An Impossible Attraction

by Brenda Joyce

  She tensed, her alarm becoming panic. He had become an indolent but dangerous lion, and she was in his den.

  Owen’s already dark expression became darker. He said coldly, “Alexandra wished to make me and her sisters comfortable, Your Grace. She succeeded—she is an exceptional hostess, but then, she always was. However—” he smiled mirthlessly “—she promised me a stroll in your gardens.”

  Her alarm intensified as Stephen’s fixed smile hardened. She instantly said, “It is far too chilly to walk outside now, and besides, you mentioned that you have a late tea in town. Don’t you?” she lied, and heard the plea in her tone. He had to leave. Stephen seemed angry. She knew he couldn’t be jealous, but she also recalled the terms of their arrangement—he expected her to be faithful to him. Once Owen left, she could explain, and then everything would be back to normal again.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Owen looked ready to openly refuse. But with obvious reluctance he said, “I never meant to stay too long, and you are right, I have other obligations.” Suddenly he took her hand and clasped it. “I am so glad we have had this chance to see one another again, after so much time. Thank you for the splendid lunch and the even more splendid company.”

  She tugged her hand free. “I am so glad, too.” She glanced uneasily at Stephen. That odd smile remained, but his eyes were black thunderclouds. “I will walk you out.”

  Stephen folded his arms. “Bon voyage, St. James. Call anytime.”

  “Thank you for lunch, Your Grace,” Owen returned as caustically. “And I may do just that.”

  They hated each other. Alexandra knew her cheeks were crimson now, as she crossed the hall with Owen, acutely aware of him beside her, and just as acutely aware of Stephen standing on the far side of the room, staring at them. Owen lowered his voice at the front door and said, “Will you be all right?”

  “I will be fine,” she said breathlessly. “Really.” Her smile felt horrifically fragile.

  Owen glanced across the hall at Stephen. “He seems a heartless bastard. Send word if you need me.” He bowed and strode out the open front doors, which the doorman closed after him.

  She was trembling wildly now, her knees buckled, and she hugged herself. She felt sick, but not because of the child. They hated one another! she thought again, and briefly closed her eyes. What was she going to do—about everything? Only two things were clear: she must explain her relationship with Owen to Stephen, and now was not the time to mention her condition. Then she slowly—reluctantly—looked up.

  Stephen’s regard was scathing. Then he whirled and strode down the hall, vanishing from her sight.

  She wet her lips nervously and realized she was afraid of him now. She’d seen his temper once and had hoped never to see it again. But there was no avoiding a confrontation now. She hurried after him.

  As she entered the library behind him, he flung his coat onto the sofa. “So how is your long-lost love, Alexandra?”

  She faltered. “Owen is my friend, Stephen. I am with you now.”

  He whirled to face her. “You loved him with all of your heart. You told me so. You planned to marry him. But instead, you sacrificed yourself for your sisters and father. Do correct me if I am wrong.” He was dripping sarcasm.

  “No,” she whispered. “You are right. But that was long ago.”

  He made a harsh sound—like a mirthless laugh. “What does he want?” he demanded.

  She shivered, unable to tell him what Owen had said.

  “What does he want?” he repeated, his tone louder now, his eyes ablaze.

  “I don’t know,” she said, trembling. “His wife died six months ago, and he decided to call on me so that we might reminisce.”

  His eyes widened. He was incredulous.

  She turned away, her temples throbbing. Everything was so clear now. Owen still loved her—she knew that now. And she knew why he had come to town—and it wasn’t to reminisce.

  Olivia was right. Owen would be her knight in shining armor, if she needed one.

  And she still cared so much for him.

  From behind, Stephen seized her shoulders roughly, whirling her to face him. “I see,” he said bitterly.

  “No.” She shook her head, frantic. “No, you do not see anything! I would never violate the terms of our agreement.”

  “And what terms are those?” he demanded, his gaze searing. “Do you love him, Alexandra? Or need I even bother to ask?”

  “I would never be unfaithful to you!” she cried desperately.

  “Really?” His grasp tightened. A terrible pause ensued. She could not look away—and now she could hardly breathe. “You didn’t answer me. Do you still love him, Alexandra?”

  She gasped. She meant to answer, she did. But no words formed. Instead her heart thundered, in fear, with panic.

  “There are many ways a woman can betray a man,” he said harshly. He flung her off, and she stumbled. “And you do not have to bother to answer me,” he spat, stalking to the fire, “because I know the answer!”

  She started to cry. “No, you do not know the answer.”

  He whirled. “You love him! You loved him nine years ago, and you still do! I am not blind. It is beyond obvious!” he was shouting. “Any fool can see that the two of you are in love!”

  The tears flowed. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “You would lie to me now? Deny that you love St. James?”

  She began shaking her head. “Of course I love him, but—”

  He started toward her, livid. Alexandra tensed and flinched, thinking he meant to strike her. But he didn’t raise his hand. “And would you have told me about this visit if I hadn’t walked in on the two of you so tenderly in one another’s arms?” He was shaking. “I saw the way you were touching him, Alexandra, so don’t tell me that you haven’t betrayed me.”

  She tried to tell him that she would have told him, but all she could do was whisper, “Yes,” as the tears crept down her cheeks.

  “How many times will you betray me?” he demanded. “How many times?”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about. “I haven’t betrayed you!”

  “Really?” He was breathing hard, as if he’d been in a footrace. “And what about the child? My child? For how long did you think to deceive me? Lie to me? Did you intend to leave me before the child showed—and pass it off one day as someone else’s?”

  She cringed, horrified. He knew. Stephen knew about the child. “How long have you known?” she managed.

  “I have known since I picked you up out of the London gutter,” he said vehemently.

  She recoiled, and not just from the language he’d chosen—but from the hateful look in his eyes. “Please don’t, Stephen…. I hated the deception!”

  “Then why?” he shouted at her.

  She shook her head helplessly. How could she tell him that his anger terrified her—that he now terrified her?

  “I had every right to know that you are carrying my child—my child!” His arm swept out—a lamp went crashing to the floor, shattering. Alexandra leaped away, but he seized her arm and yanked her back, this time up against his hard, trembling body. “You have lied to me from the start. I am usually a good judge of character. But the lies will never stop, will they?”

  “No!” She wept. “Stephen, I was going to tell you about the child!”

  He released her, shaking his head, backing away. “Get out,” he said.

  And when she did not move, he roared, “Get out of here!”

  Alexandra ran.

  IT WAS TOO LATE NOW. He stared out his carriage window, filled with what felt like hatred for a man he did not know, when he had never felt such vicious fury before. He had developed a deep affection for Alexandra. He knew that now—but it was too late, because he had lost her.

  I loved him with all of my heart…my mother died, there was no choice….

  Of course I love him.

  He cursed.

  He had lost a woman he cared
deeply for to another man.

  And it bloody well hurt.

  He began to laugh, without mirth, and he drank from his glass of scotch. He was the most eligible bachelor in the realm, the wealthiest, most powerful peer, and he had lost his mistress to another man. One day, he would think the terrible irony funny.

  But he had never cared about a woman before. He had never spent hours talking to another woman, even while in bed, and he had never smiled as much as he had recently. Alexandra had brought so much light into his life, and he hadn’t even realized how dark and dreary it had been before she had come into it.

  He had been content, but not happy. Alexandra had shown him the difference.

  Was he in love?

  Did it matter?

  She loved someone else. It had been so damned clear. And even though she’d never been with St. James, they looked at one another, silently exchanging their thoughts, as if they’d been lovers for years.

  He wasn’t just a suitor, he was my best friend.

  He had never become her best friend. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. He’d wanted to protect her, defend her, take care of her and make love to her. He’d always considered Alexi his best friend and now, damn it all, he wanted to know why he wasn’t her best friend!

  The jealousy seethed, as hot and angry as the anger. St. James was her best friend. He tossed the glass aside and drank directly from the bottle now.

  He was jealous—another first. As for the pain in his chest, did that mean he had a broken heart? But that was impossible, wasn’t it? He was cold and heartless, everyone said so. He was just like old Tom.

  He closed his eyes in anguish, certain that his father was somewhere close by, laughing at him now. Dukes do not endure broken hearts. Get on with it. He could hear him as clear as day.

  Except that while Tom had done his best to form him in his mold, to make him into a cold, rational, decisive man bent only on duty, he wasn’t Tom’s natural son; he was a de Warenne.

  A de Warenne loves once and forever.

  He cursed when he wanted to weep. He had lost a woman he cared for, and if he dared to be honest, he loved Alexandra Bolton. There was no other explanation for his feelings now or for the light she’d brought into his life. He’d never met anyone like her. He’d known that immediately. She was so fiercely courageous, so determinedly strong, so adept and independent. And she was passionate. Amazingly, she had taught him passion. He’d never wanted to be with any other woman the way he wanted to be with her. He hadn’t even realized he was a passionate man until he’d made love to her.

  How many times had he looked at her while making love to her, wanting to tell her how he felt? And each and every time, old Tom had sat by his side, mocking him for such weakness.

  He’d never told her that he cared. But that was for the best, wasn’t it?

  He tensed, his gut contracting so tightly it hurt. No man in his right mind would declare love to a woman who did not return his feelings.

  He couldn’t help remembering himself as a young boy, wishing so terribly to hear those few words from the man claiming to be his father.

  But he hadn’t confessed anything to her. Still, he had thought she cared in return. She had touched him as if she loved him. Her eyes had shone as if she loved him. But she didn’t love him—it had been a pretense, a game.

  She loved St. James.

  He flung the bottle at the other seat, hard, and it shattered. Then he covered his face with his hands. He was filled with anguish, and it felt unbearable! He’d never felt this way before. He had never been denied anything he dearly wanted!

  And what about their child? Would she ever have told him about their child?

  He wasn’t sure, and he was so angry that he had no intention of giving her the benefit of the doubt. There had been so many moments when she could have told him—he’d intentionally given her openings. But she never had. Alexandra was so adept at lying to him. She had lied about her innocence, and she had lied about her pregnancy. His heart cracked widely apart now. He felt certain she’d intended to deceive him for as long as possible.

  But what if she had been telling the truth when she said that she had intended to tell him about their child? His heart screamed at him.

  His heart was not to be trusted, obviously. He was a rational man! And what she’d intended did not matter—because of St. James.

  He would never let another man raise his child.

  His heart lurched as he thought about that. He realized that the carriage had stopped. He turned to look grimly outside and saw Alexi’s grand Oxford home, brilliantly lit up in the middle of a cloudy night. He’d bought it back when he and Elysse were estranged, and the magnificent country manor was set on ten acres, surrounded by gardens and a game park. Stephen got out, the footman carefully pretending he didn’t know that the duke was drunk, and had smashed a bottle of old and costly scotch whiskey in the back of his once-clean coach.

  Alexi did not keep doormen, and Stephen rang the bell and used the door knocker, rudely and loudly, simultaneously. Alexi greeted him a moment later barefoot, shirtless, clad only in a pair of trousers—and holding a pistol in his hand. His eyes widened. “Come in,” he quickly said. “Has someone died?”

  Stephen strode past him. “I could use a drink.” He walked down the hall and into the library where he’d spent so much time with Alexi and his other cousins.

  After closing the front door, Alexi followed him inside. Stephen was staring at the small fire burning in the hearth, wishing the pain in his chest would go away.

  Alexi turned on several lights and said, “You have come a long way for a drink. But you certainly look as if you could use one—though you stink of liquor already. And you do not have a coat, though it is freezing out.”

  “I smashed a bottle of whiskey inside my coach.” He turned to look at his friend.

  Alexi’s eyes widened again. “You never smash things—unless it is my nose.” He walked over to the sideboard and began pouring drinks. “It is one in the morning, by the way.”

  Stephen looked at him. “I have something to tell you.”

  “I suspected as much.” Alexi handed him a glass.

  Stephen did not drink. “Alexandra is carrying my child.”

  Alexi’s eyes widened, and he began to smile. Then he sobered. “Stephen, if you do not think this is good news, I will pummel some sense into you. She is a fine woman, and you do not have any children—and you certainly need sons.”

  Stephen made a dismissive sound. “I’m a bastard, and I swore I’d never inflict that stigma on a child.”

  Alexi smiled. “Then marry her, you dammed fool.”

  Stephen’s grasp on the glass tightened. His jaw was so rigid, he wondered if he might crack his teeth. Of course he should marry her. She was carrying his child. And suddenly he could see a future with her as his wife—and it was a bright, cheerful future, filled with joy and light. Except he did not think she would choose him over her true love. He was certain she would turn him down.

  “She loves someone else.”

  Alexi choked.

  “Can you believe it?”

  Alexi put his own drink down, in order to clasp Stephen’s shoulder. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure—and not because I caught them together. She told me all about the one and only true love of her life—whom she meant to marry nine years ago.” He stared at Alexi, wishing St. James were present, so he could throttle him and get him out of their lives. “He was courting her. She turned him away when her mother died, so she could sacrifice herself and her happiness for her family. But that,” he inhaled, “is Alexandra.”

  “What do you mean, you caught them together?” Alexi asked carefully.

  “I did not catch them in bed, if that is what you’re thinking. I caught them with their heads together, in an affectionate embrace.”

  “And because of that, you think she still loves her old flame?”

  Stephen nodded.


  Alexi shrugged. “As I said, she is a fine woman. And you always get what you want, so if you want her, go get her. You are at your best when you have a rival. And by the way, we all approve—very much.”

  Stephen was disbelieving. “Didn’t you hear what I said? She’s in love with St. James!” And old Tom leered at him again. He would never beg for her love. No one should beg for love. It was either freely given or it was worthless. “Oh, I forgot to tell you the rest of it—he’s a widower now, so they can ride off together into the sunset, their wedding rings glinting.” He choked on the last words.

  How could losing her hurt so terribly?

  Suddenly Elysse appeared in a nightgown and wrapper. “Stephen? Is everything all right?”

  He felt like a child again, one living in the lonely splendor of Clarewood, doing his best to please the duke and always failing. He saw old Tom in a corner of the room, laughing cruelly at him. That old man had never once said he’d cared, was proud, or that he loved the boy he’d made into his son.

  He turned his back on Elysse, trying to find composure. Alexi said, “We are fine, sweetheart. Go back to bed. I won’t be up for a while—if at all.”

  Stephen heard her leave. He inhaled and said harshly, “I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude to Elysse.”

  “You have finally found love. Therefore you are forgiven.”

  Stephen faced Alexi. “You may be right, but do not start in on me with all that de Warenne myth and tradition. I am not a de Warenne, I am Clarewood—I am more old Tom’s son than I am Sir Rex’s. And Alexandra is making plans to marry her beloved Owen even as we speak.”

  “Are you certain?” Alexi asked.

  Stephen spoke with care, considering his own words. “Of course I am certain. I know Alexandra. She is the kind of woman to give her heart once in a lifetime.” But oddly, just then, as his heart screamed at him, he felt some doubt. Still, he had seen them together. They had looked as intimate as lovers. He hated St. James!

  Alexi began shaking his head.

  “What does that mean?” Stephen demanded.

  “It means a man blinded by love is exactly that—blind. You can’t possibly see clearly—or think clearly—now. And Elysse happens to think Alexandra is perfect for you. She also thinks that Alexandra loves you. In fact, she told me that Alexandra is not the kind of woman to have an affair, not unless it is about love.”