by Brenda Joyce
He was grim. “Well, as you seem to wish to be brutally frank, I will be frank, too. It is my duty to protect you from charlatans and fortune hunters.”
“Of course it is,” she ground out. “Tom taught you too well.”
He stiffened. They never argued, but they were arguing now. “You believe in duty as much as I do,” he finally said quietly.
She paced away from him, her silk skirts billowing. Then she turned, hands fisted on her slim hips. “Yes, I do. I spent my life fulfilling my duty to Clarewood—and to you. And you always came first—it is why I chose to stay with Tom and suffer his abuses. Everything I have done, I have done for you—so you would be Clarewood’s next and greatest duke.”
He was uncomfortable now. No one knew as well as he how she had suffered as Clarewood’s wife. As far as Stephen was concerned, Tom had been cruelest toward her. He had despised his wife, and in the end, he hadn’t even tried to hide it.
Julia, in turn, had never tried to defend herself from his attacks. She’d cloaked herself in dignity and endured the abuse. She had only become a lioness where her son was concerned. And then her fights with Tom had been vicious and vehement. He’d all too often fled those hateful scenes.
Even as a child, he’d despaired at seeing his mother forced to fight for him as she had. Once he was older, he had begged her to retreat, to ignore Tom when he decided to go on the attack against either of them. She had refused. His mother had been so courageous and determined when battling Tom. And she had also been the ultimate diplomat, because she had always known what was truly at stake: his future as the next duke.
“No one knows more than I do, the sacrifices that you made.”
“Good. Then it is time, is it not, for me to take care of myself?” She stared.
Wariness settled over him. “What does that mean? Because you are, and will always be, the dowager duchess, my mother and my responsibility.”
“It means that Tom died fifteen years ago, and while his death set me free, allowing me to live the life of my choosing, I was always afraid to allow any man too close. I never wanted to be shackled in marriage again, Stephen. And I know you are aware that is why I refused to ever remarry.”
He did not like her bringing up the subject of marriage now. “Go on,” he said tersely.
She suddenly paused, facing him, her cheeks flushed. “There is something about Tyne Jefferson…he is kind, but also manly, solid, like the earth! I know he should be with a much younger woman—we are the same age, I think—but I believe he finds me interesting and…somewhat attractive. Stephen, I like him. I like him very much, but you will try to ruin it, I have realized that now.”
Was his mother thinking of marriage to Jefferson? He was aghast. Or was this merely some kind of middle-aged love affair? “How long have you known him, and why am I only just learning about this affair now?” He controlled his anger. “Is it an affair?”
She stiffened. “I have only just met him—at a supper party—and then we bumped into one another on Pall Mall. And last night was our first chance to really converse. We had a lovely time, in spite of your overbearing behavior.”
“Considering the way he looked at you, it was my privilege to be overbearing,” he said.
“It is my privilege to have this second and maybe last chance!” Julia cried. “I was faithful to your father,” she said tersely. “And God knows that any other woman would have sought comfort and kindness elsewhere.”
Stephen was alarmed. “If you are lonely, I will find a husband for you.”
She started. “Do you know why Tom came to hate me, though he was madly in love with me when you were born? Enough so to accept you as his own child?” When he did not speak, she said, “He came to hate me for my not bearing him a natural son. It is so ironic! He was impotent, yet he directed his anger at me—and at you. Jefferson has made me feel like a young woman again.” She smiled, and he blanched, dismayed. “It was lonely, being the Duchess of Clarewood. And I didn’t realize that I was still lonely, not until I met Jefferson, not until he made me feel so alive again.”
He was uncomfortable with the extent of their intimacy. “Again, it seems to me that you deserve what you seem to wish for now—a husband. I am going to begin a search. But you can do far better than an uncouth American who ranches for his living.”
“When did you become such a snob?” she gasped, paling.
“Is there a difference between ranching and farming?” He knew his mother would never become involved with a farmer, not even a gentleman farmer.
“He is far more than a farmer—he has carved his ranch out of the wilderness with his bare hands,” she said. “And don’t you dare start looking for a husband for me. I am interested in Jefferson, not marriage—there is a vast difference.”
Was his mother telling him that she wished to pursue an affair? He would accept that—as it was the lesser of two evils. “I don’t trust him. And you seem to know as little about him as I do.”
“Which is why I am pursuing a friendship. I wish to learn more. And that is why you must mind your own affairs now, and leave Jefferson be,” Julia said flatly.
He simply could not do that, so he was silent. Then, “Do you want to stay and have an early supper? I will cancel my evening plans.”
She stood up. “I am going to go. I have plans for tea. I hope I was clear, Stephen. As much as I love you, if you ruin this for me, I may never forgive you.”
“I will see you out,” he said, taking her arm, knowing he would do what was best for the dowager duchess, even if it meant losing her trust and her love. As they left the salon, he added, “I am merely asking you to proceed with caution.”
She suddenly smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. “It is hard to be cautious, Stephen, when someone makes your heart race so madly you can hardly think straight. But you wouldn’t know the feeling, would you?”
Suddenly he thought of Miss Bolton. She certainly made his heart race, but he was having no problem being careful and pragmatic in his pursuit of her.
Guillermo already had his mother’s coat and gloves in hand when they entered the gracious, high-ceilinged front hall. His doorman rushed to open the front door while Guillermo helped her on with her coat.
“Just promise me,” she said, “that you will be polite the next time you meet. In fact, I am asking you to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I will do my best,” he said, aware that he was lying.
“By the way,” Julia added, “it was gallant of you to help that young lady with her inebriated father. Miss Bolton seems like a rather interesting woman.” She turned a questioning gaze on him.
He smiled indifferently. “I can be gallant, Mother. I am a gentleman, after all, never mind the gossips.”
“You could have sent Alexi and Randolph de Warenne to her aid without your having to bother at all.”
“They did come to her aid.”
Julia stared closely. “You went out of your way to attend her. She seems like a proud young woman, Stephen. She is very different from the kinds of young ladies you are normally introduced to.”
He simply smiled. And when the dowager duchess was ensconced in her carriage a moment later, he returned to the Spring Room. Charlotte was seated on a settee, at once tiny and lovely, reading a weekly magazine. He knew her pose was contrived, as it revealed every lush curve she had. She smiled at him and stood up as he came inside.
He did not smile back.
“You should close the doors,” she said softly, walking to him, her movements languid now.
She had proven to be a highly experienced lover. “We had an arrangement,” he said. “And I do not recall sending you a note asking for your presence today.” He had been very clear from the first—he did not like unexpected calls, and he preferred to manage their schedule of trysts.
She paused before him, reaching for the lapels of his waistcoat. “I never liked that stipulation, Stephen,” she murmured. “You can summon me, yet I can never
summon you. I have passions, too. It has been a week.”
“I will not argue with you,” He clasped her hands and removed them. “I am sorry, Charlotte. I have been very distracted with my projects, and I remain preoccupied.” He intended to be as polite as possible.
Her face hardened. “Preoccupied with your projects, Stephen, or with that gawky seamstress you rescued twice last night?”
He was in disbelief.
She flushed. “I beg your pardon, but of course I noticed your gallantry. You never go out of your way for a woman—unless you are interested in her.”
“I have no intention of discussing Miss Bolton with you. I am very sorry, Charlotte, but I am ending our affair.”
Her expression tightened. “So you can pursue her? Or is there someone else, as well?”
“I have very much appreciated your favors. But there is no point in continuing if my passion has waned.” He stepped aside, a gesture indicating that the interview was also over.
She did not move. “I do not mind your wandering. I have little doubt you will tire of her after a night or two.”
He had no intention of debating this particular subject. “I am afraid I have many affairs to attend to. May I see you out? I will send your things on.”
She trembled. “You may call at any time, Stephen. I know you will come to your senses.”
He sighed. “You may think as you wish, obviously.”
She widened her eyes innocently and said, “I’d like to get my things.”
He knew she was scheming—he saw it in her eyes—and that was worse than insisting they were not over, or even a display of hysterics. “Fine. I will ask Guillermo to help you.”
“I’d like a moment,” she said softly, her eyes now shimmering with unshed tears.
He wasn’t moved; he knew theatrics when he saw them. He nodded, leaving the salon, instantly relieved. His interest had been dying for some time, and he only realized that now. And perhaps that was why he was so keenly aware of Miss Bolton. He preferred that conclusion to the notion that she somehow stirred his desire as no previous woman had managed to do.
A few minutes later he had forgotten Charlotte Witte and was thinking about his drawings. He was about to enter the study when Randolph came running up the corridor, his boots muddy from the long ride to and from Edgemont Way.
Stephen halted, smiling. He glanced at his pocket watch. “You made good time. Did she like the roses?”
Randolph met his gaze and hesitated.
His smile vanished. “The roses were exquisite, I presume?” Heads would roll if they had been anything less.
“They were beyond exquisite, and yes, she did admire them…somewhat.” Randolph hesitated again, as if searching carefully for words.
Stephen could not imagine what was wrong. “She admired them—somewhat? What, exactly, did she say? Surely she was very flattered.”
“I am not sure she was flattered, Your Grace. But she did say thank-you,” he added with haste.
Stephen was taken aback. “She was not flattered by my interest?”
Randolph sighed. “The truth of the matter is, Your Grace, she intended to refuse them, and I had to argue with her and convince her to keep them.”
Stephen was disbelieving now, shocked. Alexandra Bolton had wanted to return the flowers? She thought to reject his advances? She thought to reject him? A dark mood overcame him. “Why would she wish to return the flowers?”
Randolph pursed his lips. “It seems as if she has a suitor who intends to ask for marriage.”
Stephen was surprised. Surely she was not interested in the elderly squire? He’d already learned that the man who’d danced attendance on her the night before was Morton Denney, the largest of Sir Rex’s leaseholders. He was twice her age, but that did not mean anything. And while he was a gentleman, he was also a farmer. On the other hand, he had some means. For someone as poorly off as Alexandra, his means might seem like a fortune.
But they were not. He, Stephen Mowbray, was the one with the fortune.
“She seemed to feel it inappropriate to accept the flowers, Your Grace. She even said she should be sending flowers to you, as a sign of her gratitude for your aid with Edgemont last night.”
His interest seemed to have spiraled dangerously high. No woman had ever rejected his advances, and in fact, she hadn’t done so, either. But she had thought about it. Apparently, however, in the back of her mind, she wasn’t really ready to dismiss him. Of course she was not. In the end, she would bend to his will.
And now amusement began to rise. He had a rival? Really? He loved a good battle. He was only sorry his rival wasn’t someone more interesting, a peer who was closer to him in means and title. Stephen slowly smiled. “I want to know the moment the squire asks for marriage,” he said softly.
Randolph started. “I’ll contact our London lawyers, find out which firm Denney uses, and make certain we stay apprised.”
“Good.” Stephen turned, gesturing for Randolph to follow him into the study, and that was when he saw Charlotte backing away from the salon doors. Obviously she had been spying. He hoped it had brought her to her senses. And then his ex-mistress was entirely forgotten once again.
“I have some things I wish to discuss with you. I have started looking over the recent Ridgeway statements, and I’d like you to examine them,” he said, pushing open the study door. As his mind turned back to the affairs of Clarewood and the Foundation, he had one last thought. Tomorrow night he would extend a supper invitation. And because he did not expect her to accept a conventional invitation, he would make it a persuasive one.
A very persuasive one—the kind no woman could refuse.
TWO DAYS LATER, Alexandra smiled at the squire as his open carriage approached Edgemont Way. It was a gray cloudy day, the still-wet roads littered with red and gold leaves, and she’d just taken a tour of his home. She was impressed. He had a beautiful country house with immaculate grounds; clearly, he was doing very well.
Her home was ahead, a two-story rectangular country house built of beige stone with gray shingled roofs. The single stable, also of stone, was to the left. A caretaker’s cottage stood alone off in the distance, but it had been vacant for years. A low wooden fence encircled the front of the property, and in springtime, blooming bougainvillea climbed the rails. In the spring, Elizabeth’s red roses were a wild array against the front of the house. Now, only ivy graced its stone facade.
The squire turned into their short drive, and instantly, the coach hit a deep rut. Alexandra did not exclaim as she was jarred hard in her seat. She merely sent the squire an apologetic look. “I am sorry,” she said.
“Do not apologize to me. It will be very easy to improve the drive,” he said, smiling at her. He then added, “May I say you look lovely today, Miss Bolton?”
“Thank you.” She did not flush, and her heart did not race. Instantly, her thoughts veered to Clarewood.
How could they not? His magnificent red roses were in her bedroom, and when she went upstairs, she remained in disbelief. Why choose her for his improper advances?
She was grim. She’d had two days to think about his advances. She still could not comprehend them. But that was the end of that. She’d told Randolph about the squire and his suit, so no doubt Clarewood would move on to other, greener pastures.
It should have been impossible, but she felt a twinge of dismay and another of regret.
She pinched herself—hard—through her navy blue skirts. A wonderful gentleman with means was courting her. He could have turned tail and fled after the fiasco at Harrington House, but he had not. He was staunch, he was generous, and he was kind. Most importantly, his intentions were honorable and he could change her sisters’ lives.
Denney halted his two-horse carriage in front of the house. Alexandra silenced her wandering thoughts. She would have to entertain him for a bit, but she was impatient for him to leave. Lady Lewis had brought her gown by as she’d promised, the day after the birthday
ball, and she was expecting to pick it up tomorrow. Several other ladies had also left their ball gowns with her yesterday. She had hours of labor ahead of her.
Denney got down from the coach, which he was driving, and helped her alight. Then, gravely, he said, “Would you be offended if I did not come inside? I’m afraid that I have some accounts to go over and a meeting with one of my most important tenants.”
She realized he leased out some of the land that he himself leased. She was suitably impressed by his business acumen—and relieved that he would not linger, so she could get to her repairs and cleaning. “I would not be offended at all, Mr. Denney. It has been such a lovely afternoon.”
He beamed and then, impulsively, took both of her hands in his. “I am trying to restrain myself, my dear, but would you be offended if I pressed my suit with your father sooner, rather than later?”
Her heart slammed. She told herself she was surprised, not alarmed. Then, somehow, she smiled. “I doubt you could ever offend me, sir.”
His wide smile increased. A moment later he was driving off, and Alexandra waved after him. He returned the gesture.
He intended to offer for her soon. She simply stood there, staring after his carriage, trying to control her dismay. She had expected a courtship of several months, if not longer.
But of course he was impatient. Her birthday was in the spring. She would be twenty-seven years old. And she wondered, her heart lurching, if he wanted more children. He had two grown sons and a daughter, all married, none of whom she’d ever met.
She decided that now was not the time to think about it.
Behind her, the front door opened, and Alexandra turned to see Olivia standing there, wide-eyed. Instantly she knew something was amiss. She hurried toward her. “What is it? Is something wrong?’
“Come inside.”
Alarmed, Alexandra increased her stride and followed her sister into the house. “Father is out,” Olivia said tersely, leading Alexandra into the parlor.
But Alexandra stumbled on the threshold, because six vases were on the table behind the sofa, each filed with a dozen perfect burgundy roses. Her heart slammed. Then it began racing madly.
