by Brenda Joyce
The duchess stared closely at him, as if expecting tears.
He would never cry—and certainly not in public. He nodded grimly at her, and they left his suite of rooms. Even if she expected grief from him, he would never reveal such feelings. Besides, he was in control. He’d learned long ago, as a small boy, that self-control was personal salvation.
The man lying on the sickbed, one of the most powerful peers in the realm, was unrecognizable now. Diphtheria had wasted his body away, leaving a small and gaunt shadow in place of the man he’d once been. Stephen tensed, for one moment his control slipping. In that moment, he did not want his father to die.
This man had raised him, claimed him as his own, given him everything….
The duke’s eyes opened. His blue gaze was unfocused, but it instantly sharpened.
Stephen strode forward, aware now that he wanted to take his father’s hands and cling to them, to tell him how grateful he was for all that he had done for him. “Is there anything I can get you, Your Grace?”
They stared at one another. And suddenly he realized that in this last moment of the duke’s life, he would like to know that the duke was pleased with him. Because there had never been a word of praise, only criticism, disapproval, rebukes. There had been long lectures on duty, diligence and the pursuit of excellence. There had been sermons on character and honor. There had been the occasional blow, the dreaded riding crop. But there had never been praise. He suddenly, desperately, wished for praise—and maybe even a sign of affection.
“Father?”
The duke had been staring, his lips twisted with scorn, as if he knew what Stephen wanted. “Clarewood is everything,” he wheezed. “Your duty is to Clarewood.”
Stephen wet his lips, oddly dismayed, a feeling he was unfamiliar with. The duke was going to die at any time, maybe within moments. Was he pleased? Proud? Did he love him at all? “Of course,” he said, breathing in hard.
“You will do me proud,” the duke said. “Are you crying?”
He stiffened. “Dukes do not cry.”
“Damned right,” the duke choked. “Swear on the Bible that you will never forsake Clarewood.”
Stephen turned, saw the Bible and picked it up. He realized his hands were unsteady and his breathing uneven. He realized that no praise, no kindness and no words or sign of affection would be forthcoming. “Clarewood is my duty,” he said.
At that the duke’s eyes blazed with satisfaction. A moment later they were sightless.
STEPHEN HEARD A SHARP inhalation in the tomb. He started and stared at the effigy, then realized he had made that sound. He certainly owed everything to Tom Mowbray, and he would not criticize him now.
“You’re probably pleased, aren’t you? That they call me cold, ruthless and heartless. That they see me in your image.” His voice echoed in the chamber. If Mowbray heard, he did not respond or give a sign.
“Talking to the dead?”
Stephen jumped, whirling. But only one man would dare intrude upon him, and that was his cousin and best friend, Alexi de Warenne.
Alexi was lounging near the vault door, which was ajar, soaking wet and disheveled, dark hair falling over his vivid blue eyes. “Guillermo said I would find you here. How morbid you have become, carousing with the dead.” But he grinned widely.
Stephen was very pleased to see his cousin, not that anyone outside of the family knew of their biological relationship. They’d been close since childhood, and he supposed the old adage that opposites attracted was true. His mother had brought him to Harrington Hall when he was nine years old, on the pretext of introducing him to Sir Rex, who had saved Tom Mowbray’s life in the war. That day he’d met so many children that he could not keep track of their names. Of course, they were all his de Warenne and O’Neil cousins. He hadn’t known that then, as he hadn’t realized until much later that Sir Rex de Warenne was his natural father, and he’d been stunned by the warmth and casual, open affection in the family—he hadn’t known a family could be so loving, and that a house could contain so much laughter. And he hadn’t known what to do, really, because he didn’t know anyone and he didn’t belong there. But his mother had gone off with the ladies, so he’d stood on the fringes of the crowded room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, watching the boys and girls chattering and playing happily with one another. It was Alexi who’d come up to him, demanding that he go outside with him and several other boys and do what boys do: find trouble, and lots of it. They’d stolen horses and gone riding through the Greenwich streets at a gallop, overturning vendors’ carts and chasing pedestrians away. Everyone had been punished that night. The duke had been livid with his behavior—he’d taken out his strap—but Stephen had had the time of his life. Their friendship had begun that day.
Although married and comfortably settled now, Alexi remained the freest spirit and most independent thinker Stephen knew. They could argue for hours on almost any subject; they usually agreed on broad conclusions, but disagreed on almost every detail. Before Alexi’s marriage they had caroused together, and frequently—Alexi had been a notorious ladies’ man. Stephen admired his cousin, and he almost envied him. Alexi had made his life exactly what he wished for it to be—he had not been the servant of duty or slave to a legacy. Stephen could not imagine having had such choices or such freedom. But Alexi had also followed in his father’s footsteps and was one of the most successful China traders of the day. In fact, until he’d married Elysse, the sea had been his great love. Now, amazingly, his wife joined him on his longer voyages, and they had residences around the world.
“I am hardly conversing with the dead, much less carousing,” Stephen said drily, walking over to Alexi and embracing him very briefly. “I was wondering when you would get back to town. How is Hong Kong and, more importantly, how is your wife?”
“My wife is doing very well, and if you must know, she is thrilled to be home—and she misses you, Stephen. God knows why. It must be your irrepressible charm.” Alexi grinned and then glanced at the effigy. “It’s pouring outside, and the road below is about to be flooded. We may have to wait out the storm here. Aren’t you glad I have come?” He took a flask out of his pocket. “We can honor old Tom together. Cheers.”
Stephen felt himself smile. “If I must be honest, I am pleased you are both back, and yes, I will have a drink.” But he didn’t add that they both knew Alexi had despised Tom Mowbray and wouldn’t think of truly honoring him. Alexi had never understood Tom’s methods as a father. He had been raised so differently. There had never been verbal lashings, much less whip lashings.
Alexi handed him the flask. “He does look better in stone, by the way. And the likeness is startling.”
Stephen drank and handed the flask back. “We cannot disrespect the dead,” he warned.
“Of course not. God forbid you fail in your duty to honor him and salvage the dukedom. I see you have not changed.” Alexi drank. “All duty and no play…how respectable you are, Your Grace.”
“My duty is my life, and I have not changed, for better or for worse,” he said, mildly amused. Alexi loved to lecture him on his failure to seize upon life’s lighter moments. Only rarely could he turn away from his responsibilites. “Some of us do have responsibilities.”
Alexi made a sound. “Responsibilities are one thing, shackles, another.” He drank again.
“Yes, I am so terribly enslaved,” Stephen responded, “and it is a terrible fate, to have the power to buy, take or make anything I want, whenever I want.”
“Tom taught you well, but one day, the de Warenne blood will emerge.” Alexi was unperturbed. “Even if your power scares everyone else into abject obedience, obsequious fawning or outright submission, I will always attempt to steer you in the right direction.”
“I would not be a very adept duke if I were not obeyed,” Stephen said mildly. “Clarewood would be in shambles. And I believe the family has enough reckless adventurers.” He smiled. The truth was, the de Warenne men were only r
eckless until they settled down, and Alexi was glaring proof of that.
“Clarewood in shambles? That is an impossibility, as long as you are at the helm.” Alexi gave him a mock salute. “And I gather you have decided not to follow in my footsteps, after all. I am unbearably despondent.”
Stephen smiled.
Alexi smiled back, then said, “So I take it nothing has changed and you are still Britain’s most eligible bachelor?”
Now Stephen was truly amused. His de Warenne relations—those who knew that Sir Rex was his father—loved to nag him about his bachelor status. Of course, he did need an heir. He simply dreaded a cold, bitter and boring marriage. “You have been gone ten or eleven months. What did you expect? For me to find my betrothed at long last?”
“You have just turned thirty-one, and it has been fifteen years since you began searching for a bride.”
“One can hardly rush the process.” His tone was wry.
“Rush? You mean prevent. One can only delay the inevitable, Stephen, not prevent it, and I, for one, am glad you have rejected this Season’s latest offerings.”
“I will admit, inane banter with an eighteen-year-old, no matter how polished, has become a discipline I dread. Of course, you will never repeat this.”
“You are growing up—and of course not!” Alexi exclaimed, crossing his heart.
Stephen laughed, something he rarely did, but Alexi could always make him see the humor in a situation. “I hope so—I am middle-aged.”
They shared another drink, this time in silence. Then Alexi said, “So nothing has changed while I have been gone? You remain as industrious as ever, building hospitals for unwed mothers and managing mining leases for the duchy?”
He hesitated. “Nothing has changed.”
“How boring.” Alex’s smile faded, and he glanced at the effigy. “Old Tom there must be proud—finally.”
Stephen tensed. He glanced at the effigy, too. And for one moment, it was as if Tom sat up and was staring mockingly at him, as alive as they were—and as accusatory as ever. Stephen’s tension increased but then the memory was gone. Tom had looked at him with such scorn a thousand times, and most of the time he preferred to forget, but today was the one day he always remembered. “I doubt it.”
They shared a somber look. “Sir Rex is proud,” Alexi finally said. “And by the way, you are nothing like Tom, even if you try to be exactly like him.”
Stephen considered the comment, knowing that Alexi had overheard him talking to the effigy. “I have no delusions about my character, Alexi. But as far as Sir Rex goes, he has always been attentive and supportive. He was kind to me when I was a boy, before I even guessed at the true nature of our relationship. You are probably right. But frankly, it doesn’t matter. I do not need anyone to admire me or be proud of my achievements. I know what I must do. I know my duty—mock it though you will.”
“Damn it, your character is just fine!” Alexi was angry, his blue eyes sparking. “I came to rescue you from old Tom, but now I think I must rescue you from yourself. Everyone needs affection and admiration, Stephen, even you.”
“You are wrong,” he said instantly, meaning it.
“Why? Because you grew up without any affection, you assume you can and will live that way? Thank God you are a de Warenne by blood.”
Stephen did not want to walk out on that particular plank and only said, “I do not need rescuing, Alexi. I am the one with the power, remember? I am the one who does the rescuing.”
“Ah, yes, and the good work you do for those who cannot help themselves is admirable. Maybe it also keeps you sane—because it prevents you from realizing the cold truth about yourself.”
Stephen felt a twinge of anger, which he quashed. “Why are you harping on me?”
“Because I am your cousin, and if I don’t, who will?”
“Your wife, your sister and any number of other relations.”
Alexi grinned. “Enough said, then. Let’s make a dash for the coach, and if the road below is flooded, we will swim.”
Stephen started to laugh. “If you drown, Elysse will drown me! I suggest we wait out the storm here.”
“Yes, she probably would, and of course you would choose to be sensible and pragmatic.” But Alexi opened the vault door anyway. The downpour remained torrential. “I am bored with old Tom. I vote we adjourn to your library for the very finest and oldest Irish whiskey in your cabinet.” He glanced back into the vault. “You know, I think he is here, eavesdropping on us, as disapproving as ever.”
Stephen tensed and said sharply, “He is dead, for God’s sake, and has been dead for fifteen years.” But he wondered if his friend had felt the old man’s presence, too.
“Then why aren’t you free of him?”
Stephen started. What did that mean? He said carefully, “I am quite free of him, Alexi, just as I am free of the past. But duty rules me, and surely even you can understand that. I am Clarewood.”
Alexi stared. “No, Stephen, you aren’t free, not of him and not of the past, and I wish you could see that. But you are right, you are ruled by duty, and by now I should not expect anything else. Except, oddly, I do.”
Alexi was wrong; Alexi didn’t understand the Clarewood legacy. And Stephen didn’t feel like arguing about it. He simply wanted to escape Tom. “The rain has let up. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWO
ALEXANDRA PAUSED, facing her sisters. “Wish me luck,” she said grimly. Her smile felt far too firm, instead of being bright and reassuring. Squire Denney was waiting in the next room with Edgemont. Oddly, she was nervous. Or perhaps it wasn’t so odd. After all, her family’s future was at stake.
Alexandra knew that worrying about making a good impression was silly, given what she had to work with, but she glanced in the hall mirror anyway. Olivia had helped her with her hair, and the chignon seemed a bit severe. Worse, even though she’d chosen a dress that had fared better over the years than her other ones, it was clearly worn and out of fashion. She sighed. No amount of sewing could repair a frayed hem; only costly trim could do that.
“I appear ill kempt,” she said flatly.
Corey and Olivia exchanged looks. “You look like a fictional heroine, one suffering through tragic circumstances,” Olivia said, “and awaiting a dark hero to rescue her.” She reached up and teased several strands of hair from the tight chignon.
Alexandra smiled at her.
“I am not a tragic heroine, although the squire might very well be a hero. I suppose there is no putting this off.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Olivia said softly. “He is predisposed toward you.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t let me do your hair,” Corey complained, the light in her eyes flickering.
“I would have gladly done so—if I could have trusted you.” Knowing her sister, she might purposefully try to mess up her hair in the hopes of chasing off the squire. Alexandra could hear male voices in the parlor now. She started forward, resolved.
Both sisters followed. Olivia hugged her at the door. “I am with Corey, Alexandra. You can do better. He is not good enough for you. Please rethink this.”
Alexandra did not bother to tell her what she herself had already accepted: she was, as always, doing what was best for everyone.
Olivia sighed, glancing at Corey, who appeared distraught now.
“This is not the end of the world,” Alexandra said firmly, offering up a bright smile. “In fact, this is a new beginning for us all.” She shoved her anxiety aside and pushed open the door.
Behind her, she heard Corey cry softly, “Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten how short he was!”
Alexandra ignored that. She was exceptionally tall for a woman, and most men were shorter than she was. Her father and Denney were standing before the window, as if admiring their muddy and overgrown gardens. It had stopped raining that morning, but outside, the lawn had become a small lake. The squire was probably two inches shorter than she was—making his height q
uite average.
Both men turned.
Her heart suddenly lurched—as if with dismay. Denney was just as she recalled, a big, husky fellow with side whiskers and kind eyes. He wore a frock coat for this occasion, one she instantly saw was very well made—and very costly. Now she noticed a signet ring on his hand. It was gold and boasted a gemstone. And carefully inspecting him as she was doing made her feel like a fortune hunter.
But wasn’t that exactly what she was?
You can’t sell Alexandra off to that farmer!
But he could—it was done all of the time, Alexandra thought grimly. Very few in society married for love. Women in her position never did.
The parlor was small, the walls mustard-yellow, with fading green drapes and shabby furniture. Edgemont came forward, smiling, and looped his arm in hers. “Alexandra, there you are.” He turned so that they faced the squire. And Alexandra was surprised—his eyes were shining.
“I am sorry if I have kept you waiting,” she managed, her pulse pounding. Why did she suddenly feel saddened? Was it because if all went according to plan, she would be leaving Edgemont Way and her beloved family? Suddenly she thought of Owen and the deep bond—the passion—they’d shared. And she was resolute. Ever since her father had declared that she must marry, Owen had been on her mind. But that kind of love had passed her by, and she must forget about the past.
“This is my beautiful daughter, Alexandra,” Edgemont said proudly, beaming.
“You could keep me waiting for days on end, Miss Bolton, and I would still be pleased to see you,” Denney said, smiling at her.
Alexandra somehow smiled again. And she thought of how kind the squire had always been to his wife, before she’d passed away. He was a good man. Maybe, in time, she might come to love him a little. “That is far too kind of you,” she replied, shaken.
“We had a chance to discuss the summer forecast, as predicted by the Almanac. Denney thinks it will be a good summer, not too hot, with plenty of rain,” her father told her.
