The River of No Return Bee Ridgway (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📖

bent, her elbows propped on the railing. “I don’t need friends. I certainly don’t need a friend like you.”

She tipped her face up. Her expression was full of warmth. “Yes, you do. That incident back there in the ballroom should prove it to you. You are barely in control, and you need friends badly.” She reached out and touched his face—the scar that crossed his eyebrow. “Poor Lord Blackdown. You don’t really understand anything, do you?”

“No, I don’t. I wish you would explain yourself.”

She looked out again over the lawn. “But I am very simple. I am not what needs explaining.” She met his gaze squarely. “Do you understand what I am saying to you? I am not what needs explaining.”

Recognition of what she meant slid into place. Excitement coursed through his veins. It wasn’t sexual excitement . . . it was pure intellectual energy. She had answers. “Yes. Yes, I think I do.”

But at that moment they were interrupted. “Alva!” A huge, drunken Englishman, as ugly as a side of beef, his eyes spilling tears, pushed himself between them. “Alva, my angel. My goddess.” He grasped Alva’s hands in his enormous, hairy paws and stood weeping down upon her like a bulldog snuffling over a tiny spaniel.

“Excuse me,” Nick said, outraged. “I was speaking to the lady.”

The man turned his heavy head. It took a long time for his drunken red eyes to focus on Nick, and when they did, a new flood of tears washed over his cheeks. “Oh, no. No. You are handsome!”

Nick raised a repressive eyebrow, but the man was long past all subtlety. With a wail he hurled himself forward, and Nick was only just able to put his fists up before his face to combat the assault. But the man wasn’t coming in for a fight; he was coming in for a hug. He gathered Nick to his broad chest as easily as if Nick had been a small child, and he clasped him tenderly, rocking back and forth and keening, head lifted to the stars. “I’m so unhappy!” Then he collapsed, weeping into Nick’s shoulder and grabbing at his jacket in huge handfuls. “She’ll never love me. Never. My Alva. My angel. My goddess.”

Nick stifled a shocked laugh and patted his back. “Save me,” he mouthed over the man’s shoulder.

Alva nodded, sparkling with her own suppressed laughter. “Now, Henry,” she said, peeling the man easily away from Nick with her elegant hands. “Enough of that. There, there. Hush now.” She produced a handkerchief from nowhere and wiped his woebegone face. “You must calm down, my dear. We’ve talked about this, do you recall? You promised there would be no more of this.”

The giant stood calmly now, but new tears continued to seep from his eyes. “I love you, Alva. I can’t bear it. He’s handsome.” He pointed at Nick. “You told me there was no one else.”

“I have told you I have no lover, Henry.” Alva peeped at Nick as she said this. “And that is true. But someday I shall, and you must be strong. I can never be your wife.”

“But, Alva, I love you.” Henry’s voice was sullen now, like a petulant child’s.

“That’s enough, Henry. Go home,” Alva said firmly.

“Oh, Alva.” The tears began all over again. He reached for her. “My angel. My goddess.”

Alva spoke sharply for the first time. “Henry. Stop it!” To Nick’s shock and delight, she hauled her long arm back and slapped the huge man soundly across his face.

Henry’s tears stopped as if they had never fallen. “Alva.” He put a hand up to nurse his cheek. “My . . . my . . .”

She stood facing him, her hands on her hips. “Your what? Which is it? Am I your angel or your goddess? Because angels are different from goddesses, Henry.”

Her mountainous admirer stood staring at Alva for a long moment, and then tears began slowly welling up again.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Alva threw up her hands. “Go home, Henry. Go home. Before I slap you again.”

“Alva.” Henry half reached for her, but then, with a broken sob, he turned slowly and lumbered away.

Nick couldn’t help it. He clapped. “Brava! Well played. Marvelous.”

Alva came back to the balustrade, a more natural smile on her mouth than he had yet seen. Interestingly enough, it downgraded her beauty to mere prettiness, but it made her seem more real. “I have recently lost my lover,” she said. “And I am suddenly beset with suitors.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Her eyes brightened, surprised. “Thank you. That is kind of you, my lord. I apologize for Henry. I hope he didn’t ruin your jacket.”

“It can be mended. In any event, it’s not every day that I am complimented on my looks. And please.” He smiled. “Call me Nick.”

Alva opened her mouth to say something, but they were interrupted again, this time by Bertrand Penture. “Excuse me, Miss Blomgren.” He bowed, and Alva curtsied, grimacing slightly at Nick as she did so, though by the time Penture straightened up her face was a mask of beautiful disinterest. “I am afraid I must steal your companion from you.” Penture turned to Nick. “If you would accompany me, my lord? I would like you to try a cognac I have saved for just such a special guest.”

Nick bowed. “Of course, Monsieur Penture. It would be my pleasure. Please allow me to make my good-byes to this lovely creature and I shall be with you shortly.” He winked broadly at the Frenchman and was pleased to see a look of revulsion flit across Penture’s stony face.

“Of course. A footman will direct you to the study when you are . . . finished.” Penture curled a lip and left.

Alva and Nick watched him until his black back disappeared among the revelers. Then both began speaking at once.

“I—”

“We—”

They both halted, amused, and then Alva carried on. “We have not concluded our interesting conversation.” She laid a hand on Nick’s arm. “You may find me in Soho Square, if you decide that you do, after all, need friends.” She