by Brenda Joyce
The duke gave her an odd, almost promising look, as if telling her that he would return, and then he was gone.
Alexandra just stood there, feeling as if she’d somehow withstood a hurricane—or some other impossible force of nature.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE STAG ROOM of the Hotel St. Lucien was as exclusive as a private club. While one did not have to be a member, the maitre d’ had no trouble encouraging the wrong sort to turn away from its massive carved doors. Merchants, bankers, factory owners and lawyers were simply not allowed without a proper introduction or the right escort. Simply put, it was a refuge for the country’s upper-class elite. Stephen rarely bothered with the Stag Room or any similar establishment, but once in a while such isolation was welcome.
Now he propelled Randolph forward, his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The maitre d’ bowed. “Your Grace. Mr. de Warenne.”
Stephen nodded as he and his half brother strolled into the dimly lit salon filled with fine furniture, gilded antiques and Aubusson rugs. At this late hour, nearing midnight, the gentlemen present were all his age, with only a few exceptions, and many were well into their cups. Murmurs of “Your Grace” followed him as he walked past the various groups. Alexi, Jack, Ned and his younger brother Charles, generally known as Chaz, were all slouched in their plush seats at the salon’s far end. The windows there overlooked the park. The moon was bright tonight.
“We were wondering if you got waylaid,” Jack O’Neill said, one leg crossed over the other, a cigar in hand.
“I had to pry my young friend away from a particularly voracious baroness,” Stephen said drily. “He was making advances toward Lady Dupre.”
Randolph flopped down onto the couch beside Alexi, who poured a fine cognac into a snifter for him and pushed it over. “She was the most beautiful woman at the birthday soirée, and may I say, in my own defense, she ogled me before I ever approached?”
“They are all beautiful, where you are concerned,” Chaz said.
“Discretion would have been a better course,” Stephen admonished, “as her current paramour was standing beside her and her husband within earshot.”
“Lady Dupre,” Alexi murmured. “Well done, Rolph.”
Randolph saluted him with his snifter.
Stephen took the chair beside the couch, glancing at Alexi as he did so. His friend was lounging against the cushions in a manner that suggested he was hardly drunk and was very intently preparing for their next go-round. He looked like a black jaguar in a cage, one waiting for the gatekeeper to dare to come inside. He smiled indolently at Stephen.
“As long as we are speaking about impending conquests, has Miss Bolton indicated that she will be grateful to you for rescuing her not once, but twice, tonight?” Alexi asked.
Stephen poured himself a cognac, recalling Alexandra Bolton’s humiliation at the hands of her father with a stirring of anger. “Edgemont is a disgrace.”
“Miss Bolton handled herself well,” Ned said firmly. “Grace under fire, all around.”
Stephen silently agreed.
“She is a striking woman,” Jack remarked. “She is almost as tall as I am.”
Stephen gave Jack a deceptively mild look.
“I would never poach,” Jack laughed. Then he sobered. “I did feel sorry for her. And for her sisters, too. Edgemont should be shot.”
“That’s a bit extreme,” Ned said, amused. “You’re back in civilization, Jack. Or have you forgotten?”
Jack flexed his hands. “I suppose I have become a bit extreme, actually.” He glanced around. “Let’s find a tavern and some good lusty tavern wenches. I am bored.”
Chaz and Randolph exchanged looks. “I know a place,” Chaz said, attempting to remain blasé.
His older brother looked at him. “You are the spare,” Ned reproved. “You do have a reputation to maintain.”
“Exactly. I’m the spare, not the heir,” Chaz said, unperturbed, and he finished his drink, whispering to Randolph as they made their plans for the rest of the evening.
Alexi turned to look at Stephen. “I ask again. How goes the latest seduction? Is Miss Bolton disposed to be properly grateful?”
He felt his blood warm. He thought about how proud she was as he said slowly, “She seemed cautiously grateful…as if you care.”
“But I do care.” Alexi smiled. “She is no Charlotte Witte. In fact, you may find yourself with some resistance this time. By the way, Elysse has decided she wishes to know Miss Bolton. Ariella has decided to introduce them.”
Stephen sighed. He expected his cousins to interfere in his personal life—they certainly harped on him for his bachelor status from time to time—but he couldn’t imagine why they would care about his interest in Alexandra Bolton. Now he wondered if Alexi could be right. Not only had she been proud, she hadn’t flirted with him, not one single time, when every other woman who crossed his path was coy and flirtatious. “Considering her dire straits, I am sure that, in the end, we will both come to very agreeable terms. And perhaps you might instruct your wife and sister not to meddle? As there is really nothing for them to meddle in.”
Alexi smiled at him. “But I happen to think that perhaps, this one time, they should meddle—Miss Bolton is so original.”
Stephen stared. “What are you up to?”
“She is not your type, not for an affair,” Alexi said quickly.
“How wrong you are.”
His look was almost smug, and that made Stephen uneasy.
“Isn’t she unwed?” Ned asked, his gaze unwavering. “And isn’t she a gentlewoman?”
Stephen felt a twinge of discomfort. “She is an older woman, Ned, a spinster, for God’s sake. And there was some scandal already, so she is hardly an innocent debutante whom I wish to ruthlessly take advantage of.”
“She is a woman of substance,” Ned said. “And pride. Anyone can see that. You should look elsewhere for your entertainment.”
Stephen stared coldly at him, but Ned wasn’t daunted. One day his cousin would be the Earl of Adare, a powerful title and position. He didn’t expect Ned to bow to him, but he did not appreciate being questioned, and he didn’t like his cousins interfering in this instance. No one had ever bothered to say a word to him about Charlotte, or the mistress before her, or the one before her.
But Alexi was right on one account: Alexandra wasn’t anything like Charlotte.
“I wonder how Anne Sinclair would handle the drama of such a night, if she were ever in Miss Bolton’s position,” Alexi said softly.
The other men chuckled. Stephen smiled wryly, sipping from his drink, wondering why Alexi had raised such a comparison. “I’m sure she would be equally graceful and dignified,” he said, though he hardly thought so. “Are you interested in Lady Anne, Alexi?”
“Me? Of course not. Let’s see…how old is she? Eighteen? And what are her accomplishments? Oh, wait, she has been spoiled and pampered her entire life. But she is an excellent dancer. Her manners are impeccable, as well. The two of you make a pleasing couple, by the way—she would make a stunning duchess. Doesn’t everyone agree?”
Everyone was silent now. Interest was acute.
And Stephen was now very annoyed. “I have considered Anne, and I have decided to reject her.”
“Of course you have. And I do support your decision,” Alexi said. “Tell me, have you heard that Miss Bolton sews to support her sisters and her father?”
Alexi was baiting him. He simply did not know why. “I admire her resourcefulness.”
Alexi gaped. “Really?”
Someone laughed.
“I think it is a tragedy that she must work to support her family,” Randolph said.
“It is a tragedy,” Stephen said, staring closely at Alexi. “Life is filled with tragedies.”
“And life is filled with beautiful, young, spoiled debutantes.” Alexi saluted him with his glass.
“What is your point?” Stephen asked crossly. But he recalled the parade o
f young ladies he’d been offered over the course of the past decade—every single one of them a mirror image of Anne. “Because I seem to recall another terribly spoiled and pampered young woman…before, of course, you jilted her at the altar and took off for parts unknown.” Stephen saluted Alexi with his glass, which he realized was almost empty.
Alexi’s smile remained, but it no longer reached his eyes. “I made a terrible mistake, leaving her after our vows. I cannot imagine Lady Anne becoming the spectacular woman that my wife has become—a woman of opinions, ideas, of will, of substance. Miss Bolton reminds me of Elysse—not in appearance, but in courage.” He drained his drink and said, “I believe you have just insulted my wife.”
He knew he should apologize, but Alexi’s latest reference to Alexandra Bolton was even more jarring than the previous ones—though Alexandra had been courageous tonight. No one could dispute that. “I personally have no use for a woman with opinions,” he muttered.
“My God, you’ve insulted me, then Elysse, and now you’ve just insulted every woman in the family,” Alexi said, standing abruptly.
“That is not what I meant,” Stephen said, standing, as well.
“I think you should marry Anne or someone just like her,” Alexi said. “You can be such a jackass. Marrying a woman who will bore you to tears just so you can please that bastard who raised you—so you can be just like that bastard—is exactly what you deserve. Apologize.”
Jack started laughing.
Stephen finally lost his temper. “I am a jackass? Because you meddle like a woman.”
Alexi’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. “Oh ho,” he said.
Stephen tensed for the blow.
But just as Alexi clenched his fist, Ned stood and interposed himself between the two men. “You can’t possibly strike His Grace.”
“His Grace, my arse. Why not? I’ve done so a hundred times.” Alexi glared.
“Stephen deserves it,” Jack said, grinning with relish. “He did insult Elysse—who happens to be my only sister. And if he called me a woman, I’d take a piece of his scalp.” He winked at the two younger men, clearly relishing the prospect of a fistfight.
“Go ahead, hit me,” Stephen said softly. “I won’t hit you back.”
But Alexi knew him too well. “You won’t hit me back because you know that in a roundhouse, I will win.”
Stephen rolled his eyes.
“I’ll place a wager,” Jack said. “Do you want in?” He looked at Chaz and Randolph.
“No one is coming to blows,” Ned said. “Not at this table.” Then, “Are you considering Anne Sinclair for a wife? Is that what this is about?”
“No, I am not,” Stephen said firmly. “And I truly don’t know what set Alexi off tonight. Obviously I will have to marry one day—and yes, I will choose a debutante. I am sorry I insulted Elysse. I am very fond of her. I consider her a sister, in some ways.”
Alexi smiled, instantly in a good humor. “I know you do. But you are still an ass. You’ve considered a hundred different debutantes. However, it isn’t your fault, it is Tom’s. You will imitate him after all, living with a wife you despise, in splendid isolation.”
Ned seized Alexi’s shoulder. “He apologized. Let’s end this subject.”
Stephen folded his arms, staring. He truly hoped that Alexi was wrong. But as a boy, he’d found Clarewood a cold and lonely place, something he recalled vividly now. “Splendid isolation? Now you are a poet,” he said, holding back his rising temper.
“The truth can hurt.” Alexi shrugged. “I have changed my mind. You should cease your pursuit of Alexandra, and you should most definitely marry Anne.”
“Your point is made. It took you long enough.”
“What point has he made?” Jack asked.
“That someone as young and inexperienced as Anne is the wrong choice, which is why he keeps comparing her to Miss Bolton. Next, he will espouse the delights of matrimony with a woman of independence, of ideas, a strong will and opinions.”
“Unlike the rest of this family,” Jack said, “I am against marriage in theory and in practice.” He smiled.
“Those will be infamous last words,” Alexi promised.
“Alexi is too besotted to know that smugness is not becoming,” Stephen added.
“More infamous last words.” Alexi patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, there is hope. You are a de Warenne, after all, and one day we will laugh about how stubborn and stupid you were.”
“I am so pleased you care so much, but can we sit down and enjoy our drinks now? Or will you continue to egg me on?”
Alexi shook his head. “I’ve done enough for tonight—I am going home. To my independent, outspoken, opinionated wife.” He grinned. “Enjoy your drinks.”
When he left, they looked at each other, all of them bachelors, for even Ned was inclined to carouse. “He has lost his manhood,” Jack said.
Stephen tended to agree—almost. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“I think we should toast our freedom—and count our blessings,” Jack said. “I, for one, will never become like that.”
Stephen accepted a glass, thinking about Alexandra. “At least he is genuinely happy,” he said.
ALEXANDRA WENT ABOUT her morning routine in a daze. She could not stop thinking about the previous night. And while it was impossible to forget the vile gossip that had targeted her, it was the Duke of Clarewood who loomed largest in her mind.
Having washed and dressed, she was on her way downstairs for a terribly late breakfast—at eleven, it was already nearly lunchtime—when she paused, her hand on the worn wood banister. Her body tensed, and her heart seemed to clench before hammering hard. His devastating features were crystal clear in her mind. Their paths having crossed as they had, he was a man no woman could possibly forget.
She still couldn’t fathom why he’d rescued her and her father. But most of all, she couldn’t understand why she had been, and remained, so terribly attracted to him.
She could justify the passion she’d felt for Owen—she had loved him, and she had meant to marry him. But Clarewood was an absolute stranger.
And last night he’d indicated that he had an interest in her, as well—one that could only be scandalous. As if she needed more scandal! But it didn’t matter, not at all. Today he would surely come to his senses. He would forget about her. And that was as it should be; she wasn’t the kind of woman he seemed to think she was. Whatever he had intended, she was simply not interested.
Her heart continued to race, but she had awakened saddened, and she remained so. She’d made a mistake by accepting the squire’s invitation, that was obvious, and her sisters had suffered because of it, as well. But going out last night, and winding up briefly in Clarewood’s arms, had opened up all of her old wounds. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She kept thinking about how she’d felt being in his embrace. Her body had become somewhat feverish just recalling it. And she was constantly thinking about Owen now, too, and what they’d almost had. The pain of the past had somehow returned, and it hurt worse than ever.
She almost wished she had chosen differently. And that was just as terrible. She’d never before doubted the choice she’d made. Her decision to take care of her sisters and father had been the morally correct one. She had sworn to Elizabeth as she lay dying that she would take care of the family. That vow meant more to her than her own happiness.
“Why are you standing on the stairs like a statue?” Olivia’s soft voice cut into her thoughts.
Alexandra jerked back to reality, and she smiled, then moved swiftly down the stairs to join her sister. “I overslept,” she said. She’d finally drifted off to sleep at dawn. No wonder she had slept long past her usual rising time.
“You never sleep in,” Olivia said, her green eyes filled with concern.
There was no point in increasing her sister’s anxiety by confessing how distracted and distressed she’d been all night, so she merely ignored the comment.
“I am hungry,” she lied. “Will you join me and at least have a cup of tea?”
Before Olivia could respond, the library doors opened and Edgemont lumbered through them, still in his tailcoat, which was thoroughly wrinkled now. Unshaven, he looked entirely disreputable. “Good morning,” he boomed, then blinked at them.
Alexandra was so filled with outrage that she did not answer—she didn’t trust herself to speak. Not yet, anyway. She marched past him to the kitchen, Olivia on her heels.
But Edgemont followed. “How rude!” he exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you today?”
Alexandra went to the stove and used a match to light a burner, her hands shaking. She pumped water into the teakettle and set it on the burner.
“Are you angry?” He winced and rubbed his temples. “Was it a good evening? I can’t seem to recall most of it.”
Alexandra whirled. “No, it was not a good evening, as you were falling down drunk!”
He drew himself upright. “I won’t have you speaking to me in such a manner.”
She inhaled. She never lost her temper, never shouted, but she’d just shouted at him. She had just insulted her own father. She fought for calm. “Why not? You humiliated yourself in front of everyone at Harrington House.” She spoke quietly now. “Do you even know how you got home last night?”
He was puzzled. “No, I do not.”
“The Duke of Clarewood carried you across the ballroom, Father. Yes, you were that foxed. And then Randolph and Alexi de Warenne took you outside. I believe young Randolph de Warenne escorted you home.”
Edgemont paled. Then he straightened. “A man has his rights, and I have every right to my gin. You’re exaggerating—I recall it all now.” He paused, breathing hard, and looked at Olivia. “Prepare my breakfast,” he said.
Olivia walked past him to do just that, her mouth pursed.
The kettle began to sing. Alexandra turned slowly, though she felt like whirling in anger, and took the kettle from the fire and calmly set it on the counter, when she felt like smashing it down. She had Clarewood on her mind again. Bloody hell, she thought.
