The Governess's Convenient Marriage. Amanda McCabe

with white, purple, golden-yellow, pink, crimson, as bright as the gowns of the fashionable ladies who exclaimed over them. Classical statues, white and impassive, gazed down at it all as if unimpressed.

      A buffet tea was laid out in the small, pillared temple, a tempting array of dainty sandwiches and sugar-art cakes, which people nibbled on at small tables in the shade. Parasols twirled, laughter echoed against the soft music of a string quartet tucked into an arbour and Lady Cannon’s little spaniels barked.

      It was all most elegant and Alex wished she could explore it all. Could dash down the paths in search of her friends and whisper with them all day on one of the shady benches. But she knew she could not. She was on duty.

      ‘How excited you must be about Paris, Lady Alexandra,’ Lady Cannon said, drawing Alex’s attention back to that duty.

      ‘Oh, yes. It all sounds very agreeable,’ Alex murmured.

      ‘And so intriguing, with the Exposition going on!’ Lady Cannon sighed. ‘So many things to see from all over the world. I have told Lord Cannon we must go, but not until I have replenished my wardrobe. The styles are always so different in Paris.’

      ‘Different, perhaps, but certainly not better,’ the Duchess sniffed. ‘I have seen the latest fashion papers and the new sleeves are quite immodest. All those frills and bows.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lady Cannon said wistfully. ‘They rather remind me of when I was a girl and sleeves really meant something in fashion. Oh, look, here is someone who is certain to know all the latest style news from France! Mr Gordston.’

      Alex froze, certain she’d turned into a pillar of ice. Mr Gordston was here. Her Malcolm, who once she cared about so much and who had hurt her.

      The icy shock quickly turned to burning embarrassment and she was sure her face was the colour of an apple. Oh, why couldn’t the terrace be a magical one, the stone opening beneath her feet to swallow her up? She wondered wildly if she had time to flee, but she did not. Lady Smythe-Tomas, who held Mr Gordston’s arm, waved at them with a merry smile and steered him inexorably towards the terrace steps.

      It was the sight of Lady S.-T. as his companion that brought the icy feeling back again. She seemed exactly the sort of lady who belonged with a man like that, a lady who was everything Alex wasn’t. A sophisticated widow, beautiful, witty, stylish, famous even. Free. Alex had looked at her images in the fashion papers, elegant portraits, group photographs of royal house parties, Lady S.-T. dancing, riding to hounds, playing lawn tennis, and Alex had secretly envied her.

      Not quite as much as she envied her right now, though, as Lady S.-T. whispered something into Mr Gordston’s ear, which she could do because she was also wretchedly tall, and he laughed.

      ‘You invited Mr Gordston to your garden party?’ the Duchess murmured to Lady Cannon.

      Lady Cannon’s cheeks turned bright pink. ‘Well—my husband asked me to, Your Grace. They do say even the Prince of Wales has received him, privately, of course. And he does add a certain—decorative flair, don’t you think?’

      Oh, yes, Alex did think so. Here in the calm of the quiet garden, away from the pressing crowds of Hyde Park, she had a moment to really study him. She’d wondered, in her daydreams of him, if his attraction would fade if she saw him again. If it was only the unusual circumstances of their meeting that made him so fascinating.

      But that had not been it. He was fascinating. So golden and powerful, so different from everyone else around them. And she could see that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. Heads swivelled as he passed by, everyone watching him.

      Alex forgot her urge to flee until he climbed the terrace steps, almost to her side. Then she remembered every detail of their first meeting—and her face burned again. But it was much too late to run away.

      ‘Your Grace,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said, her voice full of laughter. ‘I hear we are to be in Paris together!’

      ‘Indeed, Lady Smythe-Tomas?’ Alex’s mother answered coolly. Alex knew her mother did not approve of the lady and her ‘fast’ friends. Not even the Prince of Wales was up to her mother’s standards.

      ‘Yes. Bertie and Princess Alexandra are always so kind to include their friends in their adventures. Mr Gordston here will also be in Paris, opening his latest investment on the Champs-Élysées.’ She smiled up at Malcolm from under her feathered hat. ‘Have you met Mr Gordston yet?’

      ‘No, I have not,’ the Duchess said shortly. Lady Cannon, who should have made the introductions, seemed to have frozen.

      ‘Well, Your Grace, may I present Mr Malcolm Gordston?’ Lady S.-T. said happily, seemingly impervious to any froideur, as if her elegant hat was a shield. ‘And this is the Duchess’s daughter, Lady Alexandra Mannerly.’

      ‘How do you do, Your Grace?’ he said with a bow, all perfectly correct.

      ‘How do you do?’ the Duchess murmured.

      But Alex held her hand out to him. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. Would he remember her? ‘Mr Gordston. How do you do?’ She prayed her voice wouldn’t waver or dissolve into giggles. Luckily, it came out quiet but steady, like a normal person. ‘We do hear so much about you. I’m glad to meet you.’

      He took her hand. He wore no gloves and through the thin silk of hers she felt the heat of his touch, the rough strength of his fingers. Just as when they had touched in the park, a spark seemed to dance over her skin, hot and shocking, bringing life with it. Everything around him turned into a mere blur of colour and she couldn’t look away from him.

      He seemed to sense something odd, too. A frown flickered over his face and he looked rather discomfited, something she was sure he didn’t often do. He seemed made of confidence and strength and surety. ‘Lady Alexandra. How do you do?’

      Alex’s mother gave a small cough and it was like being dropped with a thud back on to the hard stone terrace. Everything that had turned hazy sharpened and Alex saw that Lady Cannon and Lady Smythe-Tomas were watching her with avid interest.

      She knew she would be gossiped about, which was the last thing she wanted. She stepped back, listening as Lady S.-T. and her mother exchanged news about Paris, and Lady Cannon was called away.

      ‘Your Grace, have you tried the raspberry ice yet? It’s quite divine,’ Lady S.-T. said and smoothly led Alex’s mother away under a cover of bright chatter that smothered any protest. Alex wished she knew that trick.

      And now she was alone with Malcolm Gordston. They stared at each other for a long, silent moment and she wondered desperately what he was thinking. If he, too, was remembering their first meeting.

      ‘Would you care for a stroll, Lady Alexandra?’ he asked at last, his Scottish accent blurring his words.

      ‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ she answered. He offered his arm and she hesitated for a moment, wondering if that spark would fly through her again at his touch and she would burn to cinders. He frowned, as if he noticed her hesitation and mistook it, and she quickly slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

      She did not burn up, but she did find she enjoyed the feel of his arm under her touch. A lot. Too much, maybe. But there was no turning away now.

      He led her down the steps to the pathway that wound past the flowerbeds. The rose-scented breeze caught at her hat, but luckily Mary had pinned it down firmly enough there were no new millinery disasters. He was so much taller than her, his stride so purposeful, that she felt quite protected. It was rather nice.

      He cleared his throat, and Alex glanced up at him. ‘I—I feel I must apologise, Lady Alexandra, for our last meeting. I must not have been quite myself that day.’

      Alex thought surely he was himself in the park. It was here that he, that both of them, were constrained, unsure. She felt so shy, so flustered, which was silly. They came from different worlds; they could have no expectations of each other. Surely they should be free around