by Brenda Joyce
His impassive expression did not change. “Whom might I declare, madam?”
“Miss Alexandra Bolton of Edgemont Way.”
The butler left. Alexandra realized she was wringing her hands nervously, the duke’s image now assailing her mind. She did not know him at all, except by reputation, but she was certain he would not be pleased with her response to his invitation. He did not seem like a man who was used to being countermanded.
She wet her lips nervously and wished the encounter over.
The butler returned. “His Grace will see you now.”
Alexandra followed the man across the entry hall, glimpsing a magnificent white-and-gold salon with at least a dozen seating areas. She’d never seen such lavish furnishings, she thought. Her heart rate increased. They passed a large library, dark and masculine, a fire dancing in the emerald marble hearth. She somehow knew it was his favorite room, and she could see him on the sofa there, immersed in the day’s journals. Her temples ached. She could not recall ever being this nervous. She wished she hadn’t caught his attention at the ball.
And then she could see past the open doors of a small, intimate but airy salon, the walls eggshell-blue, trimmed in gold. Clarewood was standing by the handsomely sculpted white plaster fireplace, a lush nude painting over the mantel, as devastatingly handsome as she recalled. Her heart lurched so hard as she looked at him that she forgot to breathe.
He turned his head immediately, and his blue gaze slammed into hers, intense and direct.
For one endless moment his eyes remained locked with hers, his regard penetrating. Alexandra felt her cheeks warm impossibly; she was no longer cold. She had forgotten how intense his regard was, how unnerving. She’d forgotten how his presence could dominate a room.
She’d forgotten how he could ignite the heat in her body, too.
And then he looked her quickly up and down. It broke the impossible moment, and she became aware that he was not alone. Two elegantly turned out ladies were with him, and Alexandra recognized them instantly. All three pairs of eyes were riveted upon her. She should have waited for another day to confront him. Aware of how disreputable and untidy her appearance was, she felt her cheeks heat and her stomach churn. She held her head a notch higher, determined to hide her embarrassment.
“Miss Alexandra Bolton,” the butler intoned.
Clarewood said calmly, “Please bring refreshments for Miss Bolton. And hot tea, Guillermo, immediately.” He strode toward her.
Alexandra curtsied, aware that she was breathing harshly. “Good day, Your Grace,” she managed.
“This is an exceedingly pleasant surprise, Miss Bolton.” His gaze had become searching. “Good afternoon. I am sorry you have had to endure such unpleasant weather.”
She gave up and trembled, having just noticed that her skirts were making a puddle upon his beautiful parquet floors. “It is a nasty day, and I must apologize for my rather unkempt appearance. My vehicle is not a closed one.”
“Do not apologize. I cannot imagine what possessed you to come across Surrey in such weather.” His stare intensified.
She knew she must respond, because his statement was in fact a question; instead, she fought to hide her nervousness as they stared at one another. Did he think her so eager for an illicit rendezvous that she had come earlier than invited? She prayed that was not the case. “I believe there is a matter we must discuss,” she finally said.
His lashes lowered. They were thick and lush, and as black as coal. “Perhaps you should come to stand before the fire.” It was not a question, and he touched her elbow, clasping it firmly and moving her that way.
His touch, though light, jolted her. It was hot and searing, as if his hand was directly upon her skin, not merely her wool sleeve. His hand was large and firm. It was even possessive. She instantly recalled his hands upon her at the ball, but then he’d clasped her waist, and later her shoulders. Now the chill in her bones vanished, replaced by a sudden warmth. She glanced at him, and their gazes collided. He stared. Helplessly, she stared back.
The tension that had begun the moment she’d seen him deepened, thickened, crackled between them. And it added to her dismay. The shocking attraction she felt for him had not changed, either, she thought dismally. And he knew. His mouth curved ever so slightly.
Alexandra looked away. As he guided her toward the hearth, her heart raced madly, but it was hard to think with his clasp growing firmer upon her elbow. She desperately looked forward to the conclusion of their encounter, and yet, oddly, there was something almost reassuring about his grasp.
She glanced at his striking profile. His strength was what was reassuring, she thought. She was so unused to strong men. He would never recklessly gamble or overimbibe, or lay waste to his fortune. He would never behave foolishly. In fact, he would undoubtedly never so much as tolerate foolish behavior.
He said, “May I introduce Mrs. Alexi de Warenne and Lady St. Xavier?”
Alexandra somehow smiled at the two women, awaiting rude stares and falsely polite greetings. But as she paused before the warm fire, they instantly smiled at her, as if they were not taken aback by her disheveled appearance or her forward social call. She knew they must be thinking hatefully about her, however. The other night, she had learned how mean-spirited society was.
“I am somewhat acquainted with Lady St. Xavier,” she said as calmly as possible. She hadn’t seen Ariella St. Xavier, whom she’d known as Ariella de Warenne, in years. “But I do not believe I have had the opportunity to be formally introduced to Mrs. de Warenne.” Suddenly she recalled that Elysse’s husband had been the one to escort Edgemont from the ball, with the help of young Randolph.
“We have never met, but I am glad we are doing so now,” Elysse de Warenne said warmly. “His Grace rescued you from a swoon the other night. Are you feeling better? Maybe you should not have come out on such a deadly day.”
Alexandra stared at the beautiful blonde, trying to decide if there was an innuendo in her words, one hinting at the ugly gossip that had raged about the ball that night. But Elysse de Warenne was smiling so pleasantly that Alexandra decided there was no rancor or malice in her words. Was it possible that these women would treat her fairly after the other night? She was so uncertain. She glanced at Clarewood.
His unwavering regard was filled with male speculation, and her tension increased. She thought again of how it had felt to be in his arms. Flushing, she addressed the women carefully. “I am afraid I have an urgent matter to discuss with His Grace.” And then she wished she hadn’t said anything at all. What could possibly be of an urgent nature between them? What would the two ladies think?
“Really?” Elysse smiled at Clarewood now. “Isn’t Edgemont Way quite some distance from here?”
“Elysse,” Clarewood reproved. “Not everyone is as candid as you.”
This time there had been an innuendo—that she had gone out of her way to call on the duke, perhaps for personal reasons relating to their interaction the other night. If only Elysse knew. “Edgemont Way is quite a distance, yes,” Alexandra said, then stopped, because there was no possible way to explain to them why she had called on Clarewood. She turned to him to change the subject. “Is there any chance my poor mare could be cared for in the stables? I’m afraid she is a bit advanced in years, and Bonnie is as wet as I am.”
“Of course.” He wheeled and went to the door, leaving the women to their own devices.
Alexandra glanced around the room, inspecting it, hoping to avoid the topic of why she had come to Clarewood. “What a delightful salon,” she said.
The bait was not, precisely, taken. “I am glad you have called, it gives us a chance to get reacquainted,” Ariella said quite pleasantly. “How have you been, Miss Bolton?”
She must have heard the gossip, and she’d certainly seen Edgemont in his cups. Like Elysse, she did not seem hateful, but pleasant and polite. She even seemed sincere, though no one was sincere in society. Alexandra smiled carefully back
. “I am very well, thank you. I understand you live some distance from town now?” She wanted to steer the conversation back to polite banalities.
“Yes, Woodland is in Derbyshire, and I do love it there. We will eventually build a home in London, but right now we enjoy staying at my father’s London residence when we visit.”
Alexandra suddenly made the connection between the two women—they were sisters-in-law. “I have not been to Derbyshire in years, but it is a beautiful part of the country,” she said, keeping one eye on the door, wondering how she would manage a private word with Clarewood when he had guests.
“If you are ever in the country, you must stop by.” Ariella smiled.
Alexandra felt her eyes widen. Did Ariella mean it?
“While Woodland is a country home, we have a Racket Hall, and there are some quaint shops in the local village. Have you ever played Rackets, Miss Bolton?”
She breathed, shocked by what sounded almost like an invitation. “No, I have not, but it looks amusing.”
“It is very amusing, and more difficult than one would think. You must come and play sometime.”
Alexandra remained stunned that Ariella had just invited her to her country home. “I have no plans to get out that way, but if I ever do, I will try to call.” Flustered, she turned to gaze out the window at the rain.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” Elysse suddenly said. “You fainted the other night, or nearly so, and you could become terribly ill.”
Alexandra had to face her. “I am afraid I do not have a change of clothing, and I will be returning home as soon as my business with the duke is concluded.”
Elysse and Ariella glanced briefly at one another, the exchange a silent one. Alexandra had the feeling that they did not quite believe her—and she did not blame them.
Just then Clarewood returned to the room. He sent her an indolent look so seductive that her heart lurched wildly. That look was filled with confidence, as if he expected her to accept his outrageous supper invitation. Was he mad?
“She may stand in front of the fire until her clothes are dry,” he said, and again, it was not a question but a command. “Your mare will be well cared for, Miss Bolton.”
Alexandra was grateful. “Thank you.”
Ariella came forward. “I have to go, Stephen,” she said, surprising Alexandra by her use of his given name. “We have a supper affair, and with this weather, it will take longer to get back to town than usual.”
“I am pleased you called, Ariella,” Clarewood returned, an odd note of warning in his tone. “And I am grateful for your aid in the matter we have just discussed.”
Ariella grinned and kissed his cheek, surprising Alexandra even more. “I cannot wait to get started on our little endeavor,” she said.
Elysse also kissed him. “You look worried. Have no fear, Your Grace.” Her tone was teasing. “We shall humbly obey your every command.”
“I am quaking,” he said drily. “You gave me your word,” he added.
“Of course we did,” Elysse murmured. She turned to Alexandra. “It was a pleasure, Miss Bolton. I expect to see you again soon.”
Alexandra tried to hide her surprise, because it had sounded as if the other woman meant the words.
Ariella then added, “Stephen’s bark is worse than his bite. Whatever you intend, remain staunch, my dear.”
Alexandra’s eyes widened.
Ariella went on, “We have been friends since childhood.” Then she wiggled her fingers at Alexandra and started for the door.
Clarewood turned to her, his gaze suddenly searing. “I will be right back,” he said, then turned to walk them out.
The moment she was alone, Alexandra looked for a place to sit down, but she did not want to ruin the furniture. She finally took a window seat and exhaled hard, then began to shake.
The two women had been pleasant and even kind. They had been unusually candid, too. She did not know what to make of them or of that. As for Clarewood, they seemed very fond of him. They certainly weren’t intimidated by him. That was good news, she supposed, because he certainly seemed too powerful and too sure of himself. Maybe he was, as Ariella St. Xavier had suggested, more bark than bite.
She doubted it.
But she wasn’t intimidated by him—was she?
She trembled all over again. Images flashed, of his holding her as she’d started to faint, of his direct blue stare, and then of the squire’s bluff countenance and kind smile. An image of Owen followed, and he was laughing, so dashing and in love with her. She rubbed her temples, which ached with more insistence now. His presence, his power and his masculinity were so overwhelming. This was going to be the most difficult interview of her life.
“Miss Bolton?”
She hadn’t heard him return to the room. Alexandra leaped to her feet, and their gazes collided. He was smiling ever so slightly, ever so smugly. “It isn’t seven,” he murmured. “And I was planning to send my coach for you.”
She inhaled, the sound ragged. “No, it isn’t seven…I believe it’s half past three or thereabouts.”
His dark brows lifted.
“Should I be flattered?” he asked softly. “Or dismayed?”
“I shall be dining at Edgemont Way tonight.”
“I see.” His stare never wavered, but the slight curve of his mouth was gone. “Why?”
Why, she wondered, did she feel this slight twinge of regret? Why did he unnerve her? Why did she feel that if she said the wrong thing, or made the wrong gesture, he might pounce?
“The roses are in my carriage. They are stunning…but I am afraid they did not survive the rain very well.” When he did not speak, simply continuing to stare, she opened her purse and took out the bracelet. “I have come to return this, as well. Obviously I cannot accept the flowers or such an inappropriate gift.”
“I fail to see why not. Especially when I wish for you to have it,” he purred.
She grew impossibly tense. His tone was seductive—but it was also dangerous. He was the lion inviting its keeper into the cage, hoping to make him its next meal, but only after toying with him. She knew then that her assessment of him had been correct: he was not accustomed to disobedience of any kind. “Your invitation wasn’t a proper one.”
“No, it was not.”
She stared in surprise; he stared calmly back. And because he wasn’t speaking, because his stare was unnerving, because her heart was slamming, she cried, “I explained to Randolph that I have a suitor, Your Grace. One with marriage on his mind.”
His mouth curved. His eyes gleamed. “I hardly mind a rival, Miss Bolton.”
She gasped. Wasn’t he going to admit to the folly of his advances? Didn’t he understand what she was saying? Wasn’t he going to give up? “His intentions are honorable. Are yours?”
“No. They are not.”
Alexandra was shocked speechless by his candid admission.
And he slowly smiled. “I believe in being direct, Miss Bolton,” he said, “as I find it frivolous to waste time. I am taken with you. I believe that you are taken with me. Considering the circumstances in which we find ourselves, I do not see why you are reluctant to proceed—unless, of course, you are enamored with the squire.”
He was seeking an illicit affair. She could not believe he had continued to be so direct. She breathed hard. And what did he mean by “circumstances”?
“How do you feel about the squire?” His stare was hard, but his tone was wry.
Was he amused by the other man’s suit? “How I feel about Squire Denney is not your affair.” But if he would not back down and give up, what was she going to do?
Mildly, he said, “I am making it my affair.”
She inhaled, shaken again. His mind seemed made up—about her. He did not care that she was a gentlewoman, even if her name was in tatters. Images flashed through her mind again, of his face close to hers as he’d held her in his arms. Her dismay escalated. So did her tension. Her body was hot a
nd throbbing. Of course she could not do as he wished. She was a proud, moral woman.
“Have I insulted you? Because, let me assure you, that was not my intention. Most women are flattered by my interest.”
She shook her head. “I am flattered,” she managed. “But, Your Grace, I am also affronted.”
His brows lifted. “Why would my interest be insulting?”
She steadied herself and spoke. “Your Grace, I am in a difficult position. Of course I am flattered. What woman would not be? But you have misinterpreted my situation, not that I blame you, and that is why I am trying to reject your advances.”
He seemed amused. “Will you coddle me now? I find your rejection almost refreshing, actually. Women generally are eager to kiss the ground at my feet.”
She doubted he’d ever been rejected before. “I do not want to reject you entirely,” she whispered, her heart slamming.
His brows rose. “Is there such a thing as a partial rejection?”
It was hard to speak. “Perhaps we can be friends.”
He laughed. “Miss Bolton, that is a very quaint notion.” He gave her a shockingly bold look. “Do not be insulted, but friendship has nothing to do with roses and diamonds—or my interest in you. I am very intrigued,” he stated.
The insult should have been the final blow, but his last admission outweighed it. Her insides tightened. Desire fisted. As he stared into her eyes, she somehow said, aware that this was her last chance to escape him, “Your Grace, I have come to explain that, if the squire offers marriage, I will accept.”
He was silent. He did not seem taken aback, or affronted or even dismayed. Just possibly, he seemed amused, except that his gaze was steel.
“Therefore I am returning the flowers and the bracelet. Therefore I must decline your supper invitation. And I must ask you to cease your pursuit.” When he kept staring, she exclaimed, “I am sorry! I truly wish to remain on a friendly basis.”
“Not half as sorry as I am,” he said. “You should reconsider.”
She laid the bracelet on a table and shook her head, feeling tearful and helpless. “I am so grateful for your aid the other night…. And I am flattered, but…I must go.” She stumbled past him. The sooner she got in her carriage, the better. She did not know when she had last been this upset. True, she had achieved her goals. She had set him straight. She had stopped his advances.
