An Impossible Attraction

by Brenda Joyce

  Too late, she realized it was Owen she missed and loved, not the damned duke.

  IF POSSIBLE, the following day was even worse. And she should have known, for the sky had clearly been an omen—black with an approaching storm. It was bitterly cold out, the wind gusting, making their outdoor chores terribly unpleasant. And her sisters were giving her the cold shoulder now, which was even worse than being pestered with questions she didn’t dare answer. Clearly they were angry with her, just when she needed their love and support. And then the squire called.

  It would be rude to send him away, and Edgemont was home anyway, inviting him to come in, while insisting that Alexandra join them. Denney was kind and charming, and clearly as good as his word—he intended to court her properly now. But nothing had changed for her, and the last thing she would ever do was go from the duke’s bed to the altar with another man. She spent a miserable hour, trying to converse politely, while still failing to summon a single smile. Impossibly, her heart felt broken. And that was absurd, because she neither knew nor loved Clarewood. She had made the mistake of confusing Owen and Clarewood, that was all.

  Finally the squire stood up, indicating that he was ready to leave, though she noticed he had begun to look at her with concern. Edgemont pumped his hand. “Good of you to come by,” he said. “Excuse me.” And very obviously, he vanished into the library, leaving the two of them alone.

  Instantly Alexandra was dismayed. To cover it, she took the squire’s heavy mantle from the coatrack. “Thank you for calling,” she said politely, careful not to inject any warmth into her words.

  He did not take the mantle; he took her hands instead. Instantly she stiffened. “Sir,” she objected.

  He released them. “You seem upset, Miss Bolton. I pray I am not the cause.”

  She wet her lips. “Of course you are not the cause, and I am not upset, just fatigued. I have taken on extra sewing,” she said quickly.

  He was clearly dismayed. “I do not like your working yourself to the bone! What if you became seriously ill?”

  He was such a caring man, she thought, but her feelings hadn’t changed. “I am hardly that fragile.”

  “My dear, can I help you and your sisters somehow?” he asked gently.

  She was ready to cry over his kindness, but it was Clarewood’s image she saw in her mind. And, albeit too late, she knew there was nothing kind about him; he was cold, calculating and selfish, as ruthless and heartless as the gossips claimed. “We are fine. But thank you,” she added, and this time, she meant it. “You are truly a good man,” she said impulsively, still focused on Clarewood.

  His eyes brightened. “Does this mean my suit has a chance?”

  She tensed, dismayed. She did not know what to say. But he deserved honesty, not lies. “I meant what I told you the other day, sir. You deserve a woman who loves you.”

  “And I remain convinced that one day, you will return my feelings,” he whispered.

  They were at an impasse. Alexandra was about to lead him to the door when she heard a horse galloping up the drive. She ran to the door and saw Randolph leaping down from his chestnut gelding. She inhaled. What did this mean?

  Had Clarewood had a change of heart?

  Her mind leaped and raced—could Clarewood have sent her an apology? It was the least she deserved.

  “That’s young Randolph de Warenne. He was here last week, I recall. Does he call frequently?” Denney asked, scowling.

  She trembled as Randolph strode up the walk, his cheeks red from the blistering cold. “No, he does not.”

  The squire made no move to leave, and suddenly Alexandra realized the implications of his remaining with her, and she tensed in some alarm. “He must be interested in one of my sisters,” she said quickly.

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps he is interested in the fairest, and most intriguing, of you all.”

  Before Alexandra could declare that Randolph was not courting her, he was standing on the stoop before them, nodding at the squire but looking directly at her. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton.”

  She began to fidget. Denney had to leave before the truth crept out. But the squire seemed intent on staying, and he said, “It’s a terribly long ride from Harrington Hall.”

  Randolph looked down rather imperiously at him. “I am clerking for His Grace, the Duke of Clarewood, and it is less than two hours from here.” Then he turned to Alexandra, clearly dismissing the squire. “I would like a private word, Miss Bolton, if you do not mind.”

  “The squire was just about to leave.” Alexandra found a smile for the first time since leaving Clarewood last night. Denney seemed ready to object, looking back and forth between them, clearly mistrustful of Randolph. But he finally bowed and walked away to his carriage, promising to return tomorrow.

  She managed another smile and then ushered Randolph inside, not daring to hope. But her heart was racing perilously anyway.

  He handed her a sealed envelope, which he took from inside his jacket.

  “What is that?” she asked. Her heart hammered. If he was asking for forgiveness, she must not give it. But she would so dearly love an explanation for his having drawn such a terrible conclusion about her.

  “I don’t know everything that’s inside. But I have been given a message—if you do not deposit the check, he will make the deposit for you.”

  She was so shocked that her knees buckled. Randolph steadied her as dismay began. She tore open the envelope—and saw his check inside, this time made out for the two thousand pounds on which they had agreed. There was no note.

  She began to breathe heavily, harshly, with difficulty.

  “Are you all right?”

  She slowly looked up, trying to keep her outrage from showing. “I am fine,” she lied. She knew she would never be fine again.

  HE WAS RUTHLESSLY determined to finalize his architectural drawings. Nothing would stop him—no one would stop him. In fact, he had stayed up the entire night, redrawing them three times.

  “You look like a wastrel,” Alexi de Warenne said.

  Stephen looked up, startled, as Guillermo said, frowning, “Captain de Warenne has called, sir, and, as usual, refused to await your convenience.”

  Alexi sauntered into the study, smiling, but his blue gaze was sharp. “What is wrong with you?” he asked bluntly.

  “Can you bring coffee, Guillermo?” Stephen asked, ignoring the question as he stood up. He realized he had yet to change his clothes from the day before, and he was so wrinkled, there was no point in unrolling his shirtsleeves.

  He could not get that lying bitch out of his mind.

  And what was even worse than recalling her tears—which had been pure theatrics—was that every time he looked up from his desk, he saw old Tom standing there, mocking him for his feelings of rage and betrayal.

  As Guillermo vanished to do his bidding, Alexi walked past him and looked at the drawings on the desk. Then he turned. “Well? Have you been carousing?”

  She had lied, she was exceptionally clever, but he had been played, and that made him the ultimate fool.

  Tom said, as clear as day, “You are Clarewood. She is nothing. She means nothing. Your duty means everything.”

  His inner tension seemed unbearable now. And had the old man been alive, had he really spoken, he would have been right. Stephen would never marry her, not ever, because he never gave his enemies the satisfaction of defeating him. “I was working on those plans last night.”

  “How boring,” Alexi drawled. “Why do you look like hell warmed over?”

  Stephen folded his arms and stared. “I have been played, Alexi.”

  Alexi raised his eyebrows. An amused smile began. “Uh-oh. I can’t wait to hear the gory details.”

  “It is not amusing.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  And as her image filled his mind—not when she was in the throes of passion, but when she was about to cry, as if he’d devastated her—Stephen cursed and decided it was no
t too early for a stiff drink. He knew he hadn’t hurt her. Players as consummate as Alexandra Bolton were heartless.

  Mostly he was in disbelief. He had wanted her as he had never before wanted a woman; his passion had been out of control—passion he had never dreamed possible. And that made him even more furious.

  He poured a brandy and took a sip. There was a slight tremor to his hand. “I began an affair with Alexandra Bolton,” he said. “And she has turned out to be a scheming witch.”

  Alexi’s brows lifted. “Really? And she is scheming for what, exactly?”

  Alexi was amused, Stephen thought angrily as he turned. “She was a damned virgin, Alexi—and she did not say a word!”

  Alexi choked, surprised.

  Stephen remained in disbelief. He’d asked her—somewhat off-handedly, he admitted—and she had lied. She had gone on and on about the passion she had felt for a previous lover—except he hadn’t been a lover! And that was when he felt Alexi clasp his shoulder. He turned.

  Alexi’s eyes were wide and utterly innocent. “I suppose that was your first time, too?” He was trying not to laugh.

  Stephen shoved him off. “Laugh all you wish. I have never pursued an innocent, as you well know. I would have stayed far away from her, had I known.”

  “Really? And now what?” Alexi’s stare remained far too wide and bland.

  Before Stephen could answer, he heard the sound of several pairs of ladies’ heels clicking in the corridor. The footsteps were rapid—he instantly suspected the identity of his visitors. He tensed. When Elysse and Ariella appeared on the library threshold, he knew he would never hear the end of his affair with Alexandra Bolton if Alexi let the metaphorical cat out of the bag. He gave his cousin a dark, warning look. “Your head will roll,” he said softly.

  Alexi laughed at him and strolled over to his wife, who instantly nestled against him. “If you have found the dowager duchess her match, why am I the last to know?” he asked her, then glanced at Stephen. “We have no secrets.”

  Stephen scowled at him. “I have a guillotine hidden in my closet,” he snapped.

  Alexi laughed again.

  “We actually came to call for another reason,” Elysse said, looking back and forth between the two men. “Why did Stephen just threaten to take off your head? What is wrong with him?”

  “I have been working on housing plans all night, in lieu of sleeping,” Stephen snapped.

  Both women flinched. Ariella murmured, “Someone is in a very foul mood—as never before, I think.” She shared a glance with Elysse. “Maybe he has heard the rumors.”

  Stephen went still. Had she leaked the fact of her deflowering—at his hands? Did she think to pursue a marriage—to eventually force him into it—in spite of what he had said? “What rumors?”

  “Charlotte Witte is a woman scorned, and she is doing her best to bring poor Alexandra Bolton down. You do recall Miss Bolton, don’t you?” Elysse asked innocently.

  “Oh, he recalls her—very well,” Alexi murmured to her.

  Instantly, Stephen couldn’t help but recall the night he had met Alexandra and the humiliation she had endured—with her head held high. He refused to admire her for anything now, yet he had admired her then. He was disturbed, on many accounts. He had never trusted Charlotte to be a woman of grace or honor, but this…She had guessed that he had jettisoned her for Alexandra, and he hadn’t considered that she would seek her petty revenge. “What lies is Lady Witte spreading?” Of course he did not care, he thought.

  “She is claiming that you are having an affair with Miss Bolton, Stephen, and that she has been seen at this house on several occasions.”

  He breathed hard.

  “Of course you would never pursue and ruin such an honorable woman, now would you?” Ariella said, staring rather coolly. “Because I have heard firsthand from my aunt, Lady Blanche, that a very well-off squire is about to ask for her hand. Miss Bolton has fallen on very hard times since I married Emilian. She deserves a better situation than an uncaring affair with you.”

  He took another draught of brandy. His problems would be solved if she married the squire. Except now he was oddly dismayed and even more disturbed. He could not understand why, but he didn’t like the image of Alexandra in the burly squire’s arms. Not that it mattered to him, of course. He heard himself say, “Denney has yet to ask for her. No contracts have been drawn. And I am hardly having an affair with Alexandra Bolton. Even if I should, it is not your affair, Ariella.”

  Both women gaped, but Alexi was even more amused now. “And how would you know that he hasn’t asked for her?” He grinned.

  Stephen could not believe he had let so much slip. And he hadn’t had a chance to tell Randolph to call off his spies, although he’d meant to do so. He’d even been informed of the state of affairs that morning, which was why he knew that no proposal had been made. He thought his cheeks felt warm, as if he were flushing—but that was simply impossible. “The squire is welcome to Miss Bolton. He will have his hands full with her.” He almost added, and her games. “I wish them well. I will be the first to send them my congratulations and a wedding gift.”

  Her face swam in his mind. Beautiful and proud, with the kind of dignity so few women naturally achieved. Except it was all a lie. She was a lie.

  “Is he smitten?” he heard Elysse ask her husband.

  “I am wondering that myself,” Alexi said, chuckling.

  Were they mad? Stephen thought. “Why would you even make such a preposterous statement?” he demanded. “Because I admired her briefly?”

  “Yes, and because there is so much to admire,” Alexi drawled. “You are always immaculate, but today you are red-eyed, unshaven and in general unkempt. You seem to know Miss Bolton’s intimate affairs. And you are very out of sorts, Stephen. Surely you can admit that.”

  “I will admit nothing,” he snapped, then turned to both women. “How is the hunt for a husband for the dowager duchess proceeding?”

  Ariella hesitated. He knew she was debating the possibility that he might be keenly interested in a woman for the first time in his life. At last she smiled slowly. “I like Miss Bolton. I always have.”

  “Good for you.” He was brusque.

  “We are compiling a list, but we are not yet ready to show it to you,” Ariella said, her gaze searching his as her smile widened. “She is so unlike all the women you have been involved with. She seems deeply intelligent, highly determined, and apparently she has done quite a bit to keep her family afloat in daunting circumstances.” She looked at Elysse. “We should befriend her. It is time.”

  “I should love to do so,” Elysse said quickly.

  He was in disbelief. They would not dare to meddle now! Besides, there was nothing to meddle in. “That is hardly necessary.” But now he thought about the fact that she had shredded his five-thousand-pound note. Of course she had—she had a much higher pot in mind. But he was uneasy. She had truly needed the funds, even he knew that, but he had been so angry that he had meant to insult her by handing her such a staggering check. He’d meant to indicate that she was a high-priced whore. He regretted that. So he had sent her the amount they’d agreed upon.

  “Why don’t you want us to call on her?” Ariella asked.

  He’d had enough. “Do as you wish! After all, you both run wild. Your husbands allow you absolute freedom of thought and action, and if they cannot stop you, how can I?” Too late, he realized that his uncharacteristic explosion of his temper had given far too much away. As he strode for the doors, an utter silence had fallen over the room. He growled, “It is lack of sleep making me tense, nothing more.”

  No one dared to dispute him.

  But he knew they were talking about him as he left.

  ALEXANDRA WAS in the kitchen, sewing one of Charlotte Witte’s ivory silk chemises, when she heard her father coming down the stairs. It was late afternoon, and he had gone out earlier, but she hadn’t heard him come in. He must have returned while she was in
the cellars, she thought, looking for violet thread, while carefully stitching a torn piece of lace. She kept herself carefully composed as she worked the needle. She refused to think of who the chemise belonged to, or how it might have been used—or abused.

  Edgemont walked into the kitchen.

  Alexandra did not look up until she realized he had paused on the threshold and was staring at her in silence. Surprised, she looked up, smiling, but when she saw his severe, set face, she faltered. “What is wrong?”

  “I heard rumors last night,” he said harshly. “Very ugly rumors.”

  Alexandra laid down her sewing very deliberately. Her heart thundered, deafening her. Had he heard about her affair?

  “I did not believe them. I refuse to believe you have been sneaking off to rendezvous with the Duke of Clarewood.”

  She inhaled. “Those are terrible accusations.”

  “I called on Lady Blanche today.” His gaze was unwavering now, accusatory, but also bleak.

  She could not breathe. Somehow, she stood up. She was about to be discovered.

  “She never gave you the horse. You weren’t there at any time this week for tea. Who gave you the horse, Alexandra?” He was shaking.

  She trembled, too. “It is just a loan. Bonnie really is lame.”

  “Where did you get the horse?” he asked ominously. “It is Clarewood’s, isn’t it? As Lady Witte claimed? Clarewood gave you that horse!”

  “It’s a loan,” she tried desperately. “Merely a loan.”

  He was panting as he dug into his pocket and produced a slip of paper. Alexandra went still as she recognized the bank check. “And is this a loan, as well?”

  She blanched and bit her lip, shaking her head, stunned. “You searched my room?”

  “What did you do to receive this?” he screamed at her.

  “Nothing,” she lied, cringing. “It’s not…” She faltered. “Father, please, stop!”

  Her sisters came rushing into the kitchen, their faces pale with shock. “What is going on?” Corey asked. “Why is Father shouting at you?”