very little. She would find him. He would hear her out. He would help her. She would succeed. To fail was incomprehensible. Perhaps it had not occurred to the exalted Lord Alex Haverston Darcourt, Marquess of Boswick, Earl of