by Brenda Joyce
The breakfast room was empty, though, and only one place was set.
She tried to contain her disappointment as she sat down and was served another sumptuous breakfast. It crossed her mind that he might not have come home at all last night, and she thought of Charlotte Witte with a deep, wrenching dismay. She suddenly found she had no appetite, even though she’d had her morning sickness earlier, and she was always hungry afterward. She pretended to eat, reminding herself that whatever Clarewood did, none of it was her affair. That choice of words did not help. She told herself that she had plenty to do that day. She had two customers whose gowns were not yet finished, and they were planning to have them picked up tomorrow, in town. She would have to deliver them now. And she had letters to write to her sisters. There was so much to explain.
She didn’t dare think about her father. If she did, it would hurt too much.
Alexandra left the breakfast room, intending to go upstairs, and set up an ironing board and a small sewing table, if she could find one, there. But then she heard voices and thought she recognized Randolph’s, as well as Clarewood’s. He was home after all.
After yesterday, she had told herself that she would never eavesdrop again, but she instantly changed direction and found herself on the threshold of a small workroom with two tables and many papers spread across them. Randolph was inside, as was the duke. Clarewood was in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up. His shirt collar was undone, his tie hanging loose. Two clerks were with them, and all heads were bent over the papers on the longest table. Everyone was speaking at once—except for Clarewood. He stood a bit apart, carefully listening to the others.
Even in such a state of dishevelment, he looked every inch the powerful and wealthy peer he was. He dominated the room. He was handsome, masculine, sensual. Trembling at the sight of him, Alexandra realized that they were discussing windows and lighting. Just as she came to that conclusion, Clarewood straightened and turned. His gaze warmed as it found hers.
She knew she blushed. She felt like rushing forward to greet him. Instead, she did not move. “I beg your pardon, I hope I am not interrupting,” she said quickly. Looking at him had sent a blow right through her chest—a fist not just of desire, but of her newfound love.
He smiled and came forward. “You could never interrupt.”
Her heart was hammering madly now. He could be so charming when it suited him. “That is nonsense. You are very busy, I see.”
“I am always occupied,” he said genially, his gaze moving slowly over her features. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very.”
“And did you enjoy your breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you.” She did not know why she was so nervous. And no one in the room seemed to care that she was present. The two clerks were arguing back and forth over the placement and size of the windows, with Randolph listening carefully to them before he murmured something about costs.
Clarewood glanced at the trio and then returned his attention to her. She had the feeling that he hadn’t missed a word. “I am designing progressive housing for the working classes.”
She started.
“No one should have to live without adequate light, ventilation, plumbing and sewage.”
She looked intently at him.
“There is a textile factory in Manchester in which I own some shares. I am building a model housing project there. If it succeeds, I hope to be able to convince other factory owners to attempt similar projects.” He smiled at her. “Healthy workers will be more productive workers, which will benefit us all.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Alexandra said. It was one thing to have heard about his good works, another to see him in his shirtsleeves, with his architects, his eyes alight with enthusiasm for his good causes. “Why do you care about the working poor?” While it had become somewhat fashionable to espouse such causes in the upper classes, most peers didn’t care about anything except their own purses.
“Because I have been given so much—without lifting a finger for it. It would be remiss of me not to use what I have been given to help those far less fortunate than myself.”
Her heart warmed impossibly. He truly cared. “Was your father a philanthropist, as well?”
“No, he was not.” His smile changed. The warmth left his eyes. “I owe a great deal to the previous duke, but he was interested only in the prosperity of Clarewood—and what it could do for him and his progeny. I do believe he might be tossing about in his grave if he knew the sums I’ve spent on those who live in abject misery.”
She studied his handsome face. If Stephen spoke the truth, how did a son differ so vastly from his father? He was a good man, she thought, her heart aching. She hesitated. “I have heard that your father was very demanding.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You have heard correctly. He was impossible to please. He would not be pleased with me now.”
She did not believe that. “I am sure he would be very proud of you.”
“Really? I doubt it.” He was wry.
Alexandra wondered at that. “I am sure your son will be as generous as you, and you will be proud of him.”
His gaze sharpened.
She tensed, thinking of the child she carried, and wishing she hadn’t said what she had.
“I hope so,” he finally said, turning away from her. Then he glanced back at her, but his lashes were lowered. “And what will you do today?” He finally met her gaze, but his eyes were impossible to read. “I have a meeting in town this afternoon, and a supper party after.”
He would be gone for most of the day and evening, she thought, reminding herself that she had no right to feel abandoned or be dismayed. “I have some sewing to do.”
His gaze narrowed. “I find your ability to provide for yourself in these circumstances admirable, but while you are here, you will lack for nothing.”
“I have two customers who are expecting repaired, freshened and pressed gowns tomorrow.”
He folded his arms and studied her. “Pass the cleaning and pressing on to my maids.”
“I would never do such a thing! In fact, I was hoping to find a table to put in my room, one at which I can sew and iron.”
His mouth tightened. Then, “This is absurd, Alexandra. I have a staff of laundresses on hand.”
“I have worked very diligently to acquire a loyal clientele,” she said. “I cannot suspend operations now.”
He was clearly disapproving. “I thought you might like to take a coach and go into town to do some shopping, or I have some amenable riding horses should you wish to hack. But clearly you intend to spend the day sewing.”
“Clearly,” she said tersely. And just as clearly, he’d forgotten she did not have the means to shop.
“And tomorrow? Will you be hard at your labors then, too?”
“I hope so.”
He shook his head. “I cannot understand why you would not take advantage of being my guest. I have a suggestion to make. Send word to your clients that you are on holiday. Enjoy your time here. You might even consider inviting some friends for lunch. Perhaps your sisters might join you? My chefs will prepare any meal that you wish.”
Alexandra almost gasped aloud. She would love to have her sisters over for a luncheon. And she recalled how she’d imagined being Squire Denney’s wife, envisioning luncheons with her sisters and him. But the fanciful image had entirely changed. She saw herself with her sisters at the duke’s table now, and he was the one walking into the dining room to join them, his smile wide and warm—and reserved exclusively for her. Shaken, she backed up.
She must never imagine such a scenario again!
“What is wrong?” he asked mildly.
“I am writing to my sisters, as they do not know I am here. I’d like to get the letter out with today’s post,” she managed.
“I’ll have someone deliver it for you,” he said. “But if you invited them for lunch, instead of spending your time sewing, you could explain your visit in perso
n.”
It was so tempting. She said softly, “And when I must return to my humble abode in town? Then what, Your Grace? How will I feed and clothe myself—and pay for my room—if I have lost all of my customers?”
His eyes darkened. “Maybe, by then, you will have a benefactor as well as a protector.”
She knew exactly what he meant, and she flushed, her heart lurching. Her simmering desire intensified.
He smiled, somewhat smugly. “I think we both know that you will only resist me for so long.”
“I think,” she managed, “that my determination might surpass yours in the end.”
His gaze narrowed, and Alexandra felt tension knife between them then.
“We will see,” he said, shrugging. But his eyes gleamed, and she had the feeling that he liked this challenge—when she hadn’t meant to challenge him at all. Then, “I have a great deal to do today. I’m afraid I must excuse myself, even if I am enjoying our debate.”
“I am sorry. I should have gone directly upstairs.”
He reached out and grasped her arm, forestalling her. “Alexandra, you are my guest, and you do not have to hide in your rooms. My staff has been instructed to see to your every wish. I would be appalled if a guest of mine were not perfectly comfortable. If you need something, you merely have to ask Guillermo—or you may ask me.”
She realized that he meant it. But his eyes had that smoldering warmth now, which she understood completely. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She pulled away.
He let her go. After a pause, he said, “In case you aren’t aware of it, I am rarely thwarted in my ambitions, Alexandra.”
Her tension knew no bounds. “I must attend my sewing. Have a good day, Your Grace.” And as she hurried away, almost relieved to have escaped intact, though she felt his eyes on her back.
THE NEXT FEW DAYS passed slowly and had a dreamlike quality to them. She was the Duke of Clarewood’s guest, but it remained hard to believe. When she awoke in the morning in her huge, canopied bed, covered in down, surrounded by the finest furnishings, she was always surprised to find herself there. A tray of chocolate was always outside her door, piping hot, in the finest china. Breakfast was always awaiting her in the breakfast room upon the elaborate buffet.
She now knew she would not see him at breakfast, or even during the day—he was either closeted with his architects, associates or clerks in his study or library, or he was attending meetings in town. She had adopted the habit of reading while taking breakfast alone, perusing the newspapers he’d already read. She spent the rest of her day sewing, taking a simple sandwich in her room at noontime, or delivering the gowns she had repaired.
If he was out, her gaze kept straying to the lawns and the long shell drive—she knew she was watching for his return. If he was in, she strained to hear the sound of doors opening and closing downstairs, and his rich, warm baritone.
And she would bump into him when she was least expecting it—upon turning the corner in a hall, or on the stairwell as she went upstairs, or when returning to the house from the outdoors. The moment their paths crossed he would become motionless, his powerful presence and large body dominating the small space between them. He never failed to politely inquire after her, while his gaze always instantly warmed. He no longer asked what she intended to do that day—instead, she caught him looking at her hands. She usually wore a thimble, and the tips of her fingers had calluses on them. He kept his expression impassive, but she knew he still disapproved.
And every such encounter made her breathless. Every such encounter, no matter how small and how brief, made her yearn for more. Whenever they were close, his body pulled at her, as a magnet might. The urge to leap into his arms grew daily. She was almost certain he felt the same tension.
But he had yet to launch another seduction.
Now she lifted her needle and thread. It was late in the afternoon, and he’d left for the day before she’d even gone down to breakfast. According to Guillermo, he had gone to Manchester and might spend the night there. She shouldn’t be dismayed, but she was.
A moment later Guillermo informed her that she had a caller. She was surprised; who would call on her? She’d written to her sisters five days ago, but there hadn’t been a reply. She stood up eagerly, hoping that Olivia and Corey had come. “Who is it?”
“Your father, the Baron Edgemont.”
She tensed. She’d written to her sisters but not to her father, because she didn’t know what to say to him. She desperately wanted forgiveness—as desperately as she wanted him to love her and be proud of her again—as if they could erase the past.
Alexandra began to tremble, and she took a quick glance at herself in the mirror as she left the room. She followed Guillermo downstairs, praying all would be well with her father now. He had been shown into her favorite salon, and he turned when she paused on the threshold.
She could not move. He wasn’t smiling, but then, neither was she. She wished they’d never had their last conversation, that he’d never thrown her out of the house. “Hello, Father.” She inhaled. “I’m so glad you have called.”
He was grim. “Your sisters finally told me that you are the duke’s guest.”
She cringed. “I am his guest—and only his guest. I had nowhere else to go.”
He looked at her hands. Then he said, “Why are you still sewing?”
She removed the thimble, and realized she was clutching a needle and thread. “I need the income.”
Edgemont gaped. “Surely that is not the case, seeing that you are living here as Clarewood’s guest.”
From the way he spat the last word, she knew he did not believe her. She hugged herself. “I am not having an affair, Father.”
“Then what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I told you,” she shot back. “I have nowhere to go, and he has been kind.”
“Kind?” he echoed, shaking his head, disgusted.
This wasn’t how she’d prayed their meeting would be. “I miss you, Father. I miss Corey and Olivia.” She wanted to beg him to let her go home. But she didn’t. She started forward desperately. “I am so sorry to have disappointed you. I do not blame you for throwing me out. What I did was shameful—disgraceful. I so need your forgiveness.”
Edgemont trembled. “You’re my eldest, Alexandra. Of course I forgive you.”
She stared at him warily. He did not look as if he meant it. His face was set in harsh, twisted lines. Even so, she wanted to rush into his arms, though she had the feeling it would be awkward, at best, and a disaster at worst.
“You’re my eldest, the best of the lot. You’re the sensible one—the saintly one,” he continued. “And you’re so much like your mother.”
She thought he meant to be loving, but his words felt like a blow. You’re nothing like your mother. The words echoed in her mind. “I made a mistake. Mother would never have done what I did.” Elizabeth would have stayed strong; she would never have given in to temptation. “Do you truly forgive me?”
“Of course I do,” he said grimly. “Or I wouldn’t be here.”
But he wasn’t embracing her, and he didn’t seem pleased. Alexandra sat down, shaken. Nothing felt the same. She’d opened up a rift between them, and she could feel it still. “How are you? How is Olivia? Corey?”
“Corey has cried herself to sleep almost every night. She misses you—they both do.” He was blunt, and his words stabbed through her. He added, “Olivia has holes in her shoes—the cobbler has said he cannot make another repair. The boys in town are so rude to Corey that she won’t go into the village anymore.”
Alexandra stiffened. Had he already spent the two thousand pounds? Still, she had not a doubt that her downfall had made things worse for Corey. She could not bear that.
Edgemont looked at her almost balefully. “I believe Denney will court Olivia now. You broke his heart, but that was over a month ago, and he has come by twice in the last week.”
She shot to her feet. “No.”
“It’s too late to decide you want the good squire back.” And he gestured at the room. “You have all of this now, anyway.”
“I am his guest. Olivia must marry for love—someone her own age.”
“And she needs a dowry,” he said. “But you know that.”
Alexandra stood very still. “The two thousand pounds—it was for my sisters!”
“But it is gone, and I am so worried about them,” he said. “I am drinking myself into oblivion every night.”
It was hard to breathe. She was so angry now, but she began to understand where they were going. “You must control yourself,” she said.
“How can I? My creditors come to the house every day now.”
She trembled, sick with dismay. “How much do you need, Father?”
He walked away from her, hands in his pockets. From across the room, he turned and looked at her. “Another thousand would pay the most insufferable of them off. An additional five hundred would buy shoes and clothes for the girls.”
He’d gambled away the the money, she thought angrily, and now he wanted more.
“You’re not wearing jewels,” he said.
She touched her bare throat. “You didn’t come here to see how I am, or to forgive me—or to tell me that you still love me,” she said. There was more pain now, rising in her chest.
“You’re my daughter. Of course I came to see you, and I said I forgive you.”
He’d come for funds. She wet her lips. “I am not his mistress. I am his houseguest.”
“So he is already done with you?”
“That isn’t fair.”
“He wouldn’t have you living here otherwise. Will you help your sisters?”
