An Impossible Attraction

by Brenda Joyce

  “I cannot believe this,” the matron said tersely.

  From the corner of her eye, Alexandra saw that both women were as riveted to the coach’s splendid approach as she was. And now a crowd had gathered, just as awed and entranced—and she began to think more clearly.

  Clarewood hadn’t come, of course he hadn’t. It was a servant, or even Randolph. He would never pursue her, not in any way. He thought the very worst of her.

  But then the door opened and Clarewood stepped out.

  Alexandra gasped, shocked.

  The crowd stepped back, but he just stood there, looking at her. Alexandra felt her cheeks begin to burn as their gazes locked. She did not want him to see her in such misery and poverty. Her humiliation from the last time she had seen him was nothing in comparison to how she felt now.

  The two ladies curtsied.

  She’d forgotten them. She tensed as he strode forward, the crowd parting for him. His mouth was tight with displeasure, and he never looked away from her.

  Her heartbeat continued to deafen her. What did he want? Hadn’t he done enough?

  “Your Grace.” The matron smiled obsequiously at him. “This is such a pleasant surprise.”

  “Your Grace,” Anne whispered, blushing.

  He did not even look at them—nor did Alexandra. As they stared at one another, the tension between them made her feel faint. He was angry, she saw that now.

  Suddenly Stephen looked at the two women. “This is very much a surprise,” he said coolly. “Is Miss Bolton taking on your repairs, Lady Sinclair?”

  The matron’s smile vanished. “I have heard that Miss Bolton is a highly skilled seamstress. I wished a word with her.”

  “Really?” he said, his tone filled with mockery. He glanced at Anne. “This street is not fit for ladies, and I am shocked that you would bring your daughter here.”

  Alexandra’s stomach was churning in a way she was now all too familiar with. She prayed she would not be sick.

  “We were just leaving, Your Grace. And of course, you are right—I should not have brought Anne. We will take your leave, then.” She smiled.

  He didn’t speak, his hard expression never changing, as the two women hurried off. Alexandra noticed their coach, drawn by two dapple grays, for the first time. Then her attention was claimed as, slowly, he turned toward her.

  She trembled. Very queasy now, she turned away from Stephen’s intense stare, wondering if she could vanish into the crowd. Why had he come? What did he want? She wanted him to leave her be! Because now all she could think about was the passion they had shared—and how he had accused her of scheming to trap him into marriage afterward. His accusations still hurt terribly. But the worst of it was that a part of her wanted to rush into his arms, where she would be safe—where she would feel loved.

  He touched her arm, and she had to look at him. He stared grimly at her. “What happened?”

  “I fell.” Her heart stuttered. “Why are you here?” she managed.

  “Show me where you are living.”

  She stared back, startled. “What?”

  “You heard me. You have taken a room in that inn.” He gestured to the building, which was a bit farther up the block.

  “I am not showing you anything.” She inhaled. “In fact, I have to go. Good day.”

  As she turned, he seized her arm, shocking her, and said, “Edgemont tossed you out because of our affair.”

  She inhaled harshly. “I do not want to discuss this.”

  His grasp tightened. “But I do.”

  She tried to tug free and failed. Desperately, she said, “He heard the rumors, obviously. I’m afraid I do not dissemble well—contrary to what you believe. As you did not start the gossip and have no real part in this affair—” her tone became bitter “—you can leave and go about your affairs without any guilt.” She couldn’t help adding, “I am sure Lady Witte will be thrilled.”

  His face tightened. “I want to see your room.”

  “Please release my arm,” she whispered frantically. “Please go away.”

  As he looked at her as if he wanted to learn the truth, her heart ached. If only he would believe in her, she thought. And the moment she realized what she wished—that he would trust her and care for her—she was dismayed and tried to wrench away. As she did so, the bile rose up. She groaned, panicked, but it was too late. She let go of her bag, rushing to the street, where she vomited uncontrollably.

  And when she was done, her humiliation was complete.

  The cobbles below her feet slowed in their terrific spinning and she straightened, inhaling, ashamed and ready to cry. Surely he was gone now.

  “Let me help you up to your flat,” he said from behind her, and he touched her shoulder.

  “Why are you still here?” Horror returned.

  From behind, he passed her a handkerchief. She took it, and carefully wiped her mouth and bodice.

  “It’s been about a month since we were together,” he said without inflection. “Are you with child?”

  She stiffened. She had been afraid that might be the case, but determined never to reveal it, if it were true. “No. I am not.” She attempted a breath and realized that she finally felt well, for the first time that day.

  He was silent.

  As she bent to retrieve her bag, grateful that the items had remained inside, he reached past her and took it from her, his arm and shoulder brushing her as he moved. Alexandra slowly looked at him.

  He looked back. “How long have you been ill, Alexandra?”

  Her mind raced. “I believe I must have eaten something spoiled last night.”

  His mouth twisted. “I see.”

  When silence fell, when he didn’t speak and didn’t move, she asked, “What do you want? Why are you here? Haven’t you punished me enough? Why do you wish to see me so humiliated?”

  “I do not.” Then, “I’ll take your bag up for you.”

  The Duke of Clarewood did not carry bags. “I can manage myself.”

  “Can you?”

  She squared her shoulders. “May I have my bag, please…Your Grace?”

  A cool smile began. “I have asked to see your flat, Alexandra. In fact, I believe I have asked to see it four times.”

  “There is nothing to discuss and nothing to see. I am not inviting you up.”

  “I believe there is a great deal to discuss. You cannot remain here.” He was firm. And the look in his eyes told her that his mind was made up.

  She backed away. “And where, pray tell, shall I go? I am not welcome at home. I have no funds left. Should I accept Lady Harington’s offer of charity? Randolph’s? Your mother’s? As if I were homeless?”

  “You are homeless.”

  She trembled and reached for her bag. He let her take it, but his stare was so hard that she did not move even after the bag was securely in her arms. “I have a home. My rent is paid for an entire month.”

  He made a harsh sound. “You can accept my offer,” he said. “In fact, I insist.”

  She did not know what that offer would be, but she would never forget what they had shared—and what he had done to her subsequently. “No. Whatever it is, I am not interested.”

  “You haven’t even heard what I wish to propose.”

  “I don’t have to hear your offer. I am not interested in charity, not of any kind, and especially not from you.”

  Exasperation showed in his brilliant blue eyes. “You are stubborn. And I am annoyed. The Mayfair Hotel is the best in town. I will get you a suite of rooms there.”

  “In return for what?” she asked, genuinely surprised. Surely he had no lingering interest in her now? “Why would you do such a thing? What do you want from me?”

  “I ask for nothing in return.”

  She shook her head. “I refused charity from Lady Blanche, from Randolph and from the dowager duchess. I will never take charity from you. I can get on just fine with my sewing business. In fact, I have several new customers.”<
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  His face hardened. “Really? But you just told me that you are penniless.” He met her eyes squarely. “My check was cashed. Did Edgemont take it?”

  She realized she was crying. “Yes, he did,” she said. “Just go away, Your Grace. I will manage—I always do.”

  He glanced away. “I’m afraid I cannot.” And suddenly he pulled her close, wrapping his powerful arm around her like a vise. And then he started for his coach, taking her with him.

  “Stop! What are you doing?” She balked, shocked.

  The footman opened the door, and Clarewood lifted her into his arms. “I actually think that if I deposited you at a hotel, you are so proud you would walk out—and return to this abominable place.”

  She was in his arms. She didn’t want to be there, nor did she want to cling, but it was a matter of safety to hold on to his shoulders. She stared into his intense blue eyes, aware that their faces were far too close for comfort. In fact, her heart was thudding and shrieking incoherently at her now. She instantly recalled how his lips had tasted, and how their union had felt. Most of all, she kept thinking about how he had made her feel—joyous and loved.

  But it had all been a sham.

  His mouth had tightened. His stare had changed.

  Her insides lurched and then tightened in a way she instantly recognized. Nothing had changed—the terrible, fatal attraction remained. No good could come of it. “Put me down,” she whispered.

  He stepped up into the coach, the footman closing the door behind them. He stared into her eyes, and she stared back, her heart lurching, and he deposited her onto the seat. She slid into the far corner, staring at him, breathing hard.

  “You’ll spend the night at Clarewood,” he said. “And tomorrow we will discuss your plight.”

  STEPHEN WALKED INTO the library, closing both doors behind him. Then he simply gripped the brass knobs, staring at the gleaming polished wood and his own white knuckles. He was horrified.

  How could she have lived like that?

  He hadn’t seen her room. He hadn’t needed to. He knew what the room would be like—he’d seen slums before.

  And it was his fault.

  He wanted to deny it, wanted to think otherwise. He turned and strode to the sideboard bar and poured himself a scotch. He trembled as he sipped. He was a highly moral man. There was right, and there was wrong. The difference between the two was almost always black versus white. Alexandra Bolton was a gentlewoman, no matter what she had intended. She did not deserve to live among the city’s most downtrodden, as one of them. He was horrified, but most of all, he was filled with guilt.

  This was his fault, he thought again.

  He took a draught of the scotch, but he did not relax. The drive back to Clarewood had taken almost three hours. She hadn’t spoken, and neither had he—he’d only stared out of the window, trying to hide his dismay and horror. He kept hoping she would fall asleep—he could tell she was exhausted—but every time his glance wandered to the far corner of the carriage, she was wide-awake and staring at him as if he might possess a hidden ax, one he intended to dispatch her with.

  Now she was upstairs in a guest room, with a maid drawing a hot bath. He’d instructed Guillermo to have supper sent up, the maid to attend to her every need. As if that might make up for what she had suffered for almost an entire month.

  He gripped the glass so tightly that a finer crystal would have shattered. He should have gone to London to investigate her plight sooner. But he had been too furious over her supposed plot to trap him into marriage.

  Obviously he had misjudged her. Alexandra was very intelligent, and if she was a fortune hunter, she would have found another benefactor the moment Edgemont had thrown her out. And even if she had somehow failed to do that, as an opportunist, she would have gone to live with Lady Blanche and Sir Rex at Harrington Hall. Now he thought about how she had resisted his advances. He had assumed it was a game, one meant to whet his appetite. But he had been wrong.

  She had resisted him because she was a virgin, and his intentions had been dishonorable.

  He cursed and flung his glass across the room. The action gave him no satisfaction. She was twenty-six years old! Had she wished to marry a fortune, she would have done so years ago.

  How had she survived for almost a month in that rat-infested, disease-ridden hellhole?

  Admiration crept through the raging fury. He did not want to admire her courage, her pride or her strength. Somehow he knew such admiration was dangerous for him. Yet how the hell could he not admire her? He did not know of any woman, gently born or not, who would have taken up residence in such a slum, not after leading a far different life. But then, when they’d first met, he’d admired her for sewing to make ends meet for her family. She was not like the others, he thought, as he recalled their conversation.

  I do not like being deceived.

  I did not think it important.

  You did not think it important?

  Stephen cursed again. Every woman thought her virginity important. How could she be an exception? He realized that on his own, he would never understand why she hadn’t told him the truth about her innocence. Maybe he could eventually convince her to explain to him.

  He was rarely wrong about anything, or anyone. But he had been wrong about her.

  And he had pursued her, seduced her and treated her abysmally.

  He was staring grimly at the wall when the hairs on his nape tingled. Slowly, he turned and looked across the room.

  Tom Mowbray stood there, scowling and furious. Stephen knew what his father would be thinking, if he were alive.

  Don’t even think of marrying that harlot. Scheme or not, your duty is to Clarewood, and you will marry a woman of equal rank, a woman who will bring you lands, titles and a fortune. If she is with child, pay her off.

  Instantly he felt sick.

  Was she carrying his child?

  She had said that she was not, but he was not about to give her the benefit of that doubt, either, though he hoped, very much, that she had indeed eaten spoiled food the night before.

  He always took excessive precautions with his lovers to make sure no one conceived his bastard. He would never allow a bastard of his to be raised by anyone other than him—not because his childhood had been difficult, lonely and without affection, but because of principle. He doubted he would be a very good father, but he intended to try, and he would be better than old Tom—he would reward excellence, and he would never mock or ridicule a good effort. His children, all of them, bastard and legitimate, would be raised under his roof at Clarewood.

  He hadn’t taken any precautions with Alexandra. He couldn’t imagine why he’d forgotten, except that he had been mindless with passion.

  If she was carrying his child, he would raise his son or daughter.

  And if she was with child, she would stay at Clarewood, at least until that child was born. In fact, he now realized the benefit of having her stay with him. Within a few months, he would learn the truth of her condition. Additionally, at Clarewood she would also receive the best care.

  His mind was made up.

  Tom stared furiously at him. Stephen grimaced. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, “I know my duty. I swore to do it, and I never break my vows.”

  Stephen walked away from the glaring illusion. He had no intention of marrying Alexandra. His duty was to Clarewood—to seek to increase the Clarewood legacy through his marriage—and he could do better. But if Alexandra was the mother of his child, he would care for her for the rest of her life. She would lack for nothing.

  A recognizable knock sounded on the library doors, and he called for Guillermo to come inside. “Has Miss Bolton settled in?”

  His butler was suitably grave. “She has refused to allow the maids entry to help her, and she has sent away her supper, Your Grace. I believe she has locked the doors.”

  “She is undoubtedly tired. She may even be so soundly asleep that she did not hear the maids.” He woul
d not blame her for that. In fact, he hoped she was asleep by now. “Leave a tray outside her door, Guillermo, just in case she awakens in the middle of the night.”

  But Stephen wondered if her actions were meant to be defiant, a protest. He thought so, and he was not amused. His first impulse was to go up to her room and order her to comply with his wishes—she needed sustenance, especially if there was any possibility she was with child. But he instantly changed his mind. She despised him—and he did not blame her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE COULD NOT HIDE in her room forever.

  Alexandra stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. The frame was gilded, matching the arms and legs of the two green brocade chairs on either side of it. She had expected to see a haggard shrew in the looking glass, but upon climbing into bed last night and pulling up the thick, warm covers, she had instantly fallen asleep. For the first time in a month—for the first time since their aborted liaison—she had slept deeply and dreamlessly.

  She was a bit pale, but she looked better than she had upon arriving last night. She almost felt well, she thought carefully. But how could she feel well when Clarewood had forcibly removed her from her hotel room and then brought her to his home just as forcibly?

  She trembled, her pulse racing. In the mirror, she could see the stunning room behind her. The walls were painted a pale mint-green, the moldings pink and gold. The four-poster bed she had so enjoyed last night was canopied, with moss-green-and-gold bedding. The fireplace was cream plaster, a floral sofa before it. A small dining table and two chairs sat beside one window, and beyond was a balcony with another table and chairs. At the other end of the room a small, centuries-old writing table held a vase of flowers, along with a sheaf of parchment, an inkwell and a quill.

  Her heart lurched wildly. The room was the loveliest bedroom she had ever been in, and a gruesome contrast to the room she’d leased at Mr. Schumacher’s, but she could not accept his hospitality. Yet how could she tell him that? He was a force of nature, and he would not back down. And she still did not understand why he had done what he had.