by Brenda Joyce
Alexandra stared at her middle sister, dismayed. Her sisters’ happiness meant everything to her. “You are a naturalist,” she said softly. “You despise doing portraits.” But there was more. She knew that Henredon had made improper remarks to Olivia, and improper advances would no doubt have followed. Henredon was known for his gallivanting ways.
“It is a good idea,” Olivia returned as quietly, steel in her green eyes.
“I am hoping it will not come to that,” Alexandra said, meaning it. She was afraid her good-natured sister would be taken advantage of in many ways.
“I doubt that will be necessary, Olivia,” Edgemont said. He turned to Alexandra. “How old are you?”
Alexandra was mildly confused by her father’s odd question. “I am twenty-six.”
The baron flushed. “I thought you were younger, maybe twenty-four. But you’re still an attractive woman, Alexandra, and you keep a fine household, in spite of our means, so you will be the first—to show your sisters proper respect.”
Tension began to knot in her stomach, but she kept a firm smile in place. “I will be the first to do what, Father?” she asked with care.
“To marry, of course. It’s high time, don’t you think?”
Alexandra was disbelieving. “There’s no money for a dowry.”
“I am aware of that,” Edgemont snapped. “I am very aware of that, Alexandra. Despite that, an inquiry has been made about you.”
Alexandra pulled a chair close and sat down. Was Edgemont mad? No one would ever consider marrying an impoverished spinster of her age. Everyone in town knew of her “profession,” just as everyone knew that Edgemont gambled and drank every possible night away. The truth was that the good Bolton name was seriously tainted. “Are you serious, Father?”
He smiled eagerly now. “Squire Denney approached me last night to ask after you—and to enquire if he could call.”
Alexandra was so surprised that she sat up straight, causing her chair to rock on its uneven legs. Was there a chance of marriage, after all this time? And for the first time in years, she thought of Owen St. James, the man she had given her heart to so long ago.
“You know him, of course,” her father continued, smiling at her. “You sewed his late wife’s garments for several years. He has come out of mourning now, and apparently you made a considerable impression upon him.”
Alexandra knew she must not think of Owen now, or of the hopes and dreams they had once shared. She recalled the squire, a rather stately older man who had always been polite and respectful to her. She did not know him well, but his wife had been a valuable customer. She had been saddened for him when his wife had passed away. But now she did not know what to think.
She trembled. When she had given up the idea of marriage nine years ago, they had still been a family with respectable means. But they had been reduced almost to abject poverty now. The squire was landed and wealthy. Marriage to him could improve their circumstances, their lives.
“He must be sixty years old,” Corey gasped, paling.
“He is an older man, but he is very well-off, and he is only fifty, Corey. Alexandra will have a closet full of the latest gowns. You will like that, won’t you?” He turned to her, brows raised. “He has a fine manor house. He has a carriage and a brougham.”
Alexandra started, gathering up her wits. She had a suitor—one with means. Yes, he was an older man, but he had always been kind, and if he was inclined toward generosity, he could be a savior for their family. She thought again of Owen and his courtship, and she was saddened. She must put Owen out of her mind. Squire Denney’s suit was flattering, and more than that, it was a boon. At her age, in her circumstances, she could not expect more.
“You know I don’t care about fashion—I care about you and the girls,” she said carefully. She stood up and dusted off her immaculate skirts, and stared carefully at her father now. He was sober, and he was no fool. “Tell me about the squire. Is he aware that there is no dowry?”
“Oh, dear,” Olivia murmured. “Alexandra, you cannot be considering Denney.”
“Don’t you dare even think about marrying him!” Corey exclaimed.
Alexandra ignored their outbursts.
Edgemont leveled a firm gaze at them both. “You two will keep your opinions to yourselves. They are not wanted. Yes, he is very aware of our predicament, Alexandra.” His stare was sharp.
“Is there any chance he will be able and willing to contribute to this household?” Alexandra asked, after a lengthy pause.
Corey ran over to her. “How can you consider marrying that fat old farmer?” She whirled. “You can’t marry Alexandra to him against her will!”
Edgemont glared. “I have had enough of your harping, missy.”
“Corey, please, I must discuss this opportunity with Father,” Alexandra said, squeezing her sister’s hand.
“You are elegant and beautiful. You are kind and good, and he is fat and old,” Corey insisted. “This is not an opportunity. This is a fate worse than death!”
Alexandra laid her hand on her sister’s arm. “Please calm yourself.” She faced her father. “Well?”
“Our discussions have not taken that turn. But he is a very wealthy man, Alexandra. I have heard it said he has the largest lease of all the Harrington tenants. He will surely be generous with us.”
Alexandra chewed on her lip, a terrible habit of hers. Lady Harrington was an old family friend; Elizabeth and Blanche had been fond of one another, once. Lady Blanche came out to Edgemont Way once or twice a year, when she was passing by, to check on Alexandra and her sisters. Alexandra no longer called on Lady Blanche, mostly because their clothes were so out of fashion and so shabby—it was too embarrassing. But it might be time to call now. Lady Blanche would certainly know all about Squire Denney.
“Father, I will be frank. If he is inclined to be generous, I do not see how I could refuse his offer—if he truly makes one.”
Corey cried out.
“By God, Alexandra, you are such a fine and giving woman! You are exactly like your mother. She, too, was selfless. Morton Denney has implied he will be a benevolent son-in-law. And Olivia can certainly run this household once you are wed.”
Alexandra looked at Olivia, who was clearly distraught. She wanted to tell her not to worry, that it would be all right.
“He will call tomorrow afternoon, and I expect you to be turned out in your Sunday best.” Edgemont smiled, pleased. “I am off, then.”
But Corey rudely seized his sleeve as he turned to leave. “You can’t sell Alexandra off to that farmer!” Corey said, flushed with outrage. “She is not a sack of potatoes!”
“Corey…” Olivia seized her sister’s hand, jerking it away from their father’s arm.
“But that is what he is doing.” Corey was near tears. “He is selling Alexandra off to a fat old farmer so he can replenish his coffers—and then he will lose it all once again, gaming at the tables!”
Edgemont’s hand lashed out, and his slap against Corey’s face rang loudly in the room. Corey gasped, her palm flying to her red cheek, and tears filled her eyes.
“I have had enough of your insolence,” Edgemont ground out, flushed. “And I do not like it when the three of you band against me. I am your father and the head of this house. You will do as I say—every one of you. So mark my words, after Alexandra, the two of you are next.”
The sisters exchanged wide-eyed looks. Alexandra stepped forward, wishing Corey could forgive her father for their circumstances, yet knowing that she was too young and so she could not. But that was no excuse for their father’s harsh behavior. She barred her sister from Edgemont, while Olivia put her arm around her. Corey kept her head high, but she was trembling and furious.
“Of course you are the head of this house. Of course we will do as you say,” Alexandra soothed.
He did not soften. “I mean it, Alexandra. I have decided on this match, whether you agree to it or not. Even if he decides not to contr
ibute to this household, it is high time you are wed.”
Alexandra stiffened. She did not speak her thoughts, but she was amazed. She was too old to be forced against her will into marriage or anything else.
He spoke more kindly. “You are a good daughter, Alexandra, and the truth is, I have your best interests at heart. You all need husbands and homes of your own. I can’t afford handsome young bucks—I only wish that I could. But I will do the best I can, and it is a stroke of great luck that you have attracted Denney, at your age. It has brought me to my senses at last. Your mother must be rolling about in her grave, the way I’ve neglected your future.” He glared at Corey and Olivia. “And by damn, I expect some gratitude.”
No one moved.
“I’m off, then. Plans for the evening, if you must know.” Head down and avoiding their eyes, as they all knew what he would do that night, he hurried from the room.
When he was gone, the front door of the house slamming in his wake, Alexandra turned to Corey. “Are you all right?”
“I hate him.” Corey trembled. “I have always hated him! Look at what he has done to us. And now he says he will marry you off.”
Alexandra took her youngest sister into her arms. “You can’t hate him—he is your father. He cannot help his gambling, and the drinking is an illness, too. Darling, I only want to help you and Olivia. I so want you both to have better lives.”
“We are fine!” Corey wept now. “Everything is his fault! It is his fault we are living this way. His fault that the young gentlemen in town offer me flowers, and then, behind my back, send me rude looks and whisper about lifting my skirts. It is his fault my skirts are torn. I hate him! And I will run off before it is my turn to marry some horrid old man.” She broke free from Alexandra and ran from the room.
Alexandra looked at Olivia, who returned her gaze. A potent silence fell.
Olivia touched her arm. “This is wrong. Mother would choose a prince for you. She would never approve of this. And we are happy, Alexandra. We are a family.”
Alexandra shivered. Elizabeth Bolton had approved of Owen. In fact, she had been delighted that Alexandra had found such love. And suddenly Alexandra had the notion that Olivia was right. Mother would not approve of this eminently sensible and lucrative match with Denney. “Mother is dead, and Father has become entirely dissipated. This family is my responsibility, Olivia, and mine alone. This suit is a blessing.”
Olivia’s expression tightened. A long pause ensued. Then she said, “The moment father began to speak of this, I saw your face and knew that no one would be able to talk you out of this terrible match. You sacrificed yourself for us once, but I was too young to understand. Now you intend to do so again.”
Alexandra started for the stairs. “It isn’t a sacrifice. Will you help me choose a gown?”
“Alexandra, please don’t do this!”
“Only a hurricane could stop me,” she said firmly. “Or some other, equally terrific, force of nature.”
THE HUGE BLACK LACQUERED COACH and its team of perfectly matched pitch-black horses careened down the road, the red-and-gold Clarewood coat of arms emblazoned upon its doors. Two liveried servants stood on the coach’s back fender. Inside the coach’s luxurious interior, as red and gold as the family crest, the duke of Clarewood held casually on to a safety strap, his gaze on the dark gray skies outside. His mouth curved as thunder boomed, as if he approved. Lightning forked a moment later, and his expression seemed to shift again. It was going to storm terrifically. He was amused—of course he was—a dull, dank day suited this dark occasion perfectly.
He tensed, thinking about the previous duke—the man who had raised him.
Stephen Mowbray, the eighth duke of Clarewood, universally recognized as the wealthiest and most powerful peer in the realm, turned his impassive blue gaze to the dark gray mausoleum ahead. Situated atop a treeless knoll, it housed seven generations of Mowbray noblemen. As the coach halted, it began to rain. He made no move to get out.
In fact, his grip on the safety strap tightened.
He had come to pay his respects to the previous duke, Tom Mowbray, on this, the fifteenth anniversary of his untimely death. He never thought about the past—he found the exercise useless—but today his head had ached since he had arisen at dawn. On this particular day, there was just no getting around the past. How else did one pay his respects and honor the dead?
“I WISH A WORD, STEPHEN.”
He’d been immersed in his studies. He was an excellent student, mastering every subject and discipline put before him, though achieving such excellence required diligence, dedication and discipline. However, the need to excel had been drilled into him from a very early age; after all, a duke was not allowed to fail. He couldn’t recall a time in his life when he hadn’t been struggling to master some thing or another. No amount of fluency in French was adequate enough; no fence was high enough; no mathematical equation complicated enough. Even as a small boy of six or seven, he would be up past midnight studying. And there was never any praise.
“This examination is marked ninety-two percent,” the seventh duke said harshly.
He trembled, looking up at the tall, handsome blond man standing over him. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The examination was crumpled up and tossed into the fireplace. “You’ll take it again!”
And he had. He had received a ninety-four percent. The duke had been so furious with him that he’d been sent to his rooms and not allowed out for the rest of the week. Eventually he’d achieved a hundred percent.
HE REALIZED ONE FOOTMAN was holding the coach door open for him, while the other was extending an open umbrella. It was raining harder now.
His head ached uncomfortably. He nodded at the footmen and swung down from the coach, ignoring the umbrella. Although he wore the requisite felt hat, he was instantly soaked through. “You may wait here,” he told the footmen, who were as wet as he was.
As he slogged across his property toward the mausoleum, he could see the Clarewood mansion just below the ridge where the marble vault loomed. Nestled in a magnificent park, it was pale and gray against the dark trees and even darker wet skies. Thunder rolled to the east. The rain was falling in earnest now.
Stephen pushed open the heavy vault door and stepped inside, reaching for matches. He lit the lanterns, one by one, as thunder kept rolling in the distance. The rain was coming down harder and faster now, like sledgehammers on the vault’s roof. He was very aware of Tom Mowbray lying in effigy across the chamber, waiting for him.
He’d come into the duchy at the age of sixteen. He’d already known that Tom was not his biological father, not that he had been told or that it had mattered. After all, he was being groomed to be the next duke, to be Tom’s heir. The realization hadn’t been an epiphany or a revelation. It had been a slowly creeping awareness, a nagging and growing comprehension. The duke was renowned for his affairs, but Stephen had no other siblings, not even a bastard one, which was very odd. And even as isolated as his childhood was—his life was tutors and masters, the duke and duchess, and Clarewood—he was somehow aware of the rumors. They’d swirled about him his entire life, from the moment he’d first understood the spoken word. His young ears had caught the gossip many times, whether at a great Clarewood ball or below stairs between servants. And while he’d ignored the whispers of “changeling” and “bastard,” eventually the truth had begun to sink in.
The lessons of childhood could serve a man well, he thought. Gossip followed him wherever he went, threaded with envy, jealousy and malice. He never paid attention to the barbs. Why would he? No one wielded as much power in the realm as he did—outside of the royal family, of course. If they wanted to accuse him of being cold, ruthless and uncaring of anything and anyone other than Clarewood, he hardly cared. The Clarewood legacy took up all his time, as did the Foundation he had established in its name. Since taking up the reins of the duchy, he had tripled its value, while the Foundation funded asylums, hospitals an
d other charities throughout the greater realm.
He stared across the chamber at the pale stone effigy of his father. His mother, the dowager duchess, had declined to join him that day. He did not blame her. The previous duke had been a cold, critical and demanding man—a harsh taskmaster for them both. He would never forget her endless defense of him—nor their unending rancor, their hostile debates. Yet Tom had done his duty, hadn’t he? His duty to Clarewood had been to make certain Stephen had the character necessary to succor the estate, and he had succeeded. Most men could not have managed the vast responsibility that came along with the duchy. He looked forward to it.
It was shockingly still in the tomb, but not silent. The rain pounded on the roof over his head, almost deafening him. Stephen took a torch from the wall and slowly walked over to the white marble coffin, then stared down at the duke’s stone image. He didn’t bother to speak—there was nothing he wished to say.
But it hadn’t always been that way.
“HE IS ASKING FOR YOU.”
His insides lurched with frightening force. He carefully closed the textbook he was reading and looked up at his mother. She was so pale now that he knew the duke was finally at death’s door. He’d been close to dying for three days now, and the wait had been almost interminable. It was not that he wanted his father to die. It was that it was inevitable, and the tension had become unbearable for everyone, even for him. Yet he had been taught that a duke could and would bear any burden in the name of the duchy.
He slowly stood, trying to hold his feelings at bay, uncertain of what they were, exactly. He was the next Duke of Clarewood, and he would always accept his duty and do what he must. He had been trained from birth for this day; if his father would die, then he would take over the reins of the dukedom—and he would excel as its eighth duke. Any uncertainty he felt he would simply quash. Uncertainty was not allowed—nor was fear or anger or pain.
