by Brenda Joyce
“Please don’t,” Alexandra had tried. “I have truly changed my mind.”
She knew he hadn’t believed her because he hadn’t wanted to believe her.
Her father had already been out when she had returned, so she hadn’t seen him until a few hours ago, when he had been exceedingly cool to her. He no doubt still meant to try to force her to the altar, she thought grimly. But she wouldn’t go, and in light of her understanding with Clarewood, his intent simply didn’t matter.
Their caller knocked again. Alexandra took off her apron, as did Corey, afraid the squire was calling. All three sisters exchanged looks. “If it is Denney,” Olivia said, “remain firm. That is the best you can do.”
“I feel sorry for him.”
“You would feel worse if you married him and had to pretend that you cared—for the rest of your lives,” Olivia returned evenly.
“I’ll get it,” Corey said. “If it’s the squire, I’ll say you are not home.”
But as she rushed off to answer the door, Alexandra followed. She did not intend to hide. To her surprise, the squire was not there; a petite, beautiful blond lady entered the house, instead. Instantly Alexandra recognized her from the Harrington ball. She recalled having noticed her with the duke.
“Hello, Miss Bolton, I presume?” the lady asked, smiling and taking off her gloves.
Instantly Alexandra tensed. The other woman’s smile was cold, and the light in her eyes was somehow unpleasant. “Yes.”
“I am Lady Witte, and I have heard your sewing extolled by Lady Lewis and Lady Henredon.” She began removing her coat, and Alexandra helped her. “I do hope you will accept me as a new customer. I have a number of gowns that need cleaning and repairs.”
“I am always taking on new customers.” Alexandra smiled, relaxing now that the woman’s supercilious attitude was explained and pleased to have a new client. For while that would mean additional work, there would also be added income.
“Oh, I am so relieved.” Lady Witte smiled widely at her. “I have the gowns in my coach.”
Alexandra turned. “Can you get them, Corey?” Then she faced Lady Witte. “It’s rather chilly. Can I offer you some tea?”
“Yes, it is quite cold out, but I will pass on the refreshments. I simply wanted to meet you myself this first time. Next time I will send my gowns to you.” She smiled again and said, “Did you enjoy Sara de Warenne’s birthday fete?”
Alexandra steeled herself against any impending unpleasantness. “I did,” she lied. “It has been a long time since I was out in society, obviously.” She gestured at their run-down home.
“I can only imagine,” Lady Witte said blandly. “You certainly made an entrance.”
Alexandra tensed. “I wasn’t feeling well,” she said.
“It is fortunate Clarewood noticed you—and bothered to come to the rescue.” Her smile seemed frozen in place.
And Alexandra knew now that this woman hadn’t come simply for the fine repairs she could make to her gowns. It felt as if Lady Witte was prying into her relationship with Clarewood. But as they had barely begun, she thought she must be imagining it. Though socialites did love to rumor-monger.
Edgemont came down the stairs just then, dressed for town. “I am taking the black,” he said. “If you need to go out, you can use my mare.”
Alexandra bristled inwardly, but outwardly, she smiled. “I have no plans to go out today. Father, this is Lady Witte, and this is my father, Baron Edgemont.”
They exchanged pleasantries, and he went out to tack up Clarewood’s horse. As he did, Corey and Olivia came inside with a dozen stunning dresses—Lady Witte’s wardrobe had cost a small fortune. Alexandra saw some intimates in the piles of clothing: frilly, lace drawers and beribboned corsets, beautifully sewn and hand decorated, a few of the items black. No one had ever brought her their most intimate undergarments before. Corey’s eyes were popping, and her cheeks were red. Alexandra knew her sister had examined each undergarment.
“You need not rush,” Lady Witte said, as if oddly satisfied. “I prefer you to take your time and be as fastidious as you like.”
“I am a perfectionist,” Alexandra told her, as Lady Witte reached for her coat. “And I am proud of my handiwork.”
Lady Witte looked at her with open pity. “Of course you are, Miss Bolton.”
Alexandra helped her on with her coat and opened the door for her, now noticing the expensive lacquered coach in front of the house, a two-in-hand, the pair in the traces matching bay Hackney horses. As she walked the other woman out, Edgemont led Ebony from the stables, a few dozen paces from the house. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
Lady Witte halted in her tracks and looked at Alexandra, unsmiling, her eyes growing even colder. Then she strode forward.
Confused, Alexandra followed. “Is something wrong?”
“Where did you get that gelding?” Lady Witte demanded.
Edgemont had heard and he halted. “What?”
“Lady Harrington was kind enough to loan us the horse when our mare went lame,” Alexandra said carefully.
“Really?” Lady Witte sent her a scathing look. “That is one of Clarewood’s finest, or I miss my guess.”
Alexandra stiffened.
“You are mistaken,” Edgemont said, looking back and forth between them. “The horse came from Harrington Hall. My dearly beloved and deceased wife was a good friend of the lady Blanche. My daughter doesn’t even know Clarewood.”
Alexandra could not believe what was happening. Dismay mingled with the disbelief.
“Really? He rescued her at the ball, did he not? And then you were escorted home in his coach.” In obvious disgust, she strode back to her coach. Her driver opened her door for her and she got in. He closed it after her, but she leaned out of the open window. “I have changed my mind,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “I should like everything the day after tomorrow.”
Alexandra rushed over to the coach. “That is impossible, Lady Witte.”
“I am sure you will manage,” the other woman said, slamming the window closed.
Alexandra stepped back as the driver got into his seat, releasing the vehicle’s brake and lifting the reins.
“Alexandra?” Edgemont asked, as the carriage began to move off.
She forced a smile, exhaling before facing him. “Father, Lady Harrington gave us the horse. I can’t imagine what is wrong with that woman.”
He stared, impossibly sharp now—as if suspicious. Then he softened. “You would never lie. You don’t know how. I’ll be back for supper.” He swung into the saddle.
When he trotted off, her sisters came to stand beside her. “What was that about?” Olivia asked in concern.
“How would Lady Witte recognize Ebony?” Corey asked in a low tone.
Alexandra felt oddly ill, and her heart was thundering. She tried to recall exactly how Clarewood had spoken to Lady Witte, and now she was certain the woman had been flirting with him, while he had been characteristically impassive and polite. In fact, if memory served, his gaze had strayed to her, as if he were not all that interested in Lady Witte.
Not that any of it meant much—except that Lady Witte knew enough about the duke to have recognized one of his horses instantly. Alexandra did not want to jump to conclusions, though it was hard not to. Lady Witte was a beautiful woman, and she was both impossibly elegant and probably not even twenty-five.
Did she really want her gowns cleaned and mended? Or had she come for more personal reasons?
“She hates Alexandra,” Corey said, ashen. “But what I do not understand is why.”
“I think she is a widow,” Olivia said. “And I think she is jealous of Clarewood’s interest in Alexandra.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY Alexandra arrived at Clarewood fifteen minutes early. Guillermo showed her into the blue-and-gold salon where she’d become reacquainted with Elysse de Warenne and met Lady St. Xavier. “Luncheon is at one,” he told her, unblinkingly. “His Grace is i
n a meeting, but he will be through shortly.”
“Thank you,” Alexandra managed, hoping he hadn’t noticed that she was trembling. Her nerves were out of control.
It was almost impossible to believe that she was embarking on an affair with the Duke of Clarewood. Alexandra paced. She was breathless. Well, of course she was. In a few hours she might be upstairs—in his bed.
She wasn’t ashamed now, or mortified. She wasn’t anything except anxious. He would be a good lover, she was certain. She knew he could be kind; he’d been kind to her the moment they’d met—and more than once since.
She needed him to be kind now.
Even if he didn’t truly care for her—and how could he? They barely knew one another—she needed him to pretend affection. He was very experienced; he’d been rumored to be attached to various beautiful women over the years. Alexandra was certain that he would put her at ease. In spite of his illicit affairs, he was obviously a gentleman.
Guillermo had left the doors open. She heard voices, one of which was his. Her heart jumped. She turned, and her eyes widened when she saw him pause before the threshold with Randolph. His gaze was direct, his smile suggestive. His eyes were unusually bright. Then he turned to the younger man. “Please make sure I have the answers I am expecting, preferably by tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Randolph turned and smiled at Alexandra. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton. I hope you are enjoying Ebony.”
She was too aghast to smile. “I am.”
He nodded and sauntered off.
As Clarewood strolled into the room, carrying a stack of papers, she said, “We agreed on discretion.”
He was amused. “Randolph is discreet.”
“Having him see me here is not discretion!” Unthinkingly, she started for the door.
He barred her way and caught her shoulders. “You are beautiful today.”
She froze, looking up into his smoldering eyes. “I have been anticipating our rendezvous. I hope you have, too,” he murmured.
She found herself staring at his mouth and slowly forced herself to look back into his eyes. “I suppose I have, though…I am somewhat nervous, Your Grace.”
His smile deepened, revealing a dimple. “You have no reason to be nervous,” he said. He slid his thumb along the high curve of her cheek. Alexandra shuddered. Sensation raced through her entire body, right into her loins.
“I pray you are right about Randolph,” she whispered. “And what about Guillermo?”
He was amused. “If Guillermo wished to betray me, he could have done so a thousand times.”
What did that mean? she wondered, thinking of Lady Witte.
He released her, sliding one hand down her arm in a casual caress as he did so. Her insides tightened anew. “He would never betray me.”
“Do you know Lady Witte?” she heard herself ask.
“Frankly, I know her very well.” He seemed mildly surprised by her question.
Alexandra stiffened. They were lovers. “She is a new customer.”
He started, becoming annoyed. “You do not need customers, Alexandra. You need to heed me, and carefully. Now that we have agreed to this arrangement, I will take proper care of you.”
She gaped. “What does that mean?”
“It means you need a wardrobe and some spending money, at the least.” His stare intensified. “I said I was a generous benefactor.”
She flushed, shaken. Was he kind and considerate? It seemed so. Maybe she had misjudged him on every score. On the other hand, there was his relationship with Lady Witte.
“I sense that there is more. Please, finish,” he said softly.
She found her courage. “Is she your lover…even now?”
“She was my lover,” he said, his expression impossible to read. “But it is over.”
She was relieved. And now she understood why Lady Witte had pried—she must have sensed the attraction they shared at the Harrington ball. And as she knew Clarewood, she must have guessed he would make advances. Ebony’s presence had confirmed it. No wonder she had been so imperious and so mean.
But it was over, he had said so. She tried to hide a small smile. He knew—of course he did—because he added softly, “You are the woman I want sharing my bed, Alexandra. And if you do not yet believe that, you soon will.”
She breathed in. His gaze was warm. She knew where they would end up the moment their luncheon was over.
“I do believe you,” she whispered, aware that his face was inches from hers.
That was when she realized how silent the room was, and that she could hear his breathing and her own thundering heart. He straightened to his full height, holding out his hand; she slowly reached out to grasp his palm. His touch burned. There was that incredible jolt again, one defying all logic, all propriety. Her knees felt impossibly weak; he reached out and caught her by her elbows, steadying her.
“Why are you so nervous?” he murmured, slowly reeling her in. “You remind me of a schoolgirl being seduced by an older, worldly roué.”
It was so hard to think now, when she was almost wrapped in his arms. And then he pulled her closer, crushing her breasts with his chest. As Alexandra slid her hands to his shoulders, the sensation of being held by him, of holding him, was dizzying. “Oh, dear,” she said. So much fire was gathering beneath her skirts. Befuddled, she had to wonder if Owen had ever caused such an instantaneous explosion of desire.
“I wish to be a gentleman, the perfect lover, really,” he murmured, bending over her, “but I am as impatient as a schoolboy, too.” He rubbed his jaw against hers. “I have been thinking about you,” he added in the same throaty tone, and now his mouth moved against her cheek.
She couldn’t breathe adequately now. She clung, allowing her hands to roam down his hard, muscular back. “Your Grace,” she whispered roughly, and to her horror, she heard herself sigh.
“Stephen,” he whispered, and he rubbed his full lips against hers.
She went still, closing her eyes. The sensation was exquisite, but so teasing. And as he started to kiss her, remaining unrushed, she felt a massive hardness move against her hip. She flinched, but only in surprise. An acute throbbing began in response to that masculine urgency, while she opened instinctively for him.
His mouth hardened on hers, and then he kissed her.
She held on hard, letting him drag on her mouth, plunging deep, desperate for so much more. She cried out as he moved her backward, his tongue searching deep, and somehow she found herself lying on the sofa on her back. He came down fully on top of her.
She had one thought as she kissed him now, wildly and frantically—she had to love him. There was no other explanation for the urgency, the desperation, the passion or the oddly joyous bubble in her chest. Alexandra tore at his mouth. She shuddered in desire, longing to gasp in pleasure, too.
He suddenly caught her face in his hands and looked down at her. She blinked up at him, shuddering with an imminent wave of arousal. He said roughly, “I have never wanted anyone more. I wanted you from the first moment I held you in my arms.”
She breathed, “I want you, too. Desperately.”
His smile appeared—it was satisfied. “Shall we go upstairs?”
She was afraid to delay, afraid the magical passion might vanish. “No.”
He chuckled, reaching for the buttons on the back of her dress. Alexandra sat up, turning her back to him, and was shocked when she felt his mouth and tongue on the bare skin of her nape. He nibbled her flesh, causing so much delicious sensation that she had to close her eyes, barely able to refrain from moaning, while he tugged open a button and moved his mouth lower. She shivered with pleasure, finally giving in, moaning. He reached her chemise—it was the only undergarment she wore, other than her drawers—and swiftly undid the rest of her dress and helped her out of it.
She faced him, standing, feeling more naked than not. His gaze was on her breasts as he discarded his jacket and waistcoat, tossing both indifferently o
nto a nearby chair. Her chemise was tired and old—and nothing like the beautiful garments Lady Witte had worn—but his eyes were blazing. He bent forward and nuzzled a taut nipple, clasping her waist and anchoring her in place.
Alexandra gasped in pleasure, seizing his head, wanting so much more.
He ripped off the chemise—she heard the cotton tearing—and sucked her nipple into his mouth. The pleasure was excruciating, and she did not think she could stand it—and then he slid his hands between her legs, against the shockingly wet flesh exposed by her slit drawers.
“Yes,” he murmured, triumphant.
She clenched against him, holding on to him for her life. He rubbed her, and the explosion was instantaneous—she began weeping, the physical ecstasy too much to bear. The waves of rapture carried her away, but she was vaguely aware of his laying her down, of his heavy breathing, of his coming down on top of her. And then she felt his rock-hard phallus pulsing against her convulsing flesh.
But he didn’t move, merely kissing her neck, as the climax lessened. Alexandra started to drift back to coherence, clinging to his shoulders. So this was what desire was all about, she thought, feeling as if she were floating. It was about love. And rapture…
He caught her face as she opened her eyes to see that his were ablaze. “Darling,” he said, then kissed her hard.
Reality began to intrude. She’d just experienced rapture as never before, and he was as naked now as she was—and poised between her legs. Instantly, the sensitive flesh between her thighs began to swell as that terrible urgency began to build all over again.
She kissed him back, seeking his tongue, while exploring every inch of his muscular back and his hard hips. She writhed against his hardness, trying to pull him closer, totally mindless now.
He laughed roughly, breaking the kiss, moving lower, kissing her breasts. She gasped again, this time in protest, but he only continued to laugh, pausing only to lave each nipple in turn, reestablishing the acute restless need. She began to whimper, tossing, clenching his muscular shoulders, barely able to stand the lack of union. He murmured, “Patience, darling,” and kissed his way down her belly. Suddenly realizing what he intended, she went still, shocked.
