by Brenda Joyce
Did he feel guilty after all?
And then she was sick. Alexandra raced to the bathing room and retched drily, before sinking to her knees and closing her eyes in dismay. There was almost no doubt now that she was having morning sickness. She was carrying Clarewood’s child. A child should be a wonderful and joyous event. She tried not to cry. Fear of his rage made her cringe. She would love her baby, of course she would, but now she would be tied to the duke forever.
She wiped her moist eyes and got up. He must never know. She didn’t have to think about it to know that he would be furious and think it a part of her scheme to trap him into marriage. Worse, he would insist on keeping her and the child, and she didn’t want his charity. She had no intention of being a kept woman.
But now the future was even more frightening than it had been before. She wished she were back at Edgemont Way.
Alexandra opened the door, surprised to see her bags sitting in the hallway, and went slowly downstairs. Tension had stiffened her spine. Because she didn’t know her way around the house, she headed for the front doors, praying she might escape outside unnoticed. But as she approached the front hall, Clarewood stepped into the corridor, barring her way.
He was in a dark morning coat, a handsome emerald vest beneath and tan trousers. There were faint circles beneath his eyes. “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”
He did not look as if he had slept well. And his big body and powerful presence took up most of the small hallway. She was dismayed to have encountered him so immediately—as if he had been awaiting her. “I slept very well.” Her nervousness escalated. “You are staring, Your Grace.”
“You are very pale. Are you ill?” he asked abruptly.
“No, I am fine,” she said, trying not to think about the child she was probably carrying.
He seemed to reflect on that. “You declined supper last night,” he finally said.
“I fell asleep.”
His mouth seemed to soften. “I had assumed so. I am about to take breakfast. Please…” He cupped her elbow.
She leaped away. “What are you doing?” She was aware that she sounded frantic.
His gaze narrowed. “I was escorting you into the breakfast room, Miss Bolton.”
She was famished, but she shook her head. “I think I will walk outside.”
He caught her arm as she turned, and she had no choice but to face him. “You are my guest,” he said softly. “I do not make a habit of excluding my guests from my dining rooms.”
She trembled, her heart slamming, wishing he would let her go, wishing his tone wasn’t soft and enticing, that he weren’t half so handsome—and that his touch didn’t make her yearn to fall entirely in his arms. But just then he felt safe, like a deep, enclosed harbor after a terrible storm at sea. But he wasn’t safe. He was completely dangerous—especially now. “I am not exactly your guest.”
His brows rose. “You are most definitely my guest.”
She inhaled and managed, “Do you abduct all your guests, Your Grace? Because I recall being manhandled yesterday, and taken into your carriage against my will.”
“If I manhandled you, I apologize. But I had no intention of allowing you to remain in that inn.”
“That is no excuse.”
His mouth curved. “Apparently not. In fact, you are right. I should have convinced you to willingly join me. But it doesn’t matter now. You are, most definitely, my guest.”
She trembled.
“I suppose that is better than being your hostage.”
“You must be very hungry, and I am not making a request.” He actually smiled. “I am trying to make amends, Miss Bolton. And dukes do not take hostages. Not in this era, anyway.”
She somehow pulled free of his hand, trying not to soften and return his smile. “I suppose that I am a bit hungry.”
“Good.” He nodded, seeming pleased, and allowed her to walk ahead of him. Alexandra was acutely aware of him as they went into a cheerful, daffodil-yellow breakfast room. They had finally found a formal, polite ground on which to meet. That was certainly a relief.
And then she forgot about the duke. A vast breakfast buffet was laid out on a sideboard, where two servants stood at attention. The aroma of eggs, potatoes, sausages, ham and bacon coming from the buffet was so enticing that tears came to her eyes and her stomach gently growled. She didn’t think she had ever been as hungry, but of course, she had been subsisting on potatoes and cabbage for the past week.
If he heard her stomach, he gave no sign. As the servants leaped forward, he shook his head, and they retreated to their places on either side of the buffet. As he casually pulled out a chair, Alexandra saw that two places were set at the table; he’d meant for her to dine with him. Not that she cared—not that it meant anything, really.
But his hands were large on the back of her chair, and she now had a flashing recollection of his hands on her body—everywhere. She flushed, almost forgetting about the food. Her stomach churned, but not with illness. She wished she could stop being so aware of him.
Once she was seated, he took the other chair, glancing briefly at the serving men. “In my father’s day, we frequently had a full house. There would be four or five tables in this room, each place occupied. I almost never entertain that way now.”
She didn’t know why he was telling her this, or why he had decided to be genial. “It’s a beautiful room.”
“It used to be very dark and dull. My mother refurbished it the moment my father passed away.”
The serving men put plates of eggs, sausage, ham and potatoes before them. Alexandra swallowed hard, but recalled the dowager duchess’s revelations about his childhood. “You were very young, were you not, when the previous duke passed?” She looked up from the plate, trying to be casual about the meal, and saw him watching her carefully. She flushed. He obviously knew she was ravenous.
“I was sixteen when he died and I became the eighth duke. Please…” He lifted a fork, smiling congenially at her.
He was never congenial—he wanted something. But she did not care. Not now. As she lifted her own fork, she saw that her hand was trembling. Worse, as she dug into the scrambled eggs, her stomach growled, this time very loudly.
She set her fork down. “I am so sorry!”
“Alexandra.”
Her gaze flew to his. She was so hungry she felt faint.
“You have been in that hellhole for weeks. You gave your sisters and Edgemont the two thousand pounds. In exchange, you have been starving.”
She brushed at an unexpected tear. “I am merely tired.” Not to mention that she was too hungry to argue now. “They needed the funds more than I did.”
“We will talk after our meal.” His tone was one of finality, his face hard. “Eat.”
It was a command—of course it was—but she no longer cared if he bullied her. Instead, she began to eat, trying to go slowly, when all she wanted was to inhale the eggs and ham. The eggs were the most delicious she had ever tasted, but the ham and sausage were even better—and the toast had butter! And then, when her plate was empty, another plate was set down in front of her, as full as the first. She didn’t argue, and she didn’t look up, aware that she must appear to be a farmer’s wife. She didn’t care about that, nor about the fact that he had finished eating long ago and was now watching her over the top of a newspaper.
When she was done—when her second plate was perfectly empty, not even a bread crumb remaining—that plate, too, was whisked away. Alexandra wiped her mouth gently with her gold linen napkin and glanced across the table, out the window and not at him. She was so full, and it was wonderful. She wished her sisters could enjoy such a bountiful meal.
“Would you like another plate?”
She tensed, wishing she did not have to look at him. But she did, and reluctantly she turned to face him. He was so handsome that she lost her breath. “I do not believe I could ingest another mouthful.”
He smiled. “I happen to agree
with you.”
She froze. He so rarely smiled, and even more rarely did his eyes fill with warmth or humor. And then her heart leaped and raced. Why didn’t he smile more often? “Thank you,” she said slowly, “for such an agreeable meal.”
“It is my pleasure,” he said, just as carefully. But he kept eye contact. “I am glad you had a restful night in appropriate accommodations, and that you have enjoyed your breakfast.”
There was no way to avoid a confrontation, she thought. But she did not know where to start. Very carefully, she said, “Thank you for such hospitality. However, it cannot continue. Your Grace, I will be returning to my room this morning.”
His smile vanished. “I cannot allow that.”
She stiffened. “You know as well as I do that I cannot remain here.”
“You most certainly cannot return to that slum, while you most certainly can remain here as my guest.”
She inhaled as his stare hardened. “Why are you doing this?”
He sat back in his chair. “I wish to make amends.”
Alexandra hesitated. “Why?”
“I am very distressed to have caused you to suffer as you have.”
Alexandra stared as she realized that he meant it. He had been furious with her for what he thought was a deliberate deception on her part, yet he had no wish to see her suffer in an impoverished London slum. “I don’t understand you.”
“Why not? I am a philanthropist. I have set up asylums for orphans and hospitals for unwed mothers. Yet because of me, a gentlewoman has lost her position in life and has been reduced to poverty. There is a terrible irony in this. I can’t allow you to remain in such straits.”
She stared, trying to understand him. She knew about his causes and charities—everyone did. So was she now simply one of his charitable cases? It seemed so. And it was ironic—she wondered if she might wind up in one of his hospitals. “You do not need to feel guilty. Perhaps we should both admit to having made mistakes, and then we can part company in an amicable manner.”
His gaze narrowed. “I consider myself a man of honor. When I ended our affair, I never expected Edgemont to throw you out.”
She tensed impossibly. “I do not want to speak about that.”
“Why not? And which topic, exactly, do you wish to avoid? Your father—or our affair?”
She stood up. “I will need a driver to take me back to my room.”
He had stood the moment she had—and now he seized her wrist. “I would like an answer, Alexandra.”
If she spoke about Edgemont, she would quickly shatter—and possibly reveal how entirely broken her heart was. As for what had happened between them, that was territory she refused to explore, not now, and most definitely not with him, for the exact same reason. “It is senseless to dwell on the past.”
“Usually—but not this time.”
He hadn’t released her. “I cannot stay here. What little reputation I have left, I must guard.”
His gaze was penetrating, so much so that she felt as if he was trying to read her mind and uncover her most intimate thoughts, feelings and secrets. “I would like a private word with you, Alexandra.”
Her alarm knew no bounds. She managed to twist free. “I have to go.”
“You can’t go—you have no means of leaving, not until I allow it.”
“You said dukes do not take hostages!”
“You are my guest, Alexandra.” He turned to the servants. “Leave us, and close the doors. We are not to be disturbed.”
“Oh, my God,” she breathed, realizing the two serving men had been witness to their heated argument. They’d been so still that she’d forgotten they were present. She wrung her hands as they left, shutting the doors behind them. “What do you want of me now?”
“I have said repeatedly that I want to make amends. But you are right. There is more.” He stared.
She backed up.
“No, you cannot escape.” He followed her. “Explain why you misled me about your innocence.”
“What?” she asked, bewildered.
“You insinuated that you shared a grand passion with your suitor of some years ago.”
She’d hit the sideboard. “We did.” She felt so helpless. This had all begun because of what she’d had with Owen, she thought, but Clarewood would never understand her dreams and yearnings. As they stared at one another, she realized that she was trembling as he awaited her reply. “I was going to marry Owen St. James. We were in love,” she whispered, saddened. But oddly, she didn’t know if the wave of sorrow was still about Owen or about the shambles her life had become—or about him.
His stare intensified, but otherwise he did not move and he did not speak.
She felt tears gather. “I loved him so. He loved me. We laughed and talked and gossiped—we held hands in the moonlight. And we dreamed of our future.” She hugged herself. “I still miss him,” she heard herself say.
Another moment passed before he asked, “When was this?”
She met his dark gaze. “Nine years ago—a lifetime ago.”
“And what happened?”
“My mother died.” She shrugged helplessly. “How could I marry him? I loved him so—I still do and always will. But my family needed me. Father was drinking even then—although not as heavily as now. My sisters were so young—Olivia was nine, Corey only seven. I broke it off with him.” She wiped at a stray tear. “I broke his heart. He said he’d wait—I begged him not to. There were a few letters. And then he gave up, as I wished for him to do. Three years later I learned he had married someone else—of course I was happy for him.”
“Of course.” He spoke without inflection.
Alexandra realized she’d been seeing Owen standing before her, and now she stared at Stephen.
“Do you still communicate?”
“No. I last heard from him when he wrote to tell me he was marrying Jane Godson.” She shrugged but knew the gesture was hardly nonchalant.
“He must have been a true paragon of manhood, to have captured your heart so.” His tone was bland.
“Owen was handsome, witty and charming. He was also kind. He came from a good family. His father was a baron, like Edgemont. But most of all, he was my dear friend.” She somehow smiled.
His face was harder now. The angles and planes were more defined than ever. He offered her a handkerchief, his lashes lowered, so she could not see his expression.
“I am sorry. I miss him still. When you rescued me at the ball…” She stopped, realizing that she shouldn’t explain how he’d made her feel that night, how joyous it had been to be in his arms, to have him look at her with interest and heat.
“Please continue.”
Alexandra hesitated. “You are handsome and charming. I’d forgotten what it was like to be in a man’s arms like that.”
He looked up at her, his eyes blank. “So I remind you of your long-lost love. Or perhaps I was a replacement for him.”
“You are nothing like Owen. You cannot replace him.”
He made a sound and his lips curved, but there was no warmth, no mirth, in his smile.
Was he becoming angry? “I do not mean to be insulting.”
“Of course not,” he said flatly. “And if we held hands in the moonlight, if I whispered the requisite endearments in your ear, would I be like young Owen?”
Alexandra did not know what to say, and she did not like his expression or his tone now.
He added softly, “And did you yearn for his kisses, too? In the moonlight? Did you desire him?”
Alexandra knew she was blushing. “I loved Owen. Of course I felt desire.”
He stared, and she stared back. Then, very softly, he said, “But you don’t love me, so there is no possible explanation for the rapture you experienced in my arms.”
His choice of words made her cheeks flame even more deeply. Why was he doing this? And while he sounded somewhat angry, he was most definitely mocking. “I do not want to discuss our liaison!”
He was angry now, she thought, panicking. But why? “I refuse to discuss this any further.”
He caught her arm before she could flee. “I can see that your desire bothers you.”
“There is no rational explanation for the passion we shared,” she insisted.
He leaned closer. “Desire is not rational, my dear. It is physical—it is carnal.”
Her heart beat explosively now. Every fiber of her being had tightened, warmed. “I don’t know why we are discussing any of this.”
“We are discussing it because I want to understand why you deliberately misled me.”
She hugged herself. “I am shameless…. I tried to resist…but I wanted to be with you,” she whispered.
He smiled without mirth. “And now?”
She went still. His eyes were dark and angry, but they were smoldering, too. “Please, don’t. No good will come of this.”
“Of what?” He slid his hand under her jaw. “Surely you want to forget your old flame? Surely you still want to be with me?”
He was leaning toward her. “Stop! Owen was long ago. He is forgotten.”
He laughed. “You spoke of him earlier as if he were your lover just the other day. You haven’t forgotten him, not at all.”
“I have to go.”
“But you have nowhere to go,” he said, his gaze hardening. “And you know it as well as I do.”
She envisioned her horrid room. She thought about the beautiful bedroom he’d given her. “I cannot stay here!”
“Why not?” He smiled savagely. “I still want you. You still want me. And most of all, you need a protector now.”
Alexandra paled.
“Besides…” He smiled. “I believe I can make you forget your beloved Owen St. James.”
ALEXANDRA SAT in the window seat of her beautiful bedroom, her legs curled beneath her, a piece of embroidery on her lap. But she wasn’t sewing; she was watching Clarewood’s huge black lacquer coach as it approached the house, moving along the pristine shell drive, pulled by that magnificent team of blacks. Her heart thundered.
