by Brenda Joyce
She also never cursed, not even in her thoughts.
“How is the squire today?” Edgemont asked carefully, apparently having come to his full senses.
“I wouldn’t know.” She poured two cups of tea for herself and Olivia. “Would you like a cup, Father?”
“Yes.”
She poured his tea and faced him. “He will surely call things off now, and it will be your fault. Your drinking has to stop. It is disgraceful, and we can’t afford it.”
Edgemont stared at her, and she stared back as she handed him the cup and saucer. Without a word, he went from the kitchen to the dining table and sat down.
Alexandra looked at Olivia. They both knew that he would not change.
“WE HAVE CALLERS,” Corey said. “Or rather, we have a caller.”
Alexandra had just finished her toast and jam. Corey was standing at the kitchen window, and Alexandra got up to see who could possibly be calling before noon. As the dark carriage got closer, she realized it belonged to the squire.
She tensed. He’d brought them home last night, but it had been late, everyone had been tired, and the conversation had been perfunctory. Corey had even fallen asleep on the way, and the squire had encouraged Alexandra to do so, as well. She hadn’t, but she’d pretended to doze, to avoid speaking to him. Now she wondered if he was sending a note breaking things off. Or would he come in person to do so? A note would be kinder. On the other hand, he need only speak to Edgemont. And she was dismayed, because he was her sisters’ last hope.
She refused to go down that path. She was her sisters’ last hope. She would not give up on securing them a decent future.
Corey turned from the window. “He is here. Do you want us to chaperone you?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Alexandra removed her apron and tucked a stray hair behind her ears, the behavior instinctive.
“He is going to break things off, isn’t he?” Corey asked. She was somber.
“Undoubtedly. You should be pleased, being as you are dead set against him.”
“You were accused of horrible things last night, Alexandra! I would never want the suit broken off this way.”
Alexandra patted her shoulder. “Forget about last night, Corey.” She gave Olivia a glance and went to the front door. Rejection was always unpleasant, and her heart lurched with dread as she turned the knob.
The squire had come in person, looking flushed from the drive over, and he was not smiling—he seemed grave. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton.”
Tamping down her dread, she returned the greeting and let him in, walking with him to the parlor.
“Is it too early to call? I could not sleep last night, Miss Bolton, for all my thoughts of you.”
Alexandra smiled grimly. “I must apologize for my father’s behavior last night, and thank you yet again for inviting us out.”
“You do not have to apologize,” he said.
Alexandra inhaled sharply. “Of course I do.”
“No.” He shook his head. Then, “I am so distressed. I am so sorry you had to suffer through the evening. That was not my intention!”
“I am fine,” she said lightly. “And it is forgotten.” She managed a smile. She had to let him off the hook. “I know why you have called, Mr. Denney. And I understand.”
“Good. Then you must know that I am furious with the mean-spiritedness of the gossips last night!” he exclaimed.
She went still. “You heard?”
He nodded gravely.
“But you never let on.”
“I did not want to add to your distress.”
Realizing that he’d heard all the ugly gossip, including the lies about her and Owen, she flushed. “You are let off, Mr. Denney.” She finally said. “No gentleman wants a socially unacceptable wife.”
He recoiled, eyes wide. “What? Is that what you think? I do not believe the ugliness I overheard, not for a minute! And you are the most socially acceptable woman I know. You shine, Miss Bolton, and those harpies cast shadows. I cannot understand why they would want to cast such aspersions on your character.”
She was taken aback, disbelieving. Morton Denney hadn’t believed the gossips. He hadn’t judged her as everyone else had. He had faith in her character.
That was when she saw her sisters standing in the hallway, the parlor door ajar, faces pressed to the crack. “I am surprised, sir, that you would believe in me.”
“You sewed my wife’s clothing for five years, Miss Bolton. I believe I know your true nature.”
She chewed on her lip, then breathed out. “So this is a social call?”
“What else would it be?”
She could not contain herself. “You did not come to end things?”
“No, I did not. I came to make certain that you had survived the evening.”
Alexandra could not believe his magnanimity. She turned, found a chair and sat down. He walked over to her. She looked up and said, “I am not socially acceptable. You can and should do better.”
He hesitated. “How could I do better, Miss Bolton? How?”
She fought for composure, filled with both dismay and relief. He would not walk out of their lives after all, and even as she thought that, she was dismayed—he was so clearly in love with her. God, if only she could come to love him in return. And she had to stop thinking about Clarewood! Taking a few deep breaths, she stood. “I was not jilted by Owen St. James, Mr. Denney. When I told you about my vows to my dying mother, and my decision to send Owen away, it was the truth.”
He nodded, and as he did, Edgemont came bursting into the room. He looked back and forth between them with alarm. “Father,” Alexandra said, hoping to ward off disaster. “The squire has called.”
Edgemont rushed forward. Denney seemed uncomfortable now. “Did you have a pleasant evening last night?” her father asked transparently. “Alexandra was lovely, was she not? Just like her blessed mother, a true lady.”
“Miss Bolton is always lovely,” Denney said.
“Will you have some tea with me? As it is too early for brandy.” Her father laughed, slapping the squire’s arm.
Denney glanced at Alexandra.
Even though he didn’t seem interested in socializing with her father, the two men would have to get on if this marriage was to go forward, so she smiled a bit at him, and he nodded, then turned and walked off into the library with Edgemont. The moment he did, her sisters rushed into the parlor. They were both pale and wide-eyed.
“He isn’t breaking things off,” Alexandra said.
“We heard,” Olivia whispered.
Corey glanced past her, out the window, at the front drive. “There’s a rider approaching.”
Alexandra turned to see a rider cantering a lathered mount up their rutted dirt drive. The animal was one of the finest specimens of horseflesh she’d ever seen, and she couldn’t imagine who the rider might be. Then she faced her sisters. “The squire is a generous, kind and forgiving man.”
Olivia suggested, “Maybe we should forgive him the crime of being twenty-four years your elder.”
“That was your charge, not mine,” Alexandra said softly.
Their caller was knocking on the front door. Alexandra decided that the rider had to be lost. Still stunned that the squire had not wrongly judged her, she started from the room, her sisters following, and opened the door.
Randolph de Warenne stood there, his boots muddy, his cheeks reddened from the wind. He was holding a very large paper-wrapped bouquet in his hand.
Was he calling on one of her sisters? Alexandra wondered in confusion.
“Miss Bolton.” He smiled and bowed. “These are for you.”
The delight that had begun vanished. Her confusion absolute, she glanced over her shoulder at the closed library doors. Denney would not have Randolph de Warenne deliver flowers to her.
Her heart slammed.
Behind her, one of her sisters inhaled.
He grinned. “There is a card.”
“I have forgotten my manners,” Alexandra said, beginning to tremble. No, it was impossible. Surely Clarewood hadn’t sent her flowers. Absolutely not. She took the wrapped bouquet, gesturing Randolph inside. “Was it a long ride?”
“Very—but my mount is fast and fit, and we galloped most of the way.” He smiled at Corey and Olivia. “I made the journey in barely an hour and a half.”
She was shaking, she realized, and shocked. She did not know what this gesture could mean. Or did she? Alexandra walked into the parlor, saying, “They expect the new rail between Kensett and Clarewood to be completed in forty-seven.”
“I’ll ride anyway,” Randolph laughed. He glanced at Corey.
“Open the flowers,” Olivia whispered.
Alexandra clutched the bouquet and said, “Poor Randolph looks frozen. Can we get him some hot tea and scones? Oh, dear.” She turned back to him. “I never thanked you for your kindness last night.”
Neither sister moved.
“I am fine, really.” Randolph grinned. “And it was my pleasure to see your father home. Open the flowers,” he said. “I am not allowed to leave until you do.”
He was not allowed to leave until she opened the bouquet? Clarewood’s image consumed her now. He had so obviously sent her flowers; he hadn’t forgotten her or even come to his senses.
Still stunned, and very reluctant now, Alexandra tore the wrapper off. Two dozen huge burgundy-red roses, each one fully opened and perfect—and clearly handpicked—were revealed. A small cream-colored envelope was pinned in their midst.
She could not move.
What did he want?
Why was he doing this?
The squire meant to marry her.
Corey gasped. “Those are the most perfect roses I have ever seen.”
“I have never seen roses that color before,” Olivia said as breathlessly.
“They cost a small fortune,” Randolph boasted.
Alexandra stared at the stunning flowers. The gesture was excessively bold, excessively dramatic. And it was even seductive, though she wasn’t sure it was romantic.
“Read the card,” Corey said.
Her hand continuing to tremble, she handed Olivia the flowers, then took the envelope, opened it with her nail and pulled out the small card within. There was nothing written on it except for a large, bold C.
“What does it say?” Corey demanded.
Alexandra showed her the card, looking up at Randolph. He was expectant, grinning at her now. She turned to Olivia, somehow finding her voice. “Can you find a vase, please?” But even as she spoke, she realized she should return the flowers—that she should not accept them.
“Wait!”
Olivia froze. “What is it?”
Her heart thundering now, Alexandra looked at Randolph determinedly. “I cannot accept the flowers.”
His eyes widened.
Corey cried out, “Why not?”
“Alexandra, we should discuss this,” Olivia said tersely.
Alexandra trembled, but she took the roses from Olivia and handed them to Randolph, whose eyes widened still further. But he did not take them. “Please,” she said. She tried to smile and failed. “If anything, I am the one who owes His Grace flowers or some other token of my gratitude for his rescue last night.”
Randolph said, “He wishes for you to have them, Miss Bolton. In fact, he specified the exact roses he wished for me to find—the most perfect, the most costly. He even said one dozen would not do. You cannot return them—he would be offended.”
“I cannot accept them.” She heard the uncertain tremor in her tone. She did not want to offend Clarewood; no woman in her right mind would.
“Why on earth not?” Randolph asked sharply.
She wet her lips and glanced at the library doors. “I have a suitor, sir, who has made it very clear that he will soon offer marriage.” She inhaled. “That is, I am being courted.” She pressed the flowers into his arms. “Once he realizes I am practically engaged, His Grace will hardly be offended.”
From behind, Olivia seized her. “I want a private word with you,” she snapped.
As Alexandra turned to face her, she kept seeing Clarewood, and her heart was shrieking at her now. Oddly, a part of her wanted to accept those flowers, as inappropriate as that would be, and cherish them for a while.
Clarewood had sent her flowers.
“I am in no rush,” Randolph said firmly, clearly determined not to leave with the roses, in spite of what she’d said.
“I’ll make you tea,” Corey said, rushing off into the kitchen.
“I’m going to step outside to cool my horse. May I water him?”
“Of course,” Alexandra said. “The pump is by the stables.” She waited until he was gone and she could see him leading the magnificent hunter past the house. Then, finally, she inhaled.
“Those flowers are too beautiful to return,” Olivia said.
“How can I accept them?” Alexandra pleaded.
“What if his intentions are honorable?”
Alexandra simply looked at her. “It’s impossible.”
“Is it? What if there is the slightest chance that he is interested in you as a wife? If you return those flowers, you are closing the door in his face.”
She stared. He wasn’t interested in her that way, she was certain. She thought of Owen then and hugged herself, missing him and their dreams terribly.
“Just keep the flowers,” Olivia said. “It can’t hurt to keep them, but it can hurt to send them back.”
Alexandra’s resistance was rapidly crumbling. She had never seen such beautiful roses.
“Besides,” Olivia smiled, “I want to paint them in oils.”
Alexandra smiled and gave in.
CHAPTER FIVE
AT HALF PAST ONE Stephen left his architects poring over the changes he’d scribbled on their carefully executed drawings, his mind filled with his visions of the housing the textile workers would soon enjoy. He was running late; he had been immersed in the Manchester project, and he was expecting the dowager duchess at any moment.
Clarewood had been renovated by his father, and it was now comprised of exactly a hundred rooms, with a mostly gothic facade, one of tall towers and pinnacles. Guillermo would most likely show her to the Gold Room when she arrived, if she wasn’t there already. It was the most spectacular salon in the house, where his most significant guests were entertained. He shifted mental gears, now thinking about the American. Investigating him would be a time-consuming matter, because the man lived abroad. By the time he learned anything of interest, his mother’s relationship with the man might have gone too far.
He was grim. Julia was fifty years old, but she remained a beautiful woman, at once trim and slender, graceful and elegant. She was a horsewoman who rode every day, and he felt certain that her activities kept her so youthful. He kept recalling the look he had witnessed. He had not a doubt that Jefferson was attracted to her.
Unfortunately, the man was no doubt just as attracted to her fortune, if not more so.
As he reached the front hall, which was the nucleus of the house, he glanced outside. He could see the huge fountain, and the pale shell drive circling it. Beyond, he saw a portion of the mile-long drive, lined by stately elm trees. He did not see a rider approaching, but Randolph was due to return at any time. He smiled to himself.
He hadn’t slept well last night. He often tossed and turned, mulling over plans, unresolved issues and new ideas. But last night his interest in Alexandra Bolton had kept cropping up. If she’d thought to whet his appetite by rejecting his initial advances, she had certainly succeeded.
Guillermo suddenly intercepted him. He was holding out a calling card. “Your Grace, Lady Witte has just arrived.”
Stephen was instantly grim; he could not delay the inevitable. It was time to inform her that their liaison was over. “Where is she?”
“She is in the Spring Salon with the dowager duchess.”
He
nodded, striding swiftly to the salon. His mother was standing in front of the doors that opened onto the terraces outside, chatting pleasantly with Lady Witte. Both women heard his approach, and, in unison, they turned.
His mother’s smile vanished, and he instantly saw that she was distressed. He suddenly recalled how radiant she had been last night, when on Jefferson’s arm. They had made a striking couple. Even he had to admit it.
Then he glanced at his mistress, who was smiling brightly at him. Charlotte was clever and shrewd, and undoubtedly she had come hoping to shore up their relationship. “Good afternoon, Lady Witte, Mother,” he said. He smiled at Lady Witte, but lightly kissed his mother’s cheek.
“I hope I have not called at an inopportune time,” Charlotte said softly.
“I wish a private word with Stephen,” Julia said firmly, her blue eyes dark.
“I am hardly in a rush.” Charlotte smiled. A seductive light was in her eyes.
“Will you give us a moment?” Stephen asked politely, knowing her answer. When she nodded, he led his mother into the adjacent room, dominated by a grand piano and a harp. Two rows of gold velvet chairs faced the musical instruments. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said.
“Even I, your mother, recognize a summons when I receive one.”
He winced and spoke carefully now. “I hardly summoned you, Mother. But it has been a while since we last spoke, and there are some subjects I wish to discuss with you. However, I can see that you are somewhat distressed.”
She smiled tightly. “You did your duty last night, as always, Stephen, by interviewing Jefferson as you did. We both know you instantly decided not to like him. So yes, I am distressed.”
He was oddly tense now. “I know nothing about the man—he is a stranger and a foreigner, and to make matters worse, you seemed terribly happy with him.”
“That makes matters worse?” she said. “I cannot decide, even now, if Tom taught you to be so cold and dispassionate or if it is your nature. Yes, I am quite distressed today—I am distressed with you.”
