by Brenda Joyce
The fact that his mother would be escorted to such an affair was hardly unusual, but he instantly saw that this was not a routine matter. The man on her arm was tall and golden, with a presence that was positively leonine. And his mother, he realized, was radiant—as if deliriously happy. In fact, she had never looked better.
“Julia Mowbray, the Dowager Duchess of Clarewood, was one of the strongest and most courageous women he knew. She had devoted her entire life to the cause of advancing his interests, at great personal cost and sacrifice. She had suffered greatly at the previous duke’s hands. A dowager for fifteen years, she had decided not to remarry, and he had applauded that decision. Now, he was concerned.
“Who is accompanying the dowager duchess tonight?” he asked sharply.
“I believe that his name is Tyne Jefferson, and that he is a rancher from California.”
“Are you certain?” Was his mother romantically interested in Jefferson? “Is he wealthy? Does he come from a good family? He looks rather savage.”
“You should calm down. Julia is a strong and sensible woman. Fortune hunters have been sniffing about her for years, and she has eluded every single one of them.”
“So you think he is a fortune hunter!” Stephen exclaimed.
“No, I do not. I have heard that he has some business with your uncle, Cliff.”
“I believe introductions are in order,” Stephen said. The dowager duchess was a very wealthy woman—and she was his responsibility. He did not care for this liaison. He was worried. “Excuse me.”
Julia was strolling across the ballroom with the American. The consummate diplomat now, as she had once been the consummate duchess, she paused before each party, making certain to politely introduce Jefferson, who looked to Stephen to be unperturbed by the entire affair. He barely spoke, but he watched Julia closely, with obvious interest. Stephen approached them from behind.
Jefferson sensed him immediately and turned. Stephen smiled coolly at him. As he discerned a challenge, Jefferson’s gaze narrowed.
Julia whirled. “Stephen!” She took his hands and kissed his cheek. “I am so glad you are here. This is Mr. Tyne Jefferson, and this is my son, His Grace, the Duke of Clarewood.”
“I am honored, Your Grace,” Jefferson drawled. But Stephen knew from the American’s tone that the man was not awed by him, or even impressed. “Mr. Jefferson. And are you enjoying my country?” Stephen returned, smiling. He gestured at the lavish room. “I imagine you do not attend many balls in California.”
Julia stepped closer to Stephen and sent him a look that said very clearly that she was becoming angry with him.
It didn’t matter. He had to protect her from disaster and heartache, at all costs.
“No, we don’t have balls like this in California. The scenery here is quite a welcome change, as well.” Suddenly Jefferson looked at Julia, the gaze direct, and she flushed.
Stephen was briefly shocked—and uncharacteristically speechless—by how obvious her feelings were for this man.
“I am enjoying my stay here,” Jefferson added. “And I very much appreciate being invited to attend this ball.”
Julia smiled at him. “It would have been remiss of me, sir, not to invite you to join me.”
Stephen glanced sharply at her. What was she thinking? He turned back to Jefferson. “And what brings you to Britain?”
The American seemed amused. “A personal matter, actually.”
He had just been told to mind his own affairs, and he was not pleased about it. “Sir Rex told me that you have some business with Cliff de Warenne.” His uncle—Alexi’s father—had built up a global shipping empire over the years.
“Stephen,” Julia said swiftly. “I know you wish to become further acquainted with Mr. Jefferson, but we have only just arrived. There are still a number of introductions I wish to make.” She was firm.
Stephen knew he must stand down—for now. But he would begin an investigation of the man, and tomorrow, first thing, he would summon Julia to Clarewood to find out what she was doing by promoting an acquaintance with such a man. “Perhaps I can be of some help in your business affairs, for not only am I on good terms with the de Warenne family, I am well connected throughout the realm.”
“Nice of you to offer,” Jefferson said, mockery in his tone but his expression as cool as a cube of ice. “And I’ll definitely think about it.”
Julia gave him another warning look, but Stephen barely saw it. He wasn’t sure he had ever encountered such arrogance, and in spite of himself, he felt the dawning of a grudging respect for the American.
“HERE, A SIP OF TEA will undoubtedly help,” Squire Denney said with concern.
Alexandra smiled gratefully at him, aware that she was still being stared at and, at times, whispered about. She had not dreamed of such a reception to her first social event in nine years. No one had spoken with her since they had arrived at Sara’s birthday party other than her sisters, her father and the squire. She had done her best to pretend that all was well—she did not want to distress the squire or, worse, chase him off. But surely, once he realized what was happening and what society thought of her, he would flee.
They’d been at Harrington Hall for about two hours, and her headache was so bad now that she’d finally confessed to feeling a bit under the weather. Denney was being kind. She had the feeling that compassion was a large part of his nature. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the tea and knowing he’d gone out of his way to find a hot cup at this hour.
She took a sip. She felt as if she had been standing in that corner of the ballroom forever, but it was only nine o’clock. She wasn’t sure she had ever felt so humiliated. She couldn’t believe she’d been so naive as to think she could appear in society when she made a living as a seamstress now. As for the vicious gossip that she’d been jilted by Owen, she couldn’t bear to think about it. At least she could console herself with the truth. Even so, surely the squire would decide that he wanted a socially acceptable wife, ruling her out.
She glanced at her sisters, dismayed. They should have been out on the dance floor; instead, they refused to leave her side. They should have been having the best time of their young lives; instead, they were anxious and frightened, and determined to defend her from further slander and prevent another disaster.
Her glance wandered. And she knew she was looking for him.
Her heart thundered. Her cheeks felt hot.
“I will get you a small bite,” Denney said, his concern as vast as ever.
Realizing he would leave her side for a moment, and that she might speak privately to her sisters, Alexandra nodded. “Thank you.”
When he was gone, Corey whispered, “I think we should leave.” She was pale with distress.
Alexandra faced her, a firm smile in place. “We will not cry over spilt milk, we will merely clean it up.”
“These people are hateful,” Corey continued in a whisper. “Who cares about being at this party?”
“Everyone is not hateful. A handful of these women are mean-spirited, that is all. Wasn’t it nice to see Lady Harrington and her daughters again?” Blanche Harrington had been kind and concerned, and her daughters had actually seemed pleased to renew their acquaintances. Sir Rex had been equally magnanimous. “And, Corey, you remain the interest of several young gentlemen here.”
“I don’t care,” Corey said, meaning it. “When can we leave?”
Alexandra exchanged a glance with Olivia and caught her staring at the same blond man she herself had noticed earlier. Her heart clenched. Whoever that gentleman was, he was not for her sister. “Who is that?”
Olivia flushed. “I don’t know. I overheard someone saying he’s been in the wilds of America for the past two years.”
Alexandra sensed her sister’s interest, and she took her hand and squeezed it sadly. Then she looked at Corey. “We can’t leave this early. That would be grossly insulting to our hosts. And it would be rude to the squire, as well.”
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br /> Corey was grim. “I know,” she said. “But one can hope, can’t one?”
“I think we should try to resurrect this evening—and enjoy the next few hours,” Alexandra said.
Her sisters did not buy her optimism for a moment. Olivia said, “Where is Father?”
Alexandra froze. She hadn’t seen him in an hour, and no good could come of that. If he was drinking, she would wring his neck when they got home, and this time she meant it. She could not bear any more disgrace. “Maybe we should look for him,” she said, setting down her cup of tea.
Olivia pinched her—hard.
As she did, Alexandra felt his stare. She inhaled hard, tensing. The sensation of being watched by the Duke of Clarewood was unlike any other. And slowly she turned.
It remained unbelievable that she had almost fainted and that he’d caught her before she collapsed. It remained as impossible that he’d been gallant—and that he had even flirted with her. Just as impossible was the fact that a moment later she had caught him staring closely at her, as he was doing now. Their gazes locked.
Her heart leaped, lurched and then raced wildly.
She could not quite breathe.
He was speaking with several gentlemen, but his gaze was most definitely on her, at once confident and intense. Alexandra knew she would never forget the feeling of being in his strong arms. As for his interest, she was fairly certain she knew what it signified.
He was unwed, and so was she—but she was not in his league. She was too old for him, too impoverished, the family name too disreputable. His interest could mean only one thing.
She was stunned, but also dismayed.
“That is Clarewood,” Corey breathed, clearly in awe and, just as clearly, having no comprehension of the situation.
“I am in his debt,” Alexandra said tersely. She glanced at Olivia, who stared back. Surely Olivia understood that he would never be interested in her in any honorable way. And she still couldn’t fathom his interest, not even in any dishonorable way. Why did he find her interesting? There were many beautiful women in the room. And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw their father heading toward them.
She froze. He was lurching. She had prayed things would not get worse, but clearly her prayers had gone unanswered.
Olivia saw him, too, and she gasped. Then, “Now we have to leave.”
There was nothing Alexandra wished to do more. However, running now, with their tails between their legs, would leave a terrible impression. “The two of you stay here. I am sending him home, and I’ll be back in a moment.”
Olivia’s regard was imploring. “Why?”
“I don’t think Denney has noticed how foxed Father is. And we are staying until the squire is ready to leave—we are his guests.”
Edgemont swayed toward her, grinning. “My beautiful daughter! Are you enjoying yourself?”
She took his arm, moving him into the corner. “You promised not to imbibe.”
“I haven’t. Alexandra, I swear. Not one drop.”
“You reek of whiskey, and you’re staggering,” she accused. She was livid, but even more, she was humiliated and dismayed.
“I did not take even one drop of whiskey,” he slurred. “’Twas gin.”
“And that makes it better?” She looped her arm firmly through his, but even so, he almost fell on her. She hit the wall, flushing, his weight too heavy for her to bear. “You have to leave, Father. You cannot remain in such a state.”
“Too shoon to go, my dear. There’sh cards in the game room.” He tried to push her away and almost fell again.
Alexandra knew that they were being remarked. She seized his arm and tried to get him to stand upright. As he stood up, swaying, she did not know if she would ever forgive him for this.
“You’re having a good time, aren’t you?” he asked, grinning.
“Yes, I am having a splendid time,” she snapped, wondering if she should try to drag him bodily from the room. She did not think she was strong enough to do so.
“Good.” He suddenly pulled free of her and crashed into the wall himself. “Whoops.”
Furious, her cheeks on fire, Alexandra seized his arm and threw it over her shoulders. “We are leaving,” she said, trying to speak as calmly as possible, no easy task when she was furious.
“Don’t want to go,” he said, balking. “Cardsh.”
She looked at him, and when he smiled back at her, she wanted to cry. So this was how he was once he left the house every night? It was simply heartbreaking. And the most heartbreaking part was that she was certain that, had her mother lived, his propensity for alcohol would have never become so out of control.
“May I?” the Duke of Clarewood asked.
She went still. Then, her father’s weight half on her, his arm over her shoulders, her hair now coming down in absolute disarray, she looked up.
His brilliantly blue gaze met hers. There was no scorn on his handsome face, no condescension. He seemed suitably grave, and in that moment he seemed like the Rock of Gibraltar.
Alexandra felt her heart explode. “I beg your pardon?”
“May I be of some assistance?” He sent her a dazzling smile.
It was the kind of smile no woman could resist. Alexandra felt like dumping her drunken father in his arms and bursting into tears. Instead, she jerked her father’s arm more tightly over her shoulders, held her head high and blinked back any rising moisture. Even as she did so, she knew she couldn’t possibly carry him out of the room, much less the house.
And Clarewood, the most devastating man she’d ever laid eyes on, was witnessing this humiliation.
“You can’t possibly carry his weight,” he said gently.
He was right. She wet her lips as it crossed her mind that this gesture—which was truly heroic—would only cause more attention and more gossip. “You are right.” She dared to meet his gaze again.
It was the most speculative and intelligent, the most penetrating regard she’d ever encountered. Then he stooped down and removed her father’s arm from her shoulders, firmly clasping him about the waist. Edgemont began to drunkenly protest.
“Father, you are going outside with the duke,” Alexandra said as calmly as possible. “I will follow—and you are going home.”
“Don’t want to go home…the duke?” Edgemont gaped at Clarewood now.
“Easy, my man,” Clarewood said, a quiet authority in his tone. “The night is over, and you are going home, as Miss Bolton has suggested.”
He knew her name.
Edgemont’s eyes widened comically. “Your Grace,” he whispered, clearly awed and submissive now.
Alexandra fought more tears as Clarewood practically carried her father away.
She realized her sisters had come to stand silently beside her, filled with the same despair and distress she herself was feeling. As Clarewood started across the room, she became aware of the silent, gawking crowd. Every pair of eyes in the hall was trained upon Clarewood and his drunken, clownish burden.
Suddenly a pair of gentlemen came rushing over to the duke. She recognized the young man with tawny hair—he was Randolph de Warenne, Sir Rex’s son, who was perhaps twenty or so. The other man was unmistakable, even if she hadn’t seen him in years—he was the dark and dashing shipping merchant Alexi de Warenne. Both men quickly divested Clarewood of his drunken burden.
“Find a coach to take him home, and a proper escort,” Clarewood calmly said, straightening his tailcoat.
“I’ll see him home,” Randolph said quickly, with a grim smile.
“Thank you.” Clarewood gave the younger man a smile in return. “You can use my coach if you wish. I appreciate it, Rolph.”
Alexandra thought that Randolph was eager to please the duke, not that it mattered to her, except as far as it meant that he would get her father safely home. But she also noticed how much the two men resembled one another—in spite of the fact that Randolph had tawny hair and Clarewood’s was pitch-black. The simila
rity of their features struck her, as did the darkness of their complexions, and just before Randolph turned away with her father, she glimpsed the brilliant blue eyes the de Warenne men were renowned for. Clarewood had striking blue eyes, as well. None of this mattered, of course. She wasn’t sure why she was noticing such things now.
Clarewood turned and approached her again.
Her heart slammed. Beside her, both her sisters stiffened, and Alexandra felt a flush begin. He had rescued her from a swoon. Had he heard the gossip? Did he think her reprehensible? A castoff? What did he think of her father’s behavior? Of the fact that she had to earn her living by sewing? Why did she care?
Suddenly he took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter without even breaking stride. A moment later he was handing it to her. “Champagne hardly cures all ills. But you appear as if you might need a drink.”
She gratefully accepted the glass. Clarewood glanced idly at her sisters as she did so. As if on command, they nodded at him, turned and hurried a few steps away. Alexandra couldn’t look away from him, but she knew her sisters were staring, too—along with everyone else in the room.
“I am sorry for your distress, Miss Bolton.”
What did that mean? Why would he care? “You have no reason to be sorry for anything. You saved me from a swoon. You escorted my inebriated father from the room and have made certain he will be taken safely home. Thank you.”
“The first instance was my pleasure. The second, my choice.” His mouth curved.
Still, she wondered why he had bothered. “It was certainly an unpleasant choice and one you did not have to make. Again, thank you, Your Grace. Your kindness is astounding.”
He studied her for a moment. “Kindness had nothing to do with it.” He bowed. “You seem to have a suitor waiting in the wings. A gentleman knows when it is time to take his leave.”
She tensed, glimpsing Squire Denney hovering behind them, his eyes wide, and she knew she hadn’t mistaken the mockery in Clarewood’s tone. Her dismay increased. So did a sense of embarrassment. Somehow, he’d ascertained that Denney was courting her.
