An Impossible Attraction

by Brenda Joyce

  He caught her hips and said something, then settled his tongue low and deep. Julia exploded. Bursting into bright light, she wept in rapture, thanking him repeatedly.

  He moved over her, breathing hard. She managed to open her eyes, look at him. I love him, she thought. And she wanted to please him, too. She knew what he meant to do, but she reared up, surprising him, to kiss him, wanting him to understand the magnitude of what he’d just given her, the depth of her gratitude. On his knees, his manhood fiercely stabbing at her, he went still, while she kissed him.

  She bent low and tasted him.

  He shuddered, groaned, and she knew he meant to protest, but she had no intention of stopping, and she moved her mouth over him, new desire making her dizzy and faint. He choked, breathing hard, and then pulled her up into his arms. For one moment they looked at one another with sudden recognition.

  He smiled fiercely, and then they were joined. Julia wept as another release took her again, but they were tears of sheer joy. Finally he cried out, and she thought he wept, too.

  When she floated back to reality, she was in his arms, their legs were entwined, and he was stroking her jaw with his thumb in the broad light of a weekday morning. She flushed with happiness. The urge to make love with him again returned. She wriggled her toes, smiling, and looked up at him, her small hand on his chest.

  He smiled back, and his eyes were warm. “I never would have guessed,” he said softly, kissing her forehead. Then he slid his hand into the waves of her long hair.

  “It’s been so long, and I’ve been so nervous about allowing you to see how I feel.”

  His smile faded. “How long, Julia?”

  She said simply, “Fifteen years.”

  He stared for a long time. “You’re so passionate. How could you manage like that?”

  “There was no one I wanted,” she said softly.

  He went still. Then he tightened his embrace and moved over her, but now he stared into her eyes.

  She remembered that he was leaving the next day. Dismay welled in her, accompanied by heartache. “I am going to miss you, Tyne.”

  His eyes widened, and she hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

  But he said only, “Do you have to go?”

  She stared at him, confused.

  “We can have a champagne breakfast in my bed.”

  If that was all he was willing to offer, she would accept. Julia clasped his strong jaw, her heart buoyant with her love, refusing to think about tomorrow. And then she lifted her face to his. He went still, and she kissed him slowly, until he pushed her down onto the bed.

  HE COULD NOT ATTEND the drawings on his desk; the lines and notations swam in his vision, as if crooked and illegible, deluding him. Instead, Alexandra’s image was in his mind, her eyes red and swollen—clearly she had been crying last night. Why?

  Why was she upset? Her long-lost lover had returned!

  Then he recalled her shock when he’d told her that they would marry.

  She had been so surprised; clearly she had not expected that response from him. But then, he had never thought the pregnancy was a scheme to trap him into marriage; it had obviously been an accidental conception.

  After all these years, after searching for the perfect bride for over a decade, he was ready to marry the woman he’d pursued, seduced and then rescued, the woman he’d forcibly made his mistress. She had no good name, no means and no rank—she sewed for a living. God, it was an ironic twist of fate. They would marry because of the child, but he wanted to marry her because he was in love. He wanted to give her his good name and his protection, and all the finer things in life.

  He cursed.

  Several hours later, a steaming cup of tea was at his elbow, a glass of scotch, half-finished, beside that. He’d been trying to work since dawn—since he’d told Alexandra that they would marry, and that if she left him, she would also leave their child behind. His architects, Randolph and his steward had all vanished, clearly realizing he was in no humor to work with them.

  Only Guillermo hovered. He’d brought sandwiches, which he’d refused, then eggs and ham, which he’d ignored. The butler’s last attempt to entice him to eat had involved steak and kidneys. He’d sent the tray away.

  He covered his face with his hands. He was so damned tired. He’d never expected Alexandra to ask him for time. But he should have guessed. She was intelligent, and clearly she meant to weigh her options. He did not know of a single woman who wouldn’t have leaped at the chance to become his duchess, no matter the circumstances. But her response confirmed what he believed: she did not love him back. She loved St. James.

  He looked up, across the large, dark library. Old Tom stood in the corner of the room, his expression one of scorn and condescension. Stephen blinked, and his father was gone.

  A soft knock sounded on his door, which was ajar. It was Guillermo, and while his butler never changed his expression, Stephen took one look at him and stood, alarmed. “What is it?”

  “I believe that Miss Bolton is leaving with her sisters.”

  It took him a moment to comprehend Guillermo’s words. Then he strode past him, through the house and into the front hall.

  Alexandra was there with her sisters, wearing one of her old, tired, unfashionable dresses, and they were all putting on their coats. He saw instantly that her sewing bag was on the floor, beside her—and that her wrist was bare. And he knew then that she was leaving him.

  She turned, holding her head high, her eyes very swollen now. She walked slowly to him, pausing, her gaze on his. It was filled with what seemed to be sorrow or hurt or both. “I am going back to Edgemont Way.”

  Her words knifed through him, causing physical pain. “I see.” He took a breath and spoke so calmly, he knew he surprised them both. “So you have made your choice.”

  She shook her head in denial. Tears slid down her face. “No. There was no choice to make.”

  He did not understand her words, but it was clear that she had chosen St. James over him and their child. He shoved away the pain and said, “I would prefer that you stayed here until the child is born—so you will have the proper care.”

  “I cannot stay here, Stephen,” she said, trembling. “Not now, not like this.”

  He inhaled, fighting to stay calm, fighting the pain. “What do you mean?”

  “Staying here, after what has happened, would be unbearable.”

  He tensed. He wanted her at Clarewood, where she would have the best care—and where she would be nearby, where he could see her every day. He spoke carefully again. “Can’t you wait a few more months before you run off with your lover?”

  She trembled. “I am not running off with anyone. But I will not stay here. Surely you will not attempt to force me to do so?”

  He stared closely, aching in every fiber of his being. “No, I will not force you to stay here.” Somehow, he kept his voice to a monotone.

  She seemed relieved.

  She was clearly desperate to get away from him. He did not know how they had come to this impasse. “I will send servants to attend you at Edgemont Way, but you will return to birth my child at Clarewood. And we will marry first.” It was a warning. His son or daughter would be legitimate, and would be born here. He would not have it any other way.

  He was shocked when she shook her head again. “This is also my child, and I am afraid I cannot give it up, not even to you, the rightful father. Our child will stay with me, Stephen.”

  “I will never allow another man to raise my son,” he informed her coldly, meaning it. Pain knifed deeply through him.

  She backed away. “Maybe we can discuss the child more calmly when some time has passed—and we are both in better tempers.”

  “There is nothing to discuss,” he said, breathing hard. “I will fight you as you have never been fought before, but the child will be raised here, by me.”

  More tears fell, and she flinched. “I am going home.” She turned.

  He s
eized her, the action reflexive.

  She faced him, her eyes wide. A terrible moment ensued. She said softly, “I do not want to fight with you, not on any account.”

  “Then stay here and marry me now.”

  She shuddered. “I can’t.”

  He released her. He could not breathe properly.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry.” When he did not reply, she walked away, picked up her bag, then half turned and said, “The bracelet is on my dresser.”

  THERE WERE NO MORE tears left. Alexandra held on to the safety strap of the carriage as it bounced along the ruts of their drive, her small, ramshackle home just ahead. Nothing had changed, she thought dismally. The yard was muddy and unkempt, puddles had turned into ponds, one of the front steps was crooked, and the brick walk was missing pieces. Beyond, the barn looked in dire jeopardy, as if it might cave in on itself at any moment.

  She trembled. She had thought herself cried out last night, but she had been wrong. She had spent the past three hours crying, and even her sisters hadn’t been able to comfort her.

  As their carriage halted in front of the house, Bonnie now in the traces, the front door opened. Edgemont stepped out onto the porch.

  She tensed. She could not bear another difficult and hurtful confrontation now.

  Olivia had been driving, and she set the brake and got down from the carriage. “Hello, Father. Alexandra has come home, and you will welcome her with open arms.”

  Alexandra looked at Olivia. Her sister had grown up, she thought. But she couldn’t be joyful at that realization, for it was tragedy that had matured her.

  Edgemont trembled. He was bleary-eyed, but freshly dressed, and he didn’t say a word.

  Corey alighted, and Alexandra followed suit. As Corey led the red mare toward the stable, she followed Olivia onto the front porch, the steps creaking beneath their weight. Her heart lurched as she said, “Hello, Father.” She prayed they would not have it out now.

  His gaze was searching. She knew there was no disguising her distress, that he could see she had been crying. “Hello, Alexandra.” His jowls quivered. “What has happened?”

  She decided to make light of it as much as she could. “I seem to have made a habit of being tossed out on my rear,” she said, trying to smile.

  He did not smile back.

  She picked up her sewing bag. “I must come home, and I am begging you to let me return,” she said with all the dignity she had.

  He choked. “I am so sorry I threw you out! I was simply distraught to realize what you’d done.”

  Alexandra had never been so relieved. “Father, I am ashamed. And I am sorry to have hurt you and disgraced everyone.” Then she thought about her child and realized she couldn’t have regrets. She would love her baby, no matter what happened next—and she feared that would include a terrible battle with Stephen. She would find a better time to tell Edgemont about the child in her womb.

  His eyes became moist, and he blinked rapidly. “I am sorry, too. My God, Alexandra, you are the light of this family, and you are so like your mother. I was wrong, wrong, to say otherwise. Clarewood is a roué, and the world knows it. He seduced you, didn’t he? The bastard! I’ve heard it said he has left a trail of broken hearts across the land. But I blamed you—when I should have blamed him. Well, I blame the bastard duke now!”

  Even now, she wanted to defend him, but it was impossible. He meant to keep her child from her. He thought her a liar—a purposeful one. He’d leaped to the conclusion that she loved Owen, and meant to run off with him. He would force her into marriage! He did not trust her or understand her—or know her—at all. How was that possible? He thought the very worst of her!

  She could not marry him if he disliked her, despised her, or, even worse, was indifferent to her. And she would not marry him, loving him as she did, when he so clearly did not love her in return. It remained unbelievable that he would marry her and then allow her to run off with Owen—and keep her child from her. “I fell in love with him, Father,” she managed. “Otherwise I would have been able to fend off his advances.”

  She was amazed when he gently touched her cheek. “Of course you did. You would never have carried on otherwise, and I knew it even as I made such horrid accusations. I am so sorry, Alexandra. It was the gin—you know that, don’t you?” he pleaded.

  She took him into her arms as she might a grown but mentally impaired or physically defective child. As she held him, he started to cry, and she knew he was suffering from the effects of whatever he’d found to imbibe the night before as much as he was from anguish and sorrow. And it crossed her mind that her father was weak and had become useless long ago. The man her mother had married had died with her. But it didn’t matter. He needed her to take care of him, and she would gladly do so. She would do so until the end of her days.

  He sniffed and stepped out of her embrace. “Could you make me some eggs? No one makes an omelet as well as you do.”

  She smiled, feeling wan, tired and sad. Nothing had changed. She looked from her disheveled father to her sister, who was the epitome of impoverished grace, and then at the untidy, worn parlor just inside. No, nothing had changed—except that she was an experienced woman now, with a child on the way. She had come home to Edgemont Way to take care of her sisters, her father and now, her unborn child.

  She had come full circle.

  “WORD HAS IT THAT YOU have been locked in your library for most of this week. I have noticed that you have not returned my notes. I could not decide if things went well with Alexandra or if you remained mired in a lovers’ quarrel.”

  Stephen had been engrossed in a proposal for financing a Northern European mining venture in which he was intending to invest. He looked up and found Alexi standing on the threshold of the library, Guillermo behind him. And because every shade was down, every curtain drawn, he was uncertain if it was day or night.

  He was not in the mood for callers, and he had made that abundantly clear to his staff. Not even Alexi was to have the privilege of walking in on him unannounced now.

  “Elysse insisted I call,” Alexi added, staring very closely at him.

  “I told Captain de Warenne that you were not receiving callers, Your Grace,” his butler said. “But Captain de Warenne refused to heed me.”

  “I decided to let myself in, as I always do,” Alexi said cheerfully. “I must say, I was rather surprised to find that Guillermo actually intended to bar me, your closest and perhaps only friend, from seeing you.”

  Stephen closed the file, annoyed. “I am much occupied, Alexi,” he warned.

  “Really? Elysse just heard a rumor—that Alexandra Bolton has returned home, and that she is being courted by a gentleman I do not know, one Owen St. James. I take it, then, that you were correct and I was wrong, and she turned you down?” He sauntered in. “Or did you lose courage and fail to ask her for her hand?”

  Stephen stood, somehow managing to smile calmly. Five days had passed since Alexandra had left Clarewood. And the moment she had walked out of his front door, her intentions clear—she meant to keep his child from him and, no matter what she had said, run off with St. James—he had shut her out of his mind and his heart. He did not think about her. He did not feel anything now. And he would not think about the child until the spring, having estimated it was due in early August. In fact, he was feeling very much like his old self again—his life was the Clarewood legacy, as it should be. He rose early to attend his numerous affairs, both of the duchy and the Foundation, and he went to bed late, satisfied with the day’s achievements. Nor did he go to bed alone. An expensive London madam had been providing him with a different courtesan every night. His only requirements were that they were foreign, healthy and did not speak a word of English.

  But even though he smiled benignly now, his heart lurched unpleasantly in response to his cousin’s comments. But he was not going to pay attention to Alexi’s words, since he knew Alexi only meant to bait him. “Do come in
, as you will not take no for an answer. How are you? How is Elysse?” He walked out from behind his desk, going to the sideboard. When Alexi did not answer, he asked, “Wine or scotch?”

  “Actually, it’s a bit early to drink, so I will decline,” Alexi said.

  Stephen poured himself a glass of scotch as Alexi came up behind him. “Guillermo, please open the drapes.”

  As sunlight began to fill the room, Alexi said, “What is wrong with you, and what has happened? Why did Alexandra leave Clarewood?”

  “Nothing is wrong with me, Alexi. I have come to my senses, that is all.” He smiled.

  Alexi stared, his gaze filled with speculation. Then, “She refused to marry you—undoubtedly because you demanded a marriage, instead of tendering a romantic proposal.”

  Stephen tensed. He had indeed done just that, and he knew it. But he was not going to discuss Alexandra Bolton—nor would he think of her. He sensed Tom nearby—and knew he was pleased. “I am not a romantic, ergo I would never tender a romantic proposal. And the affair is over—I do not wish to discuss it.” He got up and walked away from his cousin. Now, though, he had a slight ache in his chest.

  Alexi followed, seizing his shoulder. “She is having your child! Or is it St. James’s bastard?”

  Stephen whirled, furious at the allegation, fist clenched, ready to smash Alexi in the nose for daring to insinuate that Alexandra had been unfaithful to him. His anger soared. It knew no bounds. And the moment he met Alexi’s smug eyes, he knew he’d been successfully baited.

  As if a dam had been breached, the pain coursed through him in the wake of his anger, and he kept seeing Alexandra leaving his front hall with her sewing bag, her eyes red and swollen, her head held high. “Damn you!” he exclaimed. “The child is mine—and when he is born, he will be born at Clarewood. I will raise my son or daughter,” he said harshly. “No matter what she intends. Damn her!”