Friday, March 19, 2010

An Impossible Attraction by BRENDA JOYCE



For Sue Ball, one of the most generous and caring
spirits I have ever known. My heartfelt thanks for so
many years of kindness, friendship and support to me
and my family.

An Impossible Attraction by BRENDA JOYCE

PROLOGUE
THERE WAS SO MUCH LIGHT, and Alexandra
hesitated, confused.
“Alex…andra?” her mother whispered from the bed.
Gold-and-burgundy wallpaper adorned the walls,
and dark draperies were closed over the bedroom’s
two windows. The bureau was a dark, rich mahogany,
as was the bed, and the bedding was wine and gold.
The room’s single armchair was a dark, intense red.
Yet the light within almost blinded her. “I am here,
Mother,” she whispered back.
And then, because Elizabeth Bolton was dying and
would not last another night, because she had wasted
away from the cancer eating at her, because she was
so frail and weak now that she could barely see, much
less hear, Alexandra hurried forward. She held back
the tears. She hadn’t cried, not even once, not even
when her father had told her that her mother had a
terrible and fatal disease. It hadn’t been a shock.
Elizabeth had been fading away before Alexandra and
her younger sisters’ eyes for months. Being the eldest
—all of seventeen—meant she had to hold the family
together now in this crisis.
Alexandra rushed to her mother’s side, her heart
clenching as she looked at her gaunt, unrecognizable
face and frame. Elizabeth had been so beautiful, so
lively, so alive. She was only thirty-eight years old now,
but she looked ninety.
Alexandra sat, reaching for her thin, frail hands.
“Father said you wished to see me, Mother. What can I
get you? Do you want a sip of water?”
Elizabeth smiled wanly, lying prone on the large bed,
dwarfed by the pillows behind her, the blankets over
her. “Angels,” she whispered. “Can you see them?”
Alexandra felt the tears rise. She batted her lashes
furiously. Her mother needed her, as did her two
sisters, who were only seven and nine. Father needed
her, too—though he was locked in the library with his
gin. But now she understood the odd light in the room,
and the equally strange warmth. “I can’t see them, but I
can feel them. Are you afraid?”
Elizabeth shook her head ever so slightly, and just
as slightly, her grasp on Alexandra’s hands increased.
“I don’t…want to go, Alexandra. The girls…are so
young.”
It was hard to hear her, so Alexandra leaned even
closer to her mother’s face. “We don’t want you to
leave us, but you’ll be with the angels now, Mother.”
Somehow she managed to smile. “I am going to take
care of Olivia and Corey—you needn’t worry. I will take
care of Father, too.”
“Promise me…darling…promise.”
She laid her cheek against her mother’s bony face.
“I promise. You have done everything for this family, you
have been its guiding light, its rock and its anchor, and
I will do everything for Father and the girls now. We will
be fine. They will be fine.” But it didn’t feel as if
anything would ever be fine again.
“I am so proud…of you,” Elizabeth whispered.
Alexandra had straightened so they could look into
one another’s eyes. She was the oldest, the firstborn,
with years separating her and her two younger sisters,
and she and her mother had always been close.
Elizabeth had taught Alexandra how to manage the
household, how to entertain and how to dress for tea or
for a ball. She had taught her how to bake cinnamon
cookies and how to make lemonade. She had shown
her how to smile, even when upset, and how to behave
with grace and dignity, no matter the occasion. She
had shown her the true power of love, of family, of
diligence and respect.
Alexandra knew her mother was proud of her. Just
as she knew she could not bear this last moment with
her. “Don’t worry about the girls or Father. I will take
good care of them.”
“I know.” Elizabeth smiled sadly and fell silent. And it
took Alexandra a full moment to realize that her eyes
had become sightless.
She gasped, hard, the intense pain blinding her. The
tears finally overflowed, even as she fought them. She
grasped her mother’s hands more firmly and lay down
beside her, already missing her acutely, the pain
unbearable now, and that was how her fiancé, Owen,
found her.
“Alexandra.” He gently lifted her to her feet.
She met his concerned, searching gaze and let him
guide her from the death room. It was dark and somber
now—the warm light long gone. In the hall, he held her
for a long time. Alexandra let him, even as her heart
broke all over again.
Because she knew what she must do.
Owen was her best friend, her one and only true
love, but that didn’t matter now.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked,
eyes wide.
She clasped his beautiful cheek. “I love you, Owen.”
He was alarmed. “You are in shock. This is the time
to grieve.”
She began shaking her head. “I can’t marry you,
Owen. I told her I would take care of this family, and I
meant it. My life is no longer my own. I can’t marry you, I
can’t be your wife, or the mother of your children. I
can’t. I have to take care of my sisters.” And in that
moment, she knew it was the truth and was
overwhelmed by the turn her life had taken.
“Alexandra!” he cried. “Allow yourself a period of
mourning. I will wait for you. I love you, and we will get
through this together.”
But she pulled away, the hardest thing she had ever
done. “No, Owen. Everything has changed. Corey and
Olivia need me, and so does Father.”
“I am going to wait for you,” he warned, and tears
glistened on his lashes.
There were no choices now. She would hold the
family together, no matter what it meant or what it took.
“Goodbye, Owen,” she said.

CHAPTER ONE
“ I CAN NO LONGER AFFORD YOU,” the Baron of
Edgemont said.
Alexandra Bolton stared in some surprise at her
grim, rather disheveled father. He had just summoned
her and her two younger sisters into the small, shabby
library where he occasionally looked at the estate’s
books. Oddly, he seemed sober—and it was almost
half past four in the afternoon. What did he mean,
exactly? “I know how precarious our finances are,” she
said, but her smile was reassuring. “I am taking in
additional sewing, Father, and I should be able to earn
an extra pound every week.”
Her father made a discouraging sound. “You are
exactly like your mother. She was tireless, Alexandra,
tireless in her efforts to reassure me—right up until the
day of her death.” He walked away, his posture
slumped, and took his seat behind his equally worn
and tired desk. It was crooked. One leg needed repair.
Alexandra was becoming vaguely alarmed. She had
been doing her best to hold the family together ever
since Elizabeth Bolton had died—no easy task,
considering her father’s terrible penchant for gaming
and whiskey, which only their mother had been able to
restrain. The last time her father had asked her and her
two younger sisters into the library, it had been to tell
them that their mother was fatally ill. Of course,
Elizabeth had been fading before their very eyes. The
news had been heart wrenching, but not a surprise.
Elizabeth had died nine years ago. Since then, her
father had lost all self-restraint. He did not even try to
refrain from his bad habits. Corey was tempestuous by
nature, and did as she pleased when away from
Alexandra’s watchful eyes. Olivia had withdrawn into
her world of watercolors and pastels, and although she
seemed content, Alexandra despaired. She herself
had given up true love to take care of them all. But
there were no regrets.
“Someone must be cheerful,” she said with a firm
smile. “We may be short on funds, but we have a fine
home, even if it could use some repairs, and we have
clothes on our backs and food on the table. Our
situation could be worse.”
Corey, who was only sixteen, choked. After all, every
rug in the house was threadbare, the walls needed
paint and plaster, and the draperies were literally falling
apart. The grounds were as bad, for their staff had
been reduced to one manservant and the gardener let
go last year. Their London townhome had been sold,
but Edgemont Way was within an hour’s drive of
Greenwich, fortunately or not.
Alexandra decided to ignore her rather reckless,
very outspoken and terribly beautiful little sister.
“Father? Your demeanor is worrying me.” And he was
not yet foxed. He was always foxed well before noon.
What did this turn mean? She couldn’t be hopeful. She
knew he had no reason to try to change his dissolute
ways.
The baron sighed. “My last line of credit has been
squashed.”
Her unease escalated. Like most of their peers, they
lived on rents and credit. But her father’s obsession
with gambling had forced him to sell off their tenant
farms, one by one, and there were only two tenants left.
Those rents might have been enough to support the
family if he didn’t game compulsively almost every
single night. But he did game excessively and
obsessively, so within a few years of their mother’s
death, Alexandra had turned her love for sewing into a
source of income for them, though it was, at times,
humiliating. The very women they had once enjoyed
teas and dinner parties with were now her customers.
Lady Lewis enjoyed personally handing over her torn
and damaged garments, while making a huge fuss at
how “sloppy” the repairs were upon their return.
Alexandra always smiled and apologized. She was
actually excellent with a thread and needle, and until
the downturn, she had enjoyed sewing and embroidery.
Now, given a choice, she doubted she would ever
thread a needle again.
But they did have clothes on their backs, a roof over
their heads and food on the table. Their clothes were
out of fashion and well mended, the roof leaked when it
stormed, and their diet was generally limited to bread,
vegetables and potatoes, with red meat on Sundays.
But that was better than nothing at all.
And her sisters did not recall a time of luncheons
and balls. Alexandra was grateful for that.
But how would they get on without credit? “I will take
in more sewing,” she said, determined.
“How can you take on more sewing? You are
already up all night with the customers you have,”
Corey shot back. “You have calluses on your thumbs!”
Corey was right, and Alexandra knew it. She was
only one person, and she simply couldn’t manage
more work, unless she forwent any sleep at all.
“Last summer Lord Henredon asked me if I would
paint his portrait. I refused,” Olivia said quietly. While
Corey was a true golden blonde, Olivia was that
indistinct shade that was neither blond nor brown, but
she was also very pretty. “But I could offer my services
to the shire as a portrait artist. I think I could make quite
a few pounds within a very short time.”
Alexandra stared at her middle sister, dismayed.
Her sisters’ happiness meant everything to her. “You
are a naturalist,” she said softly. “You despise doing
portraits.” But there was more. She knew that
Henredon had made improper remarks to Olivia, and
improper advances would no doubt have followed.
Henredon was known for his gallivanting ways.
“It is a good idea,” Olivia returned as quietly, steel in
her green eyes.
“I am hoping it will not come to that,” Alexandra said,
meaning it. She was afraid her good-natured sister
would be taken advantage of in many ways.
“I doubt that will be necessary, Olivia,” Edgemont
said. He turned to Alexandra. “How old are you?”
Alexandra was mildly confused by her father’s odd
question. “I am twenty-six.”
The baron flushed. “I thought you were younger,
maybe twenty-four. But you’re still an attractive woman,
Alexandra, and you keep a fine household, in spite of
our means, so you will be the first—to show your
sisters proper respect.”
Tension began to knot in her stomach, but she kept
a firm smile in place. “I will be the first to do what,
Father?” she asked with care.
“To marry, of course. It’s high time, don’t you think?”
Alexandra was disbelieving. “There’s no money for
a dowry.”
“I am aware of that,” Edgemont snapped. “I am very
aware of that, Alexandra. Despite that, an inquiry has
been made about you.”
Alexandra pulled a chair close and sat down. Was
Edgemont mad? No one would ever consider marrying
an impoverished spinster of her age. Everyone in town
knew of her “profession,” just as everyone knew that
Edgemont gambled and drank every possible night
away. The truth was that the good Bolton name was
seriously tainted. “Are you serious, Father?”
He smiled eagerly now. “Squire Denney
approached me last night to ask after you—and to
enquire if he could call.”
Alexandra was so surprised that she sat up straight,
causing her chair to rock on its uneven legs. Was there
a chance of marriage, after all this time? And for the
first time in years, she thought of Owen St. James, the
man she had given her heart to so long ago.
“You know him, of course,” her father continued,
smiling at her. “You sewed his late wife’s garments for
several years. He has come out of mourning now, and
apparently you made a considerable impression upon
him.”
Alexandra knew she must not think of Owen now, or
of the hopes and dreams they had once shared. She
recalled the squire, a rather stately older man who had
always been polite and respectful to her. She did not
know him well, but his wife had been a valuable
customer. She had been saddened for him when his
wife had passed away. But now she did not know what
to think.
She trembled. When she had given up the idea of
marriage nine years ago, they had still been a family
with respectable means. But they had been reduced
almost to abject poverty now. The squire was landed
and wealthy. Marriage to him could improve their
circumstances, their lives.
“He must be sixty years old,” Corey gasped, paling.
“He is an older man, but he is very well-off, and he is
only fifty, Corey. Alexandra will have a closet full of the
latest gowns. You will like that, won’t you?” He turned to
her, brows raised. “He has a fine manor house. He has
a carriage and a brougham.”
Alexandra started, gathering up her wits. She had a
suitor—one with means. Yes, he was an older man, but
he had always been kind, and if he was inclined toward
generosity, he could be a savior for their family. She
thought again of Owen and his courtship, and she was
saddened. She must put Owen out of her mind. Squire
Denney’s suit was flattering, and more than that, it was
a boon. At her age, in her circumstances, she could not
expect more.
“You know I don’t care about fashion—I care about
you and the girls,” she said carefully. She stood up and
dusted off her immaculate skirts, and stared carefully
at her father now. He was sober, and he was no fool.
“Tell me about the squire. Is he aware that there is no
dowry?”
“Oh, dear,” Olivia murmured. “Alexandra, you cannot
be considering Denney.”
“Don’t you dare even think about marrying him!”
Corey exclaimed.
Alexandra ignored their outbursts.
Edgemont leveled a firm gaze at them both. “You
two will keep your opinions to yourselves. They are not
wanted. Yes, he is very aware of our predicament,
Alexandra.” His stare was sharp.
“Is there any chance he will be able and willing to
contribute to this household?” Alexandra asked, after a
lengthy pause.
Corey ran over to her. “How can you consider
marrying that fat old farmer?” She whirled. “You can’t
marry Alexandra to him against her will!”
Edgemont glared. “I have had enough of your
harping, missy.”
“Corey, please, I must discuss this opportunity with
Father,” Alexandra said, squeezing her sister’s hand.
“You are elegant and beautiful. You are kind and
good, and he is fat and old,” Corey insisted. “This is
not an opportunity. This is a fate worse than death!”
Alexandra laid her hand on her sister’s arm. “Please
calm yourself.” She faced her father. “Well?”
“Our discussions have not taken that turn. But he is a
very wealthy man, Alexandra. I have heard it said he
has the largest lease of all the Harrington tenants. He
will surely be generous with us.”
Alexandra chewed on her lip, a terrible habit of hers.
Lady Harrington was an old family friend; Elizabeth and
Blanche had been fond of one another, once. Lady
Blanche came out to Edgemont Way once or twice a
year, when she was passing by, to check on Alexandra
and her sisters. Alexandra no longer called on Lady
Blanche, mostly because their clothes were so out of
fashion and so shabby—it was too embarrassing. But
it might be time to call now. Lady Blanche would
certainly know all about Squire Denney.
“Father, I will be frank. If he is inclined to be
generous, I do not see how I could refuse his offer—if
he truly makes one.”
Corey cried out.
“By God, Alexandra, you are such a fine and giving
woman! You are exactly like your mother. She, too, was
selfless. Morton Denney has implied he will be a
benevolent son-in-law. And Olivia can certainly run this
household once you are wed.”
Alexandra looked at Olivia, who was clearly
distraught. She wanted to tell her not to worry, that it
would be all right.
“He will call tomorrow afternoon, and I expect you to
be turned out in your Sunday best.” Edgemont smiled,
pleased. “I am off, then.”
But Corey rudely seized his sleeve as he turned to
leave. “You can’t sell Alexandra off to that farmer!”
Corey said, flushed with outrage. “She is not a sack of
potatoes!”
“Corey…” Olivia seized her sister’s hand, jerking it
away from their father’s arm.
“But that is what he is doing.” Corey was near tears.
“He is selling Alexandra off to a fat old farmer so he
can replenish his coffers—and then he will lose it all
once again, gaming at the tables!”
Edgemont’s hand lashed out, and his slap against
Corey’s face rang loudly in the room. Corey gasped,
her palm flying to her red cheek, and tears filled her
eyes.
“I have had enough of your insolence,” Edgemont
ground out, flushed. “And I do not like it when the three
of you band against me. I am your father and the head
of this house. You will do as I say—every one of you.
So mark my words, after Alexandra, the two of you are
next.”
The sisters exchanged wide-eyed looks. Alexandra
stepped forward, wishing Corey could forgive her
father for their circumstances, yet knowing that she
was too young and so she could not. But that was no
excuse for their father’s harsh behavior. She barred
her sister from Edgemont, while Olivia put her arm
around her. Corey kept her head high, but she was
trembling and furious.
“Of course you are the head of this house. Of course
we will do as you say,” Alexandra soothed.
He did not soften. “I mean it, Alexandra. I have
decided on this match, whether you agree to it or not.
Even if he decides not to contribute to this household,
it is high time you are wed.”
Alexandra stiffened. She did not speak her thoughts,
but she was amazed. She was too old to be forced
against her will into marriage or anything else.
He spoke more kindly. “You are a good daughter,
Alexandra, and the truth is, I have your best interests at
heart. You all need husbands and homes of your own. I
can’t afford handsome young bucks—I only wish that I
could. But I will do the best I can, and it is a stroke of
great luck that you have attracted Denney, at your age.
It has brought me to my senses at last. Your mother
must be rolling about in her grave, the way I’ve
neglected your future.” He glared at Corey and Olivia.
“And by damn, I expect some gratitude.”
No one moved.
“I’m off, then. Plans for the evening, if you must
know.” Head down and avoiding their eyes, as they all
knew what he would do that night, he hurried from the
room.
When he was gone, the front door of the house
slamming in his wake, Alexandra turned to Corey. “Are
you all right?”
“I hate him.” Corey trembled. “I have always hated
him! Look at what he has done to us. And now he says
he will marry you off.”
Alexandra took her youngest sister into her arms.
“You can’t hate him—he is your father. He cannot help
his gambling, and the drinking is an illness, too.
Darling, I only want to help you and Olivia. I so want you
both to have better lives.”
“We are fine!” Corey wept now. “Everything is his
fault! It is his fault we are living this way. His fault that
the young gentlemen in town offer me flowers, and
then, behind my back, send me rude looks and
whisper about lifting my skirts. It is his fault my skirts
are torn. I hate him! And I will run off before it is my turn
to marry some horrid old man.” She broke free from
Alexandra and ran from the room.
Alexandra looked at Olivia, who returned her gaze.
A potent silence fell.
Olivia touched her arm. “This is wrong. Mother would
choose a prince for you. She would never approve of
this. And we are happy, Alexandra. We are a family.”
Alexandra shivered. Elizabeth Bolton had approved
of Owen. In fact, she had been delighted that Alexandra
had found such love. And suddenly Alexandra had the
notion that Olivia was right. Mother would not approve
of this eminently sensible and lucrative match with
Denney. “Mother is dead, and Father has become
entirely dissipated. This family is my responsibility,
Olivia, and mine alone. This suit is a blessing.”
Olivia’s expression tightened. A long pause ensued.
Then she said, “The moment father began to speak of
this, I saw your face and knew that no one would be
able to talk you out of this terrible match. You sacrificed
yourself for us once, but I was too young to understand.
Now you intend to do so again.”
Alexandra started for the stairs. “It isn’t a sacrifice.
Will you help me choose a gown?”
“Alexandra, please don’t do this!”
“Only a hurricane could stop me,” she said firmly. “Or
some other, equally terrific, force of nature.”
THE HUGE BLACK LACQUERED COACH and its
team of perfectly matched pitch-black horses
careened down the road, the red-and-gold Clarewood
coat of arms emblazoned upon its doors. Two liveried
servants stood on the coach’s back fender. Inside the
coach’s luxurious interior, as red and gold as the family
crest, the duke of Clarewood held casually on to a
safety strap, his gaze on the dark gray skies outside.
His mouth curved as thunder boomed, as if he
approved. Lightning forked a moment later, and his
expression seemed to shift again. It was going to
storm terrifically. He was amused—of course he was
—a dull, dank day suited this dark occasion perfectly.
He tensed, thinking about the previous duke—the
man who had raised him.
Stephen Mowbray, the eighth duke of Clarewood,
universally recognized as the wealthiest and most
powerful peer in the realm, turned his impassive blue
gaze to the dark gray mausoleum ahead. Situated
atop a treeless knoll, it housed seven generations of
Mowbray noblemen. As the coach halted, it began to
rain. He made no move to get out.
In fact, his grip on the safety strap tightened.
He had come to pay his respects to the previous
duke, Tom Mowbray, on this, the fifteenth anniversary of
his untimely death. He never thought about the past
—he found the exercise useless—but today his head
had ached since he had arisen at dawn. On this
particular day, there was just no getting around the
past. How else did one pay his respects and honor the
dead?
“I WISH A WORD, STEPHEN.”
He’d been immersed in his studies. He was an
excellent student, mastering every subject and
discipline put before him, though achieving such
excellence required diligence, dedication and
discipline. However, the need to excel had been
drilled into him from a very early age; after all, a duke
was not allowed to fail. He couldn’t recall a time in his
life when he hadn’t been struggling to master some
thing or another. No amount of fluency in French was
adequate enough; no fence was high enough; no
mathematical equation complicated enough. Even
as a small boy of six or seven, he would be up past
midnight studying. And there was never any praise.
“This examination is marked ninety-two percent,”
the seventh duke said harshly.
He trembled, looking up at the tall, handsome
blond man standing over him. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The examination was crumpled up and tossed into
the fireplace. “You’ll take it again!”
And he had. He had received a ninety-four
percent. The duke had been so furious with him that
he’d been sent to his rooms and not allowed out for
the rest of the week. Eventually he’d achieved a
hundred percent.
HE REALIZED ONE FOOTMAN was holding the
coach door open for him, while the other was
extending an open umbrella. It was raining harder now.
His head ached uncomfortably. He nodded at the
footmen and swung down from the coach, ignoring the
umbrella. Although he wore the requisite felt hat, he
was instantly soaked through. “You may wait here,” he
told the footmen, who were as wet as he was.
As he slogged across his property toward the
mausoleum, he could see the Clarewood mansion just
below the ridge where the marble vault loomed.
Nestled in a magnificent park, it was pale and gray
against the dark trees and even darker wet skies.
Thunder rolled to the east. The rain was falling in
earnest now.
Stephen pushed open the heavy vault door and
stepped inside, reaching for matches. He lit the
lanterns, one by one, as thunder kept rolling in the
distance. The rain was coming down harder and faster
now, like sledgehammers on the vault’s roof. He was
very aware of Tom Mowbray lying in effigy across the
chamber, waiting for him.
He’d come into the duchy at the age of sixteen. He’d
already known that Tom was not his biological father,
not that he had been told or that it had mattered. After
all, he was being groomed to be the next duke, to be
Tom’s heir. The realization hadn’t been an epiphany or
a revelation. It had been a slowly creeping awareness,
a nagging and growing comprehension. The duke was
renowned for his affairs, but Stephen had no other
siblings, not even a bastard one, which was very odd.
And even as isolated as his childhood was—his life
was tutors and masters, the duke and duchess, and
Clarewood—he was somehow aware of the rumors.
They’d swirled about him his entire life, from the
moment he’d first understood the spoken word. His
young ears had caught the gossip many times, whether
at a great Clarewood ball or below stairs between
servants. And while he’d ignored the whispers of
“changeling” and “bastard,” eventually the truth had
begun to sink in.
The lessons of childhood could serve a man well, he
thought. Gossip followed him wherever he went,
threaded with envy, jealousy and malice. He never paid
attention to the barbs. Why would he? No one wielded
as much power in the realm as he did—outside of the
royal family, of course. If they wanted to accuse him of
being cold, ruthless and uncaring of anything and
anyone other than Clarewood, he hardly cared. The
Clarewood legacy took up all his time, as did the
Foundation he had established in its name. Since
taking up the reins of the duchy, he had tripled its value,
while the Foundation funded asylums, hospitals and
other charities throughout the greater realm.
He stared across the chamber at the pale stone
effigy of his father. His mother, the dowager duchess,
had declined to join him that day. He did not blame her.
The previous duke had been a cold, critical and
demanding man—a harsh taskmaster for them both.
He would never forget her endless defense of him
—nor their unending rancor, their hostile debates. Yet
Tom had done his duty, hadn’t he? His duty to
Clarewood had been to make certain Stephen had the
character necessary to succor the estate, and he had
succeeded. Most men could not have managed the
vast responsibility that came along with the duchy. He
looked forward to it.
It was shockingly still in the tomb, but not silent. The
rain pounded on the roof over his head, almost
deafening him. Stephen took a torch from the wall and
slowly walked over to the white marble coffin, then
stared down at the duke’s stone image. He didn’t
bother to speak—there was nothing he wished to say.
But it hadn’t always been that way.
“HE IS ASKING FOR YOU.”
His insides lurched with frightening force. He
carefully closed the textbook he was reading and
looked up at his mother. She was so pale now that he
knew the duke was finally at death’s door. He’d been
close to dying for three days now, and the wait had
been almost interminable. It was not that he wanted
his father to die. It was that it was inevitable, and the
tension had become unbearable for everyone, even
for him. Yet he had been taught that a duke could
and would bear any burden in the name of the
duchy.
He slowly stood, trying to hold his feelings at bay,
uncertain of what they were, exactly. He was the next
Duke of Clarewood, and he would always accept his
duty and do what he must. He had been trained from
birth for this day; if his father would die, then he would
take over the reins of the dukedom—and he would
excel as its eighth duke. Any uncertainty he felt he
would simply quash. Uncertainty was not allowed
—nor was fear or anger or pain.
The duchess stared closely at him, as if expecting
tears.
He would never cry—and certainly not in public.
He nodded grimly at her, and they left his suite of
rooms. Even if she expected grief from him, he would
never reveal such feelings. Besides, he was in
control. He’d learned long ago, as a small boy, that
self-control was personal salvation.
The man lying on the sickbed, one of the most
powerful peers in the realm, was unrecognizable now.
Diphtheria had wasted his body away, leaving a small
and gaunt shadow in place of the man he’d once
been. Stephen tensed, for one moment his control
slipping. In that moment, he did not want his father to
die. This man had raised him, claimed him as his own,
given him everything….
The duke’s eyes opened. His blue gaze was
unfocused, but it instantly sharpened.
Stephen strode forward, aware now that he wanted
to take his father’s hands and cling to them, to tell
him how grateful he was for all that he had done for
him. “Is there anything I can get you, Your Grace?”
They stared at one another. And suddenly he
realized that in this last moment of the duke’s life, he
would like to know that the duke was pleased with
him. Because there had never been a word of praise,
only criticism, disapproval, rebukes. There had been
long lectures on duty, diligence and the pursuit of
excellence. There had been sermons on character
and honor. There had been the occasional blow, the
dreaded riding crop. But there had never been
praise. He suddenly, desperately, wished for praise
—and maybe even a sign of affection.
“Father?”
The duke had been staring, his lips twisted with
scorn, as if he knew what Stephen wanted.
“Clarewood is everything,” he wheezed. “Your duty is
to Clarewood.”
Stephen wet his lips, oddly dismayed, a feeling he
was unfamiliar with. The duke was going to die at any
time, maybe within moments. Was he pleased?
Proud? Did he love him at all? “Of course,” he said,
breathing in hard.
“You will do me proud,” the duke said. “Are you
crying?”
He stiffened. “Dukes do not cry.”
“Damned right,” the duke choked. “Swear on the
Bible that you will never forsake Clarewood.”
Stephen turned, saw the Bible and picked it up. He
realized his hands were unsteady and his breathing
uneven. He realized that no praise, no kindness and
no words or sign of affection would be forthcoming.
“Clarewood is my duty,” he said.
At that the duke’s eyes blazed with satisfaction. A
moment later they were sightless.
STEPHEN HEARD A SHARP inhalation in the tomb.
He started and stared at the effigy, then realized he
had made that sound. He certainly owed everything to
Tom Mowbray, and he would not criticize him now.
“You’re probably pleased, aren’t you? That they call
me cold, ruthless and heartless. That they see me in
your image.” His voice echoed in the chamber. If
Mowbray heard, he did not respond or give a sign.
“Talking to the dead?”
Stephen jumped, whirling. But only one man would
dare intrude upon him, and that was his cousin and
best friend, Alexi de Warenne.
Alexi was lounging near the vault door, which was
ajar, soaking wet and disheveled, dark hair falling over
his vivid blue eyes. “Guillermo said I would find you
here. How morbid you have become, carousing with
the dead.” But he grinned widely.
Stephen was very pleased to see his cousin, not
that anyone outside of the family knew of their
biological relationship. They’d been close since
childhood, and he supposed the old adage that
opposites attracted was true. His mother had brought
him to Harrington Hall when he was nine years old, on
the pretext of introducing him to Sir Rex, who had
saved Tom Mowbray’s life in the war. That day he’d
met so many children that he could not keep track of
their names. Of course, they were all his de Warenne
and O’Neil cousins. He hadn’t known that then, as he
hadn’t realized until much later that Sir Rex de
Warenne was his natural father, and he’d been stunned
by the warmth and casual, open affection in the family
—he hadn’t known a family could be so loving, and that
a house could contain so much laughter. And he hadn’t
known what to do, really, because he didn’t know
anyone and he didn’t belong there. But his mother had
gone off with the ladies, so he’d stood on the fringes of
the crowded room, his hands in the pockets of his
jacket, watching the boys and girls chattering and
playing happily with one another. It was Alexi who’d
come up to him, demanding that he go outside with
him and several other boys and do what boys do: find
trouble, and lots of it. They’d stolen horses and gone
riding through the Greenwich streets at a gallop,
overturning vendors’ carts and chasing pedestrians
away. Everyone had been punished that night. The
duke had been livid with his behavior—he’d taken out
his strap—but Stephen had had the time of his life.
Their friendship had begun that day.
Although married and comfortably settled now, Alexi
remained the freest spirit and most independent
thinker Stephen knew. They could argue for hours on
almost any subject; they usually agreed on broad
conclusions, but disagreed on almost every detail.
Before Alexi’s marriage they had caroused together,
and frequently—Alexi had been a notorious ladies’
man. Stephen admired his cousin, and he almost
envied him. Alexi had made his life exactly what he
wished for it to be—he had not been the servant of duty
or slave to a legacy. Stephen could not imagine having
had such choices or such freedom. But Alexi had also
followed in his father’s footsteps and was one of the
most successful China traders of the day. In fact, until
he’d married Elysse, the sea had been his great love.
Now, amazingly, his wife joined him on his longer
voyages, and they had residences around the world.
“I am hardly conversing with the dead, much less
carousing,” Stephen said drily, walking over to Alexi
and embracing him very briefly. “I was wondering when
you would get back to town. How is Hong Kong and,
more importantly, how is your wife?”
“My wife is doing very well, and if you must know,
she is thrilled to be home—and she misses you,
Stephen. God knows why. It must be your irrepressible
charm.” Alexi grinned and then glanced at the effigy.
“It’s pouring outside, and the road below is about to be
flooded. We may have to wait out the storm here.
Aren’t you glad I have come?” He took a flask out of his
pocket. “We can honor old Tom together. Cheers.”
Stephen felt himself smile. “If I must be honest, I am
pleased you are both back, and yes, I will have a
drink.” But he didn’t add that they both knew Alexi had
despised Tom Mowbray and wouldn’t think of truly
honoring him. Alexi had never understood Tom’s
methods as a father. He had been raised so differently.
There had never been verbal lashings, much less whip
lashings.
Alexi handed him the flask. “He does look better in
stone, by the way. And the likeness is startling.”
Stephen drank and handed the flask back. “We
cannot disrespect the dead,” he warned.
“Of course not. God forbid you fail in your duty to
honor him and salvage the dukedom. I see you have
not changed.” Alexi drank. “All duty and no play…how
respectable you are, Your Grace.”
“My duty is my life, and I have not changed, for better
or for worse,” he said, mildly amused. Alexi loved to
lecture him on his failure to seize upon life’s lighter
moments. Only rarely could he turn away from his
responsibilites. “Some of us do have responsibilities.”
Alexi made a sound. “Responsibilities are one thing,
shackles, another.” He drank again.
“Yes, I am so terribly enslaved,” Stephen responded,
“and it is a terrible fate, to have the power to buy, take
or make anything I want, whenever I want.”
“Tom taught you well, but one day, the de Warenne
blood will emerge.” Alexi was unperturbed. “Even if
your power scares everyone else into abject
obedience, obsequious fawning or outright
submission, I will always attempt to steer you in the
right direction.”
“I would not be a very adept duke if I were not
obeyed,” Stephen said mildly. “Clarewood would be in
shambles. And I believe the family has enough
reckless adventurers.” He smiled. The truth was, the de
Warenne men were only reckless until they settled
down, and Alexi was glaring proof of that.
“Clarewood in shambles? That is an impossibility,
as long as you are at the helm.” Alexi gave him a mock
salute. “And I gather you have decided not to follow in
my footsteps, after all. I am unbearably despondent.”
Stephen smiled.
Alexi smiled back, then said, “So I take it nothing
has changed and you are still Britain’s most eligible
bachelor?”
Now Stephen was truly amused. His de Warenne
relations—those who knew that Sir Rex was his father
—loved to nag him about his bachelor status. Of
course, he did need an heir. He simply dreaded a cold,
bitter and boring marriage. “You have been gone ten or
eleven months. What did you expect? For me to find
my betrothed at long last?”
“You have just turned thirty-one, and it has been
fifteen years since you began searching for a bride.”
“One can hardly rush the process.” His tone was wry.
“Rush? You mean prevent. One can only delay the
inevitable, Stephen, not prevent it, and I, for one, am
glad you have rejected this Season’s latest offerings.”
“I will admit, inane banter with an eighteen-year-old,
no matter how polished, has become a discipline I
dread. Of course, you will never repeat this.”
“You are growing up—and of course not!” Alexi
exclaimed, crossing his heart.
Stephen laughed, something he rarely did, but Alexi
could always make him see the humor in a situation. “I
hope so—I am middle-aged.”
They shared another drink, this time in silence. Then
Alexi said, “So nothing has changed while I have been
gone? You remain as industrious as ever, building
hospitals for unwed mothers and managing mining
leases for the duchy?”
He hesitated. “Nothing has changed.”
“How boring.” Alex’s smile faded, and he glanced at
the effigy. “Old Tom there must be proud—finally.”
Stephen tensed. He glanced at the effigy, too. And
for one moment, it was as if Tom sat up and was
staring mockingly at him, as alive as they were—and
as accusatory as ever. Stephen’s tension increased
but then the memory was gone. Tom had looked at him
with such scorn a thousand times, and most of the time
he preferred to forget, but today was the one day he
always remembered. “I doubt it.”
They shared a somber look. “Sir Rex is proud,” Alexi
finally said. “And by the way, you are nothing like Tom,
even if you try to be exactly like him.”
Stephen considered the comment, knowing that
Alexi had overheard him talking to the effigy. “I have no
delusions about my character, Alexi. But as far as Sir
Rex goes, he has always been attentive and
supportive. He was kind to me when I was a boy,
before I even guessed at the true nature of our
relationship. You are probably right. But frankly, it
doesn’t matter. I do not need anyone to admire me or
be proud of my achievements. I know what I must do. I
know my duty—mock it though you will.”
“Damn it, your character is just fine!” Alexi was
angry, his blue eyes sparking. “I came to rescue you
from old Tom, but now I think I must rescue you from
yourself. Everyone needs affection and admiration,
Stephen, even you.”
“You are wrong,” he said instantly, meaning it.
“Why? Because you grew up without any affection,
you assume you can and will live that way? Thank God
you are a de Warenne by blood.”
Stephen did not want to walk out on that particular
plank and only said, “I do not need rescuing, Alexi. I am
the one with the power, remember? I am the one who
does the rescuing.”
“Ah, yes, and the good work you do for those who
cannot help themselves is admirable. Maybe it also
keeps you sane—because it prevents you from
realizing the cold truth about yourself.”
Stephen felt a twinge of anger, which he quashed.
“Why are you harping on me?”
“Because I am your cousin, and if I don’t, who will?”
“Your wife, your sister and any number of other
relations.”
Alexi grinned. “Enough said, then. Let’s make a
dash for the coach, and if the road below is flooded,
we will swim.”
Stephen started to laugh. “If you drown, Elysse will
drown me! I suggest we wait out the storm here.”
“Yes, she probably would, and of course you would
choose to be sensible and pragmatic.” But Alexi
opened the vault door anyway. The downpour
remained torrential. “I am bored with old Tom. I vote we
adjourn to your library for the very finest and oldest Irish
whiskey in your cabinet.” He glanced back into the
vault. “You know, I think he is here, eavesdropping on
us, as disapproving as ever.”
Stephen tensed and said sharply, “He is dead, for
God’s sake, and has been dead for fifteen years.” But
he wondered if his friend had felt the old man’s
presence, too.
“Then why aren’t you free of him?”
Stephen started. What did that mean? He said
carefully, “I am quite free of him, Alexi, just as I am free
of the past. But duty rules me, and surely even you can
understand that. I am Clarewood.”
Alexi stared. “No, Stephen, you aren’t free, not of
him and not of the past, and I wish you could see that.
But you are right, you are ruled by duty, and by now I
should not expect anything else. Except, oddly, I do.”
Alexi was wrong; Alexi didn’t understand the
Clarewood legacy. And Stephen didn’t feel like arguing
about it. He simply wanted to escape Tom. “The rain
has let up. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER TWO
ALEXANDRA PAUSED, facing her sisters. “Wish me
luck,” she said grimly. Her smile felt far too firm,
instead of being bright and reassuring. Squire Denney
was waiting in the next room with Edgemont. Oddly,
she was nervous. Or perhaps it wasn’t so odd. After all,
her family’s future was at stake.
Alexandra knew that worrying about making a good
impression was silly, given what she had to work with,
but she glanced in the hall mirror anyway. Olivia had
helped her with her hair, and the chignon seemed a bit
severe. Worse, even though she’d chosen a dress that
had fared better over the years than her other ones, it
was clearly worn and out of fashion. She sighed. No
amount of sewing could repair a frayed hem; only
costly trim could do that.
“I appear ill kempt,” she said flatly.
Corey and Olivia exchanged looks. “You look like a
fictional heroine, one suffering through tragic
circumstances,” Olivia said, “and awaiting a dark hero
to rescue her.” She reached up and teased several
strands of hair from the tight chignon.
Alexandra smiled at her.
“I am not a tragic heroine, although the squire might
very well be a hero. I suppose there is no putting this
off.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Olivia said softly. “He
is predisposed toward you.”
“I don’t know why you didn’t let me do your hair,”
Corey complained, the light in her eyes flickering.
“I would have gladly done so—if I could have trusted
you.” Knowing her sister, she might purposefully try to
mess up her hair in the hopes of chasing off the squire.
Alexandra could hear male voices in the parlor now.
She started forward, resolved.
Both sisters followed. Olivia hugged her at the door.
“I am with Corey, Alexandra. You can do better. He is
not good enough for you. Please rethink this.”
Alexandra did not bother to tell her what she herself
had already accepted: she was, as always, doing what
was best for everyone.
Olivia sighed, glancing at Corey, who appeared
distraught now.
“This is not the end of the world,” Alexandra said
firmly, offering up a bright smile. “In fact, this is a new
beginning for us all.” She shoved her anxiety aside and
pushed open the door.
Behind her, she heard Corey cry softly, “Oh, Lord, I’d
forgotten how short he was!”
Alexandra ignored that. She was exceptionally tall
for a woman, and most men were shorter than she
was. Her father and Denney were standing before the
window, as if admiring their muddy and overgrown
gardens. It had stopped raining that morning, but
outside, the lawn had become a small lake. The squire
was probably two inches shorter than she was
—making his height quite average.
Both men turned.
Her heart suddenly lurched—as if with dismay.
Denney was just as she recalled, a big, husky fellow
with side whiskers and kind eyes. He wore a frock coat
for this occasion, one she instantly saw was very well
made—and very costly. Now she noticed a signet ring
on his hand. It was gold and boasted a gemstone. And
carefully inspecting him as she was doing made her
feel like a fortune hunter.
But wasn’t that exactly what she was?
You can’t sell Alexandra off to that farmer!
But he could—it was done all of the time, Alexandra
thought grimly. Very few in society married for love.
Women in her position never did.
The parlor was small, the walls mustard-yellow, with
fading green drapes and shabby furniture. Edgemont
came forward, smiling, and looped his arm in hers.
“Alexandra, there you are.” He turned so that they
faced the squire. And Alexandra was surprised—his
eyes were shining.
“I am sorry if I have kept you waiting,” she managed,
her pulse pounding. Why did she suddenly feel
saddened? Was it because if all went according to
plan, she would be leaving Edgemont Way and her
beloved family? Suddenly she thought of Owen and the
deep bond—the passion—they’d shared. And she was
resolute. Ever since her father had declared that she
must marry, Owen had been on her mind. But that kind
of love had passed her by, and she must forget about
the past.
“This is my beautiful daughter, Alexandra,”
Edgemont said proudly, beaming.
“You could keep me waiting for days on end, Miss
Bolton, and I would still be pleased to see you,”
Denney said, smiling at her.
Alexandra somehow smiled again. And she thought
of how kind the squire had always been to his wife,
before she’d passed away. He was a good man.
Maybe, in time, she might come to love him a little.
“That is far too kind of you,” she replied, shaken.
“We had a chance to discuss the summer forecast,
as predicted by the Almanac. Denney thinks it will be a
good summer, not too hot, with plenty of rain,” her
father told her.
“That is wonderful,” Alexandra said. She meant it,
because every farmer in the shire depended on good
weather for their crops and livelihood.
“I have had three good years in a row, enough to
make a handsome profit, and then some other
investments have paid off, as well,” Denney said
eagerly. His brown gaze had become searching. “I
have invested in the railroads, mostly. I am now adding
a fine wing to the house, for a grand parlor, if you will.
There will be a small ballroom, too. I have decided that
I will entertain in the future. I should love to show you my
plans,” he added.
“I am sure your plans are very pleasing.”
Edgemont said eagerly, “His manor has fifteen
rooms, Alexandra—fifteen rooms!”
She somehow smiled again. But her dismay had
increased, against her will and intentions. The squire
kept staring, his cheeks flushed, his dark eyes shining.
Surely he wasn’t in love with her? She did not want to
hurt him by being incapable of returning such passion.
“You may come and visit Fox Hill anytime,” Denney
said. “In fact, it would be my pleasure to give you a tour
of the house and gardens.”
“Then I must call as soon as possible,” she said
lightly. She glanced at Edgemont. She needed to be
alone with Denney so she could find out how he might
be inclined toward helping her sisters.
Edgemont smiled at them. “The squire has been
invited to the de Warenne fete tomorrow night. It is
such an honor, as it is Lady Harrington’s daughter’s
birthday celebration.”
“I am impressed,” Alexandra said. She hadn’t heard
about the party, but she knew both girls, even if she
hadn’t seen Sara or Marion in several years. They
were close to Olivia and Corey in age.
“I am on very good terms with Lady Harrington and
Sir Rex,” Denney told her eagerly. “The party is for their
youngest, Sara. I should love it if you joined me, Miss
Bolton—with your sisters, of course.”
Alexandra’s first reaction was sheer surprise; then,
instantly, she thought of her sisters, who had never
been to a high-society fete. Her mind raced. Of course
she must accept. This would be a wonderful
opportunity for her sisters—and the kind of evening
they deserved, and should have had and become
accustomed to. But neither Alexandra nor her sisters
had had a new gown since before their mother died.
While the sad truth was that no one invited them out,
due to their circumstances, even if someone had, they
did not have the proper attire to attend most social
functions.
Corey could fit into one of her old ball gowns, with
some slight alterations. And surely they could find
something for Olivia to wear from among their
mother’s clothes. They would be sadly out of fashion,
but they would be able to attend.
“We would love to attend,” she said quickly.
Edgemont looked carefully at her. Alexandra knew
he was wondering how they would find the proper
clothing. “Father, I was hoping to walk with the squire
outside, as the sun has come out and all chance of
further rain is gone.”
His eyes widened, and he beamed. Then, “I’ll be in
the study. Enjoy your walk.” He walked out, leaving the
door wide-open.
Alexandra stared at the threshold until he was gone.
Then she faced her suitor. “Squire Denney, I am very
flattered that you have called.”
“A rainstorm could not have kept me away.”
“Is it possible to have a very frank discussion?”
His eyes widened. “I so prefer candor. It is one of the
things I like best about you, Miss Bolton, after your
excessively kind nature. You are always direct.”
She turned. “I fear you have put me high upon a
pedestal, a stature I do not deserve.”
His brows lifted. “If any woman deserves to be
placed upon a pedestal, Miss Bolton, it is you.” When
she began to speak, he interrupted. “I have admired
you for years. You have taken wonderful care of your
sisters and father, and such selflessness and
compassion is to be commended. And then, of course,
there is your beauty. I am practically speechless, in
fact, to be standing here with you now.”
Alexandra almost blushed. She was hardly a raving
beauty, but she would not dispute him. “I am glad you
find my nature pleasing. And you are right about one
thing—I try very hard to take good care of my younger
sisters as well as my father. Olivia is only eighteen,
Corey just sixteen.”
A slight bewilderment crossed his bluff face. “They
are lovely young ladies.”
She gestured at a chair, deciding to forgo their walk.
He sat, and she took the adjacent seat, then clasped
her hands in her lap. “I was on the verge of marriage
nine years ago, before my mother passed on. When
my mother died, I made the decision to devote myself
to my family—and I broke things off with my suitor.” She
smiled firmly. There was some old sadness, thinking of
Owen and their dreams now. “I promised her that I
would take care of this family. I made a serious
commitment to the care and welfare of my sisters and
my father.”
“The commitment you are speaking of only
heightens my admiration for you, Miss Bolton.” He
hesitated. “I have the impression that you loved this
gentleman.”
She nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“You are a paragon, Miss Bolton. But why are you
telling me this?”
“How direct might I be?” She sat up straighter.
“As direct as is necessary.” He flushed, suddenly
seeming dismayed. “Are you about to tell me that you
remain committed to the deathbed vows you made to
your mother?”
“I will look after my sisters and my father until I die
—although I hope my sisters will be wed well before
that day.” She smiled.
He slowly nodded. “I see. My intentions are
honorable, Miss Bolton.”
“That is what Edgemont indicated.”
He held her gaze. “Do you know why I suggested
your sisters accompany us tomorrow night?”
She shook her head. “Not really.”
“Because it seemed to me that it would make the
evening more pleasant for you—less awkward—but it
also seemed to me that two such young ladies should
be given the opportunity to get out and be seen.”
Her heart sped. “That is so kind of you.”
“I consider myself a kind man—and a generous one.
If my suit progresses as I hope it does, you will not
have to carry the burden of caring for your family by
yourself.”
Alexandra gasped. Tears came to her eyes. She
was speechless.
But now she knew. He had means, his suit was a
serious one, and he would be generous with her family.
“I have admired you for years, Miss Bolton—from
afar, and very respectfully.” He spoke thoughtfully now.
“I never dreamed my wife would die so suddenly—she
was in such good health until her final illness. I mourned
her deeply.” He paused, grim for a moment. “But she
has died, and a year has gone by. You remain
unattached—which bewilders me.” He met her gaze. “I
am of a very solid character, Miss Bolton. I am a
dependable and honorable man. I am certain things
will work out to both our satisfaction, if you give my suit
a chance.”
“I will give your suit all the respect and consideration
it deserves,” she somehow said. She could barely
believe this was happening. Her sisters were going to
have futures outside of Edgemont Way. It seemed like
a miracle.
He stood, as she did. “Shall we walk outside?”
Alexandra took his proffered arm. “It will be my
pleasure to stroll with you,” she said.
But as they left the house, she glanced over her
shoulder. Corey and Olivia were standing in the
doorway, their expressions grim with dismay. Then
Corey turned and stormed into the house.
ALEXANDRA TENSED as the squire’s brougham
queued up in the circular drive before Harrington Hall. It
was a beautiful evening, and the sky was stained pink
above the high gray stone roof of the mansion, with
fingers of pink and peach drifting across the
magnificent gardens and grounds. A fountain stood in
the center of the drive, its waterworks a lavish display,
bursting a dozen feet into the air. But she was
exhausted, having stayed up the entire night to finish
repairing and restoring dresses for herself and her
sisters. In fact, she’d been sewing without interruption
since Squire Denney had left her yesterday afternoon.
Of course she was tense, not excited, now. And her
tension escalated. She, Olivia and Corey sat facing
backward, toward her father and Denney, so she had
to crane her neck to look outside. The coaches ahead
were large, luxurious broughams, with perfectly
matching horses and liveried coachmen, and the
gentlemen and ladies alighting were in the finest tails
and ball gowns. Even in the dusk, Alexandra saw
jewels glinting from the ladies’ throats and ears, and
from the gentlemen’s hands. She’d almost forgotten
how wealthy the peerage was. She looked down at her
bare fingers, her green satin gown. The fabric should
have shone, but it had been hanging in the closet for
too many years. No one wore dresses with full sleeves
above the elbow anymore, but there had not been
enough time to alter her own dress—she’d altered the
sleeves on Olivia’s and Corey’s gowns, instead. Her
skirts were too full for the current style, as well. At least,
she thought grimly, her gown still fit.
“That is a beautiful dress,” the squire said, clearing
his throat.
Had he read her thoughts? Was she being
transparent? She somehow managed to smile at him.
His eyes had been shining yet again when he’d arrived
to pick them up and escort them to Harrington Hall.
Alexandra did not think she looked well—she was pale
from her efforts to properly garb her sisters, and dark
circles shadowed her eyes. He hadn’t noticed,
obviously. And maybe he didn’t see how old—and oldfashioned—
her dress truly was.
Olivia took her hand. Her eyes were sparkling with
the kind of excitement she generally reserved for her
paintings and sketches. She had never looked prettier.
Her long tawny hair had been pinned up in curls, and
she wore one of their mother’s pale ivory ball gowns.
Their gazes met. Alexandra was so proud of her.
“You do look beautiful,” Olivia whispered.
Alexandra squeezed her hand. “So do you—and so
does Corey. We are going to have a lovely evening
—all because of the squire.”
Denney beamed. “I hope so,” he said.
Alexandra glanced at Corey. Her eyes were huge as
she stared out of the carriage at the arriving guests,
and her cheeks were flushed with excitement, too. She
was almost as tall as Alexandra, and only a bit slimmer
in build, and the pale blue watered silk was stunning on
her. It was far too adult for someone of sixteen, but
there hadn’t been anything else in Alexandra’s closet.
Corey looked eighteen, at least, and terribly beautiful.
Alexandra felt a pang. Corey and Olivia had never
been out in society, not like this—and though she did
not want to blame anyone, there was one person to
blame. She reminded herself that their father was no
longer himself. Elizabeth Bolton’s death had crushed
him, leaving him with no passion but drink and gaming,
and no spirit to challenge that passion. Did it matter?
Her sisters deserved more, and maybe something
good would come of this night for them. The gentlemen
present would have to be blind not to notice them.
Suddenly hoofbeats sounded, as if an army was
approaching. It was almost their turn to alight, but
Alexandra turned, as did her sisters, the squire and
Edgemont. A huge black coach, pulled by six
magnificent blacks, red-and-gold crests emblazoned
upon its doors, passed them, clearly cutting to the
head of the line. As it did so, gravel sprayed their
carriage.
Alexandra stared after the magnificently attired
footmen, in red-and-gold livery, pale stockings, patent
shoes and long, curled white wigs. She felt her tension
increase. She reminded herself that when Elizabeth
Bolton was alive, she had been to a few high-society
fetes. Being nervous was absurd. Would anyone really
care about their sudden appearance in society, or that
they wore older clothes? But now she worried, and not
for herself. She did not want her sisters ridiculed
tonight.
The huge coach had halted, though she could not
see who had gotten out. But she thought she glimpsed
a tall, dark figure striding through the crowd, bypassing
the queue and directly entering the house.
Oddly, her heart thundered, and she stared.
“Ah, it’s our turn to alight,” Denney exclaimed. A
coachman had opened his door, and he got out.
Her father was about to follow Denney to the curb.
He must not ruin this for them, she suddenly thought.
And she did not trust him. She settled in her seat and
faced her father, resolved. “I prefer that you do not
overimbibe tonight.”
His eyes widened in shock. Then, “You cannot talk to
me that way, Alexandra.”
She firmed. The one thing she could control, or at
least try to control, was her father’s drinking. “There is
a flask in your pocket. May I have it?”
He gasped and turned red.
She held out her hand and somehow smiled. “If you
want me to marry Squire Denney, it will not help if he
sees you stumbling about. And, more importantly, what
if Corey and Olivia attract suitors tonight? We are
clearly in dire straits, and that means our behavior
must be impeccable.”
Grumbling, Edgemont took a tarnished silver flask
from his pocket, and then, before handing it over, he
took a swig. “Father!” Alexandra reproved.
“You remind me more of your mother every day,” he
groused, handing her the flask.
Alexandra uncapped it and poured the contents out
the window. Then she exchanged looks with her
sisters. “It is our turn.”
Corey was somehow both pale and flushed at once.
Alexandra murmured, “You will be fine.” She gave her
hand to Denney’s coachman—he did not have liveried
footmen, obviously—and stepped down to the ground.
Her sisters followed.
Olivia came close and whispered, “What are you
thinking? We are not here to attract suitors! How could
we possibly do that? Everyone knows we are in dire
straits.”
Alexandra smiled at her. “Being here tonight makes
me yearn for better circumstances, not for myself, but
for you and Corey. Father and mother used to go to
balls frequently. You should have had this life, Olivia. So
should Corey.”
“We are fine,” Olivia insisted. “And right now, the
only task we must concentrate on is getting you out of
an unwanted betrothal.”
Alexandra grimaced, glancing ahead of them, but
the squire hadn’t heard. “My mind hasn’t changed. I am
very pleased that the squire is courting me,” she
whispered back.
“Maybe you will find someone else here tonight,”
Olivia said. She was never combative, but her will was
steel. It had always been that way. She was simply so
good-natured that very few knew that fact about her.
“I am nervous,” Corey suddenly said, interrupting
them. “Enough so that I have a headache. And those
men are staring at us.”
Corey was never nervous, Alexandra thought, and
looked past her sister to see three gentlemen standing
by the open front doors, where the doormen were
ushering other guests inside. The gentlemen were
about Alexandra’s age, and they were regarding her
and her sisters. One smiled and touched his top hat,
his look of admiration focused on her youngest sister.
Alexandra somehow smiled back. “He was smiling
at you,” she said to Corey. “And there was nothing bold
or improper about it.”
“He was smiling at Olivia,” Corey said quickly. But
she blushed.
Alexandra took her arm, reminded of just how young
her sister was. Corey might be reckless and willful at
home, but she was overcome now, and Alexandra did
not blame her. She would not be so anxious if she’d
had the kind of life she had been born into, she
thought. And while Alexandra’s marriage to the squire
would not give her that kind of life, it would be a step
upward.
The squire turned, gesturing for them to join him.
They hurried to his side, following other guests up the
walk. Alexandra had been to Harrington Hall many
times, at first with her mother, and on two occasions,
after Elizabeth’s passing, with her sisters. Lady
Blanche had greeted them warmly, even after their fall
from grace, as recently as last year.
The entrance hall was the size of their dining room
twice over, and standing just outside the threshold of
the ballroom, Alexandra saw their hosts, Lady Blanche
and Sir Rex. He had lost his leg in the war and was
leaning on a crutch. It didn’t matter. They made a
stunning couple as they greeted their guests, for she
was pale and pretty, and he was dark and handsome.
Sara was with them, a stunning, bejeweled and welldressed
brunette. Alexandra felt a twinge of envy as
she studied her, but the envy wasn’t for herself, it was
for her sisters.
Then she realized that they were being remarked.
Alexandra started. Lady Lewis was staring hatefully
at her—as if she wished her dead. But that was
impossible, wasn’t it? Lady Lewis was one of her best
customers. The other woman turned away when she
saw that Alexandra had noticed her, but then she
began whispering to two other ladies, and Alexandra
knew they were discussing her.
The squire was greeting several gentlemen, and
he’d stepped ahead of them. Alexandra turned to her
sisters, uneasy and dismayed. “Did you see that?”
Olivia met her stare. “Why would she look at us that
way?”
Alexandra took a steadying breath. Now she noticed
Lady Henredon across the room—and Lady Bothley,
too. What had she been thinking? She sewed for all
these women, and it was unacceptable for a servant
—or a seamstress—to step out with her betters.
Her stomach churned. She turned—and bumped
into Lady Lewis, who had approached.
“Alexandra, what a surprise. I did not recognize you
in that dress.”
Unable to manage a smile, she was aware of her
sisters stepping close to her, one on either side.
Lady Lewis glanced contemptuously at the three of
them. “I don’t recognize any of you, dressed as you
are.”
Alexandra’s heart thundered. “That is very unkind.”
Lady Lewis lifted a brow. “It’s not as if I said that I am
accustomed to seeing you all in rags—and sewing my
gowns.”
Corey choked.
Olivia took Corey’s hand.
Alexandra forced a smile. She wanted to explode,
but she needed Lady Lewis’s account, at least for now.
“No, you didn’t say any such thing, and I apologize. You
would never speak so disgracefully. I am certain of that.

“My maid will drop off this gown to be cleaned and
pressed tomorrow,” Lady Lewis said, then huffed and
walked away.
Alexandra trembled.
“What a witch!” Corey cried. “Don’t you dare clean
and press that gown for her.”
“Of course I’ll do exactly that.” Alexandra spoke
calmly, though she wasn’t calm at all. Her temples were
throbbing now. She was already exhausted, and the
cruel confrontation had not been helpful. She glanced
about, hoping to sit down.
“Miss Bolton, may I introduce you to my good friend,
Squire Landon?” Denney said as he returned to her,
smiling and in good spirits. “George, Miss Bolton and
her two sisters, Olivia and Corey. And Edgemont, of
course, you know.”
Her father had caught up to them, as well, Alexandra
noticed, then managed to smile at Squire Landon and
wish him a pleasant evening. As Landon began to ask
Denney about a bull he’d recently purchased, she
heard a woman whispering behind her.
“A disgrace…drunk every single night…the gaming
…his daughters…”
Alexandra felt her cheeks burning as she strained to
hear exactly what the woman was saying, but the gist
was clear. Edgemont was a disgrace, and everyone
present knew it.
Corey was oblivious—peering wide-eyed at
everyone and everything. Alexandra glanced at Olivia,
who was staring at an oddly familiar blond man. She
didn’t think she knew him, yet the feeling remained that
she did. She took a deep breath. Maybe the worst was
over.
But then she saw that three older women were
staring at her and her sisters now, and she knew that
the worst was far from over.
They were whispering behind their gloved hands,
and she felt certain they were discussing her or her
sisters or her father. Alexandra trembled and turned her
back to them. “Father, do you know those ladies?”
He glanced toward them and paused. “Actually,
although it has been a while, those ladies were all
friends of your mother’s. Lady Collins was especially
close. God, it seems so long ago! She is looking very
well, actually.”
“She isn’t looking very friendly,” Olivia remarked.
“She is shooting daggers at us.”
“That cannot be. She was very friendly with
Elizabeth. Come, let’s say hello.”
Alexandra said quickly, “We haven’t met our hosts
yet.”
“There are a dozen people ahead of us,” Edgemont
insisted. “And Squire Denney is preoccupied with his
friend. Lady Collins!” He hurried over.
Reluctantly—exchanging grim looks with her sisters
—Alexandra followed. Lady Collins’s expression was
as cold as ice.
“It is good to see you again,” Edgemont said.
She inclined her head. “Hello, Edgemont. I didn’t
expect to see you here.”
“I am most surprised to be here myself,” he said
cheerfully. “Do you recall my daughters?”
Alexandra held her head high as Lady Collins said
she didn’t believe they’d ever met. Polite handshakes
were exchanged. “Enjoy your evening,” Lady Collins
said, then left them, making no attempt to hide her
desire to get away as quickly as possible.
Edgemont flushed. “By God, she’s changed.”
“This is a mistake,” Alexandra said softly. “I am a
seamstress now. I sew for half a dozen of these
women. They resent my being here.”
“You have every right! You are Squire Denney’s
guest, and Lady Harrington will be thrilled to see you.”
Alexandra turned to look at her sisters, who seemed
distraught and dismayed now. She wished she hadn’t
spoken so openly. Then, across their heads, she saw
her escort. Denney smiled at her and indicated that he
would return in another moment. He was surrounded by
gentlemen now. Clearly he was well liked.
Three couples were ahead of them on the receiving
line. The knot in her stomach had grown and was
aching now. Her head hurt. What had she been
thinking, to come out this way with Olivia and Corey?
She overheard the matron at the front of the line going
on and on about how lovely Sara was—how graceful,
how genteel. It was true. Of course Sara de Warenne,
a nice enough young lady, did not lack for anything.
“Jilted.”
She turned and saw a woman staring cruelly at her. If
looks could kill, she would have dropped over on the
spot. She focused on making out what the woman was
saying to her friend.
“At the altar?” The friend gasped, looking at
Alexandra with malicious delight.
“Yes, she was jilted right at the altar. I recall it so well
now.” The first woman smiled with triumph at
Alexandra. “She got what she deserved. St. James
came to his senses—and married a proper title from a
proper family.”
Alexandra whirled, putting her back to the two
matrons, aghast. Olivia whispered, “Did I just hear what
I thought I did? Were those two ladies saying that
Owen jilted you?”
Of all she had endured up to that point, that lie hurt
the most, and to think Olivia had heard it, too. “It
doesn’t matter, Olivia,” she said, feeling oddly faint
now. She realized she was too exhausted to linger at
Sara’s birthday ball. She looked around for a chair.
Seats lined the entry hall, many of them taken. But only
two couples were ahead of them in the queue now; she
would have to see this through.
She touched her throbbing temples. If she were at
home, she would have lain down with an ice pack.
“Why would anyone say such a thing, when it is
patently untrue?” Olivia demanded in a hushed tone.
Alexandra managed to sound calm. “I’m sure the lie
wasn’t deliberate. Undoubtedly they haven’t recalled
the past correctly, that is all. I’m sure those ladies
made an innocent mistake.” But she wasn’t certain, not
at all.
“Gossip is like wildfire,” Olivia said. “Once it starts, it
is impossible to control.”
“I think those ladies are hateful,” Corey said.
Alexandra’s temples throbbed painfully now. She put
her arm around Corey. “No one is hateful. And we
should not be eavesdropping.”
“They wanted us to hear,” Corey said, twisting away.
“Why don’t we change the topic? We came here to
enjoy the evening,” Alexandra suggested.
“How can we enjoy the evening now?” Olivia asked,
clearly worried. “Although a small scandal might chase
Squire Denney away.”
Alexandra choked. Her despair seemed complete.
She had barely slept in days, mired in so much
stress and anxiety since her father’s shocking
announcement. Last night she had worked herself to
exhaustion—to the point of having numb fingertips.
Suddenly she knew that no matter how close she was
to the front of the queue, she must sit down—at once.
She did not feel well, not at all.
The room spun.
The lights dulled and grayed.
I am not going to faint, Alexandra thought, horrified.
If I faint, there will be even more gossip.
But the floor tilted wildly anyway.
As she reached out blindly, she crashed into a hard
male body—and a strong arm went around her. For
one moment she was filled with disbelief; she hadn’t
felt such masculinity in almost a decade. Her heart
slammed to a stop, then began hammering. Hard and
muscular, her rescuer enveloped her in warmth.
Breathless, Alexandra looked helplessly up….
And found herself gazing into the most piercing
—and most beautiful—blue eyes she had ever seen.
With utter calm, the man said, “Let me help you to a
chair.”
She meant to reply, she really did, but she couldn’t
form words. She could only stare at his stunningly
handsome face—at those long-lashed eyes, which had
turned languid and sensual now, at the straight,
patrician line of his well-formed nose, at the curve of
his cuttingly high cheekbones. She simply could not
breathe. He was devastating, and it had been so long
since she had been in a man’s arms.
And her body knew it. It tightened, swelled. Her heart
slammed again. Desire was a fist to her midsection,
robbing her of all air.
And he was staring intensely back at her. His mouth
was full, but chiseled into a hard line, and now, slightly,
the corners shifted. But the expression was by no
means a smile. “May I escort you to a chair?” he
offered again.
His tone was so seductive that desire flooded her
again. She wet her lips. As she no longer knew how to
flirt, she decided she would not even try—assuming
she could even find her voice. “You are very kind,” she
managed at last.
His mouth eased a bit more. “Many things are said
about me, but I do believe that no one has ever called
me kind.”
His arm remained around her. Alexandra realized
she was, for all intents and purposes, in his embrace.
“Then you have detractors, sir.”
He seemed amused—but it was as if he refused to
smile. “I have many,” he agreed. “But the truth of the
matter is that kindness has nothing to do with rescuing
a beautiful woman.”
And as if she were a young woman, Alexandra
blushed.
His brow lifted. “Shall we?” But before she could
even nod, he was moving her through the crowd, which
parted for them as if on command. Suddenly a red
velvet chair was before them. Alexandra was vaguely
aware of the whispers in the room behind them, but
she couldn’t make out a word and didn’t even try—her
racing heartbeat was simply too loud.
“I am reluctant to let you go,” he said softly.
She knew she was blushing again. “I am afraid
…there is no other choice.”
“There are many choices,” he said as softly, as he
pressed her toward the chair.
He easily could have released her, but Alexandra
was certain he held on to her as intimately as he did
until the very last moment, when her bottom was
securely on the plush seat of the chair. And even then,
his large hand was on her waist, and his hard arm
remained behind her back. She felt his fingers tighten.
“The pleasure has been mine.”
She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Worse, she
couldn’t look away from his warm, intent gaze. He was
flirting. She was amazed.
He released her, straightened to his full height—he
was over six feet tall, she thought almost inanely
—bowed and walked away.
Alexandra just sat there, stunned.
And then, as her sisters rushed over and knelt
beside her, she became aware of her hammering
heart and throbbing body, and the fact that she was
completely undone. Who was that man?
“Do you know who that was?” Corey asked
excitedly, as if she’d heard Alexandra’s silent question.
Alexandra looked up and saw that almost everyone
in the entry hall was staring at her and whispering
behind gloved hands. “No, I do not.”
“That was the Duke of Clarewood,” Corey breathed.
Alexandra stiffened in her seat. She knew all about
the duke. Everyone did. He was a paragon of
manhood—rich, titled, a great philanthropist. In fact, it
was undisputed that he was the wealthiest peer in the
realm—and possibly the most powerful one. And he
was the most eligible bachelor in Great Britain.
She trembled. Because the most important thing of
all was that everyone knew his reputation. He was, it
was said, cold and heartless. He’d rejected the best
Britain had to offer, time and again, for over a decade,
refusing to choose a bride. But he kept many beautiful
mistresses. And it was also said that he’d left a trail of
broken hearts all across the realm.

CHAPTER THREE
HE COULD NOT ATTEND any kind of function without
fawning ladies and obsequious gentlemen hoping to
attract his interest and attention. The men wanted
friendship, not because he was so likable, but for his
connections; the ladies wanted his hand or at least an
affair, or marriage for their daughters or sisters.
However, even before he had come into his title, he
had learned to put up a huge invisible wall between
himself and everyone else. Because even when he’d
been a boy, as the previous duke’s son and heir, the
sycophants had pursued him. Long ago, he’d become
adept at walking through a huge crowd without making
eye contact. When someone dared to approach, he
either tolerated the intrusion, if so inclined, or sent the
person such a quelling look that he or she instantly fled.
Now Stephen paused to glance back at the tall
brunette who had almost fainted in his arms. His blood
did not race at his first glimpse of a beautiful woman;
he was too experienced and too jaded. But his blood
was racing now.
He slowly smiled to himself.
She was surrounded by several women, two older
gentlemen, and their hosts, and was obviously
reassuring everyone that she was all right. The two
youngest women seemed deeply concerned for her, so
he deduced that they were relations or close friends.
He thought he remarked a vague resemblance.
Sisters?
He kept staring, unconcerned whether his interest
was remarked. She was unusually tall and very
attractive. Her face had strong planes and angles. He
would not call her beautiful, and handsome was too
masculine a word. But she was striking. He would
leave his analysis at that, but he was intrigued.
And he was never intrigued so swiftly.
Because of her age, he instantly assumed she was
a woman of some experience. And as she was
obviously impoverished—no one with means would
wear a gown so far out of fashion—there was no
reason in the world why they might not reach some
kind of mutually beneficial arrangement. His mistress
Charlotte had already become tiresome. Besides, his
lovers never stayed in his good graces for more than a
few months.
“It is absolutely disgraceful of them to show up here.
Imagine! Alexandra Bolton sews Lady Henredon’s
clothes! She makes a living!”
He glanced behind him at two flushed and furious
socialites—one silver-haired and one a brassy
redhead—and then saw his current mistress standing
just behind them. Charlotte’s blue eyes instantly met
his, and she smiled.
He nodded politely at her, hardly dismayed. He was
instead thinking about the fact that Alexandra Bolton
sewed for the upper classes, which surprised him. He
did not know of any noblewoman in strained
circumstances who would do such a thing. It was
actually quite admirable. He could not understand the
upper class revulsion for “work.” The truth was, he
rolled up his sleeves every single day, whether he was
at his desk, at one of his construction sites or at a
Foundation office.
“And Edgemont has been banished from our circles
for years. He is a drunk,” the redhead added. “I cannot
believe Lady Harrington has allowed them through the
front door.”
The two women walked away, their faces close
together. He heard them murmuring about Miss Bolton
being jilted at the altar and how she’d undoubtedly
deserved it. He sighed. The bitches were gathering for
a kill. He truly hated society at times, never mind that
he stood at its peak. And he always despised gossip,
especially when it was based on malice or ignorance.
He suspected that, in this case, the gossips knew next
to nothing about Miss Bolton—but they certainly
wished her ill.
He felt a welling of compassion for her. Too well, he
recalled and would never forget being a small boy and
overhearing the servants or guests discussing him. Not
that he cared any longer about being called a bastard,
but as a child, those whispers had been confusing and
hurtful.
He glanced back at Alexandra Bolton. She
remained seated, but suddenly she looked up, as if on
cue. His heart raced again. He did not mind, but he
was now somewhat amused by his own reaction to an
older, albeit attractive, and impoverished gentlewoman
in a rather distasteful dress. It had been a long time
since the mere sight of a woman could arouse him.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Charlotte Witte
murmured.
He turned and bowed. He’d been enjoying
Charlotte’s favors for several months now. She was
blond, petite, spectacularly beautiful—and very
determined to keep his attention. Too determined, in
fact, and her desire to become his wife had become
more and more transparent. That was crossing the
line. “Good evening, Lady Witte. You are in fine form
tonight.”
She smiled and curtsied, dutifully pleased, then
glanced past him at Miss Bolton. “Such high drama,
Your Grace. And I know how you like to avoid drama
and theatrics.”
He gazed impassively down at her. He did
thoroughly dislike spectacles of any kind. “So you
accuse Miss Bolton of deliberately attracting my
attention? How unfair, when she is not here to defend
herself.”
“If she did not intend to make a spectacle of herself,
then she is fortunate, is she not? For she did attract
your attention.” Charlotte was smiling, but her blue
eyes were hard.
He managed not to sigh. She was jealous, as he
supposed she should be. Except that she was only a
lover, and he never made promises he did not intend to
keep. He’d certainly made none to Charlotte. “I am
hardly so coldhearted that I would allow a damsel in
distress to faint at my feet.”
“I would never imply such a thing,” she said, as if
taken aback. Then she smiled, glanced around, and
stepped closer. “Did you receive my note?”
“I did,” he said. She wished to know if he intended a
rendezvous later that night. He’d meant to make the
appointment, but now he glanced toward Miss Bolton,
who was on her feet and sipping from a flute of
champagne, while smiling at one of the older
gentlemen. His gaze sharpened. The older man was
besotted. “Do you know Miss Bolton?”
Charlotte managed to keep smiling. “I know of her,
Your Grace, but no, I do not know her. How could I? She
is a seamstress. Her father is a drunk. We do not run in
the same circles.”
He stared at her. “Pettiness is hardly becoming.”
She flushed. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
And in that moment, he knew he was done with
Charlotte Witte.
She murmured, “Will I see you later tonight?”
He somehow smiled. “Not tonight.” He had no
intention of offering up any explanation for his decision.
She pouted so prettily that most men would have
changed their minds. “I will console myself with my
dreams.”
He nodded at her, and she finally drifted away. But
before he could find the new object of his interest, Alexi
approached. “What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. I am a paragon,
remember?” Stephen said, and Alexi laughed.
“So why run off such a beautiful woman?” Alexi
asked, but more seriously. “Oh, wait, I know the
answer. You are bored.”
Although they had shared quite a bit of his finest
Irish whiskey the night before, the subject of his marital
status had not arisen a second time. “Please do not
lecture me on the impossible delights of matrimony.”
Alexi’s grin turned wicked. “The delights are only
impossible if you are lucky in love.”
“My God, she’s turned you into a cow-eyed poet.”
“Ah, an insult you will have to pay for. Drinks at the
Stag?”
“Will she let you out of her sight?”
“I have my methods of persuasion.” Alexi grinned.
An image of Alexandra Bolton passed through
Stephen’s mind. “At midnight, then.”
“I’ll round up Ned, if I can,” Alexi said, referring to
their cousin, the present earl’s son and heir.
“And what about me,” a woman said, “or is this
evening meant to be strictly and exclusively one of
male camaraderie?”
Stephen turned to greet Alexi’s sister, Ariella, now
Lady St. Xavier. He’d grown up with Ariella, as well.
These days she was besotted with her husband and
had somehow blossomed into a very beautiful woman,
but she remained the highly educated and intellectually
insatiable woman he had known since he was a child.
Brother and sister embraced. “This is indeed a
moment of inherent male chauvinism. You are not
invited to the Stag, but St. Xavier is.”
“I’ ll think about allowing him out,” she teased,
“although I have much better plans for him tonight.”
Stephen thought he blushed. “That is beyond polite
conversation,” he said mildly.
“I abhor polite conversation.” She shrugged, smiling
at him. “In fact, I have just come from a meeting of the
People’s Advocacy for Textile Workers.” Then she
pinched his cheek as if he were a small child. “I know
you will donate to the cause of a labor union. By the
way, I have been hearing odd rumors about you, Your
Grace. Are you on the verge of a betrothal?”
He started, amused. “Don’t you know better than to
listen to idle gossip?”
“I thought the gossip unlikely, but one never knows.”
However, Ariella looked at him closely. “Is someone on
your mind, Stephen?”
“If there was, he would tell me,” Alexi said. “His best
and possibly only friend.”
Stephen couldn’t help thinking about Alexandra
Bolton, who was very dignified, even while about to
swoon. “The gossips have been claiming that I am on
the verge for years,” he said coolly. “It is wishful
thinking.”
Alexi laughed, rather wickedly. “You are staring at
that brunette.”
Stephen gave him a languid look. “I am simply
concerned that she might not be feeling well.”
“Really?” Alexi snickered. “And she isn’t eighteen
—how refreshing.”
He gave Alexi a quelling look.
“Are you two arguing?” He turned at the sound of
Elysse’s voice, and she threw her arms around him,
embracing him hard. “We have only just got home,
Stephen. Why are you arguing with my husband?” she
demanded.
“Because he is impossibly opinionated and his
opinions are always wrong,” he said. As a child, Elysse
had been spoiled and snooty, as well as demanding,
and she had been prone to putting on airs. They had
often tired of her behavior and excluded her from their
outings. She had certainly changed, but perhaps being
abandoned at the altar and deserted by her new
husband for six years had caused her to rethink her
ways. In any case, he was truly fond of her now. And
last night Alexi had shared his spectacular news
—Elysse was expecting their first child. “I see that
Hong Kong has agreed with you.” He kissed her
cheek. “Congratulations, my dear.”
She beamed. “It is my husband who agrees with me,
and my condition is one of the reasons why we came
home now. Alexi has missed you, and so have I. But I
see you two are already bickering like small boys.”
“We are usually at odds,” Stephen said. “Which you
already know, as you have seen us sparring since we
were small boys.”
“And neither one of you ever wins,” she reminded
them both, her violet eyes stern. “So who was that
woman who fainted in your arms?”
Before he could answer, Ariella cut in. “That is
Alexandra Bolton. Her mother was a good friend of
Aunt Blanche’s,” she said, referring to Lady Harrington,
“but after she passed away, the family has fallen on
hard times. I haven’t seen her in years, and it is
wonderful to see her and her sisters out and about.”
“Is she widowed?” Stephen asked, well aware that
she hadn’t worn any rings.
Both women looked at him. “I don’t think she was
ever married,” Ariella said, her brows lifted. “But I am
not sure. Are you plotting your next seduction?”
He stared calmly at her. “A gentleman does not kiss
and tell.”
“Don’t you dare!” she said, instantly outraged.
Before he could change the subject, a man behind
them said, “Who is about to be seduced?”
Stephen turned in surprise as Elysse’s brother
spoke. He was friendly with Jack O’Neill, but he hadn’t
seen him in two years—O’Neill had been in America.
“Ariella has a vivid imagination, or have you forgotten?”
Jack grinned and winked. Like Elysse, he was
golden in coloring, though with gray eyes, and now he
was bronzed from being outdoors. “I could never forget
that.”
Ariella huffed, “I am warning Mowbray off the woman
he rescued from a swoon. I happen to know her, and
she is not for him—not unless his intentions are
honorable ones.”
About to sip his champagne, Stephen choked.
“Really?” Jack laughed.
“I merely prevented the woman from collapsing,”
Stephen somehow said. “My God, I ask one innocent
question and I am accused of the worst intentions.” He
gave Ariella a cool glance. What was wrong with her?
Alexandra Bolton was in her late twenties, and a
woman with such striking looks could not possibly be
lacking in experience.
“Well, I have no problem confessing that my
intentions might not be honorable, not at all, if I was in
your shoes,” Jack declared. “That brunette is quite
pleasing to look at. Hello, Elysse. I am jealous. Are you
happier to see Stephen, a mere friend, than me, your
own brother?”
Elysse was wide-eyed—clearly, she hadn’t known
that her brother had returned to the country. “I haven’t
received a letter from you in a year, so we are not
speaking,” she said tersely, then gave him a cold look
and turned her back on him.
“It is rather hard to write letters when you are
warding off hostile Indians from the homestead,” Jack
said, amused. He kissed her cheek from behind. “I
love you anyway, and I have a present for you.” He then
pumped Alexi’s hand. “Congratulations.”
Alexi grinned. “The Stag at midnight,” he said.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Jack returned.
Elysse faced Jack then. “Bribery will not get you
forgiveness.”
“But I have the stab wounds to prove my words,” he
said, eyes wide and innocent. “And an Apache warrior
has a good hank of my hair.”
“Why did you have to go to the wilds of America?”
Elysse asked in dismay, all anger forgotten.
“That was so easy,” Jack laughed, putting his arms
around her.
For one moment, Stephen almost felt like the small
boy he’d once been, standing on the edge of the
crowded de Warenne salon, the only outsider in the
room. St. Xavier had come up to join them, and he was
aware of Sir Rex and Lady Blanche standing a few
paces away, speaking to Tyrell de Warenne, the earl of
Adare, who was standing with the duchess, his pretty,
plump wife, Lizzie. Stephen was used to such feelings.
It was impossible not to stand amid the great de
Warenne family and not feel the sensation of not quite
belonging, even though he shared their blood. But he
would never share their name, and the blood
connection was a family secret—society would never
know. The fact of the matter was that he would always
be on the fringes of the family and never truly a part of
it.
Not that he minded, and not that it mattered. Every
man of honor had a duty, and his was Clarewood.
Stephen turned away, certain Jack had meant every
word as far as the Indians and his hair went, and just
as certain that he had cleverly manipulated Elysse. The
crowd in the hall had been reduced, most of the guests
now in the great ballroom, for which Harrington Hall
was famous. He scanned the room but did not see the
most recent object of his interest. But across the room,
he saw the Sinclairs arriving. Lord Sinclair had recently
angled for Stephen’s marriage to his very beautiful
daughter. Young Anne was wedged between her
parents, and she was so stunning that heads turned as
they entered. His own blood did not race; instead, he
had the urge to loosen his necktie. He hadn’t
dismissed Sinclair outright; Anne had all the proper
prerequisites—on paper, anyway—and he had said he
would consider such a union.
She was only eighteen. She would be meek and
eager to please; she would not have independent
opinions; and she would make a stunning duchess.
“Why are you scowling?” Alexi asked.
“Am I frowning?” He smiled perfunctorily. He knew
he would be bored with her before they ever got to the
altar, and that was the end of that.
“Who is that? Oh, wait, don’t bother—I know the
answer.”
“Anne Sinclair. Her father suggested a marriage.”
“You will never get on.”
“Do not tell me how splendid constant bickering is.”
“I would die of boredom if Elysse obeyed my every
command.”
“ S he disobeys your every command,” Stephen
pointed out.
“And I am all the happier because of it.”
“And while I am thrilled you are so besotted, I should
be incredibly unhappy if my wife disobeyed me.”
“Ah, yes, of course, Your Grace,” Alexi said. He
shook his head in disgust and lowered his voice. “You
can pretend you are like the old man, but you are not.
And we both know you will never get on in a dull,
arranged marriage—which is why you have avoided
matrimony for almost fifteen years.”
Stephen was oddly annoyed, and they were once
again at a stand-off. “I’ll see you at the Stag later. I pray
we can discuss your affairs, not mine.”
“Coward.”
Only Alexi de Warenne could get away with such an
insolent statement. Stephen decided to ignore him and
strode off into the crowd. He had better things to do
—and an acquaintance to pursue.
SARA HAD BEEN THRONGED with guests and
admirers since she’d arrived. Stephen smiled,
studying his half sister from a slight distance. She had
never seemed so happy, and he was at once glad and
proud. She was a very pretty girl, taking after her
mother in both appearance and temperament; she was
kind, shy and gentle. While he’d known her since she
was an infant—she had been born shortly before he’d
inherited the duchy—he hadn’t spent as much time with
her or Marion as he would have liked, due to the
constraints of the situation. While most of the sprawling
de Warenne family knew the truth about him, his half
sisters had been told the exact nature of their
relationship only two years ago. After all, children did
not keep secrets well. Until that time, they had thought
him a dear family friend.
He was aware that she was shy with him, as if he
were an older relative who did not visit all that often. He
also knew she was in some awe of him, and he wished
somewhat wistfully that he could have been a brother to
her openly, but that was simply impossible.
She was shining tonight, as she should be on her
sixteenth birthday. As he watched several young men
flirting with her, he felt a stirring of pride and
protectiveness. He would always be her protector,
even if from a distance.
He quietly awaited his turn to greet her, but the men
and women in front of him realized who was standing
behind them and allowed him to cut to the head of the
queue. She was blushing profusely as Lord Montclair,
who was far too old for her, congratulated her, and
Stephen paused to smile at Lady Harrington.
“How are you, Your Grace?” Blanche Harrington
asked, clasping both his hands warmly.
Blanche had been warm and kind to him from the
moment of their first meeting, when he was nine years
old. He liked her greatly in return, and understood that
she had embraced him so genuinely because of her
deep love for Sir Rex. “I am enjoying the evening, and
apparently so is Sara.”
“The truth is,” Blanche said softly, “Sara was
dreading this evening. You know how modest she is.
She was afraid she would fail her guests. But she has
been having a fabulous time.”
He glanced at Sara, wondering how more
confidence might be instilled in her. Sara saw him, and
she instantly stepped forward, blushing. “Your Grace,”
she whispered.
Long ago, he had decided that having his half
siblings address him formally was not awkward—just a
necessity. He took her hands and said,
“Congratulations, my dear. You are so lovely tonight,
and I believe your ball is a great success.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She smiled shyly. “I’m so
glad you could come tonight.”
“I would never miss your birthday. In fact, your
present is on the gift table in the front hall, and I hope
you will enjoy it.”
“I will treasure it,” she said seriously. “Because it is
from you.”
He took her hand and kissed it. He had given her a
diamond pendant necklace, and he hoped she would
treasure it forever. But before he could straighten, he
had a vision of Tom Mowbray standing behind her.
It was just for a moment, but the old man was
mocking his sentiments, as if he thought him a fool.
Stephen tensed. Even though Tom was gone and
what he’d seen had been a memory, not a ghost, he
could hear him as clearly as if he still lived. Your duty
is Clarewood—not a half sibling! And you dare to
yearn for more?
But he wasn’t yearning for anything. He was merely
fond of his sister—and that was as much his duty as
anything else.
Sir Rex detached himself from a group of guests
and turned to face him. Stephen knew he was fortunate
that his natural father was a man of such honor, and
that his natural father was a man of such honor, and
they had developed a friendship over the years. “Will
Sara shriek and swoon when she sees your gift? I
hope it was within reason,” Sir Rex said, as they shook
hands. “How are you, Stephen?”
Sir Rex refused to address him as Your Grace, and
while it was odd, no one seemed to care, or perhaps
society had simply become used to it. Stephen thought
that he would hate being so formally addressed by the
man who had not only sired him, but had had his best
interests at heart for as long as he could remember. He
had respected and even admired Sir Rex for years,
before learning the truth about their relationship, while
Sir Rex had always been more than usually kind and
attentive to him. In retrospect, he understood why. “I am
very well, and currently preoccupied with the
Manchester housing project, amongst other things.” He
was building housing for textile workers, housing with
proper lighting, ventilation and sewage disposal. The
factory owners were not pleased, but he did not care;
they would come around when they realized that
healthy workers were far more productive than ill ones.
“Are the plans finalized?” Sir Rex asked with
interest. He had been a huge supporter of all of
Stephen’s good works.
“No, they are not. But I was hoping to show them to
you when they are done.”
Sir Rex smiled, pleased. “I have not a doubt the
plans will be a triumph, and I can hardly wait to see
them.”
Sir Rex was as different from Tom Mowbray as a
man could be. He believed in praise and
encouragement, not criticism and scorn. Stephen knew
that he should be accustomed to such praise, but he
was not. He was always vaguely surprised and a bit
uncomfortable, and always warmed. “There might be
several go-rounds,” he said. “There are some issues
still to resolve.”
“You will resolve them—you always do. I am
confident,” Sir Rex said, smiling.
“Thank you. I am hopeful your confidence will not be
misplaced.” As he spoke, he saw Randolph, Sir Rex’s
son—his own half brother—enter the ballroom.
Randolph instantly saw them, and he grinned, starting
toward them.
“I am glad you are mentoring Randolph,” Sir Rex
said. “He has done nothing but speak of your good
works since returning from Dublin.”
“Randolph is determined, and he is very intelligent.
He discovered some discrepancies in the Clarewood
Home’s Dublin accounts. I have had to replace the
director there.”
“He told me. He is astonishingly adept with
numbers. He does not get that from me.”
Randolph was not yet twenty, but he was tawny and
handsome, resembling his father almost exactly,
except for his golden coloring. He had tremendous
confidence, present in his long, assured stride—and
the many younger debutantes present were all ogling
him as he passed by. He grinned as he paused beside
them. “Hello, Father…Your Grace.”
“You are late,” Stephen said mildly. Randolph was
flushed and very, very smug, and Stephen damned well
knew what he’d been up to.
“You are not the only one who has rescued a damsel
in distress tonight,” Randolph boasted.
“You will catch a dreadful disease,” Stephen warned,
meaning it. “And one must never discuss indiscretion
openly.”
Some of Randolph’s exhilaration faded. “I did not
mean to be late. The time somehow escaped me.” But
then he snickered again.
“Of course you did not mean to be late. You weren’t
thinking clearly—I doubt you were thinking at all. It is
Sara’s birthday, Randolph.” He hoped he was not
being too harsh, but Randolph was too often reckless,
and that worried him.
The boy flushed now. “I will apologize to Sara.” He
glanced at his sister, and his eyes widened. “You have
turned into a beauty!” he exclaimed.
Stephen was amused, and he saw that Sir Rex was,
too. As Randolph hurried over to his sister, Sir Rex
said, “I have spoken to him many times, but I am afraid
my advice falls on deaf—though young—ears.”
“He has assured me that he is careful and discreet,”
Stephen said.
“Thank you.” Sir Rex sighed. “I cannot recall a male
de Warenne who was not notorious for his philandering
until the time he was wed.” And Sir Rex gave him a
look.
“Well, then Randolph is following in the family
tradition,” Stephen remarked. But he turned away,
uncomfortable, wondering if he was included in the
generalization. In a way, he hoped not. He considered
his amorous liaisons rather routine, for a bachelor like
himself.
Suddenly Stephen saw Edgemont hurrying through
the crowd, and he quickly realized that the man was
staggering drunk. He glanced around with some
concern, but Miss Bolton was nowhere in sight. That
was when he saw the dowager duchess entering the
ballroom, and she was not alone.
The fact that his mother would be escorted to such
an affair was hardly unusual, but he instantly saw that
this was not a routine matter. The man on her arm was
tall and golden, with a presence that was positively
leonine. And his mother, he realized, was radiant—as if
deliriously happy. In fact, she had never looked better.
“Julia Mowbray, the Dowager Duchess of
Clarewood, was one of the strongest and most
courageous women he knew. She had devoted her
entire life to the cause of advancing his interests, at
great personal cost and sacrifice. She had suffered
greatly at the previous duke’s hands. A dowager for
fifteen years, she had decided not to remarry, and he
had applauded that decision. Now, he was concerned.
“Who is accompanying the dowager duchess
tonight?” he asked sharply.
“I believe that his name is Tyne Jefferson, and that
he is a rancher from California.”
“Are you certain?” Was his mother romantically
interested in Jefferson? “Is he wealthy? Does he come
from a good family? He looks rather savage.”
“You should calm down. Julia is a strong and
sensible woman. Fortune hunters have been sniffing
about her for years, and she has eluded every single
one of them.”
“So you think he is a fortune hunter!” Stephen
exclaimed.
“No, I do not. I have heard that he has some
business with your uncle, Cliff.”
“I believe introductions are in order,” Stephen said.
The dowager duchess was a very wealthy woman
—and she was his responsibility. He did not care for
this liaison. He was worried. “Excuse me.”
Julia was strolling across the ballroom with the
American. The consummate diplomat now, as she had
once been the consummate duchess, she paused
before each party, making certain to politely introduce
Jefferson, who looked to Stephen to be unperturbed by
the entire affair. He barely spoke, but he watched Julia
closely, with obvious interest. Stephen approached
them from behind.
Jefferson sensed him immediately and turned.
Stephen smiled coolly at him. As he discerned a
challenge, Jefferson’s gaze narrowed.
Julia whirled. “Stephen!” She took his hands and
kissed his cheek. “I am so glad you are here. This is
Mr. Tyne Jefferson, and this is my son, His Grace, the
Duke of Clarewood.”
“I am honored, Your Grace,” Jefferson drawled. But
Stephen knew from the American’s tone that the man
was not awed by him, or even impressed. “Mr.
Jefferson. And are you enjoying my country?” Stephen
returned, smiling. He gestured at the lavish room. “I
imagine you do not attend many balls in California.”
Julia stepped closer to Stephen and sent him a look
that said very clearly that she was becoming angry with
him.
It didn’t matter. He had to protect her from disaster
and heartache, at all costs.
“No, we don’t have balls like this in California. The
scenery here is quite a welcome change, as well.”
Suddenly Jefferson looked at Julia, the gaze direct,
and she flushed.
Stephen was briefly shocked—and
uncharacteristically speechless—by how obvious her
feelings were for this man.
“I am enjoying my stay here,” Jefferson added. “And
I very much appreciate being invited to attend this ball.”
Julia smiled at him. “It would have been remiss of
me, sir, not to invite you to join me.”
Stephen glanced sharply at her. What was she
thinking? He turned back to Jefferson. “And what
brings you to Britain?”
The American seemed amused. “A personal matter,
actually.”
He had just been told to mind his own affairs, and he
was not pleased about it. “Sir Rex told me that you
have some business with Cliff de Warenne.” His uncle
—Alexi’s father—had built up a global shipping empire
over the years.
“Stephen,” Julia said swiftly. “I know you wish to
become further acquainted with Mr. Jefferson, but we
have only just arrived. There are still a number of
introductions I wish to make.” She was firm.
Stephen knew he must stand down—for now. But he
would begin an investigation of the man, and tomorrow,
first thing, he would summon Julia to Clarewood to find
out what she was doing by promoting an acquaintance
with such a man. “Perhaps I can be of some help in
your business affairs, for not only am I on good terms
with the de Warenne family, I am well connected
throughout the realm.”
“Nice of you to offer,” Jefferson said, mockery in his
tone but his expression as cool as a cube of ice. “And
I’ll definitely think about it.”
Julia gave him another warning look, but Stephen
barely saw it. He wasn’t sure he had ever encountered
such arrogance, and in spite of himself, he felt the
dawning of a grudging respect for the American.
“HERE, A SIP OF TEA will undoubtedly help,” Squire
Denney said with concern.
Alexandra smiled gratefully at him, aware that she
was still being stared at and, at times, whispered
about. She had not dreamed of such a reception to her
first social event in nine years. No one had spoken with
her since they had arrived at Sara’s birthday party
other than her sisters, her father and the squire. She
had done her best to pretend that all was well—she did
not want to distress the squire or, worse, chase him off.
But surely, once he realized what was happening and
what society thought of her, he would flee.
They’d been at Harrington Hall for about two hours,
and her headache was so bad now that she’d finally
confessed to feeling a bit under the weather. Denney
was being kind. She had the feeling that compassion
was a large part of his nature. “Thank you,” she said,
accepting the tea and knowing he’d gone out of his
way to find a hot cup at this hour.
She took a sip. She felt as if she had been standing
in that corner of the ballroom forever, but it was only
nine o’clock. She wasn’t sure she had ever felt so
humiliated. She couldn’t believe she’d been so naive
as to think she could appear in society when she made
a living as a seamstress now. As for the vicious gossip
that she’d been jilted by Owen, she couldn’t bear to
think about it. At least she could console herself with
the truth. Even so, surely the squire would decide that
he wanted a socially acceptable wife, ruling her out.
She glanced at her sisters, dismayed. They should
have been out on the dance floor; instead, they refused
to leave her side. They should have been having the
best time of their young lives; instead, they were
anxious and frightened, and determined to defend her
from further slander and prevent another disaster.
Her glance wandered. And she knew she was
looking for him.
Her heart thundered. Her cheeks felt hot.
“I will get you a small bite,” Denney said, his concern
as vast as ever.
Realizing he would leave her side for a moment, and
that she might speak privately to her sisters, Alexandra
nodded. “Thank you.”
When he was gone, Corey whispered, “I think we
should leave.” She was pale with distress.
Alexandra faced her, a firm smile in place. “We will
not cry over spilt milk, we will merely clean it up.”
“These people are hateful,” Corey continued in a
whisper. “Who cares about being at this party?”
“Everyone is not hateful. A handful of these women
are mean-spirited, that is all. Wasn’t it nice to see Lady
Harrington and her daughters again?” Blanche
Harrington had been kind and concerned, and her
daughters had actually seemed pleased to renew their
acquaintances. Sir Rex had been equally
magnanimous. “And, Corey, you remain the interest of
several young gentlemen here.”
“I don’t care,” Corey said, meaning it. “When can we
leave?”
Alexandra exchanged a glance with Olivia and
caught her staring at the same blond man she herself
had noticed earlier. Her heart clenched. Whoever that
gentleman was, he was not for her sister. “Who is that?

Olivia flushed. “I don’t know. I overheard someone
saying he’s been in the wilds of America for the past
two years.”
Alexandra sensed her sister’s interest, and she took
her hand and squeezed it sadly. Then she looked at
Corey. “We can’t leave this early. That would be grossly
insulting to our hosts. And it would be rude to the
squire, as well.”
Corey was grim. “I know,” she said. “But one can
hope, can’t one?”
“I think we should try to resurrect this evening—and
enjoy the next few hours,” Alexandra said.
Her sisters did not buy her optimism for a moment.
Olivia said, “Where is Father?”
Alexandra froze. She hadn’t seen him in an hour,
and no good could come of that. If he was drinking, she
would wring his neck when they got home, and this
time she meant it. She could not bear any more
disgrace. “Maybe we should look for him,” she said,
setting down her cup of tea.
Olivia pinched her—hard.
As she did, Alexandra felt his stare. She inhaled
hard, tensing. The sensation of being watched by the
Duke of Clarewood was unlike any other. And slowly
she turned.
It remained unbelievable that she had almost fainted
and that he’d caught her before she collapsed. It
remained as impossible that he’d been gallant—and
that he had even flirted with her. Just as impossible
was the fact that a moment later she had caught him
staring closely at her, as he was doing now. Their
gazes locked.
Her heart leaped, lurched and then raced wildly.
She could not quite breathe.
He was speaking with several gentlemen, but his
gaze was most definitely on her, at once confident and
intense. Alexandra knew she would never forget the
feeling of being in his strong arms. As for his interest,
she was fairly certain she knew what it signified.
He was unwed, and so was she—but she was not in
his league. She was too old for him, too impoverished,
the family name too disreputable. His interest could
mean only one thing.
She was stunned, but also dismayed.
“That is Clarewood,” Corey breathed, clearly in awe
and, just as clearly, having no comprehension of the
situation.
“I am in his debt,” Alexandra said tersely. She
glanced at Olivia, who stared back. Surely Olivia
understood that he would never be interested in her in
any honorable way. And she still couldn’t fathom his
interest, not even in any dishonorable way. Why did he
find her interesting? There were many beautiful women
in the room. And then, from the corner of her eye, she
saw their father heading toward them.
She froze. He was lurching. She had prayed things
would not get worse, but clearly her prayers had gone
unanswered.
Olivia saw him, too, and she gasped. Then, “Now
we have to leave.”
There was nothing Alexandra wished to do more.
However, running now, with their tails between their
legs, would leave a terrible impression. “The two of you
stay here. I am sending him home, and I’ll be back in a
moment.”
Olivia’s regard was imploring. “Why?”
“I don’t think Denney has noticed how foxed Father
is. And we are staying until the squire is ready to leave
—we are his guests.”
Edgemont swayed toward her, grinning. “My
beautiful daughter! Are you enjoying yourself?”
She took his arm, moving him into the corner. “You
promised not to imbibe.”
“I haven’t. Alexandra, I swear. Not one drop.”
“You reek of whiskey, and you’re staggering,” she
accused. She was livid, but even more, she was
humiliated and dismayed.
“I did not take even one drop of whiskey,” he slurred.
“’Twas gin.”
“And that makes it better?” She looped her arm
firmly through his, but even so, he almost fell on her.
She hit the wall, flushing, his weight too heavy for her to
bear. “You have to leave, Father. You cannot remain in
such a state.”
“Too shoon to go, my dear. There’sh cards in the
game room.” He tried to push her away and almost fell
again.
Alexandra knew that they were being remarked. She
seized his arm and tried to get him to stand upright. As
he stood up, swaying, she did not know if she would
ever forgive him for this.
“You’re having a good time, aren’t you?” he asked,
grinning.
“Yes, I am having a splendid time,” she snapped,
wondering if she should try to drag him bodily from the
room. She did not think she was strong enough to do
so.
“Good.” He suddenly pulled free of her and crashed
into the wall himself. “Whoops.”
Furious, her cheeks on fire, Alexandra seized his
arm and threw it over her shoulders. “We are leaving,”
she said, trying to speak as calmly as possible, no
easy task when she was furious.
“Don’t want to go,” he said, balking. “Cardsh.”
She looked at him, and when he smiled back at her,
she wanted to cry. So this was how he was once he left
the house every night? It was simply heartbreaking.
And the most heartbreaking part was that she was
certain that, had her mother lived, his propensity for
alcohol would have never become so out of control.
“May I?” the Duke of Clarewood asked.
She went still. Then, her father’s weight half on her,
his arm over her shoulders, her hair now coming down
in absolute disarray, she looked up.
His brilliantly blue gaze met hers. There was no
scorn on his handsome face, no condescension. He
seemed suitably grave, and in that moment he seemed
like the Rock of Gibraltar.
Alexandra felt her heart explode. “I beg your
pardon?”
“May I be of some assistance?” He sent her a
dazzling smile.
It was the kind of smile no woman could resist.
Alexandra felt like dumping her drunken father in his
arms and bursting into tears. Instead, she jerked her
father’s arm more tightly over her shoulders, held her
head high and blinked back any rising moisture. Even
as she did so, she knew she couldn’t possibly carry
him out of the room, much less the house.
And Clarewood, the most devastating man she’d
ever laid eyes on, was witnessing this humiliation.
“You can’t possibly carry his weight,” he said gently.
He was right. She wet her lips as it crossed her
mind that this gesture—which was truly heroic—would
only cause more attention and more gossip. “You are
right.” She dared to meet his gaze again.
It was the most speculative and intelligent, the most
penetrating regard she’d ever encountered. Then he
stooped down and removed her father’s arm from her
shoulders, firmly clasping him about the waist.
Edgemont began to drunkenly protest.
“Father, you are going outside with the duke,”
Alexandra said as calmly as possible. “I will follow
—and you are going home.”
“Don’t want to go home…the duke?” Edgemont
gaped at Clarewood now.
“Easy, my man,” Clarewood said, a quiet authority in
his tone. “The night is over, and you are going home,
as Miss Bolton has suggested.”
He knew her name .
Edgemont’s eyes widened comically. “Your Grace,”
he whispered, clearly awed and submissive now.
Alexandra fought more tears as Clarewood
practically carried her father away.
She realized her sisters had come to stand silently
beside her, filled with the same despair and distress
she herself was feeling. As Clarewood started across
the room, she became aware of the silent, gawking
crowd. Every pair of eyes in the hall was trained upon
Clarewood and his drunken, clownish burden.
Suddenly a pair of gentlemen came rushing over to
the duke. She recognized the young man with tawny
hair—he was Randolph de Warenne, Sir Rex’s son,
who was perhaps twenty or so. The other man was
unmistakable, even if she hadn’t seen him in years
—he was the dark and dashing shipping merchant
Alexi de Warenne. Both men quickly divested
Clarewood of his drunken burden.
“Find a coach to take him home, and a proper
escort,” Clarewood calmly said, straightening his
tailcoat.
“I’ll see him home,” Randolph said quickly, with a
grim smile.
“Thank you.” Clarewood gave the younger man a
smile in return. “You can use my coach if you wish. I
appreciate it, Rolph.”
Alexandra thought that Randolph was eager to
please the duke, not that it mattered to her, except as
far as it meant that he would get her father safely
home. But she also noticed how much the two men
resembled one another—in spite of the fact that
Randolph had tawny hair and Clarewood’s was pitchblack.
The similarity of their features struck her, as did
the darkness of their complexions, and just before
Randolph turned away with her father, she glimpsed
the brilliant blue eyes the de Warenne men were
renowned for. Clarewood had striking blue eyes, as
well. None of this mattered, of course. She wasn’t sure
why she was noticing such things now.
Clarewood turned and approached her again.
Her heart slammed. Beside her, both her sisters
stiffened, and Alexandra felt a flush begin. He had
rescued her from a swoon. Had he heard the gossip?
Did he think her reprehensible? A castoff? What did he
think of her father’s behavior? Of the fact that she had
to earn her living by sewing? Why did she care?
Suddenly he took a flute of champagne from a
passing waiter without even breaking stride. A moment
later he was handing it to her. “Champagne hardly
cures all ills. But you appear as if you might need a
drink.”
She gratefully accepted the glass. Clarewood
glanced idly at her sisters as she did so. As if on
command, they nodded at him, turned and hurried a
few steps away. Alexandra couldn’t look away from
him, but she knew her sisters were staring, too—along
with everyone else in the room.
“I am sorry for your distress, Miss Bolton.”
What did that mean? Why would he care? “You have
no reason to be sorry for anything. You saved me from
a swoon. You escorted my inebriated father from the
room and have made certain he will be taken safely
home. Thank you.”
“The first instance was my pleasure. The second, my
choice.” His mouth curved.
Still, she wondered why he had bothered. “It was
certainly an unpleasant choice and one you did not
have to make. Again, thank you, Your Grace. Your
kindness is astounding.”
He studied her for a moment. “Kindness had nothing
to do with it.” He bowed. “You seem to have a suitor
waiting in the wings. A gentleman knows when it is
time to take his leave.”
She tensed, glimpsing Squire Denney hovering
behind them, his eyes wide, and she knew she hadn’t
mistaken the mockery in Clarewood’s tone. Her
dismay increased. So did a sense of embarrassment.
Somehow, he’d ascertained that Denney was courting
her. The duke gave her an odd, almost promising look,
as if telling her that he would return, and then he was
gone.
Alexandra just stood there, feeling as if she’d
somehow withstood a hurricane—or some other
impossible force of nature.

CHAPTER FOUR
THE STAG ROOM of the Hotel St. Lucien was as
exclusive as a private club. While one did not have to
be a member, the maitre d’ had no trouble
encouraging the wrong sort to turn away from its
massive carved doors. Merchants, bankers, factory
owners and lawyers were simply not allowed without a
proper introduction or the right escort. Simply put, it
was a refuge for the country’s upper-class elite.
Stephen rarely bothered with the Stag Room or any
similar establishment, but once in a while such
isolation was welcome.
Now he propelled Randolph forward, his hand on the
younger man’s shoulder. The maitre d’ bowed. “Your
Grace. Mr. de Warenne.”
Stephen nodded as he and his half brother strolled
into the dimly lit salon filled with fine furniture, gilded
antiques and Aubusson rugs. At this late hour, nearing
midnight, the gentlemen present were all his age, with
only a few exceptions, and many were well into their
cups. Murmurs of “Your Grace” followed him as he
walked past the various groups. Alexi, Jack, Ned and
his younger brother Charles, generally known as Chaz,
were all slouched in their plush seats at the salon’s far
end. The windows there overlooked the park. The
moon was bright tonight.
“We were wondering if you got waylaid,” Jack
O’Neill said, one leg crossed over the other, a cigar in
hand.
“I had to pry my young friend away from a particularly
voracious baroness,” Stephen said drily. “He was
making advances toward Lady Dupre.”
Randolph flopped down onto the couch beside
Alexi, who poured a fine cognac into a snifter for him
and pushed it over. “She was the most beautiful
woman at the birthday soirée, and may I say, in my own
defense, she ogled me before I ever approached?”
“They are all beautiful, where you are concerned,”
Chaz said.
“Discretion would have been a better course,”
Stephen admonished, “as her current paramour was
standing beside her and her husband within earshot.”
“Lady Dupre,” Alexi murmured. “Well done, Rolph.”
Randolph saluted him with his snifter.
Stephen took the chair beside the couch, glancing
at Alexi as he did so. His friend was lounging against
the cushions in a manner that suggested he was hardly
drunk and was very intently preparing for their next goround.
He looked like a black jaguar in a cage, one
waiting for the gatekeeper to dare to come inside. He
smiled indolently at Stephen.
“As long as we are speaking about impending
conquests, has Miss Bolton indicated that she will be
grateful to you for rescuing her not once, but twice,
tonight?” Alexi asked.
Stephen poured himself a cognac, recalling
Alexandra Bolton’s humiliation at the hands of her
father with a stirring of anger. “Edgemont is a disgrace.

“Miss Bolton handled herself well,” Ned said firmly.
“Grace under fire, all around.”
Stephen silently agreed.
“She is a striking woman,” Jack remarked. “She is
almost as tall as I am.”
Stephen gave Jack a deceptively mild look.
“I would never poach,” Jack laughed. Then he
sobered. “I did feel sorry for her. And for her sisters,
too. Edgemont should be shot.”
“That’s a bit extreme,” Ned said, amused. “You’re
back in civilization, Jack. Or have you forgotten?”
Jack flexed his hands. “I suppose I have become a
bit extreme, actually.” He glanced around. “Let’s find a
tavern and some good lusty tavern wenches. I am
bored.”
Chaz and Randolph exchanged looks. “I know a
place,” Chaz said, attempting to remain blasé.
His older brother looked at him. “You are the spare,”
Ned reproved. “You do have a reputation to maintain.”
“Exactly. I’m the spare, not the heir,” Chaz said,
unperturbed, and he finished his drink, whispering to
Randolph as they made their plans for the rest of the
evening.
Alexi turned to look at Stephen. “I ask again. How
goes the latest seduction? Is Miss Bolton disposed to
be properly grateful?”
He felt his blood warm. He thought about how proud
she was as he said slowly, “She seemed cautiously
grateful…as if you care.”
“But I do care.” Alexi smiled. “She is no Charlotte
Witte. In fact, you may find yourself with some
resistance this time. By the way, Elysse has decided
she wishes to know Miss Bolton. Ariella has decided to
introduce them.”
Stephen sighed. He expected his cousins to
interfere in his personal life—they certainly harped on
him for his bachelor status from time to time—but he
couldn’t imagine why they would care about his interest
in Alexandra Bolton. Now he wondered if Alexi could
be right. Not only had she been proud, she hadn’t
flirted with him, not one single time, when every other
woman who crossed his path was coy and flirtatious.
“Considering her dire straits, I am sure that, in the end,
we will both come to very agreeable terms. And
perhaps you might instruct your wife and sister not to
meddle? As there is really nothing for them to meddle
in.”
Alexi smiled at him. “But I happen to think that
perhaps, this one time, they should meddle—Miss
Bolton is so original.”
Stephen stared. “What are you up to?”
“She is not your type, not for an affair,” Alexi said
quickly.
“How wrong you are.”
His look was almost smug, and that made Stephen
uneasy.
“Isn’t she unwed?” Ned asked, his gaze unwavering.
“And isn’t she a gentlewoman?”
Stephen felt a twinge of discomfort. “She is an older
woman, Ned, a spinster, for God’s sake. And there
was some scandal already, so she is hardly an
innocent debutante whom I wish to ruthlessly take
advantage of.”
“She is a woman of substance,” Ned said. “And
pride. Anyone can see that. You should look elsewhere
for your entertainment.”
Stephen stared coldly at him, but Ned wasn’t
daunted. One day his cousin would be the Earl of
Adare, a powerful title and position. He didn’t expect
Ned to bow to him, but he did not appreciate being
questioned, and he didn’t like his cousins interfering in
this instance. No one had ever bothered to say a word
to him about Charlotte, or the mistress before her, or
the one before her.
But Alexi was right on one account: Alexandra
wasn’t anything like Charlotte.
“I wonder how Anne Sinclair would handle the drama
of such a night, if she were ever in Miss Bolton’s
position,” Alexi said softly.
The other men chuckled. Stephen smiled wryly,
sipping from his drink, wondering why Alexi had raised
such a comparison. “I’m sure she would be equally
graceful and dignified,” he said, though he hardly
thought so. “Are you interested in Lady Anne, Alexi?”
“Me? Of course not. Let’s see…how old is she?
Eighteen? And what are her accomplishments? Oh,
wait, she has been spoiled and pampered her entire
life. But she is an excellent dancer. Her manners are
impeccable, as well. The two of you make a pleasing
couple, by the way—she would make a stunning
duchess. Doesn’t everyone agree?”
Everyone was silent now. Interest was acute.
And Stephen was now very annoyed. “I have
considered Anne, and I have decided to reject her.”
“Of course you have. And I do support your
decision,” Alexi said. “Tell me, have you heard that
Miss Bolton sews to support her sisters and her
father?”
Alexi was baiting him. He simply did not know why. “I
admire her resourcefulness.”
Alexi gaped. “Really?”
Someone laughed.
“I think it is a tragedy that she must work to support
her family,” Randolph said.
“It is a tragedy,” Stephen said, staring closely at
Alexi. “Life is filled with tragedies.”
“And life is filled with beautiful, young, spoiled
debutantes.” Alexi saluted him with his glass.
“What is your point?” Stephen asked crossly. But he
recalled the parade of young ladies he’d been offered
over the course of the past decade—every single one
of them a mirror image of Anne. “Because I seem to
recall another terribly spoiled and pampered young
woman…before, of course, you jilted her at the altar
and took off for parts unknown.” Stephen saluted Alexi
with his glass, which he realized was almost empty.
Alexi’s smile remained, but it no longer reached his
eyes. “I made a terrible mistake, leaving her after our
vows. I cannot imagine Lady Anne becoming the
spectacular woman that my wife has become—a
woman of opinions, ideas, of will, of substance. Miss
Bolton reminds me of Elysse—not in appearance, but
in courage.” He drained his drink and said, “I believe
you have just insulted my wife.”
He knew he should apologize, but Alexi’s latest
reference to Alexandra Bolton was even more jarring
than the previous ones—though Alexandra had been
courageous tonight. No one could dispute that. “I
personally have no use for a woman with opinions,” he
muttered.
“My God, you’ve insulted me, then Elysse, and now
you’ve just insulted every woman in the family,” Alexi
said, standing abruptly.
“That is not what I meant,” Stephen said, standing,
as well.
“I think you should marry Anne or someone just like
her,” Alexi said. “You can be such a jackass. Marrying a
woman who will bore you to tears just so you can
please that bastard who raised you—so you can be
just like that bastard—is exactly what you deserve.
Apologize.”
Jack started laughing.
Stephen finally lost his temper. “I am a jackass?
Because you meddle like a woman.”
Alexi’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. “Oh
ho,” he said.
Stephen tensed for the blow.
But just as Alexi clenched his fist, Ned stood and
interposed himself between the two men. “You can’t
possibly strike His Grace.”
“His Grace, my arse. Why not? I’ve done so a
hundred times.” Alexi glared.
“Stephen deserves it,” Jack said, grinning with
relish. “He did insult Elysse—who happens to be my
only sister. And if he called me a woman, I’d take a
piece of his scalp.” He winked at the two younger men,
clearly relishing the prospect of a fistfight.
“Go ahead, hit me,” Stephen said softly. “I won’t hit
you back.”
But Alexi knew him too well. “You won’t hit me back
because you know that in a roundhouse, I will win.”
Stephen rolled his eyes.
“I’ll place a wager,” Jack said. “Do you want in?” He
looked at Chaz and Randolph.
“No one is coming to blows,” Ned said. “Not at this
table.” Then, “Are you considering Anne Sinclair for a
wife? Is that what this is about?”
“No, I am not,” Stephen said firmly. “And I truly don’t
know what set Alexi off tonight. Obviously I will have to
marry one day—and yes, I will choose a debutante. I
am sorry I insulted Elysse. I am very fond of her. I
consider her a sister, in some ways.”
Alexi smiled, instantly in a good humor. “I know you
do. But you are still an ass. You’ve considered a
hundred different debutantes. However, it isn’t your
fault, it is Tom’s. You will imitate him after all, living with
a wife you despise, in splendid isolation.”
Ned seized Alexi’s shoulder. “He apologized. Let’s
end this subject.”
Stephen folded his arms, staring. He truly hoped that
Alexi was wrong. But as a boy, he’d found Clarewood
a cold and lonely place, something he recalled vividly
now. “Splendid isolation? Now you are a poet,” he
said, holding back his rising temper.
“The truth can hurt.” Alexi shrugged. “I have changed
my mind. You should cease your pursuit of Alexandra,
and you should most definitely marry Anne.”
“Your point is made. It took you long enough.”
“What point has he made?” Jack asked.
“That someone as young and inexperienced as
Anne is the wrong choice, which is why he keeps
comparing her to Miss Bolton. Next, he will espouse
the delights of matrimony with a woman of
independence, of ideas, a strong will and opinions.”
“Unlike the rest of this family,” Jack said, “I am
against marriage in theory and in practice.” He smiled.
“Those will be infamous last words,” Alexi promised.
“Alexi is too besotted to know that smugness is not
becoming,” Stephen added.
“More infamous last words.” Alexi patted his
shoulder. “Don’t worry, there is hope. You are a de
Warenne, after all, and one day we will laugh about
how stubborn and stupid you were.”
“I am so pleased you care so much, but can we sit
down and enjoy our drinks now? Or will you continue to
egg me on?”
Alexi shook his head. “I’ve done enough for tonight
—I am going home. To my independent, outspoken,
opinionated wife.” He grinned. “Enjoy your drinks.”
When he left, they looked at each other, all of them
bachelors, for even Ned was inclined to carouse. “He
has lost his manhood,” Jack said.
Stephen tended to agree—almost. “Don’t let him
hear you say that.”
“I think we should toast our freedom—and count our
blessings,” Jack said. “I, for one, will never become
like that.”
Stephen accepted a glass, thinking about
Alexandra. “At least he is genuinely happy,” he said.
ALEXANDRA WENT ABOUT her morning routine in a
daze. She could not stop thinking about the previous
night. And while it was impossible to forget the vile
gossip that had targeted her, it was the Duke of
Clarewood who loomed largest in her mind.
Having washed and dressed, she was on her way
downstairs for a terribly late breakfast—at eleven, it
was already nearly lunchtime—when she paused, her
hand on the worn wood banister. Her body tensed, and
her heart seemed to clench before hammering hard.
His devastating features were crystal clear in her mind.
Their paths having crossed as they had, he was a man
no woman could possibly forget.
She still couldn’t fathom why he’d rescued her and
her father. But most of all, she couldn’t understand why
she had been, and remained, so terribly attracted to
him.
She could justify the passion she’d felt for Owen
—she had loved him, and she had meant to marry him.
But Clarewood was an absolute stranger.
And last night he’d indicated that he had an interest
in her, as well—one that could only be scandalous. As
if she needed more scandal! But it didn’t matter, not at
all. Today he would surely come to his senses. He
would forget about her. And that was as it should be;
she wasn’t the kind of woman he seemed to think she
was. Whatever he had intended, she was simply not
interested.
Her heart continued to race, but she had awakened
saddened, and she remained so. She’d made a
mistake by accepting the squire’s invitation, that was
obvious, and her sisters had suffered because of it, as
well. But going out last night, and winding up briefly in
Clarewood’s arms, had opened up all of her old
wounds. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She kept
thinking about how she’d felt being in his embrace. Her
body had become somewhat feverish just recalling it.
And she was constantly thinking about Owen now, too,
and what they’d almost had. The pain of the past had
somehow returned, and it hurt worse than ever.
She almost wished she had chosen differently. And
that was just as terrible. She’d never before doubted
the choice she’d made. Her decision to take care of
her sisters and father had been the morally correct
one. She had sworn to Elizabeth as she lay dying that
she would take care of the family. That vow meant
more to her than her own happiness.
“Why are you standing on the stairs like a statue?”
Olivia’s soft voice cut into her thoughts.
Alexandra jerked back to reality, and she smiled,
then moved swiftly down the stairs to join her sister. “I
overslept,” she said. She’d finally drifted off to sleep at
dawn. No wonder she had slept long past her usual
rising time.
“You never sleep in,” Olivia said, her green eyes
filled with concern.
There was no point in increasing her sister’s anxiety
by confessing how distracted and distressed she’d
been all night, so she merely ignored the comment. “I
am hungry,” she lied. “Will you join me and at least
have a cup of tea?”
Before Olivia could respond, the library doors
opened and Edgemont lumbered through them, still in
his tailcoat, which was thoroughly wrinkled now.
Unshaven, he looked entirely disreputable. “Good
morning,” he boomed, then blinked at them.
Alexandra was so filled with outrage that she did not
answer—she didn’t trust herself to speak. Not yet,
anyway. She marched past him to the kitchen, Olivia on
her heels.
But Edgemont followed. “How rude!” he exclaimed.
“What’s wrong with you today?”
Alexandra went to the stove and used a match to
light a burner, her hands shaking. She pumped water
into the teakettle and set it on the burner.
“Are you angry?” He winced and rubbed his
temples. “Was it a good evening? I can’t seem to recall
most of it.”
Alexandra whirled. “No, it was not a good evening,
as you were falling down drunk!”
He drew himself upright. “I won’t have you speaking
to me in such a manner.”
She inhaled. She never lost her temper, never
shouted, but she’d just shouted at him. She had just
insulted her own father. She fought for calm. “Why not?
You humiliated yourself in front of everyone at
Harrington House.” She spoke quietly now. “Do you
even know how you got home last night?”
He was puzzled. “No, I do not.”
“The Duke of Clarewood carried you across the
ballroom, Father. Yes, you were that foxed. And then
Randolph and Alexi de Warenne took you outside. I
believe young Randolph de Warenne escorted you
home.”
Edgemont paled. Then he straightened. “A man has
his rights, and I have every right to my gin. You’re
exaggerating—I recall it all now.” He paused, breathing
hard, and looked at Olivia. “Prepare my breakfast,” he
said.
Olivia walked past him to do just that, her mouth
pursed.
The kettle began to sing. Alexandra turned slowly,
though she felt like whirling in anger, and took the kettle
from the fire and calmly set it on the counter, when she
felt like smashing it down. She had Clarewood on her
mind again. Bloody hell, she thought.
She also never cursed, not even in her thoughts.
“How is the squire today?” Edgemont asked
carefully, apparently having come to his full senses.
“I wouldn’t know.” She poured two cups of tea for
herself and Olivia. “Would you like a cup, Father?”
“Yes.”
She poured his tea and faced him. “He will surely
call things off now, and it will be your fault. Your drinking
has to stop. It is disgraceful, and we can’t afford it.”
Edgemont stared at her, and she stared back as
she handed him the cup and saucer. Without a word,
he went from the kitchen to the dining table and sat
down.
Alexandra looked at Olivia. They both knew that he
would not change.
“WE HAVE CALLERS,” Corey said. “Or rather, we
have a caller.”
Alexandra had just finished her toast and jam. Corey
was standing at the kitchen window, and Alexandra got
up to see who could possibly be calling before noon.
As the dark carriage got closer, she realized it
belonged to the squire.
She tensed. He’d brought them home last night, but
it had been late, everyone had been tired, and the
conversation had been perfunctory. Corey had even
fallen asleep on the way, and the squire had
encouraged Alexandra to do so, as well. She hadn’t,
but she’d pretended to doze, to avoid speaking to him.
Now she wondered if he was sending a note breaking
things off. Or would he come in person to do so? A
note would be kinder. On the other hand, he need only
speak to Edgemont. And she was dismayed, because
he was her sisters’ last hope.
She refused to go down that path. She was her
sisters’ last hope. She would not give up on securing
them a decent future.
Corey turned from the window. “He is here. Do you
want us to chaperone you?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Alexandra removed her
apron and tucked a stray hair behind her ears, the
behavior instinctive.
“He is going to break things off, isn’t he?” Corey
asked. She was somber.
“Undoubtedly. You should be pleased, being as you
are dead set against him.”
“You were accused of horrible things last night,
Alexandra! I would never want the suit broken off this
way.”
Alexandra patted her shoulder. “Forget about last
night, Corey.” She gave Olivia a glance and went to the
front door. Rejection was always unpleasant, and her
heart lurched with dread as she turned the knob.
The squire had come in person, looking flushed
from the drive over, and he was not smiling—he
seemed grave. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton.”
Tamping down her dread, she returned the greeting
and let him in, walking with him to the parlor.
“Is it too early to call? I could not sleep last night,
Miss Bolton, for all my thoughts of you.”
Alexandra smiled grimly. “I must apologize for my
father’s behavior last night, and thank you yet again for
inviting us out.”
“You do not have to apologize,” he said.
Alexandra inhaled sharply. “Of course I do.”
“No.” He shook his head. Then, “I am so distressed.
I am so sorry you had to suffer through the evening.
That was not my intention!”
“I am fine,” she said lightly. “And it is forgotten.” She
managed a smile. She had to let him off the hook. “I
know why you have called, Mr. Denney. And I
understand.”
“Good. Then you must know that I am furious with the
mean-spiritedness of the gossips last night!” he
exclaimed.
She went still. “You heard?”
He nodded gravely.
“But you never let on.”
“I did not want to add to your distress.”
Realizing that he’d heard all the ugly gossip,
including the lies about her and Owen, she flushed.
“You are let off, Mr. Denney.” She finally said. “No
gentleman wants a socially unacceptable wife.”
He recoiled, eyes wide. “What? Is that what you
think? I do not believe the ugliness I overheard, not for
a minute! And you are the most socially acceptable
woman I know. You shine, Miss Bolton, and those
harpies cast shadows. I cannot understand why they
would want to cast such aspersions on your character.”
She was taken aback, disbelieving. Morton Denney
hadn’t believed the gossips. He hadn’t judged her as
everyone else had. He had faith in her character.
That was when she saw her sisters standing in the
hallway, the parlor door ajar, faces pressed to the
crack. “I am surprised, sir, that you would believe in
me.”
“You sewed my wife’s clothing for five years, Miss
Bolton. I believe I know your true nature.”
She chewed on her lip, then breathed out. “So this is
a social call?”
“What else would it be?”
She could not contain herself. “You did not come to
end things?”
“No, I did not. I came to make certain that you had
survived the evening.”
Alexandra could not believe his magnanimity. She
turned, found a chair and sat down. He walked over to
her. She looked up and said, “I am not socially
acceptable. You can and should do better.”
He hesitated. “How could I do better, Miss Bolton?
How?”
She fought for composure, filled with both dismay
and relief. He would not walk out of their lives after all,
and even as she thought that, she was dismayed—he
was so clearly in love with her. God, if only she could
come to love him in return. And she had to stop
thinking about Clarewood! Taking a few deep breaths,
she stood. “I was not jilted by Owen St. James, Mr.
Denney. When I told you about my vows to my dying
mother, and my decision to send Owen away, it was
the truth.”
He nodded, and as he did, Edgemont came
bursting into the room. He looked back and forth
between them with alarm. “Father,” Alexandra said,
hoping to ward off disaster. “The squire has called.”
Edgemont rushed forward. Denney seemed
uncomfortable now. “Did you have a pleasant evening
last night?” her father asked transparently. “Alexandra
was lovely, was she not? Just like her blessed mother,
a true lady.”
“Miss Bolton is always lovely,” Denney said.
“Will you have some tea with me? As it is too early
for brandy.” Her father laughed, slapping the squire’s
arm.
Denney glanced at Alexandra.
Even though he didn’t seem interested in socializing
with her father, the two men would have to get on if this
marriage was to go forward, so she smiled a bit at
him, and he nodded, then turned and walked off into
the library with Edgemont. The moment he did, her
sisters rushed into the parlor. They were both pale and
wide-eyed.
“He isn’t breaking things off,” Alexandra said.
“We heard,” Olivia whispered.
Corey glanced past her, out the window, at the front
drive. “There’s a rider approaching.”
Alexandra turned to see a rider cantering a lathered
mount up their rutted dirt drive. The animal was one of
the finest specimens of horseflesh she’d ever seen,
and she couldn’t imagine who the rider might be. Then
she faced her sisters. “The squire is a generous, kind
and forgiving man.”
Olivia suggested, “Maybe we should forgive him the
crime of being twenty-four years your elder.”
“That was your charge, not mine,” Alexandra said
softly.
Their caller was knocking on the front door.
Alexandra decided that the rider had to be lost. Still
stunned that the squire had not wrongly judged her, she
started from the room, her sisters following, and
opened the door.
Randolph de Warenne stood there, his boots
muddy, his cheeks reddened from the wind. He was
holding a very large paper-wrapped bouquet in his
hand.
Was he calling on one of her sisters? Alexandra
wondered in confusion.
“Miss Bolton.” He smiled and bowed. “These are for
you.”
The delight that had begun vanished. Her confusion
absolute, she glanced over her shoulder at the closed
library doors. Denney would not have Randolph de
Warenne deliver flowers to her.
Her heart slammed.
Behind her, one of her sisters inhaled.
He grinned. “There is a card.”
“I have forgotten my manners,” Alexandra said,
beginning to tremble. No, it was impossible. Surely
Clarewood hadn’t sent her flowers. Absolutely not. She
took the wrapped bouquet, gesturing Randolph inside.
“Was it a long ride?”
“Very—but my mount is fast and fit, and we galloped
most of the way.” He smiled at Corey and Olivia. “I
made the journey in barely an hour and a half.”
She was shaking, she realized, and shocked. She
did not know what this gesture could mean. Or did
she? Alexandra walked into the parlor, saying, “They
expect the new rail between Kensett and Clarewood to
be completed in forty-seven.”
“I’ll ride anyway,” Randolph laughed. He glanced at
Corey.
“Open the flowers,” Olivia whispered.
Alexandra clutched the bouquet and said, “Poor
Randolph looks frozen. Can we get him some hot tea
and scones? Oh, dear.” She turned back to him. “I
never thanked you for your kindness last night.”
Neither sister moved.
“I am fine, really.” Randolph grinned. “And it was my
pleasure to see your father home. Open the flowers,”
he said. “I am not allowed to leave until you do.”
He was not allowed to leave until she opened the
bouquet? Clarewood’s image consumed her now. He
had so obviously sent her flowers; he hadn’t forgotten
her or even come to his senses.
Still stunned, and very reluctant now, Alexandra tore
the wrapper off. Two dozen huge burgundy-red roses,
each one fully opened and perfect—and clearly
handpicked—were revealed. A small cream-colored
envelope was pinned in their midst.
She could not move.
What did he want?
Why was he doing this?
The squire meant to marry her.
Corey gasped. “Those are the most perfect roses I
have ever seen.”
“I have never seen roses that color before,” Olivia
said as breathlessly.
“They cost a small fortune,” Randolph boasted.
Alexandra stared at the stunning flowers. The
gesture was excessively bold, excessively dramatic.
And it was even seductive, though she wasn’t sure it
was romantic.
“Read the card,” Corey said.
Her hand continuing to tremble, she handed Olivia
the flowers, then took the envelope, opened it with her
nail and pulled out the small card within. There was
nothing written on it except for a large, bold C.
“What does it say?” Corey demanded.
Alexandra showed her the card, looking up at
Randolph. He was expectant, grinning at her now. She
turned to Olivia, somehow finding her voice. “Can you
find a vase, please?” But even as she spoke, she
realized she should return the flowers—that she should
not accept them.
not accept them.
“Wait!”
Olivia froze. “What is it?”
Her heart thundering now, Alexandra looked at
Randolph determinedly. “I cannot accept the flowers.”
His eyes widened.
Corey cried out, “Why not?”
“Alexandra, we should discuss this,” Olivia said
tersely.
Alexandra trembled, but she took the roses from
Olivia and handed them to Randolph, whose eyes
widened still further. But he did not take them. “Please,”
she said. She tried to smile and failed. “If anything, I
am the one who owes His Grace flowers or some other
token of my gratitude for his rescue last night.”
Randolph said, “He wishes for you to have them,
Miss Bolton. In fact, he specified the exact roses he
wished for me to find—the most perfect, the most
costly. He even said one dozen would not do. You
cannot return them—he would be offended.”
“I cannot accept them.” She heard the uncertain
tremor in her tone. She did not want to offend
Clarewood; no woman in her right mind would.
“Why on earth not?” Randolph asked sharply.
She wet her lips and glanced at the library doors. “I
have a suitor, sir, who has made it very clear that he will
have a suitor, sir, who has made it very clear that he will
soon offer marriage.” She inhaled. “That is, I am being
courted.” She pressed the flowers into his arms. “Once
he realizes I am practically engaged, His Grace will
hardly be offended.”
From behind, Olivia seized her. “I want a private
word with you,” she snapped.
As Alexandra turned to face her, she kept seeing
Clarewood, and her heart was shrieking at her now.
Oddly, a part of her wanted to accept those flowers, as
inappropriate as that would be, and cherish them for a
while.
Clarewood had sent her flowers.
“I am in no rush,” Randolph said firmly, clearly
determined not to leave with the roses, in spite of what
she’d said.
“I’ll make you tea,” Corey said, rushing off into the
kitchen.
“I’m going to step outside to cool my horse. May I
water him?”
“Of course,” Alexandra said. “The pump is by the
stables.” She waited until he was gone and she could
see him leading the magnificent hunter past the house.
Then, finally, she inhaled.
“Those flowers are too beautiful to return,” Olivia
said.
“How can I accept them?” Alexandra pleaded.
“What if his intentions are honorable?”
Alexandra simply looked at her. “It’s impossible.”
“Is it? What if there is the slightest chance that he is
interested in you as a wife? If you return those flowers,
you are closing the door in his face.”
She stared. He wasn’t interested in her that way, she
was certain. She thought of Owen then and hugged
herself, missing him and their dreams terribly.
“Just keep the flowers,” Olivia said. “It can’t hurt to
keep them, but it can hurt to send them back.”
Alexandra’s resistance was rapidly crumbling. She
had never seen such beautiful roses.
“Besides,” Olivia smiled, “I want to paint them in oils.

Alexandra smiled and gave in.

CHAPTER FIVE
AT HALF PAST ONE Stephen left his architects poring
over the changes he’d scribbled on their carefully
executed drawings, his mind filled with his visions of
the housing the textile workers would soon enjoy. He
was running late; he had been immersed in the
Manchester project, and he was expecting the
dowager duchess at any moment.
Clarewood had been renovated by his father, and it
was now comprised of exactly a hundred rooms, with a
mostly gothic facade, one of tall towers and pinnacles.
Guillermo would most likely show her to the Gold Room
when she arrived, if she wasn’t there already. It was the
most spectacular salon in the house, where his most
significant guests were entertained. He shifted mental
gears, now thinking about the American. Investigating
him would be a time-consuming matter, because the
man lived abroad. By the time he learned anything of
interest, his mother’s relationship with the man might
have gone too far.
He was grim. Julia was fifty years old, but she
remained a beautiful woman, at once trim and slender,
graceful and elegant. She was a horsewoman who
rode every day, and he felt certain that her activities
kept her so youthful. He kept recalling the look he had
witnessed. He had not a doubt that Jefferson was
attracted to her.
Unfortunately, the man was no doubt just as
attracted to her fortune, if not more so.
As he reached the front hall, which was the nucleus
of the house, he glanced outside. He could see the
huge fountain, and the pale shell drive circling it.
Beyond, he saw a portion of the mile-long drive, lined
by stately elm trees. He did not see a rider
approaching, but Randolph was due to return at any
time. He smiled to himself.
He hadn’t slept well last night. He often tossed and
turned, mulling over plans, unresolved issues and new
ideas. But last night his interest in Alexandra Bolton
had kept cropping up. If she’d thought to whet his
appetite by rejecting his initial advances, she had
certainly succeeded.
Guillermo suddenly intercepted him. He was holding
out a calling card. “Your Grace, Lady Witte has just
arrived.”
Stephen was instantly grim; he could not delay the
inevitable. It was time to inform her that their liaison
was over. “Where is she?”
“She is in the Spring Salon with the dowager
duchess.”
He nodded, striding swiftly to the salon. His mother
was standing in front of the doors that opened onto the
terraces outside, chatting pleasantly with Lady Witte.
Both women heard his approach, and, in unison, they
turned.
His mother’s smile vanished, and he instantly saw
that she was distressed. He suddenly recalled how
radiant she had been last night, when on Jefferson’s
arm. They had made a striking couple. Even he had to
admit it.
Then he glanced at his mistress, who was smiling
brightly at him. Charlotte was clever and shrewd, and
undoubtedly she had come hoping to shore up their
relationship. “Good afternoon, Lady Witte, Mother,” he
said. He smiled at Lady Witte, but lightly kissed his
mother’s cheek.
“I hope I have not called at an inopportune time,”
Charlotte said softly.
“I wish a private word with Stephen,” Julia said
firmly, her blue eyes dark.
“I am hardly in a rush.” Charlotte smiled. A seductive
light was in her eyes.
“Will you give us a moment?” Stephen asked
politely, knowing her answer. When she nodded, he led
his mother into the adjacent room, dominated by a
grand piano and a harp. Two rows of gold velvet chairs
faced the musical instruments. “Thank you for coming
on such short notice,” he said.
“Even I, your mother, recognize a summons when I
receive one.”
He winced and spoke carefully now. “I hardly
summoned you, Mother. But it has been a while since
we last spoke, and there are some subjects I wish to
discuss with you. However, I can see that you are
somewhat distressed.”
She smiled tightly. “You did your duty last night, as
always, Stephen, by interviewing Jefferson as you did.
We both know you instantly decided not to like him. So
yes, I am distressed.”
He was oddly tense now. “I know nothing about the
man—he is a stranger and a foreigner, and to make
matters worse, you seemed terribly happy with him.”
“That makes matters worse?” she said. “I cannot
decide, even now, if Tom taught you to be so cold and
dispassionate or if it is your nature. Yes, I am quite
distressed today—I am distressed with you.”
He was grim. “Well, as you seem to wish to be
brutally frank, I will be frank, too. It is my duty to protect
you from charlatans and fortune hunters.”
“Of course it is,” she ground out. “Tom taught you too
well.”
He stiffened. They never argued, but they were
arguing now. “You believe in duty as much as I do,” he
finally said quietly.
She paced away from him, her silk skirts billowing.
Then she turned, hands fisted on her slim hips. “Yes, I
do. I spent my life fulfilling my duty to Clarewood—and
to you. And you always came first—it is why I chose to
stay with Tom and suffer his abuses. Everything I have
done, I have done for you—so you would be
Clarewood’s next and greatest duke.”
He was uncomfortable now. No one knew as well as
he how she had suffered as Clarewood’s wife. As far
as Stephen was concerned, Tom had been cruelest
toward her. He had despised his wife, and in the end,
he hadn’t even tried to hide it.
Julia, in turn, had never tried to defend herself from
his attacks. She’d cloaked herself in dignity and
endured the abuse. She had only become a lioness
where her son was concerned. And then her fights with
Tom had been vicious and vehement. He’d all too often
fled those hateful scenes.
Even as a child, he’d despaired at seeing his
mother forced to fight for him as she had. Once he was
older, he had begged her to retreat, to ignore Tom
when he decided to go on the attack against either of
them. She had refused. His mother had been so
courageous and determined when battling Tom. And
she had also been the ultimate diplomat, because she
had always known what was truly at stake: his future as
the next duke.
“No one knows more than I do, the sacrifices that
you made.”
“Good. Then it is time, is it not, for me to take care
of myself?” She stared.
Wariness settled over him. “What does that mean?
Because you are, and will always be, the dowager
duchess, my mother and my responsibility.”
“It means that Tom died fifteen years ago, and while
his death set me free, allowing me to live the life of my
choosing, I was always afraid to allow any man too
close. I never wanted to be shackled in marriage
again, Stephen. And I know you are aware that is why I
refused to ever remarry.”
He did not like her bringing up the subject of
marriage now. “Go on,” he said tersely.
She suddenly paused, facing him, her cheeks
flushed. “There is something about Tyne Jefferson…he
is kind, but also manly, solid, like the earth! I know he
should be with a much younger woman—we are the
same age, I think—but I believe he finds me interesting
and…somewhat attractive. Stephen, I like him. I like
him very much, but you will try to ruin it, I have realized
that now.”
Was his mother thinking of marriage to Jefferson?
He was aghast. Or was this merely some kind of
middle-aged love affair? “How long have you known
him, and why am I only just learning about this affair
now?” He controlled his anger. “Is it an affair?”
She stiffened. “I have only just met him—at a supper
party—and then we bumped into one another on Pall
Mall. And last night was our first chance to really
converse. We had a lovely time, in spite of your
overbearing behavior.”
“Considering the way he looked at you, it was my
privilege to be overbearing,” he said.
“It is my privilege to have this second and maybe
last chance!” Julia cried. “I was faithful to your father,”
she said tersely. “And God knows that any other
woman would have sought comfort and kindness
elsewhere.”
Stephen was alarmed. “If you are lonely, I will find a
husband for you.”
She started. “Do you know why Tom came to hate
me, though he was madly in love with me when you
were born? Enough so to accept you as his own child?
” When he did not speak, she said, “He came to hate
me for my not bearing him a natural son. It is so ironic!
He was impotent, yet he directed his anger at me
—and at you. Jefferson has made me feel like a young
woman again.” She smiled, and he blanched,
dismayed. “It was lonely, being the Duchess of
Clarewood. And I didn’t realize that I was still lonely, not
until I met Jefferson, not until he made me feel so alive
again.”
He was uncomfortable with the extent of their
intimacy. “Again, it seems to me that you deserve what
you seem to wish for now—a husband. I am going to
begin a search. But you can do far better than an
uncouth American who ranches for his living.”
“When did you become such a snob?” she gasped,
paling.
“Is there a difference between ranching and
farming?” He knew his mother would never become
involved with a farmer, not even a gentleman farmer.
“He is far more than a farmer—he has carved his
ranch out of the wilderness with his bare hands,” she
said. “And don’t you dare start looking for a husband
for me. I am interested in Jefferson, not marriage
—there is a vast difference.”
Was his mother telling him that she wished to pursue
an affair? He would accept that—as it was the lesser
of two evils. “I don’t trust him. And you seem to know as
little about him as I do.”
“Which is why I am pursuing a friendship. I wish to
learn more. And that is why you must mind your own
affairs now, and leave Jefferson be,” Julia said flatly.
He simply could not do that, so he was silent. Then,
“Do you want to stay and have an early supper? I will
cancel my evening plans.”
She stood up. “I am going to go. I have plans for tea.
I hope I was clear, Stephen. As much as I love you, if
you ruin this for me, I may never forgive you.”
“I will see you out,” he said, taking her arm, knowing
he would do what was best for the dowager duchess,
even if it meant losing her trust and her love. As they
left the salon, he added, “I am merely asking you to
proceed with caution.”
She suddenly smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. “It is
hard to be cautious, Stephen, when someone makes
your heart race so madly you can hardly think straight.
But you wouldn’t know the feeling, would you?”
Suddenly he thought of Miss Bolton. She certainly
made his heart race, but he was having no problem
being careful and pragmatic in his pursuit of her.
Guillermo already had his mother’s coat and gloves
in hand when they entered the gracious, high-ceilinged
front hall. His doorman rushed to open the front door
while Guillermo helped her on with her coat.
“Just promise me,” she said, “that you will be polite
the next time you meet. In fact, I am asking you to give
him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I will do my best,” he said, aware that he was lying.
“By the way,” Julia added, “it was gallant of you to
help that young lady with her inebriated father. Miss
Bolton seems like a rather interesting woman.” She
turned a questioning gaze on him.
He smiled indifferently. “I can be gallant, Mother. I am
a gentleman, after all, never mind the gossips.”
“You could have sent Alexi and Randolph de
Warenne to her aid without your having to bother at all.”
“They did come to her aid.”
Julia stared closely. “You went out of your way to
attend her. She seems like a proud young woman,
Stephen. She is very different from the kinds of young
ladies you are normally introduced to.”
He simply smiled. And when the dowager duchess
was ensconced in her carriage a moment later, he
returned to the Spring Room. Charlotte was seated on
a settee, at once tiny and lovely, reading a weekly
magazine. He knew her pose was contrived, as it
revealed every lush curve she had. She smiled at him
and stood up as he came inside.
He did not smile back.
“You should close the doors,” she said softly, walking
to him, her movements languid now.
She had proven to be a highly experienced lover.
“We had an arrangement,” he said. “And I do not recall
sending you a note asking for your presence today.”
He had been very clear from the first—he did not like
unexpected calls, and he preferred to manage their
schedule of trysts.
She paused before him, reaching for the lapels of
his waistcoat. “I never liked that stipulation, Stephen,”
she murmured. “You can summon me, yet I can never
summon you. I have passions, too. It has been a week.

“I will not argue with you,” He clasped her hands and
removed them. “I am sorry, Charlotte. I have been very
distracted with my projects, and I remain preoccupied.”
He intended to be as polite as possible.
Her face hardened. “Preoccupied with your projects,
Stephen, or with that gawky seamstress you rescued
twice last night?”
He was in disbelief.
She flushed. “I beg your pardon, but of course I
noticed your gallantry. You never go out of your way for
a woman—unless you are interested in her.”
“I have no intention of discussing Miss Bolton with
you. I am very sorry, Charlotte, but I am ending our
affair.”
Her expression tightened. “So you can pursue her?
Or is there someone else, as well?”
“I have very much appreciated your favors. But there
is no point in continuing if my passion has waned.” He
stepped aside, a gesture indicating that the interview
was also over.
She did not move. “I do not mind your wandering. I
have little doubt you will tire of her after a night or two.”
He had no intention of debating this particular
subject. “I am afraid I have many affairs to attend to.
May I see you out? I will send your things on.”
She trembled. “You may call at any time, Stephen. I
know you will come to your senses.”
He sighed. “You may think as you wish, obviously.”
She widened her eyes innocently and said, “I’d like
to get my things.”
He knew she was scheming—he saw it in her eyes
—and that was worse than insisting they were not over,
or even a display of hysterics. “Fine. I will ask
Guillermo to help you.”
“I’d like a moment,” she said softly, her eyes now
shimmering with unshed tears.
He wasn’t moved; he knew theatrics when he saw
them. He nodded, leaving the salon, instantly relieved.
His interest had been dying for some time, and he only
realized that now. And perhaps that was why he was so
keenly aware of Miss Bolton. He preferred that
conclusion to the notion that she somehow stirred his
desire as no previous woman had managed to do.
A few minutes later he had forgotten Charlotte Witte
and was thinking about his drawings. He was about to
enter the study when Randolph came running up the
corridor, his boots muddy from the long ride to and
from Edgemont Way.
Stephen halted, smiling. He glanced at his pocket
watch. “You made good time. Did she like the roses?”
Randolph met his gaze and hesitated.
His smile vanished. “The roses were exquisite, I
presume?” Heads would roll if they had been anything
less.
“They were beyond exquisite, and yes, she did
admire them…somewhat.” Randolph hesitated again,
as if searching carefully for words.
Stephen could not imagine what was wrong. “She
admired them—somewhat? What, exactly, did she
say? Surely she was very flattered.”
“I am not sure she was flattered, Your Grace. But she
did say thank-you,” he added with haste.
Stephen was taken aback. “She was not flattered by
my interest?”
Randolph sighed. “The truth of the matter is, Your
Grace, she intended to refuse them, and I had to argue
with her and convince her to keep them.”
Stephen was disbelieving now, shocked. Alexandra
Bolton had wanted to return the flowers? She thought
to reject his advances? She thought to reject him? A
dark mood overcame him. “Why would she wish to
return the flowers?”
Randolph pursed his lips. “It seems as if she has a
suitor who intends to ask for marriage.”
Stephen was surprised. Surely she was not
interested in the elderly squire? He’d already learned
that the man who’d danced attendance on her the night
before was Morton Denney, the largest of Sir Rex’s
leaseholders. He was twice her age, but that did not
mean anything. And while he was a gentleman, he was
mean anything. And while he was a gentleman, he was
also a farmer. On the other hand, he had some means.
For someone as poorly off as Alexandra, his means
might seem like a fortune.
But they were not. He, Stephen Mowbray, was the
one with the fortune.
“She seemed to feel it inappropriate to accept the
flowers, Your Grace. She even said she should be
sending flowers to you, as a sign of her gratitude for
your aid with Edgemont last night.”
His interest seemed to have spiraled dangerously
high. No woman had ever rejected his advances, and
in fact, she hadn’t done so, either. But she had thought
about it. Apparently, however, in the back of her mind,
she wasn’t really ready to dismiss him. Of course she
was not. In the end, she would bend to his will.
And now amusement began to rise. He had a rival?
Really? He loved a good battle. He was only sorry his
rival wasn’t someone more interesting, a peer who
was closer to him in means and title. Stephen slowly
smiled. “I want to know the moment the squire asks for
marriage,” he said softly.
Randolph started. “I’ll contact our London lawyers,
find out which firm Denney uses, and make certain we
stay apprised.”
“Good.” Stephen turned, gesturing for Randolph to
follow him into the study, and that was when he saw
Charlotte backing away from the salon doors.
Obviously she had been spying. He hoped it had
brought her to her senses. And then his ex-mistress
was entirely forgotten once again.
“I have some things I wish to discuss with you. I have
started looking over the recent Ridgeway statements,
and I’d like you to examine them,” he said, pushing
open the study door. As his mind turned back to the
affairs of Clarewood and the Foundation, he had one
last thought. Tomorrow night he would extend a supper
invitation. And because he did not expect her to accept
a conventional invitation, he would make it a
persuasive one.
A very persuasive one—the kind no woman could
refuse.
TWO DAYS LATER, Alexandra smiled at the squire as
his open carriage approached Edgemont Way. It was
a gray cloudy day, the still-wet roads littered with red
and gold leaves, and she’d just taken a tour of his
home. She was impressed. He had a beautiful country
house with immaculate grounds; clearly, he was doing
very well.
Her home was ahead, a two-story rectangular
country house built of beige stone with gray shingled
roofs. The single stable, also of stone, was to the left. A
caretaker’s cottage stood alone off in the distance, but
it had been vacant for years. A low wooden fence
encircled the front of the property, and in springtime,
blooming bougainvillea climbed the rails. In the spring,
Elizabeth’s red roses were a wild array against the
front of the house. Now, only ivy graced its stone
facade.
The squire turned into their short drive, and instantly,
the coach hit a deep rut. Alexandra did not exclaim as
she was jarred hard in her seat. She merely sent the
squire an apologetic look. “I am sorry,” she said.
“Do not apologize to me. It will be very easy to
improve the drive,” he said, smiling at her. He then
added, “May I say you look lovely today, Miss Bolton?”
“Thank you.” She did not flush, and her heart did not
race. Instantly, her thoughts veered to Clarewood.
How could they not? His magnificent red roses were
in her bedroom, and when she went upstairs, she
remained in disbelief. Why choose her for his improper
advances?
She was grim. She’d had two days to think about his
advances. She still could not comprehend them. But
that was the end of that. She’d told Randolph about the
squire and his suit, so no doubt Clarewood would
move on to other, greener pastures.
It should have been impossible, but she felt a twinge
of dismay and another of regret.
She pinched herself—hard—through her navy blue
skirts. A wonderful gentleman with means was courting
her. He could have turned tail and fled after the fiasco
at Harrington House, but he had not. He was staunch,
he was generous, and he was kind. Most importantly,
his intentions were honorable and he could change her
sisters’ lives.
Denney halted his two-horse carriage in front of the
house. Alexandra silenced her wandering thoughts.
She would have to entertain him for a bit, but she was
impatient for him to leave. Lady Lewis had brought her
gown by as she’d promised, the day after the birthday
ball, and she was expecting to pick it up tomorrow.
Several other ladies had also left their ball gowns with
her yesterday. She had hours of labor ahead of her.
Denney got down from the coach, which he was
driving, and helped her alight. Then, gravely, he said,
“Would you be offended if I did not come inside? I’m
afraid that I have some accounts to go over and a
meeting with one of my most important tenants.”
She realized he leased out some of the land that he
himself leased. She was suitably impressed by his
business acumen—and relieved that he would not
linger, so she could get to her repairs and cleaning. “I
would not be offended at all, Mr. Denney. It has been
such a lovely afternoon.”
He beamed and then, impulsively, took both of her
hands in his. “I am trying to restrain myself, my dear,
but would you be offended if I pressed my suit with your
father sooner, rather than later?”
Her heart slammed. She told herself she was
surprised, not alarmed. Then, somehow, she smiled. “I
doubt you could ever offend me, sir.”
His wide smile increased. A moment later he was
driving off, and Alexandra waved after him. He returned
the gesture.
He intended to offer for her soon. She simply stood
there, staring after his carriage, trying to control her
dismay. She had expected a courtship of several
months, if not longer.
But of course he was impatient. Her birthday was in
the spring. She would be twenty-seven years old. And
she wondered, her heart lurching, if he wanted more
children. He had two grown sons and a daughter, all
married, none of whom she’d ever met.
She decided that now was not the time to think
about it.
Behind her, the front door opened, and Alexandra
turned to see Olivia standing there, wide-eyed. Instantly
she knew something was amiss. She hurried toward
her. “What is it? Is something wrong?’
“Come inside.”
Alarmed, Alexandra increased her stride and
followed her sister into the house. “Father is out,” Olivia
said tersely, leading Alexandra into the parlor.
But Alexandra stumbled on the threshold, because
six vases were on the table behind the sofa, each filed
with a dozen perfect burgundy roses. Her heart
slammed. Then it began racing madly.
He wasn’t giving up.
“The florist delivered them himself. They came an
hour after you left with the squire,” Olivia said, her tone
hushed, her eyes huge.
Alexandra sat down, in shock.
Corey rushed into the room. “Can you believe it?”
she asked in excitement. “This time there’s a letter!”
Why was he doing this?
Olivia handed her a letter. She said, “There’s
something inside, Alexandra.”
She looked at the envelope, and saw the bulge in it.
It was addressed simply to her at Edgemont Way;
obviously, the florist had been given directions and a
precise address. She could not imagine what the
bulge meant. She turned the envelope over and saw
that her hands were trembling. His crest was a
magnificent one: the letter C was book-ended by two
rearing lions, a crown atop it.
“Please open it,” Corey begged.
She looked up at her sisters. “I was very clear. I told
Randolph that the duke’s previous gesture was
inappropriate. I explained that the squire is courting
me, and that he intends marriage.” She did not
recognize the tone of her own voice. It was high and
strained. Tension had stiffened her so much that her
back hurt.
“He is so romantic,” Corey breathed.
Alexandra felt like screaming at her silly sister. This
was not romantic. It was sordid.
But she wet her lips and took the letter opener that
Olivia was holding out. She slit the envelope. And as
she saw the gleaming contents inside, sprawled
almost carelessly against a folded letter, her eyes
widened and she went still with shock.
“What is it?” Olivia asked urgently.
Alexandra felt incapable of movement, of speech.
She lifted the diamond bracelet from the envelope. It
glittered wildly, even in the dull and gloomy daylight.
Corey gasped and sat down in an adjacent chair.
Olivia cried out. Dumbfounded, Alexandra simply
stared at the bracelet. It was two centimeters wide,
consisting of hundreds of diamonds set in platinum
squares. Her heart was pounding so fiercely now that
she felt dizzy.
“That is worth a fortune,” Olivia managed, also
sitting down.
“Why is he doing this?” Alexandra asked helplessly.
That bracelet could purchase new wardrobes for her
sisters, she thought. It could provide small dowries.
What was in his mind?
“Read the letter,” Olivia whispered.
Alexandra gasped, realizing she’d forgotten about
the note. She handed the bracelet to Olivia, who
exclaimed over it, still stunned, and took out the letter
and unfolded it.
My dear Miss Bolton,
I would be pleased to have the honor of your
presence for supper tonight at 7:00 p.m. I look
forward to furthering our acquaintance.
Yours,
Clarewood
“What does it say?” Corey demanded, but her tone
was hushed with awe. She was holding the bracelet
now.
Alexandra handed the letter to Olivia, who read it
aloud. Her own mind raced, spun. She could not go. Of
course she could not go. Because now there was no
doubt as to his intentions. If he were inclined to court
her, he would never send her this kind of invitation, or
the kind of gift one bought one’s mistress—if one were
exceedingly rich.
“You have to go,” Corey said, leaping to her feet.
Alexandra looked up at her. “Corey, he is intent on
seduction. And I have a suitor, remember?”
“The squire?” Corey demanded scornfully.
“Alexandra, what is wrong with you? The most
handsome—and wealthiest—bachelor in Britain is
pursuing you. How can you possibly refuse?”
“If I go over there tonight, I will return a fallen woman,
a harlot with no shame!” Alexandra said, distressed.
Corey paled. Then, stubbornly, “I think he is a
gentleman. He would never force you to do something
against your will.”
Alexandra stared desperately at her youngest sister.
She longed to believe as Corey did—not that it
mattered. What her sister did not know was that she
dreamed of his strong arms, of his kisses. He’d
awakened her dormant body, reminding her that she
was an unfulfilled woman. But, dear God, he wasn’t
Owen. She did not love him. She did not even know
him! Olivia got up. “Corey, I believe that the duke is a
gentleman, but I also agree with Alexandra that his
intentions are scandalous.” Olivia turned and looked
carefully at her.
Alexandra stared back, aware that her sister sensed
just how attracted she was to him.
“He has refused to take no for an answer,” Olivia
murmured.
“Are you going to reject the supper invitation?”
Corey asked. “Even if you do, you still should keep the
bracelet.”
“Corey!” Olivia was aghast. “This is a stunning
development, but Alexandra can’t keep the bracelet.”
She turned to stare at Alexandra very closely again, her
regard searching.
“But it would feed us for years. It would pay our
“But it would feed us for years. It would pay our
debt,” Corey said flatly. And she looked at Alexandra,
too.Alexandra’s temples were throbbing. “I cannot keep
the bracelet, because that would send the signal that I
am open to his advances.” She knew what she had to
do. “Corey?” She held out her hand.
Corey seemed highly reluctant, but she handed
Alexandra the glittering bracelet. “I would go,” she said
angrily. “And I would rather be the duke’s mistress than
the squire’s wife.”
Alexandra felt her heart lurch wildly, but she refused
to identify her feelings. Nor did she want his image in
her mind, as if engraved upon her memory. “He knows I
am being courted. He obviously doesn’t care. This has
to stop.”
Reluctantly, Olivia agreed with her. “It does have to
stop—that is, if you mean to go through with marriage
to the squire.”
Alexandra ignored another jolt in her heart. “I do.”
She looked at the table with the six dozen roses. “If
Father saw those, I do not know what I would say. He
would be furious. The Lord only knows what he would
do.” She inhaled. “I am going to Clarewood.”
Both of her sisters jumped in surprise.
Alexandra was grim as a tremendous wave anxiety
Alexandra was grim as a tremendous wave anxiety
began to roll through her. “I will return the flowers and
the bracelet, and I will make myself clear to the duke
once and for all.”

CHAPTER SIX
SHRUGGING ON HIS FROCK COAT, Stephen left the
study, where Randolph was going over some
Foundation accounts, to join Elysse and Ariella, who
had come to visit at his request. “I am impressed,” he
said, entering a smaller blue-and-gold salon with long
strides. “I’m impressed that you’ve ventured from town
on such a terrible day.” It had begun to drizzle an hour
earlier, and now the skies were thunderously black,
indicating a turn for the worse.
His cousins were seated on the pale cream-andgold
sofa, Elysse in a green pin-stripped dress, Ariella
in watered blue silk, making a striking picture, one any
artist would have loved to paint. They leaped up to
greet him, Elysse kissing his cheek warmly. Ariella
followed suit, neither one caring that Guillermo was
witness to their open display of affection. The butler
was the epitome of discretion, and he was
accustomed to such episodes. Society and staff knew
he’d become closely acquainted with the de Warenne
family years ago.
“Your note was intriguing,” Ariella said, her blue eyes
mirroring her curiosity. “You wrote that you were in dire
straits and that only Elysse and I could be of help.” Her
tawny brows arched questioningly.
“I told Ariella it is a ruse of some kind. You are never
in dire straits. If a hurricane dared to come this far
inland, you would point at it and send it away,” Elysse
said, laughing. “Meanwhile, I am famished and must
eat before you confess your troubles to us.”
He smiled and turned to the butler. “Please bring
refreshments, Guillermo.”
“Immediately, Your Grace.” Guillermo left, closing the
pale blue-and-gold doors behind him.
Stephen gestured for them to retake their seats, and
when they had done so, he sat, as well. Crossing one
leg, he said, “I will get right to the point. I wish to find
the dowager duchess a husband.”
Both women gaped at him.
“I know. After fifteen years, it seems odd. But I think
Julia would be more content with a husband than living
alone as she does now.”
Ariella and Elysse exchanged looks. Ariella spoke.
“Stephen, what has brought this on? It is no secret that
your mother suffered horribly when married to your
father. I believe she is very content right now. She has
no one to answer to, except for you, and you allow her
to do as she pleases. Whenever I see the dowager
duchess, she seems in good spirits. I would seriously
reconsider a second spouse. I believe she is enjoying
her freedom from matrimony.”
Ariella always spoke her mind, and just then, he was
glad. “I would never force her into a marriage. And you
have missed my point. I want to make a good match—I
want to find her someone attractive, witty and noble.”
Both women were silent, staring, eyes wide. Finally
Elysse said, “Are you saying you want to find your
mother a love match?”
He winced. “I want to find her a gentleman whom
she can become fond of, and who will be fond of her,
as well. If you wish to call it a love match, so be it.” He
stood, thinking of Tyne Jefferson and feeling a twinge
of guilt. He knew Julia well. She would not be pleased
with his scheme, not now. But in the end, if all went as
planned, she would be thrilled. “I prefer their
relationship to be one of mutual admiration and
respect. Obviously the prospective groom must have
means, to foreclose any possibility of his interest being
in her fortune.”
Ariella and Elysse exchanged looks, and then they
burst into smiles. “You are romantic after all!” Elysse
exclaimed.
He sighed. “I am not romantic, Elysse. But Julia has
been acting oddly recently. It has become evident that
she is lonely.”
“Really?” Elysse suddenly snickered, the sound
unladylike. “She did not seem lonely at Harrington Hall
the other night.”
He bristled. “I am sure that in all of Britain, there
must exist an older gentleman who might become
genuinely fond of my mother.”
Elysse turned to face Ariella with some excitement.
“What was his name?”
“Jefferson—like the President. I can’t recall his first
name, though.” Ariella turned to Stephen. “She seemed
utterly taken with the American. What about him?”
His tension spiraled. “Tyne Jefferson is a rancher
from the wilds of California,” he said. “In Britain, those
who raise cattle are farmers! He also trades—he sells
his beef to Midwestern and Eastern markets. He is not
suitable for the dowager duchess.” He was firm, and
he had even spoken briefly with Cliff de Warenne about
the man.
The women exchanged glances. Elysse said flatly,
“Alexi trades, and so does his father. Would you deny
her someone like Alexi or Cliff?”
“May I remind you of precisely how blue their blood
“May I remind you of precisely how blue their blood
is?” His temper was rising, but he controlled it. He
knew he was being a terrible snob.
Ariella stood, frowning with disapproval. “I despise it
when you are at your snottiest. America is not Britain
—it does not have our class system. It is a frontier
society, and an open one. The standards that apply
here do not apply there.”
“He is very attractive,” Elysse said, standing, as well.
“And he seems to be a gentleman.”
He was annoyed that they had closed ranks against
him. “My standards apply everywhere—even in Hong
Kong.”
Ariella rolled her eyes. “Of course they do, Your
Grace. Because you have inherited a fortune and a
kingdom, and you are as controlling as a tyrant. Can
you not admit to your prejudice?”
He roiled with anger. “Yet I am accused of being a
Whig and a republican by everyone else.”
“No, I am the true liberal, Stephen. In spite of your
good works, your values are antiquated.”
Only Ariella—or Elysse—could get away with such a
statement. “And you remain impossibly overeducated,”
he said with characteristic calm, though inside he was
not calm at all. “Must you always refute me? I am
amazed St. Xavier allows you the liberties that he
does. Do you dispute him, as you do me? For
heaven’s sake, the Foundation is at the forefront of
social and political reform.”
“I debate my husband when I believe that he is
wrong.” Then Ariella sighed. “I do not want to fight with
you, Stephen. I am terribly fond of you, hypocrisy and
all. And yes, you are at the forefront of reform. But your
reforming tendencies have vanished where your
mother is concerned. I think she is fond of Jefferson,
and I think we should look into that.”
“I agree,” Elysse said flatly.
He was aghast and affronted. “I wish to enlist you to
find my mother a suitable peer—one who is British and
blue-blooded, not an American rancher who sells beef!

“But what if Julia is falling in love? Would you deny
her that?” Ariella asked.
“She is not falling in love. She is lonely, and he has
simply turned her head.”
Elysse hurried over. “I would love to help,” she said,
seeming pleased by the prospect, and as if she hadn’t
heard his earlier words. “Wouldn’t you, Ariella? I have
always been fond of the dowager duchess. Let’s find
her a love match.”
She glanced at Ariella, and he knew they were
conspiring against him.
“Very well, Stephen,” Ariella said. “We will do it.”
He put his fists on his hips. “I meant my every word. I
will not accept Jefferson, not now, not ever. I want you
to find her a respectable, titled Englishman. After you
have done your research, you will present me with a list
of prospective husbands. You will not arrange an
introduction to anyone, not until I have approved it.”
They shared a look. “Of course, Your Grace,” both
women chorused innocently.
ALEXANDRA WAS CHILLED to the bone, and
Bonnie, the poor elderly mare drawing the carriage,
was wet and exhausted, too. But Clarewood was finally
in sight.
Holding the reins in her gloved hands, Bonnie
walking tiredly now, Alexandra stared down the shell
drive, past the monumental water fountain and the
surrounding front gardens, at the stately four-storied
gray stone house. It was palatial, she thought with
sudden dismay. It seemed fit for a king, not a duke.
She shivered, and not just from the rain and the cold.
It had been impossible to remain in a state of moral
indignation, if she had ever truly been in such a frame
of mind. The mare was twelve years old and
accustomed to two-mile jaunts to town—not traversing
what felt like half of Surrey. Randolph de Warenne
might have made the journey between Edgemont Way
and Clarewood in an hour and a half, but three hours
had surely elapsed since she’d left home. The rain
hadn’t helped matters.
The roads were slick, if not muddy, and her roof
leaked. The carriage was not a closed one, so the
wind had brought gusts of rain inside. Alexandra wasn’t
sure she had ever been so cold. She shouldn’t care
about her appearance, as she meant to drive
Clarewood off, but she knew she must be utterly
disheveled and shamelessly bedraggled. Most
importantly, she was filled with trepidation now, all
moral indignation gone.
What woman in her right mind would confront the
Duke of Clarewood?
She almost dreaded the ensuing encounter. But she
was proud of being a strong, determined and decisive
woman. Now was not the time to weaken and lose her
backbone—or her courage.
But he was so terribly daunting.
And she still couldn’t fathom why he’d chosen her.
She was so lost in her anxiety that she realized
Bonnie had come to a halt. She clucked to the chestnut
mare, lifting the reins. “Come on, Bonnie. We’ll be
there shortly.”
Her pulse had picked up its beat. Bonnie jogged
forward, ears pinned back in annoyance. Ancient and
stately elm trees lined the drive, the foliage overhead
so thick, it at least provided some shelter from the rain.
A few moments later she drove the carriage past the
water fountain, and, in spite of the downpour, she
gazed around, admiring the huge sculpted hedges that
formed an identical mosaic on each side of the house.
Alexandra halted the mare in front of the wide stone
steps that led to the front door. A number of
outbuildings stood off to the right, including stone
stables. A very costly black brougham was parked
beneath an archway between two buildings, four bays
in the traces. The duke had other guests.
Her dread became acute. She hadn’t thought about
the possibility that he would surely be entertaining, if at
home. But she had no choice now but to proceed, she
thought grimly. Except that she had no wish for a
conflict of any sort. She did not want to dismay, annoy
or even anger the duke. If possible, she wished for
some kind of peaceful acquaintanceship to emerge
from the impending encounter.
Alexandra took off her gloves and tucked her wet
hair back into place, resetting several hair pins more
firmly. She then adjusted her once-jaunty blue felt hat.
There was no way to dry her navy blue skirts, but at
least her wool coat had protected her bodice from the
rain. As she pulled her gloves back on, a doorman
materialized by the driver’s seat with an umbrella.
Alexandra smiled gratefully at him as she got down.
A moment later she found herself in a huge front hall.
The ceiling was high, and a massive crystal chandelier
hung from its center. It was the size of a grand piano.
Black-and-white marble floors were underfoot. Gilded
chairs upholstered in dark red velvet and claw-footed
tables stood against the walls, which were covered
with works of art. Alexandra recognized masterpieces
by Titian, Raphael, Constable and Poussin.
Her heart was thudding now.
Her dismay had somehow increased. She wasn’t
sure, especially as he had guests and she was so
sodden, that her idea of speaking with him now was
truly the best one. But she’d come this far, and she
would go forward. She handed off her coat and gloves,
then swept her hands down her soggy skirts. A tall,
narrow mirror in a gilded frame hung on one wall. A
glance at it told her that nothing would improve her
appearance, outside of a change of clothes.
A dark-suited butler was hurrying across the hall.
Alexandra managed to smile. “I am afraid I have
forgotten my cards,” she lied. She no longer had calling
cards. She hadn’t used a card in years.
His impassive expression did not change. “Whom
might I declare, madam?”
“Miss Alexandra Bolton of Edgemont Way.”
The butler left. Alexandra realized she was wringing
her hands nervously, the duke’s image now assailing
her mind. She did not know him at all, except by
reputation, but she was certain he would not be
pleased with her response to his invitation. He did not
seem like a man who was used to being
countermanded.
She wet her lips nervously and wished the encounter
over.
The butler returned. “His Grace will see you now.”
Alexandra followed the man across the entry hall,
glimpsing a magnificent white-and-gold salon with at
least a dozen seating areas. She’d never seen such
lavish furnishings, she thought. Her heart rate
increased. They passed a large library, dark and
masculine, a fire dancing in the emerald marble hearth.
She somehow knew it was his favorite room, and she
could see him on the sofa there, immersed in the day’s
journals. Her temples ached. She could not recall ever
being this nervous. She wished she hadn’t caught his
attention at the ball.
And then she could see past the open doors of a
small, intimate but airy salon, the walls eggshell-blue,
trimmed in gold. Clarewood was standing by the
handsomely sculpted white plaster fireplace, a lush
nude painting over the mantel, as devastatingly
handsome as she recalled. Her heart lurched so hard
as she looked at him that she forgot to breathe.
He turned his head immediately, and his blue gaze
slammed into hers, intense and direct.
For one endless moment his eyes remained locked
with hers, his regard penetrating. Alexandra felt her
cheeks warm impossibly; she was no longer cold. She
had forgotten how intense his regard was, how
unnerving. She’d forgotten how his presence could
dominate a room.
She’d forgotten how he could ignite the heat in her
body, too.
And then he looked her quickly up and down. It
broke the impossible moment, and she became aware
that he was not alone. Two elegantly turned out ladies
were with him, and Alexandra recognized them
instantly. All three pairs of eyes were riveted upon her.
She should have waited for another day to confront
him. Aware of how disreputable and untidy her
appearance was, she felt her cheeks heat and her
stomach churn. She held her head a notch higher,
determined to hide her embarrassment.
“Miss Alexandra Bolton,” the butler intoned.
Clarewood said calmly, “Please bring refreshments
for Miss Bolton. And hot tea, Guillermo, immediately.”
He strode toward her.
Alexandra curtsied, aware that she was breathing
harshly. “Good day, Your Grace,” she managed.
“This is an exceedingly pleasant surprise, Miss
Bolton.” His gaze had become searching. “Good
afternoon. I am sorry you have had to endure such
unpleasant weather.”
She gave up and trembled, having just noticed that
her skirts were making a puddle upon his beautiful
parquet floors. “It is a nasty day, and I must apologize
for my rather unkempt appearance. My vehicle is not a
closed one.”
“Do not apologize. I cannot imagine what
possessed you to come across Surrey in such
weather.” His stare intensified.
She knew she must respond, because his statement
was in fact a question; instead, she fought to hide her
nervousness as they stared at one another. Did he
think her so eager for an illicit rendezvous that she had
come earlier than invited? She prayed that was not the
case. “I believe there is a matter we must discuss,” she
finally said.
His lashes lowered. They were thick and lush, and
as black as coal. “Perhaps you should come to stand
before the fire.” It was not a question, and he touched
her elbow, clasping it firmly and moving her that way.
His touch, though light, jolted her. It was hot and
searing, as if his hand was directly upon her skin, not
merely her wool sleeve. His hand was large and firm. It
was even possessive. She instantly recalled his hands
upon her at the ball, but then he’d clasped her waist,
and later her shoulders. Now the chill in her bones
vanished, replaced by a sudden warmth. She glanced
at him, and their gazes collided. He stared. Helplessly,
she stared back.
The tension that had begun the moment she’d seen
him deepened, thickened, crackled between them.
And it added to her dismay. The shocking attraction
she felt for him had not changed, either, she thought
dismally. And he knew. His mouth curved ever so
slightly.
Alexandra looked away. As he guided her toward
the hearth, her heart raced madly, but it was hard to
think with his clasp growing firmer upon her elbow. She
desperately looked forward to the conclusion of their
encounter, and yet, oddly, there was something almost
reassuring about his grasp.
She glanced at his striking profile. His strength was
what was reassuring, she thought. She was so unused
to strong men. He would never recklessly gamble or
overimbibe, or lay waste to his fortune. He would never
behave foolishly. In fact, he would undoubtedly never so
much as tolerate foolish behavior.
He said, “May I introduce Mrs. Alexi de Warenne
and Lady St. Xavier?”
Alexandra somehow smiled at the two women,
awaiting rude stares and falsely polite greetings. But
as she paused before the warm fire, they instantly
smiled at her, as if they were not taken aback by her
disheveled appearance or her forward social call. She
knew they must be thinking hatefully about her,
however. The other night, she had learned how meanspirited
society was.
“I am somewhat acquainted with Lady St. Xavier,”
she said as calmly as possible. She hadn’t seen
Ariella St. Xavier, whom she’d known as Ariella de
Warenne, in years. “But I do not believe I have had the
opportunity to be formally introduced to Mrs. de
Warenne.” Suddenly she recalled that Elysse’s
husband had been the one to escort Edgemont from
the ball, with the help of young Randolph.
“We have never met, but I am glad we are doing so
now,” Elysse de Warenne said warmly. “His Grace
rescued you from a swoon the other night. Are you
feeling better? Maybe you should not have come out
on such a deadly day.”
Alexandra stared at the beautiful blonde, trying to
decide if there was an innuendo in her words, one
hinting at the ugly gossip that had raged about the ball
that night. But Elysse de Warenne was smiling so
pleasantly that Alexandra decided there was no rancor
or malice in her words. Was it possible that these
women would treat her fairly after the other night? She
was so uncertain. She glanced at Clarewood.
His unwavering regard was filled with male
speculation, and her tension increased. She thought
again of how it had felt to be in his arms. Flushing, she
addressed the women carefully. “I am afraid I have an
urgent matter to discuss with His Grace.” And then she
wished she hadn’t said anything at all. What could
possibly be of an urgent nature between them? What
would the two ladies think?
“Really?” Elysse smiled at Clarewood now. “Isn’t
Edgemont Way quite some distance from here?”
“Elysse,” Clarewood reproved. “Not everyone is as
candid as you.”
This time there had been an innuendo—that she
had gone out of her way to call on the duke, perhaps
for personal reasons relating to their interaction the
other night. If only Elysse knew. “Edgemont Way is
quite a distance, yes,” Alexandra said, then stopped,
because there was no possible way to explain to them
why she had called on Clarewood. She turned to him to
change the subject. “Is there any chance my poor mare
could be cared for in the stables? I’m afraid she is a bit
advanced in years, and Bonnie is as wet as I am.”
“Of course.” He wheeled and went to the door,
leaving the women to their own devices.
Alexandra glanced around the room, inspecting it,
hoping to avoid the topic of why she had come to
Clarewood. “What a delightful salon,” she said.
The bait was not, precisely, taken. “I am glad you
have called, it gives us a chance to get reacquainted,”
Ariella said quite pleasantly. “How have you been, Miss
Bolton?”
She must have heard the gossip, and she’d certainly
seen Edgemont in his cups. Like Elysse, she did not
seem hateful, but pleasant and polite. She even
seemed sincere, though no one was sincere in society.
Alexandra smiled carefully back. “I am very well, thank
you. I understand you live some distance from town
now?” She wanted to steer the conversation back to
polite banalities.
“Yes, Woodland is in Derbyshire, and I do love it
there. We will eventually build a home in London, but
right now we enjoy staying at my father’s London
residence when we visit.”
Alexandra suddenly made the connection between
the two women—they were sisters-in-law. “I have not
been to Derbyshire in years, but it is a beautiful part of
the country,” she said, keeping one eye on the door,
wondering how she would manage a private word with
Clarewood when he had guests.
“If you are ever in the country, you must stop by.”
Ariella smiled.
Alexandra felt her eyes widen. Did Ariella mean it?
“While Woodland is a country home, we have a
Racket Hall, and there are some quaint shops in the
local village. Have you ever played Rackets, Miss
Bolton?”
She breathed, shocked by what sounded almost like
an invitation. “No, I have not, but it looks amusing.”
“It is very amusing, and more difficult than one would
think. You must come and play sometime.”
Alexandra remained stunned that Ariella had just
invited her to her country home. “I have no plans to get
out that way, but if I ever do, I will try to call.” Flustered,
she turned to gaze out the window at the rain.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” Elysse
suddenly said. “You fainted the other night, or nearly so,
and you could become terribly ill.”
Alexandra had to face her. “I am afraid I do not have
a change of clothing, and I will be returning home as
soon as my business with the duke is concluded.”
Elysse and Ariella glanced briefly at one another, the
exchange a silent one. Alexandra had the feeling that
they did not quite believe her—and she did not blame
them.
Just then Clarewood returned to the room. He sent
her an indolent look so seductive that her heart lurched
wildly. That look was filled with confidence, as if he
expected her to accept his outrageous supper
invitation. Was he mad?
“She may stand in front of the fire until her clothes
are dry,” he said, and again, it was not a question but a
command. “Your mare will be well cared for, Miss
Bolton.”
Alexandra was grateful. “Thank you.”
Ariella came forward. “I have to go, Stephen,” she
said, surprising Alexandra by her use of his given
name. “We have a supper affair, and with this weather,
it will take longer to get back to town than usual.”
“I am pleased you called, Ariella,” Clarewood
returned, an odd note of warning in his tone. “And I am
grateful for your aid in the matter we have just
discussed.”
Ariella grinned and kissed his cheek, surprising
Alexandra even more. “I cannot wait to get started on
our little endeavor,” she said.
Elysse also kissed him. “You look worried. Have no
fear, Your Grace.” Her tone was teasing. “We shall
humbly obey your every command.”
“I am quaking,” he said drily. “You gave me your
word,” he added.
“Of course we did,” Elysse murmured. She turned to
Alexandra. “It was a pleasure, Miss Bolton. I expect to
see you again soon.”
Alexandra tried to hide her surprise, because it had
sounded as if the other woman meant the words.
Ariella then added, “Stephen’s bark is worse than
his bite. Whatever you intend, remain staunch, my
dear.”
Alexandra’s eyes widened.
Ariella went on, “We have been friends since
childhood.” Then she wiggled her fingers at Alexandra
and started for the door.
Clarewood turned to her, his gaze suddenly searing.
“I will be right back,” he said, then turned to walk them
out. The moment she was alone, Alexandra looked for a
place to sit down, but she did not want to ruin the
furniture. She finally took a window seat and exhaled
hard, then began to shake.
The two women had been pleasant and even kind.
They had been unusually candid, too. She did not know
what to make of them or of that. As for Clarewood, they
seemed very fond of him. They certainly weren’t
intimidated by him. That was good news, she
supposed, because he certainly seemed too powerful
and too sure of himself. Maybe he was, as Ariella St.
Xavier had suggested, more bark than bite.
She doubted it.
But she wasn’t intimidated by him—was she?
She trembled all over again. Images flashed, of his
holding her as she’d started to faint, of his direct blue
stare, and then of the squire’s bluff countenance and
kind smile. An image of Owen followed, and he was
laughing, so dashing and in love with her. She rubbed
her temples, which ached with more insistence now.
His presence, his power and his masculinity were so
overwhelming. This was going to be the most difficult
interview of her life.
“Miss Bolton?”
She hadn’t heard him return to the room. Alexandra
leaped to her feet, and their gazes collided. He was
smiling ever so slightly, ever so smugly. “It isn’t seven,”
he murmured. “And I was planning to send my coach
for you.”
She inhaled, the sound ragged. “No, it isn’t seven…I
believe it’s half past three or thereabouts.”
His dark brows lifted.
“Should I be flattered?” he asked softly. “Or
dismayed?”
“I shall be dining at Edgemont Way tonight.”
“I see.” His stare never wavered, but the slight curve
of his mouth was gone. “Why?”
Why, she wondered, did she feel this slight twinge of
regret? Why did he unnerve her? Why did she feel that
if she said the wrong thing, or made the wrong gesture,
he might pounce?
“The roses are in my carriage. They are stunning
…but I am afraid they did not survive the rain very well.”
When he did not speak, simply continuing to stare, she
opened her purse and took out the bracelet. “I have
come to return this, as well. Obviously I cannot accept
the flowers or such an inappropriate gift.”
“I fail to see why not. Especially when I wish for you
to have it,” he purred.
She grew impossibly tense. His tone was seductive
—but it was also dangerous. He was the lion inviting its
keeper into the cage, hoping to make him its next
meal, but only after toying with him. She knew then that
her assessment of him had been correct: he was not
accustomed to disobedience of any kind. “Your
invitation wasn’t a proper one.”
“No, it was not.”
She stared in surprise; he stared calmly back. And
because he wasn’t speaking, because his stare was
unnerving, because her heart was slamming, she
cried, “I explained to Randolph that I have a suitor, Your
Grace. One with marriage on his mind.”
His mouth curved. His eyes gleamed. “I hardly mind
a rival, Miss Bolton.”
She gasped. Wasn’t he going to admit to the folly of
his advances? Didn’t he understand what she was
saying? Wasn’t he going to give up? “His intentions
are honorable. Are yours?”
“No. They are not.”
Alexandra was shocked speechless by his candid
admission.
And he slowly smiled. “I believe in being direct, Miss
Bolton,” he said, “as I find it frivolous to waste time. I
am taken with you. I believe that you are taken with me.
Considering the circumstances in which we find
ourselves, I do not see why you are reluctant to
proceed—unless, of course, you are enamored with
the squire.”
He was seeking an illicit affair. She could not
believe he had continued to be so direct. She breathed
hard. And what did he mean by “circumstances”?
“How do you feel about the squire?” His stare was
hard, but his tone was wry.
Was he amused by the other man’s suit? “How I feel
about Squire Denney is not your affair.” But if he would
not back down and give up, what was she going to do?
Mildly, he said, “I am making it my affair.”
She inhaled, shaken again. His mind seemed made
up—about her. He did not care that she was a
gentlewoman, even if her name was in tatters. Images
flashed through her mind again, of his face close to
hers as he’d held her in his arms. Her dismay
escalated. So did her tension. Her body was hot and
throbbing. Of course she could not do as he wished.
She was a proud, moral woman.
“Have I insulted you? Because, let me assure you,
that was not my intention. Most women are flattered by
my interest.”
She shook her head. “I am flattered,” she managed.
“But, Your Grace, I am also affronted.”
His brows lifted. “Why would my interest be
insulting?”
She steadied herself and spoke. “Your Grace, I am
in a difficult position. Of course I am flattered. What
woman would not be? But you have misinterpreted my
situation, not that I blame you, and that is why I am
trying to reject your advances.”
He seemed amused. “Will you coddle me now? I
find your rejection almost refreshing, actually. Women
generally are eager to kiss the ground at my feet.”
She doubted he’d ever been rejected before. “I do
not want to reject you entirely,” she whispered, her
heart slamming.
His brows rose. “Is there such a thing as a partial
rejection?”
It was hard to speak. “Perhaps we can be friends.”
He laughed. “Miss Bolton, that is a very quaint
notion.” He gave her a shockingly bold look. “Do not be
insulted, but friendship has nothing to do with roses
and diamonds—or my interest in you. I am very
intrigued,” he stated.
The insult should have been the final blow, but his
last admission outweighed it. Her insides tightened.
Desire fisted. As he stared into her eyes, she
somehow said, aware that this was her last chance to
escape him, “Your Grace, I have come to explain that, if
the squire offers marriage, I will accept.”
He was silent. He did not seem taken aback, or
affronted or even dismayed. Just possibly, he seemed
amused, except that his gaze was steel.
“Therefore I am returning the flowers and the
bracelet. Therefore I must decline your supper
invitation. And I must ask you to cease your pursuit.”
When he kept staring, she exclaimed, “I am sorry! I
truly wish to remain on a friendly basis.”
“Not half as sorry as I am,” he said. “You should
reconsider.”
She laid the bracelet on a table and shook her head,
feeling tearful and helpless. “I am so grateful for your
aid the other night…. And I am flattered, but…I must
go.” She stumbled past him. The sooner she got in her
carriage, the better. She did not know when she had
last been this upset. True, she had achieved her goals.
She had set him straight. She had stopped his
advances.
Then he stepped in front of her, barring her way.
Alexandra gasped, just before he seized her arms,
firmly but not hurtfully. What was he doing now?
He said softly, “I rarely make errors of judgment.”
His gaze was searching, and she could not look
away. Her heart was thundering so loudly, she was
certain he could hear it. “You have made such an error
this time.”
“I do not think so. I believe you are determined to
accept the squire out of economic necessity.”
“And if I am?”
He suddenly slid his thumb across her jaw. Pleasure
exploded within her body, while she trembled in
despair. He murmured, “I intend to be a very generous
benefactor.”
It was so hard to comprehend him when he was
caressing her face with his thumb. Desire was a huge
fist now, deep in her stomach, churning the confusion
there.
“I look forward to being generous with you in all
possible ways, Alexandra,” he said throatily.
There was no mistaking the desire in his tone, no
mistaking the lust smoldering in his eyes. She
trembled, breathed, meant to pull away, meant to refute
him. But she did not do any of those things.
He tilted up her chin. “You are sodden, even
disheveled, but even so, you are capable of taking my
breath away.”
“Stop,” she tried to say, but she wasn’t sure she’d
even spoken aloud.
His long, thick lashes lowered, and then his face
moved closer to hers.
He was going to kiss her.
She went still, her mind going blank. She forgot
about everything, including why she’d come to
Clarewood that afternoon. All she knew was that he
was about to kiss her, and her body exploded in a
frenzy of excitement
Clasping her shoulders, he brushed his firm mouth
over hers, not once, but several times.
Alexandra did not move, stunned by the sensation of
his lips on hers, her entire body a sudden conflagration
of desire and urgent need. She caught his massive
shoulders. She felt him smile. She softened in
response.
Why was she denying him?
Why was she denying him?
He made a sound and claimed her mouth, opening
it, hard.
She cried out, throwing her arms around him,
pressing close as he wrapped her tightly in his
embrace, their tongues instantly entwining. He was
hard and stiff against her hip. Excitement blinded her.
She desperately need to be in this man’s powerful
arms, just as she desperately needed his mouth on
hers and his hard, aroused male body pressing
insistently against her.
Alexandra kissed him back.
Not softly, not gently, and not as a genteel woman
might. She kissed him wildly, urgently, demanding he
open for her, trying to drink all of him in. He grunted, the
sound one of triumph. His grasp on her tightened,
every inch of his body straining against her now. She
did not know how long they stood there that way, in a
fierce, deep kiss, his tongue questing against the back
of her throat, his manhood massively aroused against
her pelvis. She wanted to shout his name and weep in
pleasure—she wanted to demand more, beg for more.
There was desire, and there was relief. There was joy.
How had she managed, these past nine years?
And then he broke the shocking kiss.
His handsome image swam before her as he held
her so she would not fall, regarding her closely, his
eyes ablaze. Alexandra clung, dazed. Sanity slowly
returned.
And when her vision became focused and she saw
how fiercely aroused he was—and how pleased
—when she felt her own aroused body, and knew what
it signaled, she released his shoulders. Shock washed
through her.
Dismay rapidly followed.
What had she just done?
“You will stay for supper,” he said flatly.
She shook her head and tried to back away. For
one moment he did not release her, his eyes widening
with surprise. “No. I cannot. Let me go…please!”
She did not know if he released her or if she broke
free. Their gazes remained locked, his now dark with
what appeared to be anger. “If you are playing games,
Alexandra, then you are a superb player, the best I
have encountered.”
Now he thought her the sort of woman who would toy
with a man. She turned and ran for the door, horrified
by his indictment and her own moral failure. She was
too distressed to think clearly or hear if he was
following her. She ran through the house, so intent on
escape, she did not pause in the front hall to ask for
her coat. She reached the door before the startled
doorman, now fighting tears. What was wrong with her?
As she wrenched the handle, the doorman opened it
for her, and she ran outside and down the front steps,
into the rain.
Her carriage was not in sight. She realized the mare
had been taken to the stables at her own request. She
choked down tears. What had she done?
“Miss Bolton.” Clarewood’s tone was like the lash of
a whip. He held an umbrella over her.
She refused to turn and look at him; instead, she
started resolutely for the stables.
He followed, holding the umbrella over her head.
His strides were longer than hers, and he seized her
arm as he came abreast of her, his face hard with
anger. “Stop.”
“Let go.”
“You remain soaking wet, and your nag will never
make it back to Edgemont Way.”
She finally looked into his piercing blue eyes,
wrenching free. “So what would you have me do?” she
asked hysterically. “Remain here with you, give in to
your needs, satisfy your desire, your command?”
In spite of his anger, he spoke quietly now. “I am
sorry you are in such a moral dilemma. And I will hardly
hold you captive, Alexandra. Leave the mare. She can
rest here. I will send you home after you have dried off.
And I will leave you to your own devices while you do
so.”She stared at him.
He stared coldly back. “But I suggest you reconsider
the benefits of involvement with me, especially in light
of what just happened.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
“ALEXANDRA,” HER FATHER said jovially the next
day. “Did I tell you? The squire will be coming to dine
with us tonight.”
It was half past ten the following morning, and Olivia
was preparing Edgemont’s breakfast, as she always
did. Their father could not rouse himself any earlier,
due to his late hours and his consumption of alcohol.
Alexandra had set up her ironing board in one corner
of the kitchen and was pressing the last ball gown from
the Harrington Hall birthday party, having stayed up
virtually all night. “No, Father, I do not think you told us
that,” she said calmly, when she was anything but.
Clarewood had been true to his word. He’d returned
her to the front of the fire in the blue-and-gold salon,
and then he had vanished. It had taken her a good hour
to dry off, and in the interim she had been served a hot
meal, which she had tried to decline, but then she had
thought the better of it—the journey back to Edgemont
would be a long, wet and cold one. But she had been
wrong; his coach was well equipped, and as dry as a
summer cupboard. Hot bricks had been placed on the
carriage floors, furs on the backseat. The roof did not
leak. The windows had glass. The return trip to
Edgemont Way had been so pleasant that she had
eventually managed to fall asleep—in spite of her
distress and despair.
Now she carefully concentrated on the task at hand
—she would have to replace a costly gown if she ever
ruined one. But no matter how hard she stared at the
gown and the iron, it was Clarewood’s dark blue eyes
that she saw. No matter how tightly she gripped the
iron, it was his muscular shoulders she felt. Her
despair was complete. All she wished to do was forget
he even existed.
Last night Edgemont had been out when she had
returned. It was the day’s one saving grace. She had
not been able to form a reasonable or believable
explanation for why she was coming home in the
duke’s magnificent coach. Fortunately, she hadn’t had
to deliver one.
But Corey and Olivia had been speechless. Then
they had pestered her with questions.
Refusing to answer a single one, she’d stumbled
upstairs, where one of his burgundy roses sat on her
dresser in a big vase, and her distress was renewed
all over again.
It was impossible to be fully diverted by her father’s
declaration now. She had a meal to plan, and very few
funds with which to do so. Carefully pressing a
raspberry-red silk sleeve, she said, “Did you explain to
the squire that we dine at seven?”
“He plans to come a bit earlier, for a sherry. He said
he wishes to have a private discussion with me.”
Edgemont was obviously pleased.
Alexandra felt her heart lurch with dismay as she set
the iron down on the wood cutting board by the sink.
Clarewood’s powerful image remained front and
center in her mind; when she looked at her father, it
was the duke that she saw. And his eyes were filled
with anger.
He had hated being rejected.
But there had been no other possible recourse.
Her mind tried to veer to the passionate kiss they
had shared. Moisture welled in her eyes, and it was
suddenly hard to breathe. She did not know why she
was so sad. She must never allow herself to
remember, not even for an instant, that shockingly
passionate encounter.
“I wonder what he wishes to say.” Edgemont
grinned.
She faced her father and tried to smile in return.
Surely Denney would not offer for her now. It was too
soon, no matter that he had said he intended to make
haste with his suit. “I hope he won’t mind a roasted
chicken.” It would be a respectable main course, and
not a costly one.
Olivia set a plate down on the kitchen table, one
containing a single poached egg and two slices of
toast. Ham, sausage and bacon had vanished from
their pantry long ago.
“He is so besotted with you, I’m sure you could serve
him gizzards and he’d be pleased.”
Absolutely dismayed and confounded, Alexandra
turned away. She carefully turned over the dress, then
retrieved the iron. But it had already cooled.
“Alexandra, you already did that side,” Olivia said
softly, her gaze worried.
Alexandra dared to meet her sister’s eyes,
incapable of summoning up even a false smile. “You’re
right. Silly me.”
It was over now. And there was no reason to be so
distressed.
But it was as if she’d gone back in time to the days
when she’d trysted with Owen—except that she wasn’t
certain she had ever felt such an explosion of desire.
She missed Owen so much. It had become painful
all over again.
Edgemont was wolfing down his egg and toast.
He’d already stated he would be gone for the day.
Alexandra had no idea where he was going, nor did
she particularly care. She carried the dress from the
room, Olivia following on her heels.
Edgemont called after them, “Make certain you
serve a fine meal tonight, Alexandra. Spare no
expense!”
She did not answer, carefully hanging up the dress
in the hall.
Olivia said, “Why won’t you talk about whatever it
was that happened yesterday? I am so worried.”
Alexandra did not want her sisters worrying about
her. She placed the hanger on the coatrack and turned.
“There is nothing to worry about. I explained my
situation to the duke. There will be no more
inappropriate advances.”
“You are near tears,” Olivia pointed out. “You cannot
even form a smile. What happened? Was he unkind?
Cruel? All kinds of terrible imaginings are dancing
about in my head!”
Alexandra put her arm around her. “Oh, Olivia. He
was so very angry. He did not take my rejection lightly.
But it is over, and there is no valid reason for me to
remain upset.”
“Yet you are upset!”
She would never tell Olivia about the kiss. And she
could not tell her that she missed Owen and what they
had shared, and thought about him now as she hadn’t
in years—while his image faded in and out, being
constantly replaced by the duke’s. Olivia would use that
as ammunition against the squire and his suit. “I am
just overtired,” she said, and it was partly the truth. She
forced a smile. “At least Bonnie is on a holiday. She is
probably in the finest stall she has ever known, with
more hay than she knows what to do with.”
Olivia did not smile. Her gaze was searching.
“Something happened at Clarewood, and you are not
telling me. We have never had secrets before.”
Alexandra bit her lip. Tears formed. “He kissed me.”
Olivia gasped.
“I am sorry,” Alexandra said, leaning against the wall.
“I’d forgotten what it is like to be kissed by a young,
handsome man.”
“He isn’t young. He is thirty or so,” Olivia said. “What
a despicable cad.”
“Yes, he is despicable.” But the moment she spoke,
just as she heard her father approaching, she was
aware that she didn’t believe her own words. The two
sisters shared a look and smiled at him as he ambled
past, reaching for his coat. “Have a good day, Father.”
“Spare no expense, Alexandra,” he admonished,
beaming. “And wear something pretty.” He walked out
of the house.
They waited until the door had closed and then
looked at each other again. Olivia shook her head. “So
I was wrong about his intentions. I am sorry, Alexandra.

“It’s all right. It is over.” She was firm. Nothing felt
over, really, but she had to think about the evening to
come. There was so much to do. “We need to start
housecleaning. Where is Corey?”
“I’ll get her,” Olivia said.
For the next hour or so, the sisters swept, mopped
and dusted the house in preparation for their dinner
guest. Alexandra still could not shake Clarewood from
her mind. Nor could she understand her sudden
despondence. And she continued to miss Owen
terribly. It was as if Clarewood had taken a knife and
sliced open all her old wounds.
Alexandra and Corey began to polish the wood
furniture. Olivia was sweeping the front steps, the new
day a bright, cold and sunny one, when she came
rushing back into the house. “Alexandra, come quickly!

Alexandra felt her heart lurch in alarm. She had the
immediate and odd notion that Clarewood had sent
her another gift; instantly, she told herself that she was
wrong. She hurried outside, Corey on her heels. And
she saw that Clarewood had sent her carriage home,
but Bonnie was not in the traces. A beautiful, young,
powerful black horse was pulling the carriage, instead.
“Where is Bonnie?” Olivia whispered.
“Look at that horse!” Corey exclaimed.
The gelding was part draught horse, clearly. He
could undoubtedly go back and forth to Clarewood
several times in a single day without even tiring, and
probably pull a wagon filled with mortar and bricks the
entire time. And now she saw Randolph’s splendid
hunter tied behind the carriage, and instantly realized
he was driving it. He waved at them.
What was Clarewood up to now?
She was alarmed. She was dismayed. She was
also oddly breathless.
Randolph halted the carriage and braked it, leaping
easily out as only a young man can do. He sauntered
up the brick path to where they stood, just in front of the
house. “Good day, ladies,” he said gaily.
Alexandra hugged herself, while Corey asked,
“Where is Bonnie?”
“Your mare remains at Clarewood. I am afraid she is
lame, but do not be alarmed, His Grace has a singular
veterinarian, and rest assured the mare will be ready to
return home in five or six weeks. Apparently she has
bowed a tendon.”
“Five or six weeks!” Corey exclaimed in open
dismay. “She’s our only carriage horse! How will we
get on?”
She turned to Alexandra, who inhaled. “Father will
have to give up his mount, that is all. It is only
temporary.”
“He will never do such a thing,” Olivia said softly.
“Ladies, have no fear,” Randolph interjected,
smiling. “His Grace wishes for you to have use of
Ebony until the mare can come home.”
Alexandra looked at him in astonishment. “I beg your
pardon?” She looked at the powerful black gelding
again.
“You may borrow Ebony until the mare returns,” he
said firmly. “His Grace insists.”
She jerked her gaze away from the striking horse.
Randolph was staring at her—as if expecting a
debate. Clarewood had sent them a horse. It was a
thoughtful gesture, a generous one.
I will be a very generous benefactor.
I suggest you reconsider our involvement.
“He is lovely,” Corey whispered. “He is the most
beautiful horse I have ever laid my eyes on. Can he go
under saddle?”
Randolph looked at her. “Yes, he hacks very well. Do
you like to ride, Miss Bolton?”
“Of course I do, but it has been years since I have
done so.” She shrugged, the gesture feminine and
helpless. “I have never had a mount of my own, sir, but
as a child, I used to gallop Bonnie bareback all over
the countryside.”
“Corey,” Olivia rebuked.
Alexandra barely heard them. She was shaken. Was
this gesture an act of consideration and kindness? Or
did it mean that he intended to continue his pursuit
after all?
She looked at Randolph, breathing hard—as if
she’d run back and forth to the house several times.
“We appreciate the offer. It is very thoughtful and
terribly magnanimous. But I am afraid we cannot
accept even the temporary use of such a horse.” But
what she really wanted to say was that she could not
accept the use of his horse, not now and not ever.
“Why not?” Corey screeched at her.
“Why not?” Corey screeched at her.
Randolph’s eyes were wide, but he seemed to be
restraining a smile. “Miss Bolton, His Grace insists.
Why not humor him?”
She stared. It was so very hard to think clearly. “May
we have a private word, sir?”
Before he could answer, Corey seized her arm, her
green eyes blazing. “Alexandra, I love that horse. We
need that horse. We cannot get on, even for six weeks,
without a carriage horse. Look at him! If you send him
back, I am never speaking to you again.”
Olivia took Corey’s arm. “Let’s step inside.” She
looked at Alexandra meaningfully before she left. “I am
siding with Corey, Alexandra. We do need a carriage
horse. It is only a loan. Do not send him back.”
Alexandra refused to speak. She waited until they
were gone before turning her gaze back to Randolph. “I
believe I have explained my situation to you, sir.”
“It is only a horse.”
“It is a very expensive horse, one that belongs to
Clarewood.”
Randolph folded his arms. “He said you’d refuse.”
She started.
He smiled. “Come, Miss Bolton, why refuse? He will
not give up, especially not in this instance—he truly
wishes to help you in your time of need.”
wishes to help you in your time of need.”
How could she answer that? “If only I believed you,
sir.”
“I am not allowed to return with Ebony,” he added.
Then, slyly, “So I am leaving him here, in your stable.
So if you truly feel driven to return him, you will have to
do so yourself.”
Her defeat was complete. She would never go back
to Clarewood, not even to return the horse. So she
must accept his gift. The Duke of Clarewood had won.
“HAS ANYONE EVER told you just how clever you
are?” Elysse asked, smiling, as the handsome St.
Xavier coach turned down Pall Mall.
Ariella smiled at her friend. “Actually, this was
Emilian’s idea. He pointed out that Mr. Jefferson is
courting my father and I could surely use that to our
advantage.” She warmed impossibly as she thought
about her husband. It had been seven years now, and
they had two beautiful children, a son and a daughter,
but she loved him more than ever. Although he had
been dark and distant and so intimidating when they
had first met, he was now far more than a lover and a
husband—he was her best friend and closest
confidant. He’d been amused when she’d begun to tell
him about their plans to ignore Clarewood’s plans and
encourage a match between the Dowager Duchess of
Clarewood and the big, handsome American. But he’d
also noticed the couple and agreed that there was
obviously some connection between them.
“We will tell Mr. Jefferson that my father suggested I
show him London. Being as he is eager to do
business with my father, I doubt he will refuse our offer.”
Ariella smiled, pleased with their scheme.
“And we will just happen to drive by Constance Hall,
and when we do, it is incumbent upon us that we call.”
Elysse grinned and squeezed her friend’s hand.
“We can only put the two of them in the same room,”
Ariella said. “After that, it is up to them.”
“Not necessarily,” Elysse said, dropping her hand.
Ariella looked carefully at her beautiful friend, who
was somber now, and she instantly knew that Elysse
was thinking about the beginning of her own marriage
and the six terrible years of separation that had
immediately followed their vows.
She had suffered terribly. Alexi would probably never
admit it, but Ariella knew her brother, and she was sure
he had suffered, as well. His anger had been a
disguise. But in the end, they had reconciled, and
Ariella knew they were deliriously happy together. She
had never dreamed her rakehell brother could turn into
a devoted husband.
“Sometimes a couple needs a helping hand.” Elysse
smiled grimly at her. “Alexi and I might still be living
apart if you hadn’t encouraged me to pursue and
seduce him.”
“Those were terrible times,” Ariella said softly. “And I
am glad they are over and you are so enamored now.”
Elysse smiled brightly, her brief lapse into the past
over. “My point is, there is a gulf between Julia and
Jefferson. She is a dowager duchess, he a rancher.
She is English, he is American. She has a fortune, he
does not. If there is a deep attraction, they might need
some help overcoming their apparent differences.”
“Has anyone ever told you how clever you are?”
Ariella asked.
“Only my terribly dashing husband.”
TYNE JEFFERSON had refused to take the forwardfacing
seat, even though the two young ladies had tried
to insist upon it. Instead, he sat across from them in the
rear-facing seat, his long, strong legs crossed. He
might be an American who had traversed the country
three times before there had been a transcontinental
railroad, meaning he had bested both mountains and
deserts, suffered through heat waves and blizzards,
while surviving Indians and wolves, not to mention just
plain bad men, but when around the fair sex, he
considered himself a gentleman of sorts. At least he
would always try to be on his best behavior.
Cliff de Warenne’s daughter was pointing out
another landmark, this one the home of a renowned
British artist. He was bemused. He’d been very
surprised when the two ladies had appeared at his
hotel, sweetly introducing themselves and asking if
they could give him the grand tour of London. And even
when Cliff’s daughter had explained that her father had
suggested they call on him and make him feel at home,
he sensed a plot and a scheme. But he couldn’t
imagine what the conspiracy might be, and he was not
about to refuse Cliff’s daughter, not when he was trying
to convince the man to start a shipping line in
Sacramento. Besides, his time in town was limited. He
was more than happy to take in every sight that he
could.
But two hours had elapsed and they were no longer
in town. He never went anywhere without studying
maps first, and he knew they were in Greenwich. This
was a suburb where the titled and the rich resided. It
was a beautiful part of greater London, filled with
palatial homes and smaller mansions, with carefully
tended gardens and tree-lined drives. His
bemusement had increased. “Should we go back to
town? If you ladies care to join me, we can take tea, as
you put it, at the hotel. And I can repay you for your
hospitality.”
Lady St. Xavier smiled oddly at him. “You hardly
need to repay us, Mr. Jefferson.”
“It’s just Jefferson,” he said.
Mrs. de Warenne blinked a bit innocently and said,
“Oh, look. Constance Hall. I wonder if the dowager
duchess is in.”
His heart slammed.
“I believe you have met the dowager duchess, have
you not?” Lady St. Xavier said, far too sweetly. “If she
is in, we should call. Our families are very close, and I
did not get to speak to her at any length at the
Harrington ball.”
He stared at the pale white pillars and the closed
iron gates that barred trespassers from entering the
grounds. His pulse had calmed now. But he wasn’t very
happy with his reaction to their accidental arrival at the
duchess’s home.
He looked at the two women, who smiled innocently
at him. There was nothing accidental about this, he
decided. But he could not imagine why they had
brought him to call on the dowager duchess. He did not
have business with her. If this was social, he could
accept that. But in that case, why bring him there with
so much subterfuge?
Surely they did not have matchmaking on their
minds!
Her image came forcefully to his mind, pale, blond
and beautiful. “I don’t mind stopping by,” he said slowly.
And it was the truth. The dowager duchess was one of
the most interesting women he had ever met. But then,
where he came from, the female gender was rare,
ladies even more so.
And as the coachman was instructed to turn into the
drive, he had to admit to his tension. He rubbed his
suddenly stiff neck, wondering at it. He almost felt
nervous. He was never nervous, not even when facing
a mountain lion on foot and in the dark.
If someone had ever asked him to imagine a
duchess, he would have imagined a lady exactly like
Julia Mowbray, but he hadn’t realized a woman could
truly be so elegant and so refined, so graceful and so
gracious. He hadn’t realized anyone could be so
wealthy. He’d been very surprised to receive her
invitation to the ball. He’d accepted mostly because he
had never been to a ball before—not even in his
younger days in Boston.
Since they’d met at a supper party last week, he had
tried hard to think of her as a dowager duchess and
not as a beautiful woman. But when they’d spoken that
night, it had been clear how intelligent she was, and
how gracious—causing his admiration to grow. It had
been hard not to steal glances at her all night.
He’d bumped into her on the street a few days later.
She’d been shopping with a friend, and he’d been
alone, doing the same thing. He’d meant to merely say
hello, the polite thing to do, but that simple greeting
had turned into half an hour of conversation.
A man would have to be blind not to notice the
dowager duchess’s petite figure and pale beauty, her
femininity and grace. But it was all wrong. He had no
right to think of her as a woman. He needed to remind
himself that she was a duchess…and a lady. Not only
was she out of his league, he would never lay a hand
on a woman like that. It would be the height of
disrespect.
He liked his women hot and lusty, anyway. Ladies
did not enjoy sex, they suffered it. So that was another
reason to keep things tidy and neat—not to mention
polite and respectful—between them.
But he’d had a really good time at the ball—and not
because of the hoity-toity crowd. And damn it, now he
was nervous.
“I hope this isn’t an intrusion,” he said flatly, as her
doormen opened their carriage doors for them.
“She will be thrilled to see us,” Mrs. de Warenne
said. “We are close friends with her son and have
been so since childhood.”
He made a mocking sound. Clarewood had been
overbearing and arrogant, as if he thought the world of
himself. “Ah yes, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the
Grand Duke.”
Lady St. Xavier looked at him seriously. “There is
more to Stephen than meets the eye,” she said. “He
may have airs, but he is at the forefront of reform. He is
renowned for his philanthropy—he has built and
maintains hospitals and asylums all over the country,
and he is currently building proper housing for the
working poor.”
He hadn’t realized that. Still, Clarewood had been
an ass. “I’m sure he’s a swell fellow.” He realized he
was about to get in really hot water, so he smiled at her
and added, “I am very impressed.”
A moment later they were in the dowager duchess’s
entry hall—which was the size of many northern
California frontier homes. The women handed a butler
their cards, which he promptly put on his small silver
tray, asking them to wait. A few minutes later they were
shown into a magnificent salon with turquoise-painted
walls, gold wainscoting and plasterwork and gilded
furniture.
He realized his heart was beating just a bit more
swiftly than usual. He told himself to get a grip and
grow up. She was a duchess, for God’s sake.
And then, just as the two ladies were taking their
seats, she came gliding into the room.
He was surprised, because she was in a riding
habit, one with split skirts. And while it was an elegant
outfit, it was somehow so feminine, an effect that was
dissipated not a bit when he saw a bit of mud on her
black boots—and noticed small, English spurs. He
jerked his gaze to her face. She was flushed from the
outdoors, while several pale tendrils had come loose
from the chignon she seemed to favor and curled
about her face.
He was incredulous. His heart was thundering.
She instantly went to the women and embraced
them, kissing their cheeks warmly. “This is such a
delightful surprise!” she exclaimed.
His heart was racing. He’d never seen her look as
lovely, and he reminded himself to cool down. But he
couldn’t get over the fact that she had been on the
back of a horse. He’d assumed she was always driven
around. And she had long hair….
She turned to face him, smiling politely. “I am so
pleased you have called, Mr. Jefferson.”
He’d learned his manners and took her hand,
kissing the air above it, hating the foolish gesture. Her
hand was small and petite in his own rather large one.
“The ladies insisted we drop by. I hope it’s all right.” He
meant his every word, and he looked into her eyes,
wondering if she was really pleased to see him. And
now he caught the scent of female perspiration, sweaty
horse and something crisp, like the turning autumn
leaves, mixed with lilies. His damned loins stirred.
And then he realized he was still holding her hand
and quickly dropped it.
“I am very pleased that you have joined Elysse and
Ariella,” she said, and the color in her cheeks was a bit
brighter now. “And I must apologize for my
appearance. I didn’t realize you would be calling, and
I’m afraid the time simply slipped away. It usually does
when I am riding.”
Like an idiot, he stared. She rode often, and she
enjoyed it enough to lose track of the time.
It was Lady St. Xavier who broke the silence. “The
dowager duchess is one of our most renowned
equestrians.”
He looked at the young lady, wondering what that
meant.
The dowager duchess said softly, “I enjoy my horses
very much. Do you like horses, Mr. Jefferson? I
imagine they are the lifeblood of your ranch.”
He came to his senses. And even though he wasn’t
sure he should tell her about life on a ranch, he
explained, “I run five thousand head of cattle, Your
Grace. In the spring, they’re turned out, and by summer,
they’re in the high country. We round them up in the fall.
It takes a few weeks. No cowboy could get the job
done without having a couple of good horses.” He was
surprised at how rapt she was. Was she really
interested? She was a renowned equestrian?
She said, “I’ve never tried to imagine a roundup
before.”
“It is hard work, and it can be dangerous. You don’t
want to be near a stampede.” And then he wished he
hadn’t said that, because he knew the English
aristocracy had a disdain for hard work. But she really
seemed to be interested.
“I would love to see a roundup,” she said softly.
He was speechless, because clearly she meant her
every word. What if he invited her to California?
“Have you ever ridden in a foxhunt, Mr. Jefferson?”
she asked, smiling. “It is the sport I prefer.”
He went still, wondering if he’d misheard. “You hunt
foxes—on horseback?” Did this woman chase a fox
across the countryside, astride, with a pack of hounds?
She smiled. “Yes, I do, and I am rather passionate
about it. You should join us in a foxhunt, if you can. The
hounds are given a scent, and then they set chase. We
follow on horseback, wherever we have to go.” She
met his gaze and stared.
He remained incredulous. “I’ve never been to—or
seen—a foxhunt. But I’ve read about the sport. Aren’t
jumps involved?”
“Yes, there are fences—and other obstacles—of all
kinds. In fact, the master of the hunt often works with a
course designer to add interesting obstacles to the
terrain. Our mounts are expected to take hedges, as
well as stone walls and fallen trees. Balking is
considered extremely bad form.” And now, as she
spoke, her eyes were shining—and still locked with
his. This woman rode in foxhunts. She jumped her horse
over fallen trees and stone walls. It was amazing. He
would never have guessed that the pretty little dowager
duchess was such a horsewoman. “The fences are
small, I hope,” he somehow managed to say.
She laughed, and the happy sound made his heart
leap. “That would not be very amusing, Mr. Jefferson.
Nor would it be very challenging.”
“Of course not,” he managed.
“If you wish, I can show you my stable sometime. I
have one of the best hunting strings in the country. And I
will admit I’ve bred most of the barn myself.”
She bred horses, too. He was going to have to
reassess, he realized. Breeding was as earthy as
anything could be. “I’d like to see your horses,” he said
gruffly, then added, “when it’s convenient.”
“You seem very surprised,” she suddenly said, but
her blue gaze was direct. “And if I am boring you, I
apologize, but I am very passionate about my horses.
And, of course, I am allowed my eccentricities. I even
feel I deserve them. I’ll show you my hounds, as well, if
you wish. They are a formidable pack.”
He was recovering somewhat. “I’ll bet. Do you breed
them, too?”
“Of course. The hounds need to have the drive to
pursue prey, and we breed specifically for that drive.”
“I’d like to join a foxhunt before I leave,” he suddenly
said. He wanted to watch the duchess ride.
“I’ll try to arrange it. But it may take a while. Would
you care to ride with me sometime?”
He looked at her now. She’d just extended another
invitation to him. Why? And why was she even alone?
Why hadn’t she remarried? “If it’s no trouble, I’d like
that.” Almost disbelievingly, he heard the seductive
tone of his own voice.
She must have heard it, too, because she flushed. “It
would be my pleasure,” she returned slowly.
He had stopped smiling. So had she. And he was
staring when he knew he should stop—but she was
returning his gaze.
He was genuinely surprised when one of the
younger ladies said, “Why don’t you show Mr. Jefferson
your house dogs?”
He’d forgotten about the other two women. He
turned—suspicious now—because he thought there
was laughter hidden in Lady St. Xavier’s tone. But he
met a pair of straight faces and wide, unblinking eyes.
Then he glanced at the duchess, who quickly smiled,
as gracious as ever. While his own heart kept
thundering.
“When you next call, Mr. Jefferson, I will give you a
tour of both the stables and my kennels.” She looked at
the two young women. “I’m sure Mr. Jefferson has no
interest in my personal dogs.”
“Thank you. I’d like that. And I’d like to see your
lapdogs,” he added, mostly to be polite.
She looked at him oddly and went to the door and
said, “Send Henry and Matilda in, please.”
He knew a pair of fluffy, noisy lapdogs would be
released into the room any moment, and he felt some
relief, because that was how he wanted to think of her,
as a regal, elegant untouchable duchess, seated in all
her finery in her fancy gold salon in her palatial
mansion, with a pair of silly lapdogs by her side.
A moment later, a pair of black Great Danes almost
as tall as she was came trotting into the room.
Instinctively, he backed up.
“Don’t worry,” the dowager duchess said. “They are
well trained and only attack if I say so.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
ALEXANDRA SAT WITH HER SISTERS in the parlor,
clasping her hands tightly in her lap. The chicken was
roasting and red potatoes were baking, along with a
vegetable dish. A purchased pie was in the icebox. A
bottle of red wine had been opened. The dining-room
table had been set with their best plates and crystal,
two silver candlesticks in its center. Everything was
ready for the squire.
And no one said a word.
The squire and her father had been closeted in his
library for well over half an hour. By now they’d had at
least one sherry. When they finally came back into the
parlor, Alexandra was afraid of what would happen
next.
To complicate matters further, Edgemont had seen
Ebony. Corey had developed the lie. She had baldly
told him that the horse was a temporary loan from Lady
Harrington, of all people. According to Corey, they’d
called earlier to thank her for the ball, and Bonnie had
gone lame. Edgemont had believed her, had in fact
been pleased. They knew he was thinking about using
the horse, himself.
Olivia reached for her hand. “Maybe they are
discussing the races. Please do not worry.”
Newmarket would close in a few weeks. The last
races of the season were on everyone’s mind. “I’m
fine,” Alexandra lied.
“You’re as white as a ghost. And you’re trembling,”
Corey said. “If they return to us and declare a betrothal,
you must stand up for your rights and refuse.”
Alexandra was grim. “I will do no such thing,” she
began, and even as she spoke, the library door
opened and the two men came ambling out, both
smiling so widely that clearly they were in vast accord
on something. Her heart clenched. She was certain
they’d decided on the betrothal, and she reminded
herself that this opportunity was a miracle, one that
would benefit everyone, including herself. And she was
not going to think about Clarewood now.
“We have news,” Edgemont declared, beaming.
Alexandra stood up, refusing to look at her sisters
now, trying to smile. “I can see that you are both
pleased.”
The squire strode up to her, reaching for her hands.
Oddly, today his palms felt clammy. “My dear, I have
asked for your hand, and your father has agreed!”
She looked into his shining eyes and wished he did
not love her so much. It was so hard to speak. “How
wonderful,” she managed.
“There hasn’t even been a courtship!” Corey
exclaimed, flushing with outrage. “He’s courted her for
all of five days!”
Denney faltered, Edgemont was furious and
Alexandra quickly turned. “Corey, the squire indicated
that he would move swiftly, and I agreed.”
“No, you did not!” Corey exclaimed, eyes ablaze.
“You wished for a proper suit, and you said so.”
Alexandra bit her lip, aware that Corey was
desperate to prevent her from making this marriage
purely because she loved her.
“One more word and you will go to your room!”
Edgemont roared, trembling with rage.
“Don’t worry, there is no place I would rather be, for I
have no wish to see Alexandra sell herself off. She
deserves love!” Corey glared at the squire, then ran
upstairs. A moment later they heard her door slam.
A shocked and awkward silence fell. Alexandra
turned to Denney, afraid that he would despise her
sister and retreat from his previously stated intentions
to be generous with her entire family. She was
determined to soothe him now. “I am so sorry. My sister
is quite young. Please, forgive her this outburst.”
Denney had paled. Grimly he said, “May we have a
private word, Miss Bolton?”
Dread began. “Of course.” Alexandra waited for
Edgemont to escort Olivia into his library, where he
shut the door. “I am so sorry,” she said again, meaning
it.
“Is it true? Did you yearn for a proper courtship?” he
asked.
She swallowed. “This is indeed hasty, sir, but I am
very fortunate, and I do not intend to quibble.” But even
as she spoke, her mind treacherously demanded that
she do just that.
He touched her arm. “I am so eager to wed, Miss
Bolton. I simply cannot wait.”
She tensed. “I am flattered,” she managed, then
wondered if he was in such a rush that they would be
married by week’s end.
He touched her cheek, and Alexandra was
immediately incredulous, and then she was aghast, for
his fingers lingered on her jaw. He said softly, “You do
deserve love, Miss Bolton. On that score, I happen to
agree with you sister.”
“Very few marry for love,” she managed, wanting to
pull her head back.
He dropped his hand. “Miss Bolton…I am in love
with you.”
She wanted to cry out in dismay. And damn it, it was
Clarewood’s fierce image she now saw, there in her
mind’s eye. Shaken, she breathed out.
“In time, I believe you will come to love me, too,” he
murmured.
What could she possibly say to such a statement? “I
hope so.” Now all she could recall was Clarewood’s
anger at her rejection and the black horse that was in
their stables.
He clasped her shoulder, smiling gently, and her
alarm escalated wildly. His regard was so tender, but
his eyes were warm, and she knew he was about to
kiss her. Panic began.
He leaned toward her. Alexandra told herself not to
move and reminded herself that there would be many
kisses. My God, they would share a bed, there would
be intimate relations. And that was as it should be.
They were going to be man and wife—it was best for
everyone.
I will be a generous benefactor.
I suggest you reconsider our involvement.
His dark blue eyes had been dark with anger, his
voice filled with authority. It hadn’t been a suggestion…
.
The squire’s mouth brushed hers.
And because, for one moment, she had been
transported back in time, as if standing with
Clarewood in the rain, she cried out, surprised. His
hands tightened on her shoulders and his mouth
firmed, becoming more demanding.
She pushed at his shoulders, horrified. Her body
screamed at her to run away. She hated the feel of his
mouth, its taste, his touch. She did not want to do this!
He pulled away abruptly.
Alexandra backed up, trembling with shock. She
had hated his touching her.
She would never love this man.
“Please forgive me,” he rasped. “I was overcome by
your beauty, Miss Bolton.”
She somehow shook her head, wanting to wipe her
mouth with her sleeve. “You are forgiven,” she
managed.
“Truly? I can see that I have shocked you. I am so
very sorry.”
“I was surprised,” she somehow said. “It is forgotten,
Mr. Denney. Oh! I have a chicken in the oven! Will you
excuse me?” With that, Alexandra fled.
excuse me?” With that, Alexandra fled.
AFTER SUPPER, WHEN DENNEY was gone,
Alexandra sat down on her bed, her bedroom door
locked. She couldn’t recall the last time she had locked
her door; maybe she never had. Now she picked up a
pillow and hugged it, staring at the burgundy roses on
the bureau. In her mind’s eye, Clarewood seemed
mocking now, as if he’d told her so.
How do you feel about the squire?
Had he guessed that she could not care for or
desire Morton Denney? Had he somehow known?
I hardly mind a rival.
Or was it simply that he was so arrogant that he
knew there could not be a competition? How could
anyone compare the handsome, powerful duke with
the kind, elderly squire?
I am taken with you…I believe you are taken with
me.
I will be a generous benefactor.
She started to cry. How was she going to marry the
squire, never mind that he was so kind and generous,
and that he was in love with her? His kiss had repulsed
her. But in Clarewood’s arms, she had been in a
delirium of rapture. Worse, she had felt so oddly safe.
delirium of rapture. Worse, she had felt so oddly safe.
She was a shameless woman, that had become
clear, to dream about and want a man who wanted only
to make her his mistress. It had been different with
Owen; they had intended marriage. She had loved him.
She didn’t love Clarewood. And there was nothing
safe about him. He meant to ruin her—even though he
would be financially generous.
What was she going to do?
Alexandra lay down and stared at the ceiling,
cuddling her pillow, forcing her thoughts of Clarewood
aside. Instead, she imagined herself the mistress of
Fox Run, the wife of Squire Denney. She tried to
imagine living in his handsome home, keeping the
household, managing the staff. She saw herself
arranging flowers in the grand salon, then sitting down
to lunch with her sisters, a meal she had not been
forced to prepare herself. And they were served by his
two maids.
Then she imagined the squire appearing during
their meal, beaming at her, kissing her warmly and
sitting down to join them. Dismay rose up.
She would pretend to be pleased to see him and
have him join them, when she wouldn’t really care at all.
She might even wish he’d allowed her a private
luncheon with her sisters.
Tears leaked again.
She was not going to feel sorry for herself! There
might be children. She’d wanted children once. She
loved children and she knew she would be a good
mother. So she changed the scene. Now two little girls
raced about the dining room as she enjoyed a
luncheon with her sisters and her husband. They were
so pretty, one brown haired, one blond—they
resembled Corey and Olivia as children. Her distress
increased.
She imagined her sisters having handsome
husbands and added them to the table. Everyone was
smiling and content—the little girls, her sisters, their
husbands, the squire. Everyone except herself…
The luncheon became supper. Everyone was in
evening clothes—her sisters were so fashionable now.
Olivia even wore pearls. And the supper was over. The
squire was sending her warm looks. She was forcing a
smile, going upstairs. He followed. And then he came
up behind her and wrapped her in his arms, instantly
amorous. She simply stood there and let him nuzzle
her.Alexandra sat bolt upright, clutching the pillow,
Clarewood’s roses front and center in her vision now.
She could not do this.
She wanted to go through with it, she truly did, and
she wanted to be a loving wife. But she did not love the
squire. She would never love him. He was too old, and
the only man she’d ever loved and would ever love was
Owen. He had been a prince. She deserved a prince!
Clarewood mocked her now. Even his roses
mocked her!
And she wished her mother were there. “What am I
going to do?” she asked the empty room.
The bedroom had a single window. Outside, the
night was black and a few stars were shining. And
suddenly Elizabeth was standing in front of the window.
She could see her mother so clearly now, as if she
were real, and not a warm and wonderful memory. As
always, her mother was calm and reassuring. You will
do what you have to do.
She hugged her knees to her chest. Elizabeth had
been so happy that she’d found love with Owen. Her
sisters were right, her mother would not approve of the
squire.
“But he loves me.”
You don’t love him.
She would never love the squire. “I so wanted to
save my sisters from destitution.”
Elizabeth smiled. He is not your prince.
She looked again at the burgundy roses, thinking of
Clarewood, who was as close to a prince as a man
could be, in every possible way. He would be
generous. He had said so. His fortune made Denney
look like pauper.
Oh, God, what was she thinking?
What she was thinking was that if she turned the
squire away, her sisters did not have to continue on as
impoverished young women with no possible future. If
she turned the squire away, she could turn to the duke,
who would be generous with her.
Alexandra bit down hard on her lip. He had said he
would be generous. And she would not mind being in
his arms. To the contrary. She felt as if she needed his
embrace, his passion. No, she did not need him; it was
only that she missed Owen, who belonged to another
now, and it had been so long….
You deserve love.
She jumped, looking at her mother, recalling Corey’s
words. “He doesn’t love me. It will be merely an
arrangement.”
And it would be short-term. It would not be for life.
Her mother smiled.
Her mother smiled.
Alexandra hugged the pillow harder, knowing that if
her illicit affair were ever discovered, her fall from
grace would irrevocably ruin her sisters. So there were
terrible pitfalls ahead—if she really meant to go
forward.
“What should I do?” she asked.
Elizabeth came forward, touching her hair, the
caress a maternal one. I never meant for you to
sacrifice yourself for your sisters, Alexandra. And I
believe that deep within yourself, you know that.
Her mother had never meant for her to sacrifice
herself, but taking care of her sisters hadn’t been a
sacrifice, had it? She smiled tearfully, but suddenly
Elizabeth was gone.
It didn’t matter. One thing was clear. She could not
marry the squire. And her relief was overwhelming.
“YOU LOCKED YOUR DOOR last night,” Corey said,
wide-eyed.
“I needed some privacy,” Alexandra told her, hurrying
downstairs. Her mind was made up. She would not
marry the squire and spend her life as his wife. She’d
spent a very sleepless night, thinking about the duke
and the arrangement he had in mind. There was
trepidation, but there was also so much relief.
Alexandra smiled at Corey and Olivia now. “By the
way, I have changed my mind. I am not marrying the
squire.”
Their eyes widened.
Alexandra reached the ground floor; Edgemont had
not answered his door, and she assumed he’d fallen
asleep in the library. He hadn’t gone out the night
before. He’d gotten foxed at supper, instead, drinking
several bottles of red wine.
He was indeed in the library, asleep on the small
sofa. Alexandra strode over to him and shook his
shoulder. “Father? I am sorry to awaken you, but we
must have a talk.”
He winced, waking immediately, sitting up. “What?
What time is it? Did I fall asleep?” The bleary look left
his eyes. “You got engaged, by God! This calls for a
drink.”
She clasped his shoulder, restraining him from
getting up. “It’s the next morning, Father.” She turned.
“Olivia, would you bring Father his coffee?”
“What time is it?” he groused, now glancing outside.
“It’s only half past eight,” she said, sitting down
beside him. “Father, I have come to my senses. Olivia
and Corey have been right all along. I cannot—and will
not—marry the squire simply for the means he can
provide us.”
Edgemont seemed confused, and then he was
clearly taken aback. “You were engaged last night,
Alexandra,” he warned.
“No, Father, you and Mr. Denney agreed to a
betrothal, but no one has signed a contract, and I am
not wearing a betrothal ring.” She was firm.
He stood up; so did she. “We are signing contracts
tonight,” he said ominously. “We are announcing the
betrothal, as well.”
She stiffened. “I will not marry him.”
Edgemont’s eyes widened. “You are the obedient
one. You are the giving one. You are, in fact, exactly like
your mother—the glue holding this family together. Of
course you will marry Denney and save this family from
ruin.”
Guilt began. Clarewood seemed to give her a dark
look, in her mind, as if he sensed she was about to
back down and retreat. “I cannot marry him.”
“You can and you will!” Edgemont shouted. “I am
your father. I am head of this household. You will obey
and respect me, Alexandra!”
She trembled. “Sign what you will. I am twenty-six
years old, and legally, I am my own keeper—I cannot
be forced into marriage against my will.”
He trembled with rage, and Alexandra thought he
might hit her, when he’d never laid a hand on her, not
once in her life. “You will do as I say!” he commanded.
“You will go to that altar!”
She shook her head, mouth pursed, hating having to
refute him this way and reveal that he had no power,
none. For, unless he physically dragged her into
church, she was not going to marry Denney. They
stared at one another, Edgemont trembling with rage,
Alexandra grim with sorrow. Then she turned and left
the room.
Her sisters were standing in the hall, Olivia holding a
cup of coffee, both of them ashen. “What will you do
now?” Olivia asked, her tone hushed.
Of course she could not tell them that she meant to
accept Clarewood’s indecent offer. She could not tell
them that she meant to take him as a lover and accept
payment in return. It was sordid. It was wrong. But her
sisters would have a future, and it was better than a
lifetime of pretense and compromise.
THIS TIME, THE JOURNEY to Clarewood had been a
swift and easy one—as far as the logistics of travel
were concerned. Ebony had picked up a trot the
moment she’d asked him to upon leaving the house,
and he hadn’t faltered even once since then. A glance
at her pocket watch showed her that less than two
hours had passed and they had just turned onto
Clarewood’s long shell drive, though the magnificent
house was not yet in sight.
Her pulse raced. Her mouth was dry. She’d never
been as nervous, not even the last time she had gone
to Clarewood to return the roses and the diamond
bracelet. He had won. Of course he had. Had the
outcome of their contest ever been in dispute? she
wondered.
And it would not be the end of the world. Some good
would come of it. There would be no going back.
Alexandra knew she was giving up all self-respect, but
it seemed a small price to pay for her sisters’
livelihoods.
And there was more. She might be losing selfrespect,
but when she thought of being in his strong
arms, her heart leaped and raced, and her tension
instantly changed in character. Her heart had been
racing ever since leaving Edgemont Way. There was
no denying that she felt anticipation as well as dismay.
In a few more days she would be the Duke of
Clarewood’s mistress!
Alexandra inhaled. As Ebony trotted up the shell
drive toward the fountain ahead, she reminded herself
that she had to stay focused on the terms of their
arrangement. She wished to have a complete and
detailed understanding, one that would protect her
interests—which included those of her sisters. She’d
already decided to ask Clarewood to provide dowries
for her sisters. The question was, how much more
should she ask for?
Her stomach churned with revulsion. Corey had
accused Edgemont of selling her off to Denney, but
what she was doing now made her father’s efforts to
marry her off seem noble. She was selling her body to
the duke. There was only one word to describe that. It
would be so different if this was a love affair, or even
one of purely physical passion.
She thought about turning back. It wasn’t too late;
they could continue on as they had for the past nine
years. But Clarewood’s image was so forceful now,
compelling her, and her sisters’ future was at stake.
“Ebony, whoa,” she called, pulling on the reins.
And then she heard galloping hoofbeats coming up
rapidly behind her. She twisted to look at the
approaching horseman. And even before she could
recognize the rider on the magnificent black stallion,
she knew it was Clarewood.
He rode the way he did everything else—with power
and authority, as if he were not just a prince but a king.
Her tension spiraled. He halted beside her carriage
so precipitously that shells sprayed its wheels. As she
stared, she realized he was even more dashing than
usual in his riding clothes. And now that he was beside
her, she once again had that odd sense of being safe.
Alexandra met his intense dark blue stare. It was
filled with speculation. “Good afternoon,” he said, his
mouth softening. “Are you returning my horse?”
She trembled, her heart lurching. If she said yes, she
would go home holding her head high. If she said no,
she would begin a new journey, one that would change
her life forever.
“Miss Bolton?” he murmured, still staring. “Can I
entice you to come inside and take tea? Perhaps you
can then work on forming the answer I wish to hear.”
She wet her lips. “I am not returning the horse.”
He started, and then, slowly, he smiled. “I see.” He
was obviously pleased. He gave her a direct look, one
that caused her body to tighten impossibly, and he
dismounted, leading his horse to the back of the
carriage and tying him firmly there. Alexandra didn’t
move as he came around to the driver’s side of her
small vehicle. She wasn’t sure she was even breathing.
She was about to become his mistress, and she was
acutely aware of the magnitude of that decision.
He smiled again. “May I?”
At first she didn’t hear him, too busy staring at his
handsome face, at his high cheekbones, that straight,
patrician nose and those brilliantly blue eyes. She felt
helpless and lost, a small rowboat churning in the sea
of his charisma. Then, when he said her name, his tone
more forceful now, she came to her senses, moving
over so he could climb up and take the reins. “Of
course.”
But the moment he settled down on the seat beside
her, it became even harder to think. Only centimeters
separated them now. It was hard to breathe, even
harder to pretend he did not affect her so completely.
She was acutely aware of his big, male body, so close
to her.
“I am thrilled to have your company,” he remarked,
driving the horse forward. “Can I assume the journey
over was a pleasant one and that you are enjoying
Ebony?”
She inhaled and realized he’d heard it. “It was very
pleasant—in marked contrast to the other day.”
He smiled, eying her closely now. “You seem
overwrought, Miss Bolton.”
She was not going to tell him how she felt, or why
she felt as she did. “You are mistaken. I am…suffering
from a mild migraine.”
One brow arced upward, indicating mild disbelief.
“We shall have to remedy that. My housekeeper has
some miraculous potions. And how is your father?” he
asked politely, as they rounded the fountain.
My father is furious with me. He continues to drink
himself silly and to gamble our means away. She
smiled. “Very well, thank you.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “By the way, I happen
to detest trivial speech and rarely find myself in the
position of having to instigate it.”
She turned to look at him, and their gazes locked. It
was so hard to speak when he stared at her as he did,
with slightly smoldering eyes. “If you must know, it has
been years since I have been out in society. I’d
forgotten how much casual banter there is. I am afraid I
am now lacking in that particular social grace.”
“Good,” he said flatly, surprising her. “Can we agree
that no conversation at all is better than the mundane
and the inane?”
She inhaled sharply, surprised. “Yes, we can.”
“So you will not mind long silences?”
She continued to stare, aware of how handsome he
was, and now, how powerfully masculine. Did he know
why she had come? Was he assuming there would be
many more moments like this one? “I will not mind long
silences.”
He seemed amused. “Then you will be the first, Miss
Bolton. And may I say that I find you refreshing and
original in many respects?”
Her eyes widened. Surprise became an absurd
pleasure. “Have you just flattered me, Your Grace?”
“I have.” He halted the gelding in front of the house. “I
have no patience for coquetry and am frankly bored
with coquettes. I am glad you are not one of them.”
She trembled, shocked. Was he implying that he
was not only attracted to her but that he liked her?
He leaped down from the carriage with impossibly
athletic grace, as if a man of twenty. Then, as a stable
boy began running over to take the horse, he held up
his hand to her. “May I?” He smiled.
She felt as if the earth were spinning wildly now. The
regard he was sending her was so frank and so
intimate that it was as if she were the only woman who
existed.
If he truly cared, this would be so much easier, she
If he truly cared, this would be so much easier, she
thought. Alexandra gave him her hand. And the
moment she did, a jolt went through her, one very much
like lightning. She let him help her down, hoping he
hadn’t noticed how affected she was by his praise, his
warmth and his touch.
“You are trembling,” he said softly.
She jerked and looked into his blue eyes.
“I am glad.”
Realizing he still held her hand, she pulled it away.
She’d meant to hide her anxiety, but his candor was
tugging at her. “I am nervous.”
His eyes widened. “Then I am sorry,” he said.
“Because, in spite of my reputation, I do not bite, and in
spite of what is transpiring, I intend to be respectful.”
He gestured, and Alexandra preceded him into the
house, even more surprised by his last words.
In the front hall, as she gave her coat to a servant,
she said, “Your Grace, I was hoping to have a private
word.”
“I am hardly surprised. Shall I delay tea?” His gaze
was searching now.
She nodded, wanting to get the impending
negotiation over with. He touched her waist lightly—a
gesture no stranger would ever dare—and Alexandra
walked forward, thinking, He knows. He knew why she
had come, otherwise he would not be looking at her as
he was, or touching her so improperly, as if they were
already intimate.
He guided her into his library, closing the ebony
doors behind them. A fire burned in the green marble
hearth, and Alexandra quickly went to stand there.
There were no more doubts as her mind raced;
instead, there was only the question of how to proceed
and best protect her sisters’ futures.
Suddenly his hard body bumped her from behind.
She jumped, whirling to face him; he steadied her by
clasping her elbows briefly. “You are very anxious. You
need not be. Maybe I can make this easier for you.”
His gaze remained intent and searching. “You have
come to accept my offer.”
She nodded. “I have rejected the squire. There will
be no marriage.”
His eyes blazed. “Good. I never share.”
She inhaled, taken aback.
“Alexandra,” he said softly. “Come, let’s be frank
now. You will be my mistress. I expect absolute loyalty
from you.”
“God, it sounds so sordid!”
He took her arms. “There is nothing sordid about the
desire we share. It is natural, my dear. It is hardly as if
we are two young innocents.”
She trembled as the conflagration instantly began,
warming all parts of her body. Because she was
innocent, and moral, not that he would ever know.
“What is it? I can see doubt in your eyes.”
She hesitated, tempted to tell him the truth: that she
never had had a lover. Then she could ask him why he
had assumed the worst of her. But she was afraid he
might change his mind about their affair. It was so
ironic. “How can you possibly respect me?”
His eyes widened. “You are a gentlewoman. It is my
duty to respect you.”
Lovely words, but they would not change her own
lack of honor. “So you have respected your previous
mistresses?”
He released her. “That is an interesting question.”
He stared. “No, actually, I have not.”
She wondered at that. “But somehow I will be the
exception?”
“Why are we dwelling upon respect?”
“It is important to me.”
He was thoughtful for a long moment. “You are an
interesting woman, Alexandra, and I find myself
constantly intrigued. I am aware that, somehow, you
are not like the others. You do not take our liaison
lightly, obviously.”
“No, I do not.”
His gaze narrowed. “You truly wished to marry the
squire and would have done so if I hadn’t interfered?”
“Probably. It was my intention.”
“And was it my charm that has changed your mind?”
He was wry.
She trembled. “I believe you know that you are very
hard to resist. It is also obvious that you do not take no
for an answer.”
“I do not.” He touched her cheek. “Especially not in
your case, when so much desire rages between us,”
he added softly.
She was throbbing acutely in every fiber of her being
now. “We must discuss our arrangement,” she
managed.
He became bemused and dropped his hand, but in
such a way that his fingers slid across her jaw, sending
a spiral of pleasure through her. “Very well, if you insist.

“I do.” She stared, fearful.
“Although I will confess I have never had to do so
before.” He was reflective again. “You seem dismayed.

“What does that mean?”
“My previous lovers have eagerly pursued me and
vice versa. I have never encountered resistance
before. I have never had to assuage or reassure
anyone, for any reason. I have never had to discuss the
parameters of a liaison.” He paused. “That is what you
wish, is it not? To discuss the exact nature of our
relationship?”
Alexandra was ashamed. “Yes. I cannot be like the
others, Your Grace.”
“This is undoubtedly about my promise to be
generous. Do you doubt me?”
“No, of course not.” She knew he would be a man of
his word. “But I must know what you require of me
—and vice versa.”
His mouth curved, and he reached out and slowly
pulled her close. “So you wish for details?” he
murmured.
She wanted to soften in his arms, but she stiffened,
instead, her heart pounding. “There is so much to
discuss, even logistics to arrange. But mostly I wish for
there to be a contract between us.”
He released her abruptly. “A contract? Not an
understanding?”
He was insulted, and that had not been her intention.
“I do not mean that you must draw up a document, Your
Grace, but I should prefer for us to verbally agree to
some terms.”
He stared. “Very well. And what are your terms,
Alexandra?”
She hesitated, aware that her cheeks were on fire
now. She wished he hadn’t felt insulted, but there was
simply no easy way to ask for what she had to.
He waited.
Finally she managed, “There must be discretion. No
one can know of our arrangement.”
He folded his arms and said thoughtfully, “You live at
home with your father and sisters—two hours from
here. If we are being blunt, then I will tell you that I
require your presence in this house on a nearly nightly
basis.”
She flamed. Images danced in her head, of her in
his arms in a big, canopied state bed. “That is
impossible.”
His face hardened. “Really?”
“We will have to settle on the afternoons,” she said
thickly, hating this tangent. She added, “And that will be
difficult enough for me.”
He stared, his expression impossible to read now. “I
will purchase a house close to Edgemont Way. We will
be able to spend evenings there once I have done so.
Until that time, we will have to manage with the
occasional afternoon.” His eyes darkened. “My time is
valuable, Alexandra. Unlike most peers, I am
preoccupied with great projects during my waking
hours.”
She shook her head. “I did not mean to anger you,
Your Grace. And I do not wish to inconvenience you.
But I must protect what is left of my name.”
His stare remained direct. “I am a reasonable man,
and frankly, I cannot fault you for that. You are the first in
many regards, Alexandra. Your living at home, and
being unwed, presents a difficulty I had not considered.

She trembled, this time in relief. He had understood
her reasoning. He was no longer angry. “Thank you.”
“What else do you wish to discuss?” When she
hesitated, dreading raising the subject of
remuneration, he said flatly, “Might I assume there is
the matter of my generosity?”
She nodded and bit her lip. “I must do well enough to
provide small dowries for my sisters.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his tweed
riding coat. “And what will that amount be?”
She so hated what she was doing. She’d intended
She so hated what she was doing. She’d intended
to ask for more than dowries. The house needed
repairs. They all needed clothes, and the pantry was
bare. Instead, she decided to forgo those other things.
“That is all. Olivia and Corey need dowries.”
“You do not wish for a dowry for yourself?”
“No.” She looked at the floor. Her cheeks were so
hot she wondered if they were scarlet now.
“How much will your sisters need, Alexandra?”
She looked up, trembling. “One thousand pounds
each, Your Grace, unless you think that is excessive.”
His gaze narrowed. “I think the figure a low one.” He
shrugged. “Done.”
She’d secured a thousand pounds for each of her
sisters, but she felt no elation. He must surely
disrespect her now. Humiliated, and wondering if she
should undo what they’d just agreed to, she turned
back to the fire. She felt close to tears.
He came up behind her again, clasping her by her
shoulders, his breath warm on her neck and jaw. “No,”
he said firmly. “I am not letting you retreat.”
She tensed, shocked by the feeling of his entire
body, hard and warm, against hers. Her heart
thundered. Her skin flushed. A terrible aching began.
He nuzzled her neck and murmured, “This is morally
repugnant to you.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
He slowly turned her around. “Why? I know I am not
repugnant to you.”
“No, of course not.” If ever there was a time to tell
him the truth, it was now.
He rubbed her shoulders languidly. “I have assumed
from the start that you are a woman of some
experience,” he said.
She tensed. If she confessed to her innocence,
would he retreat from their arrangement? She looked
into his smoldering eyes, her heart thudding with so
much desire, and now, with some alarm.
He gave her an odd look. “I am correct, am I not?”
Her alarm grew. If she confessed, he was going to
walk away from this pursuit. In that moment, she was
certain. “There was someone once. I loved him.”
His eyes widened and his caress stopped.
“I did not feel ashamed of my passion, because of
that love. More importantly, we had planned on
marriage.” She searched his gaze, biting her lip. When
he did not speak, she added, “Our arrangement is a
calculated one, Your Grace. And that is the cause of my
hesitation.”
“Yes, it is. And who was this paragon?”
“Does it matter? He has since wed someone else.
“Does it matter? He has since wed someone else.
And I am here, concluding an illicit and immoral
arrangement—for monetary compensation.”
“It is to our mutual satisfaction,” he said sharply. “We
both benefit, Alexandra. As do your sisters.”
When he stared, as he was doing now, it was
impossible to look away. “Yes, they benefit,” she
whispered.
He released her. “I am sorry you are struggling with
your conscience. Perhaps this will help. If I cannot
satisfy you—enough to make you pleased with our
relationship and content to remain freely in it—I will
terminate our contract but compensate you in full.”
It took Alexandra a moment to grasp what he was
saying. She was stunned.
“I meant it when I said I am a generous man,
Alexandra. Perhaps you should start taking me at my
word.”

CHAPTER NINE
THE NEXT DAY, ALEXANDRA set about preparing
the evening meal with her sisters, but she could not
shake her encounter with Clarewood from her mind. As
she peeled potatoes, she kept recalling their
conversation in vivid detail, especially his
seductiveness when he’d come up behind her. It was
impossible not to feel his hands on her shoulders, his
breath on her neck. She trembled and glanced at the
kitchen clock.
It was only half past noon.
Clarewood had instructed her to return for luncheon
on Friday. Tomorrow. She had almost been dismayed,
for a part of her had expected him to begin his
seduction then and there. But he had been expecting
the dowager duchess within the hour, and obviously,
there was no getting past that.
She reached for another potato and realized she
had emptied the bowl.
I shall require your presence on a nearly nightly
basis.
She was already ridiculously tense, and her body
had been in a state of fevered arousal since their
negotiation. It was shameful. She did not know what
was wrong with her. Being in his arms was wrong, yet it
felt right.
She glanced at the kitchen clock again. Only five
more minutes had passed.
“Why do you keep looking at the time?” Corey
asked.
It was almost, Alexandra thought, as if she were
looking forward to returning to him and beginning their
affair, as if she were counting the minutes until she saw
him again. “Am I looking at the clock?”
“Every five minutes,” Corey said, her hands covered
with flour.
The front door knocker sounded.
They never had callers; their neighbors were far
better off than they were and hardly interested in the
disgraceful Bolton family. Alexandra tensed. She had
stopped by Squire Denney’s yesterday on her way
home to break things off with him. He had been
stunned, and then he had been upset—understandably
so. She had done her best to explain by telling him that
she would never love anyone again, and it would be
unfair for her to marry him considering that. He had
argued with her, insisting she would become fond of
him and that he would make her happy. It had been a
highly awkward encounter.
When she left, he had insisted that she would soon
come to her senses. “You are merely having bridal
jitters, Miss Bolton,” he had declared. “I am sure of it.
But your sister is right. I have rushed you, so I will court
you properly now.”
“Please don’t,” Alexandra had tried. “I have truly
changed my mind.”
She knew he hadn’t believed her because he hadn’t
wanted to believe her.
Her father had already been out when she had
returned, so she hadn’t seen him until a few hours ago,
when he had been exceedingly cool to her. He no
doubt still meant to try to force her to the altar, she
thought grimly. But she wouldn’t go, and in light of her
understanding with Clarewood, his intent simply didn’t
matter.
Their caller knocked again. Alexandra took off her
apron, as did Corey, afraid the squire was calling. All
three sisters exchanged looks. “If it is Denney,” Olivia
said, “remain firm. That is the best you can do.”
“I feel sorry for him.”
“You would feel worse if you married him and had to
pretend that you cared—for the rest of your lives,”
Olivia returned evenly.
“I’ll get it,” Corey said. “If it’s the squire, I’ll say you
are not home.”
But as she rushed off to answer the door, Alexandra
followed. She did not intend to hide. To her surprise,
the squire was not there; a petite, beautiful blond lady
entered the house, instead. Instantly Alexandra
recognized her from the Harrington ball. She recalled
having noticed her with the duke.
“Hello, Miss Bolton, I presume?” the lady asked,
smiling and taking off her gloves.
Instantly Alexandra tensed. The other woman’s smile
was cold, and the light in her eyes was somehow
unpleasant. “Yes.”
“I am Lady Witte, and I have heard your sewing
extolled by Lady Lewis and Lady Henredon.” She
began removing her coat, and Alexandra helped her. “I
do hope you will accept me as a new customer. I have
a number of gowns that need cleaning and repairs.”
“I am always taking on new customers.” Alexandra
smiled, relaxing now that the woman’s supercilious
attitude was explained and pleased to have a new
client. For while that would mean additional work, there
would also be added income.
“Oh, I am so relieved.” Lady Witte smiled widely at
her. “I have the gowns in my coach.”
Alexandra turned. “Can you get them, Corey?” Then
she faced Lady Witte. “It’s rather chilly. Can I offer you
some tea?”
“Yes, it is quite cold out, but I will pass on the
refreshments. I simply wanted to meet you myself this
first time. Next time I will send my gowns to you.” She
smiled again and said, “Did you enjoy Sara de
Warenne’s birthday fete?”
Alexandra steeled herself against any impending
unpleasantness. “I did,” she lied. “It has been a long
time since I was out in society, obviously.” She
gestured at their run-down home.
“I can only imagine,” Lady Witte said blandly. “You
certainly made an entrance.”
Alexandra tensed. “I wasn’t feeling well,” she said.
“It is fortunate Clarewood noticed you—and
bothered to come to the rescue.” Her smile seemed
frozen in place.
And Alexandra knew now that this woman hadn’t
come simply for the fine repairs she could make to her
gowns. It felt as if Lady Witte was prying into her
relationship with Clarewood. But as they had barely
begun, she thought she must be imagining it. Though
socialites did love to rumor-monger.
Edgemont came down the stairs just then, dressed
for town. “I am taking the black,” he said. “If you need to
go out, you can use my mare.”
Alexandra bristled inwardly, but outwardly, she
smiled. “I have no plans to go out today. Father, this is
Lady Witte, and this is my father, Baron Edgemont.”
They exchanged pleasantries, and he went out to
tack up Clarewood’s horse. As he did, Corey and
Olivia came inside with a dozen stunning dresses
—Lady Witte’s wardrobe had cost a small fortune.
Alexandra saw some intimates in the piles of clothing:
frilly, lace drawers and beribboned corsets, beautifully
sewn and hand decorated, a few of the items black. No
one had ever brought her their most intimate
undergarments before. Corey’s eyes were popping,
and her cheeks were red. Alexandra knew her sister
had examined each undergarment.
“You need not rush,” Lady Witte said, as if oddly
satisfied. “I prefer you to take your time and be as
fastidious as you like.”
“I am a perfectionist,” Alexandra told her, as Lady
Witte reached for her coat. “And I am proud of my
handiwork.”
Lady Witte looked at her with open pity. “Of course
you are, Miss Bolton.”
Alexandra helped her on with her coat and opened
the door for her, now noticing the expensive lacquered
coach in front of the house, a two-in-hand, the pair in
the traces matching bay Hackney horses. As she
walked the other woman out, Edgemont led Ebony
from the stables, a few dozen paces from the house.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
Lady Witte halted in her tracks and looked at
Alexandra, unsmiling, her eyes growing even colder.
Then she strode forward.
Confused, Alexandra followed. “Is something
wrong?”
“Where did you get that gelding?” Lady Witte
demanded.
Edgemont had heard and he halted. “What?”
“Lady Harrington was kind enough to loan us the
horse when our mare went lame,” Alexandra said
carefully.
“Really?” Lady Witte sent her a scathing look. “That
is one of Clarewood’s finest, or I miss my guess.”
Alexandra stiffened.
“You are mistaken,” Edgemont said, looking back
and forth between them. “The horse came from
Harrington Hall. My dearly beloved and deceased wife
was a good friend of the lady Blanche. My daughter
doesn’t even know Clarewood.”
Alexandra could not believe what was happening.
Dismay mingled with the disbelief.
“Really? He rescued her at the ball, did he not? And
then you were escorted home in his coach.” In obvious
disgust, she strode back to her coach. Her driver
opened her door for her and she got in. He closed it
after her, but she leaned out of the open window. “I
have changed my mind,” she said, her cheeks flushed.
“I should like everything the day after tomorrow.”
Alexandra rushed over to the coach. “That is
impossible, Lady Witte.”
“I am sure you will manage,” the other woman said,
slamming the window closed.
Alexandra stepped back as the driver got into his
seat, releasing the vehicle’s brake and lifting the reins.
“Alexandra?” Edgemont asked, as the carriage
began to move off.
She forced a smile, exhaling before facing him.
“Father, Lady Harrington gave us the horse. I can’t
imagine what is wrong with that woman.”
He stared, impossibly sharp now—as if suspicious.
Then he softened. “You would never lie. You don’t know
how. I’ll be back for supper.” He swung into the saddle.
When he trotted off, her sisters came to stand
beside her. “What was that about?” Olivia asked in
concern.
“How would Lady Witte recognize Ebony?” Corey
asked in a low tone.
Alexandra felt oddly ill, and her heart was
thundering. She tried to recall exactly how Clarewood
had spoken to Lady Witte, and now she was certain
the woman had been flirting with him, while he had
been characteristically impassive and polite. In fact, if
memory served, his gaze had strayed to her, as if he
were not all that interested in Lady Witte.
Not that any of it meant much—except that Lady
Witte knew enough about the duke to have recognized
one of his horses instantly. Alexandra did not want to
jump to conclusions, though it was hard not to. Lady
Witte was a beautiful woman, and she was both
impossibly elegant and probably not even twenty-five.
Did she really want her gowns cleaned and
mended? Or had she come for more personal
reasons?
“She hates Alexandra,” Corey said, ashen. “But what
I do not understand is why.”
“I think she is a widow,” Olivia said. “And I think she
is jealous of Clarewood’s interest in Alexandra.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY Alexandra arrived at
Clarewood fifteen minutes early. Guillermo showed her
into the blue-and-gold salon where she’d become
reacquainted with Elysse de Warenne and met Lady
St. Xavier. “Luncheon is at one,” he told her,
unblinkingly. “His Grace is in a meeting, but he will be
through shortly.”
“Thank you,” Alexandra managed, hoping he hadn’t
noticed that she was trembling. Her nerves were out of
control.
It was almost impossible to believe that she was
embarking on an affair with the Duke of Clarewood.
Alexandra paced. She was breathless. Well, of course
she was. In a few hours she might be upstairs—in his
bed.
She wasn’t ashamed now, or mortified. She wasn’t
anything except anxious. He would be a good lover,
she was certain. She knew he could be kind; he’d
been kind to her the moment they’d met—and more
than once since.
She needed him to be kind now.
Even if he didn’t truly care for her—and how could
he? They barely knew one another—she needed him
to pretend affection. He was very experienced; he’d
been rumored to be attached to various beautiful
women over the years. Alexandra was certain that he
would put her at ease. In spite of his illicit affairs, he
was obviously a gentleman.
Guillermo had left the doors open. She heard
voices, one of which was his. Her heart jumped. She
turned, and her eyes widened when she saw him
pause before the threshold with Randolph. His gaze
was direct, his smile suggestive. His eyes were
unusually bright. Then he turned to the younger man.
“Please make sure I have the answers I am expecting,
preferably by tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Randolph turned and smiled at
Alexandra. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton. I hope you
are enjoying Ebony.”
She was too aghast to smile. “I am.”
He nodded and sauntered off.
As Clarewood strolled into the room, carrying a
stack of papers, she said, “We agreed on discretion.”
He was amused. “Randolph is discreet.”
“Having him see me here is not discretion!”
Unthinkingly, she started for the door.
He barred her way and caught her shoulders. “You
are beautiful today.”
She froze, looking up into his smoldering eyes. “I
have been anticipating our rendezvous. I hope you
have, too,” he murmured.
She found herself staring at his mouth and slowly
forced herself to look back into his eyes. “I suppose I
have, though…I am somewhat nervous, Your Grace.”
His smile deepened, revealing a dimple. “You have
no reason to be nervous,” he said. He slid his thumb
along the high curve of her cheek. Alexandra
shuddered. Sensation raced through her entire body,
right into her loins.
“I pray you are right about Randolph,” she
whispered. “And what about Guillermo?”
He was amused. “If Guillermo wished to betray me,
he could have done so a thousand times.”
What did that mean? she wondered, thinking of
Lady Witte.
He released her, sliding one hand down her arm in a
casual caress as he did so. Her insides tightened
anew. “He would never betray me.”
“Do you know Lady Witte?” she heard herself ask.
“Frankly, I know her very well.” He seemed mildly
surprised by her question.
Alexandra stiffened. They were lovers. “She is a
new customer.”
He started, becoming annoyed. “You do not need
customers, Alexandra. You need to heed me, and
carefully. Now that we have agreed to this
arrangement, I will take proper care of you.”
She gaped. “What does that mean?”
“It means you need a wardrobe and some spending
money, at the least.” His stare intensified. “I said I was
a generous benefactor.”
She flushed, shaken. Was he kind and considerate?
It seemed so. Maybe she had misjudged him on every
score. On the other hand, there was his relationship
with Lady Witte.
“I sense that there is more. Please, finish,” he said
softly.
She found her courage. “Is she your lover…even
now?”
“She was my lover,” he said, his expression
impossible to read. “But it is over.”
She was relieved. And now she understood why
Lady Witte had pried—she must have sensed the
attraction they shared at the Harrington ball. And as
she knew Clarewood, she must have guessed he
would make advances. Ebony’s presence had
confirmed it. No wonder she had been so imperious
and so mean.
But it was over, he had said so. She tried to hide a
small smile. He knew—of course he did—because he
added softly, “You are the woman I want sharing my
bed, Alexandra. And if you do not yet believe that, you
soon will.”
She breathed in. His gaze was warm. She knew
where they would end up the moment their luncheon
was over.
“I do believe you,” she whispered, aware that his
face was inches from hers.
That was when she realized how silent the room
was, and that she could hear his breathing and her own
thundering heart. He straightened to his full height,
holding out his hand; she slowly reached out to grasp
his palm. His touch burned. There was that incredible
jolt again, one defying all logic, all propriety. Her knees
felt impossibly weak; he reached out and caught her by
her elbows, steadying her.
“Why are you so nervous?” he murmured, slowly
reeling her in. “You remind me of a schoolgirl being
seduced by an older, worldly roué.”
It was so hard to think now, when she was almost
wrapped in his arms. And then he pulled her closer,
crushing her breasts with his chest. As Alexandra slid
her hands to his shoulders, the sensation of being held
by him, of holding him, was dizzying. “Oh, dear,” she
said. So much fire was gathering beneath her skirts.
Befuddled, she had to wonder if Owen had ever
caused such an instantaneous explosion of desire.
“I wish to be a gentleman, the perfect lover, really,”
he murmured, bending over her, “but I am as impatient
as a schoolboy, too.” He rubbed his jaw against hers. “I
have been thinking about you,” he added in the same
throaty tone, and now his mouth moved against her
cheek.
She couldn’t breathe adequately now. She clung,
allowing her hands to roam down his hard, muscular
back. “Your Grace,” she whispered roughly, and to her
horror, she heard herself sigh.
“Stephen,” he whispered, and he rubbed his full lips
against hers.
She went still, closing her eyes. The sensation was
exquisite, but so teasing. And as he started to kiss her,
remaining unrushed, she felt a massive hardness
move against her hip. She flinched, but only in surprise.
An acute throbbing began in response to that
masculine urgency, while she opened instinctively for
him. His mouth hardened on hers, and then he kissed
her.
She held on hard, letting him drag on her mouth,
plunging deep, desperate for so much more. She cried
out as he moved her backward, his tongue searching
deep, and somehow she found herself lying on the sofa
on her back. He came down fully on top of her.
She had one thought as she kissed him now, wildly
and frantically—she had to love him. There was no
other explanation for the urgency, the desperation, the
passion or the oddly joyous bubble in her chest.
Alexandra tore at his mouth. She shuddered in desire,
longing to gasp in pleasure, too.
He suddenly caught her face in his hands and
looked down at her. She blinked up at him, shuddering
with an imminent wave of arousal. He said roughly, “I
have never wanted anyone more. I wanted you from the
first moment I held you in my arms.”
She breathed, “I want you, too. Desperately.”
His smile appeared—it was satisfied. “Shall we go
upstairs?”
She was afraid to delay, afraid the magical passion
might vanish. “No.”
He chuckled, reaching for the buttons on the back of
her dress. Alexandra sat up, turning her back to him,
and was shocked when she felt his mouth and tongue
on the bare skin of her nape. He nibbled her flesh,
causing so much delicious sensation that she had to
close her eyes, barely able to refrain from moaning,
while he tugged open a button and moved his mouth
lower. She shivered with pleasure, finally giving in,
moaning. He reached her chemise—it was the only
undergarment she wore, other than her drawers—and
swiftly undid the rest of her dress and helped her out of
it.
She faced him, standing, feeling more naked than
not. His gaze was on her breasts as he discarded his
jacket and waistcoat, tossing both indifferently onto a
nearby chair. Her chemise was tired and old—and
nothing like the beautiful garments Lady Witte had
worn—but his eyes were blazing. He bent forward and
nuzzled a taut nipple, clasping her waist and anchoring
her in place.
Alexandra gasped in pleasure, seizing his head,
wanting so much more.
He ripped off the chemise—she heard the cotton
tearing—and sucked her nipple into his mouth. The
pleasure was excruciating, and she did not think she
could stand it—and then he slid his hands between her
legs, against the shockingly wet flesh exposed by her
slit drawers.
“Yes,” he murmured, triumphant.
She clenched against him, holding on to him for her
life. He rubbed her, and the explosion was
instantaneous—she began weeping, the physical
ecstasy too much to bear. The waves of rapture carried
her away, but she was vaguely aware of his laying her
down, of his heavy breathing, of his coming down on
top of her. And then she felt his rock-hard phallus
pulsing against her convulsing flesh.
But he didn’t move, merely kissing her neck, as the
climax lessened. Alexandra started to drift back to
coherence, clinging to his shoulders. So this was what
desire was all about, she thought, feeling as if she
were floating. It was about love. And rapture…
He caught her face as she opened her eyes to see
that his were ablaze. “Darling,” he said, then kissed her
hard.
Reality began to intrude. She’d just experienced
rapture as never before, and he was as naked now as
she was—and poised between her legs. Instantly, the
sensitive flesh between her thighs began to swell as
that terrible urgency began to build all over again.
She kissed him back, seeking his tongue, while
exploring every inch of his muscular back and his hard
hips. She writhed against his hardness, trying to pull
him closer, totally mindless now.
He laughed roughly, breaking the kiss, moving lower,
kissing her breasts. She gasped again, this time in
protest, but he only continued to laugh, pausing only to
lave each nipple in turn, reestablishing the acute
restless need. She began to whimper, tossing,
clenching his muscular shoulders, barely able to stand
the lack of union. He murmured, “Patience, darling,”
and kissed his way down her belly. Suddenly realizing
what he intended, she went still, shocked.
He was halfway between her navel and her pubis
when he looked up, eyes agleam, his muscular arms
bulging. “No one has ever tasted you this way?”
“No,” she gasped, shuddering.
He smiled, then slid his tongue up against the heavy
folds at the juncture of her thighs. Alexandra shuddered
uncontrollably, falling back on the cushions, as his
tongue moved slickly over her. She cried out. A
moment later he had slid up her body and was
pressing his length hard against her, his face set with
strain.
Their gazes locked. “Hurry,” she demanded, clawing
him. “Hurry!”
He smiled tightly and drove into her wet, throbbing
flesh.
Alexandra was shocked by the pressure and the
pleasure of feeling him within her—and then she felt
him strike against her maidenhead. His gaze flew to
hers, wide with shock. She was shocked, too—and
beginning to whirl back into another wild explosion of
rapture. “Please.”
His face hard and tight, he drove past the barrier,
and Alexandra held on to him, weeping in ecstasy now,
as he pounded swiftly, rhythmically, deep.
WHEN ALEXANDRA AWOKE , she lay alone on the
sofa, covered by a gold throw. She gasped, briefly
confused, for she was stark naked and the salon was
pitch-dark. In fact, the sky outside was dark and blueblack.
Reality came flooding back. She had just spent the
afternoon making love to the Duke of Clarewood. She
inhaled, clutching the throw. Obviously she had fallen
asleep, still naked on his couch. As she began to
blush, praying no one would walk into the salon, she
realized she needed to get home immediately. But she
did not move, other than to cover herself more
thoroughly with the throw.
Her heart burst into a wild riot of emotions she could
barely identify.
They’d made love twice, without pause. He was a
magnificent lover. She hadn’t realized that so much
ardor could exist between two people. She hadn’t
realized she herself could be so passionate, so
uninhibited. They were lovers now. She was the Duke
of Clarewood’s mistress.
She began to tremble, biting her lip, amazed.
Happiness was growing inside her chest, like a
balloon. Being with him felt so perfect, so right.
Her heart thundered, and she recalled the way he
had looked at her, with so much warmth, as if he cared.
But at other times he had looked into her eyes as if
trying to look into her soul. She did not quite know what
that searching gaze could mean, and she hugged
herself. Did she dare think about him as anything other
than her lover and benefactor? Did she dare think of
him as a man?
She was helpless to restrain herself. He was such a
paragon, handsome and wealthy and titled. He was
generous. He was renowned for the charities he
supported—had even founded. He was intelligent,
dedicated. And he was a gentleman….
She wasn’t ashamed of what had just happened, not
at all. She was thrilled.
They were lovers now.
She would not die a virgin, and she had avoided
suffering Squire Denney’s touch. But there was so
much more, and she trembled at the thought. They
hadn’t dined. There had been so little conversation.
Next time, perhaps they would share their thoughts and
feelings over some wine. Next time…She smiled,
dreaming about it.
In her mind’s eye she saw herself at his table
—which was beautifully set, of course—wearing a
stunning and expensive gown, which he had purchased
for her. He sat beside her, smiling, reaching for her
hand, and there was candlelight….
Smiling widely, she reached over to a small lamp
sitting on the end table. She sought to turn the gas on
and glanced around for her clothes.
Was she falling in love with him?
She trembled all over again, her pulse pounding.
While in his arms earlier, while they were joined, it had
certainly felt so much like love.
Could she have responded so passionately to him if
it hadn’t been love?
She blushed. She was a sensible woman. She did
not believe in love at first sight, yet it seemed to her
that she had fallen in love with the Duke of Clarewood
the very moment she had first laid eyes upon him.
Did it matter? For they were on a new path now….
She bit her lip, hoping to contain what felt so oddly
like happiness, and saw her clothing spread across
the gleaming wood floors. Her chemise was ripped
almost entirely in two. She blushed, hugging the throw
to her breasts.
He had been impatient, even as he’d counseled
patience. Simply recalling the intimacy they’d shared
made her body tighten, heat, as a distinct and
pleasurable aching began to grow.
Alexandra got up and slowly dressed, thinking about
every moment they had shared. Her body tingled
deliciously, while her heart kept dancing, no matter how
she tried to warn it to behave, reminding herself to
proceed with care. It was as if he was that force of
nature she’d spoken of, one she could not resist. She
smiled. Hadn’t she said only a hurricane could stop her
from marrying the squire? Well, she had found her
hurricane, had she not? Now she anticipated walking
from the room so she might speak with him for a
moment before she had to go home.
Her heart raced harder, as if she could not wait to
see him again.
She was fighting the buttons on the back of her
dress when a light knock sounded on the door. She
froze, alarmed, then called, “Do not come in!”
A woman said, “His Grace asked me to check on
you, madam, to see if you need any help.”
He’d sent her a maid. More pleasure unfurled.
Alexandra called for the maid to enter, and a young
woman in a dark uniform came inside, closing the door
behind her. “Here, let me help you with that,” she said.
Alexandra smiled gratefully at her, aware of what the
other woman must be thinking. There was no possible
excuse to make for being half-dressed in the duke’s
salon, with her hair completely down. “Thank you. What
is your name?” she asked, as the maid swiftly buttoned
her dress.
“It is Bettie,” the girl said. “May I help you with your
hair?”
“That would be wonderful, but we must try to find my
hairpins.” She flushed as she started looking about the
floor and sofa for the missing pins. When she only
found three, Bettie told her that she would go and find
some more for her. When the maid had left and
Alexandra sat down to wait, the duke returned forcefully
to her mind. His handsome image curled her toes. She
wondered what he was doing, and she got up and went
to the door, which Bettie had left ajar. She opened it a
bit wider and peeked out into the hall.
Directly across from her, the library doors were
wide-open. Clarewood was standing inside the
darkened room, staring at a blazing fire, his back to
her.But before she could move, he must have felt her
presence, because he turned. The lights were not on in
the library, just the fire, and she could not make out his
expression. But clearly he was staring.
She hesitated—she knew her hair must be a mess,
and she must look like a harlot—but then she slipped
into the hall and quickly approached him, smiling
hesitantly. When he did not speak, when he continued
to stare, she became uncomfortable and confused
—this was not the reception she had expected. She
faltered on the library’s threshold. “Your Grace? It is
late, and I must go.” She bit her lip, wishing she could
say so much more, yet at the same time uncertain of
what she might say if she could speak freely. She
wanted to acknowledge what had just happened, what
they had shared.
“Come in, Alexandra,” he said tightly.
She flinched; his tone was so hard. She cautiously
walked inside, and when she could make out his
features, she saw that his eyes blazed and his face
was a hard mask of controlled anger. “What is wrong?”
she gasped, stunned.
“What is wrong?” he choked. Then he inhaled, and
she realized he was so angry that he was trembling
with his rage.
She took a step back, utterly confused. “What has
happened? Have I done something?”
He crossed the few paces between them and
towered over her, the effect distinctly frightening.
Alexandra tensed, as if for a blow. “I do not like being
deceived.”
He was enraged, but he hadn’t raised his voice. She
wanted to back away, but she held her ground. “I do not
know what you are talking about.” But a terrible inkling
began.
“You were a virgin, Miss Bolton,” he ground out.
She recoiled, too deeply in shock to think clearly. He
had retreated into formality just when she expected
intimacy, and it hurt.
He walked past her and slammed both doors closed
with so much strength that the floor shuddered. She
had turned to keep him in her sight, still shocked by his
anger, and very frightened now. He had assumed the
worst of her, and, admittedly, she had deliberately
misled him. But she had never expected such anger.
“Is that why you are so angry? Because I did not have
the experience you assumed I had?” she managed.
“I am well beyond anger,” he said flatly. “You lied to
me.”
His words were worse than any physical blow. “I
didn’t think it important,” she tried, suddenly aghast
and near tears. But in truth, hadn’t she sensed just how
important it might be, why else had she let him believe
the lie?
“You didn’t think it important?” He was incredulous.
“I think there has been a terrible misunderstanding,”
she whispered, trembling.
He made a harsh sound, mirthless, and clapped his
hands slowly together. “A laudable performance, Miss
Bolton.”
She jerked. “I do not know what you mean,
Stephen!” But the moment she used his given name,
as he’d instructed her to do during the height of
passion, though she had been unable to do so at the
time, she was sure it had been a mistake.
It was. “It is ‘Your Grace,’” he said dangerously.
She backed up, still in shock, but now it was
combined with absolute disbelief. “Why are you doing
this?”
“Why?” He stalked her as she retreated, not allowing
her to keep her distance. “I should have known that this
was a game. You are very clever player, Miss Bolton.”
She stared, too appalled by his assumption to say
anything.
“After all, no woman has ever rejected my advances
as you have, or played hard to get, but then, you sought
to whet my desire, did you not? And giving back the
bracelet…I must commend you for that ploy! I know of
no woman in your circumstance who would refuse such
jewels.”
Alexandra was so disbelieving and so horrified that
she sank into the nearest chair. But he had followed
her, and he towered over her still. “There has been no
ploy!” she insisted. “I could not accept such a gift.”
“I beg to differ with you. There have been nothing but
ploys, my clever one, and you have led me a merry
chase.” He paused, breathing hard. “This was a trap,
Miss Bolton, admit it.”
She cringed. “No,” she whispered. “I do not
understand what you are talking about.”
“I am not marrying you.”
She stared up at him, shocked all over again. Her
befuddled mind finally managed to come to the
conclusion he had jumped to earlier. “You think I meant
to trap you into marriage?” she gasped.
“I know you meant to trap me into marriage.”
She clasped the chairs arms, so sick that she felt
faint and dizzy. But of course he would think that a ploy,
too.
“But I must applaud your scheme. Many women
have pursued me in the hope of becoming my
duchess. You are the first to give me her virginity.”
She choked, fighting down the bile, fighting the need
to retch. Her heart was screaming at her now. He had
pursued her ruthlessly, in spite of her sensibilities and
morals, yet now he was accusing her of pursuing
him—and of plotting to trap him into marriage. She felt
so faint now. How could this be happening?
When at last she looked up, he was shoving a piece
of paper at her. “Take it and get out.”
It took her moment to realize that he was holding a
bank check. Without thinking, she looked down again
and started to shake her head.
“Take it,” he gritted, flinging it at her. “Use it for a
dowry.” Then, “My coachman will drive you home.”
He’d flung the check at her bosom, and it had fallen
onto her lap. Alexandra didn’t move, she couldn’t, not
even to look up into his hate-filled eyes, but his fury
was so intense that she felt it anyway.
She was afraid to move, or even breathe, because if
she did, she would retch or faint or start weeping. And
then she heard him striding rapidly from the room. She
heard the doors hit the walls as he flung them open.
She did not move a single muscle, not even her
eyelashes, waiting until she could not hear his
footsteps anymore. And then she glanced at the check
on her lap.
He’d made it out for five thousand pounds.
She gagged, falling to her knees on the floor, her
heart wrenching. She fought the rising sobs, fought the
spinning floor. Somehow she found the check and, still
on her knees, tore it into shreds.

CHAPTER TEN
THE DRIVE BACK to Edgemont Way was endless.
Alexandra refused to cry, and fought the rising bile and
the need to retch. She remained in shock. Every
moment of the afternoon and evening kept replaying
her mind: she would recall Clarewood moving over her,
smiling warmly at her, and then she would recall him
flinging the check at her and telling her to use it for a
dowry. It hurt so much.
But when the coachman twisted to look at her and
said, “Miss? We will be at Edgemont Way in a few
more moments,” she somehow snapped out of her
painful reverie, forced into a harsh new reality in which
she had no doubt destroyed not only her own
prospects—such as they had been—but her sisters’ as
well, and she stiffened.
No one must ever discover what had happened that
day. She was in her own carriage, with Ebony in the
traces, and the coachman had a mount tied to the back
fender. She could not be seen being driven home;
coming home alone at this hour was bad enough. But
Edgemont would be out, as he always was, so at least
she would only have to lie to her sisters. She closed
her eyes, despairing. Of course lying would be a
consequence of her terrible behavior.
What had she been thinking?
She had been thinking that he was a prince, her
prince….
A stabbing pain went through her chest.
A few minutes later the coachman was on his way
back to Clarewood and she was driving her carriage
up the small, rutted driveway of her home, then halting
before it. The lights were on in the parlor, and she knew
her sisters were seated there, worried and waiting for
her. It must, she decided, be close to ten o’clock.
As she got down and prepared to lead Ebony to the
stable, the front door opened and her sisters came
running outside, wrapped in shawls.
“Where have you been?” Corey demanded, her
eyes huge. “We have been worried sick about you!”
“You should have sent a note,” Olivia admonished.
Then, “Father is home, but he is in the library with two
friends, and they are foxed.”
Alexandra stiffened. They had to get Ebony put
away immediately, and then maybe she could sneak
inside and he would not know she had come home so
late. “Can you help me unhitch and feed the horse?”
“Of course,” Olivia said, staring. But it was dark
outside, and Alexandra knew her sister had no idea of
the distress she was in.
Corey led the gelding to the stables, Alexandra and
Olivia following. Alexandra was grateful her sisters
weren’t pestering her with questions, but she knew
their silence would be short-lived.
In the interior of the small, four-box barn, Corey lit a
kerosene lantern. Alexandra had already walked to the
horse’s far side, so neither one of her sisters could see
her face, and was unhitching the traces, ordering
herself to find composure and, if possible, a disguise
for her feelings.
As she led Ebony into his stall, Olivia said, “Well?”
Alexandra meant to smile, but she failed entirely.
And now, in the flickering light of the lantern, Olivia
saw her and she cried out, “What did he do to you?”
Alexandra hugged herself, perilously close to tears,
knowing that if she broke down, her sisters would
comfort her. But they must never know what had
happened. “You were right. His intentions were
dishonorable, and I realized I could not lower myself to
his immoral level.” She closed her eyes, thinking about
just how immoral she had in fact been.
Olivia rushed over and hugged her. “Something
happened. I can tell.”
There was no possible excuse to make. Alexandra
pulled away. “I am exhausted. I am going to sleep.” She
started from the barn.
Olivia followed. “You cannot return looking as you do
—utterly distraught and disheveled—and then simply
walk away from us!”
Alexandra hurried across the yard, and the moment
she grabbed the knob on the front door, she heard
boisterous male laughter. She paused, bolstering her
resolve, and then walked inside.
Her father was standing in the front hall, putting on
his coat, with two elderly friends. He beamed when he
saw her. “So you have come back!”
She still couldn’t form a smile. “I don’t know what you
mean, Father. Hello.” She nodded politely to the two
gentlemen, whom she did not know.
“You missed supper. I saw the carriage come in a
moment ago.” He squinted, suddenly puzzled. “Where
have you been until such an hour?”
“I took a very late tea with Lady Harrington.” God, it
was unbelievable how one act could lead to one lie,
which then led to so many others. “I am sorry I missed
supper, but Lady Blanche sets a wonderful plate at tea
time. Excuse me.” Aware of her sisters staring at her
and not believing a single word that she had said,
Alexandra rushed upstairs, into her bedroom.
She shut and locked the door, then slumped against
it. And when she opened her eyes, she found herself
staring at his red roses.
They were dying now. It was so unbelievably
appropriate.
“I hate you,” she said. “I do.”
She hugged herself, because hating wasn’t in her
nature. But his image loomed, at once handsome and
kind, his eyes warm, and then so hateful and mocking.
He was not a prince, he wasn’t even a gentleman, and
he was nothing like Owen.
Owen was a prince and a gentleman. He had loved
her, he had wanted to marry her, and he would never
have condemned her as Clarewood had done.
Too late, she realized it was Owen she missed and
loved, not the damned duke.
IF POSSIBLE, the following day was even worse. And
she should have known, for the sky had clearly been an
omen—black with an approaching storm. It was bitterly
cold out, the wind gusting, making their outdoor chores
terribly unpleasant. And her sisters were giving her the
cold shoulder now, which was even worse than being
pestered with questions she didn’t dare answer.
Clearly they were angry with her, just when she needed
their love and support. And then the squire called.
It would be rude to send him away, and Edgemont
was home anyway, inviting him to come in, while
insisting that Alexandra join them. Denney was kind
and charming, and clearly as good as his word—he
intended to court her properly now. But nothing had
changed for her, and the last thing she would ever do
was go from the duke’s bed to the altar with another
man. She spent a miserable hour, trying to converse
politely, while still failing to summon a single smile.
Impossibly, her heart felt broken. And that was absurd,
because she neither knew nor loved Clarewood. She
had made the mistake of confusing Owen and
Clarewood, that was all.
Finally the squire stood up, indicating that he was
ready to leave, though she noticed he had begun to
look at her with concern. Edgemont pumped his hand.
“Good of you to come by,” he said. “Excuse me.” And
very obviously, he vanished into the library, leaving the
two of them alone.
Instantly Alexandra was dismayed. To cover it, she
took the squire’s heavy mantle from the coatrack.
“Thank you for calling,” she said politely, careful not to
inject any warmth into her words.
He did not take the mantle; he took her hands
instead. Instantly she stiffened. “Sir,” she objected.
He released them. “You seem upset, Miss Bolton. I
pray I am not the cause.”
She wet her lips. “Of course you are not the cause,
and I am not upset, just fatigued. I have taken on extra
sewing,” she said quickly.
He was clearly dismayed. “I do not like your working
yourself to the bone! What if you became seriously ill?”
He was such a caring man, she thought, but her
feelings hadn’t changed. “I am hardly that fragile.”
“My dear, can I help you and your sisters somehow?”
he asked gently.
She was ready to cry over his kindness, but it was
Clarewood’s image she saw in her mind. And, albeit
too late, she knew there was nothing kind about him;
he was cold, calculating and selfish, as ruthless and
heartless as the gossips claimed. “We are fine. But
thank you,” she added, and this time, she meant it. “You
are truly a good man,” she said impulsively, still
focused on Clarewood.
His eyes brightened. “Does this mean my suit has a
chance?”
She tensed, dismayed. She did not know what to
say. But he deserved honesty, not lies. “I meant what I
told you the other day, sir. You deserve a woman who
loves you.”
“And I remain convinced that one day, you will return
my feelings,” he whispered.
They were at an impasse. Alexandra was about to
lead him to the door when she heard a horse galloping
up the drive. She ran to the door and saw Randolph
leaping down from his chestnut gelding. She inhaled.
What did this mean?
Had Clarewood had a change of heart?
Her mind leaped and raced—could Clarewood have
sent her an apology? It was the least she deserved.
“That’s young Randolph de Warenne. He was here
last week, I recall. Does he call frequently?” Denney
asked, scowling.
She trembled as Randolph strode up the walk, his
cheeks red from the blistering cold. “No, he does not.”
The squire made no move to leave, and suddenly
Alexandra realized the implications of his remaining
with her, and she tensed in some alarm. “He must be
interested in one of my sisters,” she said quickly.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he is interested in the fairest,
and most intriguing, of you all.”
Before Alexandra could declare that Randolph was
not courting her, he was standing on the stoop before
them, nodding at the squire but looking directly at her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bolton.”
She began to fidget. Denney had to leave before the
truth crept out. But the squire seemed intent on staying,
and he said, “It’s a terribly long ride from Harrington
Hall.”
Randolph looked down rather imperiously at him. “I
am clerking for His Grace, the Duke of Clarewood, and
it is less than two hours from here.” Then he turned to
Alexandra, clearly dismissing the squire. “I would like a
private word, Miss Bolton, if you do not mind.”
“The squire was just about to leave.” Alexandra
found a smile for the first time since leaving Clarewood
last night. Denney seemed ready to object, looking
back and forth between them, clearly mistrustful of
Randolph. But he finally bowed and walked away to his
carriage, promising to return tomorrow.
She managed another smile and then ushered
Randolph inside, not daring to hope. But her heart was
racing perilously anyway.
He handed her a sealed envelope, which he took
from inside his jacket.
“What is that?” she asked. Her heart hammered. If
he was asking for forgiveness, she must not give it. But
she would so dearly love an explanation for his having
drawn such a terrible conclusion about her.
“I don’t know everything that’s inside. But I have
been given a message—if you do not deposit the
check, he will make the deposit for you.”
She was so shocked that her knees buckled.
Randolph steadied her as dismay began. She tore
open the envelope—and saw his check inside, this
time made out for the two thousand pounds on which
they had agreed. There was no note.
She began to breathe heavily, harshly, with difficulty.
“Are you all right?”
She slowly looked up, trying to keep her outrage
from showing. “I am fine,” she lied. She knew she
would never be fine again.
HE WAS RUTHLESSLY determined to finalize his
architectural drawings. Nothing would stop him—no
one would stop him. In fact, he had stayed up the entire
night, redrawing them three times.
“You look like a wastrel,” Alexi de Warenne said.
Stephen looked up, startled, as Guillermo said,
frowning, “Captain de Warenne has called, sir, and, as
usual, refused to await your convenience.”
Alexi sauntered into the study, smiling, but his blue
gaze was sharp. “What is wrong with you?” he asked
bluntly.
“Can you bring coffee, Guillermo?” Stephen asked,
ignoring the question as he stood up. He realized he
had yet to change his clothes from the day before, and
he was so wrinkled, there was no point in unrolling his
shirtsleeves.
He could not get that lying bitch out of his mind.
And what was even worse than recalling her tears
—which had been pure theatrics—was that every time
he looked up from his desk, he saw old Tom standing
there, mocking him for his feelings of rage and
betrayal.
As Guillermo vanished to do his bidding, Alexi
walked past him and looked at the drawings on the
desk. Then he turned. “Well? Have you been
carousing?”
She had lied, she was exceptionally clever, but he
had been played, and that made him the ultimate fool.
Tom said, as clear as day, “You are Clarewood. She
is nothing. She means nothing. Your duty means
everything.”
His inner tension seemed unbearable now. And had
the old man been alive, had he really spoken, he would
have been right. Stephen would never marry her, not
ever, because he never gave his enemies the
satisfaction of defeating him. “I was working on those
plans last night.”
“How boring,” Alexi drawled. “Why do you look like
hell warmed over?”
Stephen folded his arms and stared. “I have been
played, Alexi.”
Alexi raised his eyebrows. An amused smile began.
“Uh-oh. I can’t wait to hear the gory details.”
“It is not amusing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
And as her image filled his mind—not when she was
in the throes of passion, but when she was about to cry,
as if he’d devastated her—Stephen cursed and
decided it was not too early for a stiff drink. He knew
he hadn’t hurt her. Players as consummate as
Alexandra Bolton were heartless.
Mostly he was in disbelief. He had wanted her as he
had never before wanted a woman; his passion had
been out of control—passion he had never dreamed
possible. And that made him even more furious.
He poured a brandy and took a sip. There was a
slight tremor to his hand. “I began an affair with
Alexandra Bolton,” he said. “And she has turned out to
be a scheming witch.”
Alexi’s brows lifted. “Really? And she is scheming
for what, exactly?”
Alexi was amused, Stephen thought angrily as he
turned. “She was a damned virgin, Alexi—and she did
not say a word!”
Alexi choked, surprised.
Stephen remained in disbelief. He’d asked her
—somewhat off-handedly, he admitted—and she had
lied. She had gone on and on about the passion she
had felt for a previous lover—except he hadn’t been a
lover! And that was when he felt Alexi clasp his
shoulder. He turned.
Alexi’s eyes were wide and utterly innocent. “I
suppose that was your first time, too?” He was trying
not to laugh.
Stephen shoved him off. “Laugh all you wish. I have
never pursued an innocent, as you well know. I would
have stayed far away from her, had I known.”
“Really? And now what?” Alexi’s stare remained far
too wide and bland.
Before Stephen could answer, he heard the sound
of several pairs of ladies’ heels clicking in the corridor.
The footsteps were rapid—he instantly suspected the
identity of his visitors. He tensed. When Elysse and
Ariella appeared on the library threshold, he knew he
would never hear the end of his affair with Alexandra
Bolton if Alexi let the metaphorical cat out of the bag.
He gave his cousin a dark, warning look. “Your head
will roll,” he said softly.
Alexi laughed at him and strolled over to his wife,
who instantly nestled against him. “If you have found the
dowager duchess her match, why am I the last to
know?” he asked her, then glanced at Stephen. “We
have no secrets.”
Stephen scowled at him. “I have a guillotine hidden
in my closet,” he snapped.
Alexi laughed again.
“We actually came to call for another reason,”
Elysse said, looking back and forth between the two
men. “Why did Stephen just threaten to take off your
head? What is wrong with him?”
“I have been working on housing plans all night, in
lieu of sleeping,” Stephen snapped.
Both women flinched. Ariella murmured, “Someone
is in a very foul mood—as never before, I think.” She
shared a glance with Elysse. “Maybe he has heard the
rumors.”
Stephen went still. Had she leaked the fact of her
deflowering—at his hands? Did she think to pursue a
marriage—to eventually force him into it—in spite of
what he had said? “What rumors?”
“Charlotte Witte is a woman scorned, and she is
doing her best to bring poor Alexandra Bolton down.
You do recall Miss Bolton, don’t you?” Elysse asked
innocently.
“Oh, he recalls her—very well,” Alexi murmured to
her.
Instantly, Stephen couldn’t help but recall the night he
had met Alexandra and the humiliation she had
endured—with her head held high. He refused to
admire her for anything now, yet he had admired her
then. He was disturbed, on many accounts. He had
never trusted Charlotte to be a woman of grace or
honor, but this…She had guessed that he had
jettisoned her for Alexandra, and he hadn’t considered
that she would seek her petty revenge. “What lies is
Lady Witte spreading?” Of course he did not care, he
thought.
“She is claiming that you are having an affair with
Miss Bolton, Stephen, and that she has been seen at
this house on several occasions.”
He breathed hard.
“Of course you would never pursue and ruin such an
honorable woman, now would you?” Ariella said,
staring rather coolly. “Because I have heard firsthand
from my aunt, Lady Blanche, that a very well-off squire
is about to ask for her hand. Miss Bolton has fallen on
very hard times since I married Emilian. She deserves
a better situation than an uncaring affair with you.”
He took another draught of brandy. His problems
would be solved if she married the squire. Except now
he was oddly dismayed and even more disturbed. He
could not understand why, but he didn’t like the image
of Alexandra in the burly squire’s arms. Not that it
mattered to him, of course. He heard himself say,
“Denney has yet to ask for her. No contracts have been
drawn. And I am hardly having an affair with Alexandra
Bolton. Even if I should, it is not your affair, Ariella.”
Both women gaped, but Alexi was even more
amused now. “And how would you know that he hasn’t
asked for her?” He grinned.
Stephen could not believe he had let so much slip.
And he hadn’t had a chance to tell Randolph to call off
his spies, although he’d meant to do so. He’d even
been informed of the state of affairs that morning,
which was why he knew that no proposal had been
made. He thought his cheeks felt warm, as if he were
flushing—but that was simply impossible. “The squire
is welcome to Miss Bolton. He will have his hands full
with her.” He almost added, and her games. “I wish
them well. I will be the first to send them my
congratulations and a wedding gift.”
Her face swam in his mind. Beautiful and proud, with
the kind of dignity so few women naturally achieved.
Except it was all a lie. She was a lie.
“Is he smitten?” he heard Elysse ask her husband.
“I am wondering that myself,” Alexi said, chuckling.
Were they mad? Stephen thought. “Why would you
even make such a preposterous statement?” he
demanded. “Because I admired her briefly?”
“Yes, and because there is so much to admire,”
Alexi drawled. “You are always immaculate, but today
you are red-eyed, unshaven and in general unkempt.
You seem to know Miss Bolton’s intimate affairs. And
you are very out of sorts, Stephen. Surely you can
admit that.”
“I will admit nothing,” he snapped, then turned to
both women. “How is the hunt for a husband for the
dowager duchess proceeding?”
Ariella hesitated. He knew she was debating the
possibility that he might be keenly interested in a
woman for the first time in his life. At last she smiled
slowly. “I like Miss Bolton. I always have.”
“Good for you.” He was brusque.
“We are compiling a list, but we are not yet ready to
show it to you,” Ariella said, her gaze searching his as
her smile widened. “She is so unlike all the women you
have been involved with. She seems deeply intelligent,
highly determined, and apparently she has done quite
a bit to keep her family afloat in daunting
circumstances.” She looked at Elysse. “We should
befriend her. It is time.”
“I should love to do so,” Elysse said quickly.
He was in disbelief. They would not dare to meddle
now! Besides, there was nothing to meddle in. “That is
hardly necessary.” But now he thought about the fact
that she had shredded his five-thousand-pound note.
Of course she had—she had a much higher pot in
mind. But he was uneasy. She had truly needed the
funds, even he knew that, but he had been so angry
that he had meant to insult her by handing her such a
staggering check. He’d meant to indicate that she was
a high-priced whore. He regretted that. So he had sent
her the amount they’d agreed upon.
“Why don’t you want us to call on her?” Ariella
asked.
He’d had enough. “Do as you wish! After all, you
both run wild. Your husbands allow you absolute
freedom of thought and action, and if they cannot stop
you, how can I?” Too late, he realized that his
uncharacteristic explosion of his temper had given far
too much away. As he strode for the doors, an utter
silence had fallen over the room. He growled, “It is lack
of sleep making me tense, nothing more.”
No one dared to dispute him.
But he knew they were talking about him as he left.
ALEXANDRA WAS in the kitchen, sewing one of
Charlotte Witte’s ivory silk chemises, when she heard
her father coming down the stairs. It was late afternoon,
and he had gone out earlier, but she hadn’t heard him
come in. He must have returned while she was in the
cellars, she thought, looking for violet thread, while
carefully stitching a torn piece of lace. She kept herself
carefully composed as she worked the needle. She
refused to think of who the chemise belonged to, or
how it might have been used—or abused.
Edgemont walked into the kitchen.
Alexandra did not look up until she realized he had
paused on the threshold and was staring at her in
silence. Surprised, she looked up, smiling, but when
she saw his severe, set face, she faltered. “What is
wrong?”
“I heard rumors last night,” he said harshly. “Very ugly
rumors.”
Alexandra laid down her sewing very deliberately.
Her heart thundered, deafening her. Had he heard
about her affair?
“I did not believe them. I refuse to believe you have
been sneaking off to rendezvous with the Duke of
Clarewood.”
She inhaled. “Those are terrible accusations.”
“I called on Lady Blanche today.” His gaze was
unwavering now, accusatory, but also bleak.
She could not breathe. Somehow, she stood up.
She was about to be discovered.
“She never gave you the horse. You weren’t there at
any time this week for tea. Who gave you the horse,
Alexandra?” He was shaking.
She trembled, too. “It is just a loan. Bonnie really is
lame.”
“Where did you get the horse?” he asked ominously.
“It is Clarewood’s, isn’t it? As Lady Witte claimed?
Clarewood gave you that horse!”
“It’s a loan,” she tried desperately. “Merely a loan.”
He was panting as he dug into his pocket and
produced a slip of paper. Alexandra went still as she
recognized the bank check. “And is this a loan, as
well?”
She blanched and bit her lip, shaking her head,
stunned. “You searched my room?”
“What did you do to receive this?” he screamed at
her.
“Nothing,” she lied, cringing. “It’s not…” She faltered.
“Father, please, stop!”
Her sisters came rushing into the kitchen, their faces
pale with shock. “What is going on?” Corey asked.
“Why is Father shouting at you?”
“Go,” Alexandra begged them, not taking her eyes
from her father. “Please go away.”
But they didn’t move, and Edgemont waved the
check at her. “What did you do to warrant his paying
you off?” he roared at her.
Alexandra couldn’t tell him, and while she knew she
must lie to save herself, she couldn’t do that, either.
Helplessly she sat down, tears sliding down her
cheeks.
“Did you spread your legs for that bastard?”
Edgemont shouted, shocked. His cheeks were red
now.
“Alexandra would never do such a thing.” Olivia tried
to defend her, but her gaze was wide and horrified.
Alexandra finally whispered, “I thought he was kind
…a prince.”
Edgemont gasped, clasping his head, backing
away. He started to cry.
Olivia paled with shock, as did Corey. Neither sister
moved.
“I thought he was our savior,” Alexandra said,
brokenly. “I was wrong.”
“Oh, my God,” Olivia breathed.
“You need to deposit it,” Alexandra somehow added,
now covering her face with her hands. She had never
been as humiliated or ashamed, as mortified. Her
sisters would never admire her again. And why should
they? She was a harlot, after all.
Corey turned and ran from the room. The front door
slammed as she left the house.
Alexandra dared to look up, sick with shame. Olivia
was still horrified. Her eyes simply said, Why? How
could you do such a thing? “I am so sorry,” Alexandra
whispered.
Her father turned and said raggedly, “Are you seeing
him still?”
She managed to shake her head.
“So he used you and then tossed you aside?”
Edgemont asked harshly.
Edgemont asked harshly.
Oh, God, this was turning worse and worse. “No, it
wasn’t like that…. It was a mistake—for both of us,”
she said, aware of how ridiculous it was that she was
defending him now.
Another silence fell. Olivia walked around the table
and sat down beside her, taking her hand. Alexandra
was grateful.
A long, painful moment passed. “You’ll marry
Denney now,” Edgemont said. He stared at her firmly.
“There could be a child. I’ll tell him you have accepted
his suit.”
She trembled. She had tried not to think about the
possibility of having conceived, but now she did not
dare refute her father.
He started to walk out, then turned. “You’ll be wed
within the month.”
THE WISEST COURSE of action had been an instant
retreat to her room. Alexandra shut the door, breathing
hard, refusing to cry. The dying red roses stared at her.
She had lost everything now. Her good name, her
dignity, her honor, her self-respect and the respect of
her family. There was nothing more to lose—except for
her freedom.
She hugged herself, thinking of the kind squire and
the horrid duke. She took the roses and forced them
into the small wastebasket by the bureau. Then she
heard her door open and glanced up as Olivia slipped
into her room.
“Are you all right?” her sister asked, closing the
door.
“No, I am not.” Alexandra pushed the roses down,
crushing them. The thorns cut her hands.
Olivia put her arm around her. “I understand.”
Alexandra pulled away. “Do you? Because I cannot
understand myself.”
“He is impossibly seductive—and, as always, you
thought nothing of sacrificing yourself for us.” Her gaze
was searching.
“He is very seductive,” Alexandra whispered, and
her heart suddenly hurt so fiercely, it was as if it was
broken. She felt another tear well. “I truly thought he
was kind.”
“He is despicable, to use you so callously,” Olivia
whispered. “I hate him.”
Alexandra stumbled away, the tears beginning to
fall. She had controlled herself thus far, but the task
seemed impossible now. His rejection hurt so terribly.
His accusations hurt even more. “I miss Owen, Olivia,”
she said.
Aghast, Olivia sat down with her and took her into
her arms. “Of course you do. He was your true love.”
She sat back and stared. “But I know you, Alexandra.
And I know you would not do what you did just for us.
Do you love him?”
“I don’t know…maybe. But how could I? He is cruel!”
She finally started to cry.
Olivia held her again.
A long time passed while Alexandra wept over her
broken heart and shattered dreams—dreams she
didn’t dare identify. But his image was with her—it
always was—and it wasn’t hateful or mean. It was
warm, and it was kind. Too late, she was certain she
had truly fallen in love with the duke.
When the tears were finally spent, when all that was
left were her throbbing heart and battered soul, she
pulled away. “I am sorry. I never cry.”
“It’s all right,” Olivia said, her face strained. Very
carefully, she asked, “Could there be a child?”
Alexandra closed her eyes. A part of her would
rejoice if that were the case, but he would think it a part
of her trap, and she would have to make certain he
never knew about their son or daughter—something
marriage to the squire would no doubt take care of.
Then she looked at her sister. “It is unlikely,” she said,
having made a calculation. She thought she was safe
from an unwanted pregnancy.
“Please refuse Denney,” Olivia said.
Alexandra blanched. “How can I? Father is
devastated. You saw him. A marriage I abhor is surely
my punishment now.”
Olivia was now close to tears herself. “How have we
come to this terrible moment?”
“It is entirely my fault,” Alexandra said, “when all I
ever wanted was to take care of you and Corey.”
This time, it was Olivia who wept, in Alexandra’s
arms.
ALEXANDRA KNEW she could not hide in her room
indefinitely. She was in the kitchen now, having
prepared supper as usual. Everything was being kept
warm in the ovens as they waited for their father to
return from Fox Run. Alexandra felt certain the squire
would be with him, his mood celebratory. She had
already set out an extra place.
Her stomach churned. But if this was her penance,
so be it.
Corey was arranging a vase of dried flowers as a
centerpiece. She hadn’t said a word since she’d
overheard Alexandra’s horrible interview with their
father earlier. She was ashen and grim, refusing to
look at anyone, especially Alexandra. Alexandra knew
her young, idealistic sister was in shock that she could
have carried on as she had—and that she felt utterly
betrayed. She did not blame her.
They all heard the front door open and close, but it
was only one pair of booted steps that sounded in the
hallway. Alexandra glanced at Olivia, saying, “Would
you get supper from the oven?” Then she wiped her
hands on her apron and took it off, going out to meet
her father.
He’d gone directly into the library, and he was
drinking a huge glass of straight gin. In the doorway,
Alexandra froze, Olivia behind her. She did not know
what to think, and she was too mentally exhausted to
jump to any conclusions. “The squire wasn’t at home?”
Edgemont gulped down half the drink and turned,
his eyes blazing. “He was home. And he has heard the
rumors, too.”
Alexandra tensed in absolute dread. She could not
take very much more. “Can we discuss the squire
tomorrow? Supper is ready.”
“No, we cannot!”
Alexandra flinched, knowing the sky had fallen.
Olivia took her hand.
Their father advanced. “He’s heard every damned
rumor about you and your damned duke! He wants
nothing to do with you, and I do not blame him!”
She saw the blow coming, but she was incapable of
trying to defend herself, although Olivia shrieked.
Edgemont struck her hard across the face, sending her
staggering backward into the side of the door, and
then against the wall.
She’d never been hit in her life. Now, her vision
blackened and stars exploded in her line of sight. Then
the pain erupted in her right cheekbone.
“Father!” Olivia screamed.
Clutching her face as the pain overwhelmed her,
Alexandra sank to the floor and waited for the room to
come slowly back into focus.
Edgemont towered over her. “You are nothing like
your mother!” he screamed. “You are a whore!”
Alexandra curled up, protecting her head to defend
herself from another blow. From behind, Olivia and
Corey, who had come running at the noise, leaped on
Edgemont, pummeling him with their fists.
“Leave her alone!” Corey sobbed. “Leave my sister
alone!”
Alexandra somehow got up, shocked at having
been so brutally struck, and even more shocked by the
sight of her sisters trying to physically maim their father.
“Stop!” she cried.
Edgemont managed to free himself of the two
women, then pointed at Alexandra, his hand shaking,
tears streaming. “I want you out of this house!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALEXANDRA STARED around in dismay. Corey and
Olivia were with her. There had been no suitable
lodgings close to home, and they’d taken a full hour to
drive to London’s southwestern outskirts. The
neighborhood was filled with factories that belched
dark smoke, as did the steamships coming into the
harbor, while the brick and stucco buildings lining the
thoroughfare were blackened from the constant soot.
The air was foul and heavy, and the working men and
women—and children—coming and going were thin
with malnutrition, as well as pale-skinned and dirty.
London had changed so much in the past decade that
it was almost unrecognizable—mills and factories
were everywhere, as was the belching railroad. The
rooms they’d found that were closer to Edgemont Way
had been incredibly expensive, from Alexandra’s point
of view, or impossibly dirty, or there had been
unpleasant innuendos from the innkeepers as to what
she must do to have the room. While this
neighborhood was hardly hospitable, the room she’d
let was cheap—and it was clean in comparison to the
other rooms she’d thus far seen.
Except, of course, for the privy, which she would
have to share with a dozen other tenants. As for
bathing, she would do so in her room, with water
pumped from the courtyard well.
“Father will change his mind,” Corey said
desperately, her eyes red and swollen from crying.
Thinking about Edgemont hurt too much. “I will take
my bags and my sewing upstairs,” Alexandra said,
attempting a cheerful smile. “It’s getting late, and you
should go back.”
“We can’t let you stay here by yourself, Alexandra,”
Olivia said nervously, as two very drunken sailors
sauntered by them, winking. “I don’t think this place is
at all safe.”
“You heard Mr. Schumacher. The public doors are
locked at ten o’clock.” But she doubted the veracity of
his words.
“I don’t care what he says. Even if you bolt your door,
I am afraid for you to stay here by yourself.”
“I hate him!” Corey shouted, and Alexandra did not
know if she was referring to their father or Clarewood.
“I am going to stay here with you,” Olivia said firmly,
picking up a satchel. “Corey, guard the carriage and
the horse while I help Alexandra.”
Corey’s eyes widened. Clearly she had no wish to
stand in the busy street by herself. At that time of day, it
was congested with wagons and drays carrying every
possible kind of cargo.
“Olivia, I can take everything up myself. And you are
not staying here! You need to get Corey home. It will be
dark soon. I am fine,” she lied, for she was so sick in
her heart that she could barely describe her own
feelings, even to herself.
“Will you really be fine? How can you pretend that
you will be fine?” Olivia’s gaze became moist. “We
can’t leave you here. And I hate him, too.”
“You cannot stay here with me. I brought this on
myself. And this is a pleasant inn,” Alexandra said
firmly, as if she believed it. “I am going to turn my little
room into a cozy, cheerful place. You can visit me as
much as you like. But tomorrow you must get in touch
with all the clients on the list I gave you, so they know
where to find me now.”
Olivia grimaced. “You should have the money so you
no longer have to take in sewing. But Father took it,
and he will gamble it away before the week is out!”
Alexandra had three bags, one containing the
garments she was currently working on, and the basket
of food. She also had twenty-five of the fifty pounds
she’d saved for Olivia’s dowry. Five pounds had paid
for her room for a month. The repairs and pressed
gowns that were ready to be picked up remained at
Edgemont Way. “You need to start home. Please. I
have enough to worry about, and I don’t also want to
worry about you getting waylaid on the highway.”
Corey was crying now. Olivia hugged her, fighting
tears, and Alexandra hugged her back. Then she
kissed Corey. “I will be fine. When have I ever not risen
to the occasion? Surely, Corey, some good will come
of this. God always has a plan.”
“No good will come of this, not unless the duke
marries you—which is what he should do!” Corey
insisted, her eyes flashing.
Alexandra tensed, her heart leaping unpleasantly. “I
believe he is well out of my league, my dear.” But the
truth was, he seemed to despise her now.
“I saw the way he looked at you,” Corey continued
shrilly. “What is wrong with him? You are better than
those stupid, silly debutantes!”
Alexandra hugged her, then managed to get her and
Olivia back into their carriage. She gave the black
gelding a pat, grateful they had, at least, a good and
solid means of transportation. “Please get word to my
clients tomorrow. And if you have time, come on
Wednesday,” she said.
They drove off, both girls in tears, but Alexandra kept
a smile on her face and waved at them. When they
were gone, however, tears instantly filled her eyes. She
fought them. She was not going to feel sorry for herself.
She had made the mess she was in, and she would
never try to deny it.
As she reached for one of her bags, a man came to
stand beside her. She tensed, only to realize it was her
German landlord. “I’ll carry yer bags up, Miss Bolton.”
For the first time since negotiating the price of the
room, she looked carefully at him. Mr. Schumacher
was a big bear of a man, so big that he was
intimidating, but his eyes were direct and not without a
trace of kindness. She smiled. “I’d appreciate the
help,” she said.
When she was safely in the room, the door locked,
Alexandra lit the single lamp, knowing she must buy
another lamp or candles on the morrow. The room had
wood-paneled walls and wood floors, a single window,
a narrow bed, a small, rickety table with two chairs, a
sink, an icebox and a small wood stove. Pegs on the
wall would serve as a closet.
But it wasn’t that bad—Alexandra had seen so much
worse. The floors needed wax, but they had been
recently mopped. The pale muslin curtains on the
window were freshly laundered, and so were the thin
cotton sheets on the bed—she’d noticed that right
away. She’d brought her own blanket and pillow. She
hadn’t met Mrs. Schumacher, but had been told that the
missus did the cleaning herself, along with their two
daughters, as well as the cooking for the public
taproom. Alexandra had no intention of dining there.
She could not afford it.
She took off her coat and hung it on one precious
peg, then opened up her bag of repairs, taking out five
gowns, all of which she hung on the remaining pegs.
She removed her needles, pincushions and threads,
placing everything carefully on the table. Sobs seemed
to be arising deep in her chest. She ignored them,
taking out her iron and the heavy towel she would be
pressing the gowns on.
Having arranged a work space, she then took out
the few belongings she’d chosen to bring, refolding
and then replacing them in a bag, which she put at the
foot of her bed, as if it were a chest. She then went to
unpack the basket of food. One of her sisters had put a
bouquet of dried flowers inside. She started to cry.
Alexandra gave up. She threw her blanket on the
bed, lay down and curled up. This was her fault. She’d
made a terrible choice, trusting a man she did not
know at all. She had no right to such misery and
heartache. She had no right to be feeling sorry for
herself. She had no right to be afraid.
But she was all of those things.
And worst of all, Clarewood’s image remained in
her mind, but not as she had last seen him. She kept
seeing him at the Harrington ball, when he had rescued
her and then her father—his eyes direct, intense and
concerned. Then she saw him as he waited for her to
alight from the carriage, his gaze blatantly sensual and
seductive. And the way he’d looked at her while they
made love was simply unforgettable….
But damn it, she wanted to forget. She had to forget!
Her entire life was at stake now, and she had to focus
on her sewing; otherwise, she would likely starve to
death.
But he haunted her dreams that night, as he had
done from the start, and she tossed and turned
restlessly until dawn. She spent the next day cleaning
every inch of her room. She scrubbed the floors, the
walls, the sink, icebox and stove. Then she dusted. By
the time her sisters returned, she’d taken some scraps
of red and gold fabric and sewn cheerful if exotic
slipcovers for the chairs, the design somewhat
fantastic, and had tossed her own violet shawl over the
foot of the bed as a pretty throw. She’d embroidered
the window curtains. She’d bought a bright red
Poinsettia plant and placed it in the window. She’d put
out some family portraits and thought that, eventually,
her small room might even start to feel like home,
though frankly, it looked like a gypsy’s abode.
Corey and Olivia returned at midday on Wednesday.
They had done as she’d asked, leaving her new
address with her clients. Lady Lewis had even picked
up her dresses, leaving payment, which they eagerly
gave her. They exclaimed over how pretty the room
was becoming, and Alexandra decided they could
afford to eat lunch downstairs. True to Mr.
Schumacher’s word, his wife was a wonderful cook,
and they ate the best potted chicken they’d ever tried,
followed by lemon tarts. They’d giggled over lunch, due
undoubtedly to the ale they’d been served, talking
about all kinds of silly things—including the fact that
their neighbor had fallen off his horse, landing in his
neighbor’s pig sty. It felt so good to laugh. Corey
pointed out that it was too bad the victim of the sty
wasn’t the duke.
That sobered them all.
“I haven’t heard a word about him,” Olivia said
hesitantly. “Or anything else.”
Alexandra told her heart to stop racing at the mere
thought of him. She wondered if Lady Witte had
ceased her vicious gossip. “It doesn’t matter,” she
said, but it felt as if it mattered very much.
It was a long trip back to Edgemont Way, and
Alexandra realized that they were the only ones left in
the taproom. She looked at her pocket watch. “It’s
three,” she said softly, her heart lurching with dismay.
“You really must be going.”
“I don’t want to go,” Corey said, her smile vanishing.
Alexandra gave her a look as they got up, having
already paid for their meal. Mr. Schumacher came
running into the room. “Do ye need anything else?” he
smiled.
“That was wonderful,” Alexandra said. “Thank you.”
He looked at her and then at her sisters. “You should
go home with your family.”
Alexandra turned away, unable to tell him that
returning to Edgemont Way was not an option. She
walked her sisters outside, fighting the sorrow building
in her chest. Having them leave hurt. Going back
upstairs felt as if it might be the loneliest moment of her
life. Olivia hugged her. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”
Alexandra was aghast. “No, you won’t! It’s much too
far to come every day. Wait until Sunday, Olivia,
please. And don’t abandon Father. You are taking care
of him, aren’t you?”
“Of course we are,” Corey said, her mouth
downturned. Then she hugged Alexandra—hard. “I
miss you so much. I am sorry I said you shouldn’t marry
the squire. You were right—he is a good man.”
“No, you were right, Corey—I would have been so
unhappy, marrying without any affection.” Alexandra
wiped the tears from her sisters’ cheeks.
Then Corey and Olivia climbed reluctantly into the
carriage. Alexandra stood on the street, waving after
them as they drove off. Even when they were no longer
in sight, it was hard to turn around and go back
upstairs to her room. She missed them so much, and it
hurt.
ALEXANDRA SPENT the next week immersed in her
sewing. She had a number of clients who were
expecting to pick up their things in the coming week,
and though Lady Witte had made such a fuss over
having her items finished the previous Friday, her
sisters had said she hadn’t bothered to return for
anything, nor had she sent a servant. Which was lucky,
Alexandra thought. She dreaded their next encounter,
but she needed the woman’s business, and had all of
her gowns and underthings ready that Friday—a week
later than she’d demanded. She hoped Lady Witte
would send a servant when she realized Alexandra
was no longer at Edgemont Way. She was the kind of
woman to avoid the East End, so Alexandra certainly
didn’t expected her to show up in person.
But when Alexandra went to answer her door late in
the afternoon on Saturday, it was Charlotte Witte who
stood there.
She was smiling in a very unpleasant manner, as if
she were gloating. Then Alexandra saw the diamond
necklace the other woman was wearing. It had three
tiers and was undoubtedly worth thousands of pounds.
Oddly, the sight of it was hurtful, because Alexandra
couldn’t help but wonder if the duke had given it to her.
Charlotte’s catty smile widened. She looked
Alexandra up and down dismissively, then looked past
her into the small, shabby room. “Hello, Miss Bolton.
Are my things ready?”
Alexandra avoided eye contact. “Of course.” All the
items in question were hanging in a garment bag, and
she turned to get it. She despised the other woman,
and knew it had less to do with the woman’s rudeness
than it did her past relationship with Clarewood. She
was embarrassed to realize she was the one being
petty now.
Charlotte followed her inside, closing the door—as if
she wished to stay and chat—her eyes sparkling with
glee. “My, you have come down in the world. This is
hardly Edgemont Way. In fact, the servants at
Clarewood have better accommodations than this.”
Alexandra tensed, the words a distinct blow, as she
felt certain the duke’s staff had exceptional housing.
Alexandra held out the garment bag, fighting for
composure. She needed this woman’s business. “I
can’t imagine how you would know anything about the
servants’ quarters.” The moment she spoke, she
regretted it.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you speak
disrespectfully to me? I know because the duke is so
proud of his progressive ways, and he wanted to show
me his exemplary arrangements. But you wouldn’t
know anything about the duke, now would you—except
that he is very powerful and insatiable in bed.” Her pale
brows lifted.
Alexandra flushed. There was nothing to say. She
had a terrible image of Clarewood in bed with
Charlotte, making love to the petite blonde with the
same frenzy he’d shown her.
Charlotte laughed with contempt. “You are nothing,
Miss Bolton, and nobody, and if anyone has made that
clear, it is Stephen, who has tossed you aside like the
piece of used baggage that you are.”
Alexandra gasped. “That is beyond rude!”
“But that is what he did, is it not?” Charlotte said.
“Servants gossip, Miss Bolton, and I believe I could
recite your last encounter with him word for word, if I
should choose to bother. Did you really think to trap
him into marriage?”
Alexandra was aghast. She was also hurt, shaken
and sickened by the other woman’s cruelty. “Why are
you doing this?” she asked. “What could I possibly
have done to you?”
“I am doing nothing,” Charlotte snapped, taking the
garment bag. “And now I hope we are clear. You
belong below stairs, Miss Bolton, and make no
mistake about that again!” She set the bag roughly
down on the table, knocking over Alexandra’s sewing
materials and a recently finished gown. As she did, she
knocked over a cup of cold tea. Alexandra cried out,
diving for the cup, afraid the liquid would ruin the gown.
The cup broke, but she was relieved to see the tea spill
The cup broke, but she was relieved to see the tea spill
over the floor. She seized the gown, holding it like a
newborn to her breast.
Meanwhile Charlotte opened the bag and began
roughly yanking out the items.
“Everything is pressed,” Alexandra gasped. “And
everything is in there, I assure you, I am not a thief. I
have a very good reputation.”
“Really? Because everything looks horridly wrinkled
to me.” Charlotte threw a gown that had been perfectly
pressed onto the floor. “Look at that!” She stared and
then removed a chemise and said, “You have ruined
this garment, as well.”
Alexandra was stunned. “I haven’t ruined anything.
Why are you doing this?”
“It is torn,” Charlotte said fiercely, “and useless to me
now!” She ripped the seams open.
Alexandra was stunned into silence.
“Oh, and what is this? Have you burned my favorite
dress?”
Alexandra began to shake. “You know I have done
no such thing.”
Charlotte eyed her hatefully. “You ripped my chemise
and burned my best gown, you did not press anything
properly, and you were late! You are worthless, Miss
Bolton, truly worthless, and I shall tell everyone how
inept you are.”
Alexandra’s knees buckled. “Why are you doing
this? Why do you hate me so?”
“Because you have dared to try to rise to my station,
dared to tempt the duke, my lover—you, a dirty servant,
and that is simply not allowed!” Charlotte shoved the
items into the bag and started for the door.
Alexandra realized what was happening and
managed to say, “You haven’t paid me.”
Charlotte looked at her with contempt. “I would never
pay you for such shoddy work.”
Alexandra couldn’t breathe. “You owe me twelve
pounds, Lady Witte. I spent days on your garments!”
Charlotte smiled. “I owe you nothing,” she said, and
walked out with her clothes.
Alexandra’s first instinct was to run after her. But
what would she do then? Steal her purse? Force her to
pay? The woman was already going to tell everyone
that she had ruined her clothes. If she forcibly took the
money owed, she would be accused of theft, as well.
She stumbled to her bed and sat down.
Breathing hard, she told herself that she would get
by. This wasn’t the end of the world, even if it felt like it.
Lady Henredon, for one, had always been kind. Still,
she didn’t think she had ever been treated so rudely.
The duke’s image loomed. No, she had been
treated this rudely before. Clarewood had treated her
even more poorly than his horrid little mistress. God,
they deserved one another. The tears fell. She wished
her heart would stop hurting so.
“Are we intruding, my dear?”
Alexandra froze at the sound of Blanche
Harrington’s kind voice. She wiped her eyes, aghast to
be caught in such an emotional state, and looked up.
Lady Blanche stood in the doorway, beautiful and
elegant and so incongruous to the setting, her
husband, Sir Rex, behind her. She was smiling kindly,
but her gaze, while compassionate, was concerned.
Alexandra shot to her feet. “I am fine,” she managed,
trying to smile. Lady Blanche hadn’t been on her list of
customers, even though, once in a while, she did send
clothes for a significant repair. Most of the time she
had her own staff clean and press her wardrobe.
“May we come in?” The other woman’s kind
expression never faltered.
She had been a good friend of Alexandra’s mother,
and she had been a kind neighbor after her passing
and in all the years since. She had certainly been kind
at the recent ball. “Of course.” Alexandra began to
flush. “I’m so sorry.” She darted a glance at Lady
Blanche’s handsome, somewhat intimidating husband.
Like most of the de Warenne men, he had an air of
authority about him, and could not enter a room
unnoticed or without commanding respect. “I have
nothing to offer you, really,” she said helplessly.
“I’ll send for tea,” Sir Rex said.
Blanche turned to him, smiling, and when he’d
limped off, she came inside. “How are you, dear? I’m
afraid the news of your taking up residence at an inn is
quite the gossip now. I heard it from Lady Lewis last
night.”
Alexandra bit her lip. “Do you want to sit down, Lady
Blanche?”
Blanche smiled and took one of the chairs.
Alexandra took the other one. Blanche said, “Charlotte
Witte is a disgrace. She is the least gracious person I
know. I saw her leaving the inn as we drove up. Did she
upset you?”
Alexandra inhaled. “We have made a bad start,
unfortunately.” There, that felt better. She breathed
again. “She has decided to actively hate me, and to
hurt me if she can.”
“And how can she hurt you, my dear? Other than with
malicious lies?”
Alexandra stared, and Blanche stared back. “She
has threatened to ruin my sewing business. I do very
good work, as you know. But she intends to tell
everyone that I have ruined her clothes.”
Blanche reached out and held her hand. “I will set
the record straight.”
“Thank you.” Alexandra was afraid she was going to
cry again.
“Alexandra,” Blanche said softly, “when I heard you
had left home, I felt I had to come and inquire after your
welfare. Your mother would be so upset. Is there any
chance of your going back home, where you belong?”
Alexandra looked at the table. How much did
Blanche know? Then she looked up. It was time to stop
lying. “My father will not allow me back. I cannot really
blame him.”
The other woman’s eyes widened.
“I have made a terrible mistake,” Alexandra
admitted.
Blanche tightened her hold on Alexandra’s hand.
“So the blame is all yours?”
Alexandra flushed and decided she had better not
answer.
A knock sounded at the door. Blanche got up before
Alexandra could move and let one of Mr.
Schumacher’s daughters bring in a tray of tea.
Alexandra could not hear what she said to Sir Rex,
who was standing behind the girl, but he turned and
left. Blanche smiled at the young girl, then returned to
the table. When they were alone, she poured two cups
of tea, handing one to Alexandra. “I am not going to pry.
I have heard all kinds of stories, but I despise gossip.
With good cause, by the way.” She smiled and sipped.
“A long time ago, society thought me a madwoman. I
do think I lost my mind, actually. I knew everyone was
whispering about me behind my back—until Sir Rex
returned to town to save me.” She smiled.
Alexandra was stupefied. “I am sure you are
exaggerating.”
“No, my dear, I was known as ‘the madwoman,’ and
most of London was enthralled by my downfall.” Then
she smiled. “It was long ago—another lifetime ago,
actually.”
Her tea forgotten, Alexandra asked, “Why are you
telling me this?”
“Because having suffered the cruelty of the ton, I
refuse to heed the gossips. On the other hand, it was
very noble of Clarewood to rescue you at Sara’s
birthday party. It was even nobler for him to help
Edgemont home that night.”
Alexandra hugged herself. “It was kind.” Immediately
she wanted to take back her words. Tears filled her
eyes. He was not kind, he was cruel, but she would
never point that out to Lady Blanche.
Blanche’s soft gaze hardened. “I believe I am furious
with him.”
Alexandra was certain that the other woman knew of
their affair.
“I’d like to help you, my dear.” Blanche smiled now.
“Would you come to Harrington Hall? I have been
meaning to take on my own personal seamstress for
some time. Especially with Marion about to be wed,
between her and Sara and myself, and of course
Randolph, there is so much to clean, restore, repair
and mend. I would give you a fine bedroom on the
upper floor. I’m sure you would be more comfortable
there than here.”
Alexandra was so surprised that she started,
shaking the rickety table. It took her only a moment to
realize that Blanche hardly needed a full-time
seamstress, and that this was an act of charity. “I so
appreciate your offer, Lady Blanche, but I couldn’t
possibly accept.”
“Why not?”
“We both know you do not need me at Harrington
Hall, mending and pressing your clothes. I am so
moved by your consideration, but I can’t accept such
charity. I can—and will—take care of myself.”
Blanche sighed. “I thought you would refuse me. You
are every bit as strong, independent and proud as your
mother.”
Alexandra heard again her father’s cruel words. You
are nothing like your mother.
Blanche smiled and cupped her cheek. “She would
be so proud of you now.”
Dismayed, wishing it were true and knowing it was
not, Alexandra bit her lip and shook her head.
“You can turn to me at any time,” Blanche said firmly.
“If you need anything, or if you change your mind,
simply ask or say so.”
Alexandra was moved. “You are so kind.”
“I loved your mother, and I love you, too, Alexandra.”
Blanche stood up. “Does Clarewood know that you
have left home—and that you have taken up residence
in a common inn?”
Alexandra stood, so swiftly that her chair toppled
over. “He won’t care.”
Blanche studied her closely for a long moment.
“Actually, I think you are wrong.”
JULIA MOWBRAY BALANCED over her mare’s
withers, allowing the hunter to extend her stride. The
rolling countryside became a blur as the mare’s pace
increased to a gallop, Julia’s Great Danes running
alongside them. Crouching almost like a jockey, Julia
let the mare go forward a bit more. Horse and rider
were one.
Several moments later, she sat her mount casually
as they trotted back to the handsome two-story stone
stables behind the house, the Danes now running
ahead. She was out of breath, but no longer filled with
the excitement of the furious ride. Instead, she was
thoughtful.
Tyne Jefferson was firmly engraved on her mind. His
image had become unshakable—a big, muscular,
leonine man, bronzed from the sun, his brown hair shot
with gray and gold. When his mouth curved, a dimple
formed on the left side of his face. His chin was cleft,
his cheekbones high. His nose was broad and
crooked—she guessed it had been broken more than
once—but that could not detract from his strong,
masculine good looks. He did not look like any of her
peers. He was so obviously an American, and not
because his suits were ready-made or his hands
heavily callused. It wasn’t the scar running through one
eyebrow. There was something strong and sure about
him, like an ancient oak tree that had survived endless
cycles of life and death. His shoulders were so broad
that she thought he might be able to withstand just
about anything life dealt him.
He was so obviously the antithesis of her late
husband, the previous duke.
They’d met a week ago at a London dinner party.
She’d noticed him in the salon the moment she arrived.
He was standing with Cliff de Warenne, one of the
land’s wealthiest shipping magnates, and Sir Reginald
Reed, the knighted lawyer widely renowned for his
control of many of the country’s railway lines. They
were engrossed in conversation, and she’d had the
oddest feeling that she’d met him somewhere, at some
time, in the past. It was an intense but fleeting feeling of
recognition, and her heart had leaped. Then, a moment
later, she’d known she was mistaken. She did not
know that man. And she was certain he was an
American. He was too big, too bluff and too roughedged
to be anything else.
He’d glanced at her once or twice before they’d
gone into the dining room to sit down, not rudely, just
casually, the way one would glance across a roomful of
people to remark who was there. He’d been seated
across the dinner table from her, and that was where
they’d been introduced. Julia had tried not to look at
him, but several times their gazes had accidentally
collided. His smile had made her heart race. She
couldn’t believe how foolishly she was behaving. She
was rarely attracted to men these days, and never to
strangers.
Since that night, she’d learned he was a California
rancher, and while she didn’t know what had brought
him to Britain, he was apparently trying to convince
Cliff de Warenne to extend a shipping line to the small
city of Sacramento. He was enthusiastic about the
railroad that would soon be able to ship his cattle from
his hacienda to the town and beyond, to the
Midwestern and Eastern markets.
After supper, as the gentlemen were moving off to
smoke cigars and sip whiskey, he bumped into her,
seemingly intentionally. Julia had smiled at him as she
would any guest, determined not to reveal that she
found him terribly intriguing.
“I am sorry, that was clumsy of me,” he said, even
though he’d only brushed against her arm. “I’m too big
for your country.”
The comment was unusual, and she started, looking
deeply into his amber eyes. “Yes,” she slowly said, “I
have a feeling that you might be too big for this tiny
land.”
He blinked and looked closely back at her, then
slowly smiled. “Did you just insult me?”
She realized she was smiling back. “That was a
compliment.” And suddenly they were staring at one
another.
She coughed, about to make a trite remark, when
his gaze slipped to her sapphire and diamond
necklace. He quickly looked up and said, “You are my
first duchess.”
Suddenly she was warm. “I don’t imagine you would
meet many duchesses in America.”
“None.”
Julia was warm just recalling their first meeting. He
was a man of few words, but she didn’t mind. When he
spoke, it was worth listening to what he had to say.
That was so different from her peers.
She’d learned more about him at the ball. He had
never married. He didn’t have any children. He lived
alone. Julia couldn’t really understand that, but she
would never pry.
She had reached the stables, and two grooms
rushed out. As she dismounted, her thoughts remained
on Jefferson. While she thought she’d made an
excellent impression upon him last week, at first she
had been flustered by his call. She’d been
embarrassed that he would catch her so disheveled
from her morning ride, but he hadn’t seemed to mind.
He had seemed admiring, instead.
Her heart skipped like a young girl’s as she thanked
the grooms and started back toward the house, the
Danes keeping pace. She’d even given him an open
invitation to call, and they had planned to ride together.
But a week had gone by, and he hadn’t called. Their
paths had not crossed at any evening affair, either.
Her heart lurched with dismay. If he had any interest
in her as a woman, surely he would have called by now.
Wouldn’t he?
Was she being foolish? She was fifty years old. She
knew she remained a very attractive woman, and that
she looked only forty, if that. She supposed her youthful
appearance was due to her active lifestyle. She was a
horsewoman and had been so her entire life—she
spent two or three hours every day in the saddle, which
kept her legs strong, and her abdomen tight and lean.
And she was always busy. While she had had many
responsibilities as the Duchess of Clarewood, as she
did now, as its dowager duchess, she had also
become involved in many of her son’s charities. She
didn’t have time to sit around and sip chocolate.
And although she was well into her middle years,
Jefferson had awakened something in her that she had
thought long since buried. A yearning churned in her
now, and it included the desire to be in his strong arms.
She was a powerful woman, but he made her feel
small, vulnerable and feminine. He made her feel
desirable again.
She did not know how long he would remain in the
country, but she clearly had a choice—to remain lonely
and wistful, or be bold and take matters into her own
hands.
Her stride lengthened. Matilda and Henry galloped
ahead of her, tails wagging. Julia went into a small
library, furnished mostly in shades of cream and gold,
and sat down at the desk there. She hesitated, and
decided to be direct. She penned Jefferson a very
brief note, inviting him for the ride they had discussed.
As she sealed the envelope, she was afraid he would
refuse.
What if she had misread him? What if his responses
to her had merely been polite? After all, everyone
fawned over her.
Before she had a chance to change her mind, she
rang a small silver bell. “Godfrey, please see that this is
delivered by messenger to Mr. Jefferson at the St.
Lucien Hotel.”
When her butler was gone, she called the dogs over,
petting them as she thought about Jefferson. He would
receive the note that evening. Etiquette required an
immediate reply. She should know where he stood by
tomorrow at this time.
She thought about how Ariella and Elysse had
shepherded him over to her. She knew both young
women fairly well, as they were so close to Stephen
—and Ariella was his natural cousin, as well. She had
instantly assumed the call was not without subterfuge.
The young ladies were so transparent. It amazed her
that they might be matchmaking, but she hadn’t
minded. If Stephen ever learned what they were up to,
he would be furious with them.
She sobered. Her thoughts were now fixed on her
son and the ugly rumors raging about town. The
gossips held that Stephen was having an affair with
Edgemont’s daughter, and they were thoroughly
titillated. Julia did not know Alexandra Bolton, but she’d
glimpsed her at the Harrington affair, and it had been
obvious that she was an honorable gentlewoman, even
if impoverished, and one of great dignity and
character. She was not the type of woman her son
would try to seduce. To be blunt, Miss Bolton was not
mistress material. She was certain there was no affair,
but she had seen how attentive he was to the girl. She
couldn’t help wondering if Stephen was finally and
genuinely interested in a woman—even if he might not
know it himself yet.
Julia decided that she should call on Miss Bolton. If
Stephen had taken an interest in a proper woman, she
would be thrilled, never mind the damned gossips. And
if Miss Bolton had been mistaken in her choice of men
so long ago, Julia would be the first to forgive her. It
was so easy to make mistakes when one was young
and naive and filled with silly dreams.
Godfrey returned. “Your Grace? Mr. Jefferson has
called.”
Her heart slammed and stopped. Then it thundered.
It took her a moment to realize that Jefferson had come
of his own volition. “Show him to the Turquoise Room,
please, and tell him that I will be right down.” All too
aware of Godfrey’s jaw dropping, she leaped from her
chair, calling for her maids as she ran for the stairs.
STEPHEN SAT WITH HIS STEWARD in the study,
writing checks. Clarewood might be thriving, but there
were still monthly expenses, including personal ones.
He stared at an account, brows raised, wondering at
the item. “Who is George Lavoiser?”
The steward leaned forward to glance at the bill just
as Randolph strode in, his tweed jacket, breeches and
boots damp from the drizzle outside. “That is the florist
you used last month, Your Grace.”
Stephen’s heart seemed to lurch. Ah yes, he’d yet to
pay for the spectacular roses he’d sent Alexandra. His
entire body stiffened. The tension remained, although
he was doing his best to forget about her and her
schemes, and it was damned unpleasant. The problem
was, she remained oddly unforgettable. He could not
seem to erase their last encounter from his mind—nor
the hours of passion they had shared.
He remained angry and disbelieving. Yet he was
never angry—he’d spent an entire lifetime learning to
be calm and controlled. Just as she had shown him the
kind of passion he thought impossible, she had
somehow broken through his reservoir of composure,
not that he would let anyone ever know that.
Stephen scrawled a check and handed it to the
steward. “Would you excuse us,” he said, and it was
not a question.
Randolph stripped off his sodden jacket and moved
closer to the fire in the hearth. Stephen stood, not
bothering to roll down the sleeves of his dark blue
sweater. It was a dastardly day, cold and rainy. He
walked over, almost reluctant to find out what Randolph
had learned from their litigators. But as rumors were
flying all over town about the “affair,” he was fairly
certain what he would hear.
As Stephen poured his younger half brother a
brandy, Randolph said, “It’s broken off, Your Grace.
Denney has ended the suit.”
He was not surprised. Of course it was broken off.
No man wanted a trollop for a wife. And she wanted a
far better catch for a husband. He handed his brother a
drink.
Randolph sipped gratefully and then said, his gaze
direct, “Apparently he was furious. He’s heard all the
rumors.” He hesitated, then said, “There’s more.”
Stephen shoved his hands in his pockets and stared
at the flames dancing in the hearth, his back now to his
brother. There was no reason to feel guilty. She’d
plotted to trap him, even if he had been amused by
having Squire Denney as a rival, one he knew he could
squash with one single breath along the nape of her
neck. And if she hadn’t been such a conniving bitch, he
would feel sorry for her. After all, she could have used
the security of the match with Denney.
But if he did not know himself better, he would think
that he actually felt sorry for her. Just a little. And that
was absurd.
She would find someone else to trap into marriage,
he thought.
Of course, there was one little fact that was
bothering him. She was in her middle twenties. Why
hadn’t she used her virginity long ago to ensnare a
wealthy husband if that had been her plan?
He did not like that nagging question. Stephen
turned. “What more could there possibly be?”
Randolph winced. “Edgemont threw her out.
Apparently he heard the rumors, too.”
Stephen reeled. He wasn’t sure he had ever been
as surprised, as taken aback. “He tossed her out?”
Oddly, his first instinct was to confront Edgemont.
“Where did she go?”
“She’s let a room in London. Apparently she
continues to sew for various ladies and has set up
shop there.”
Stephen’s heart did the strangest thing—it sank with
dread. She’d been thrown out of her home. She was
sewing from a room in a London inn.
He reminded himself that this was not his concern,
and that he did not care. He immediately returned to
his desk. “I’d like to go over some ledgers with you,
Randolph,” he said, refusing to think of Alexandra any
longer.
Randolph approached. “The word is the
neighborhood is a very impoverished one. I have an
address, by the way.”
Stephen stared grimly, meeting Randolph’s gaze.
He couldn’t believe he’d actually heard disapproval in
his brother’s tone. “Are you blaming me for her fate?”
Randolph stared back. “I believe that I am.”
Stephen was surprised. “So you will take her side?”
Randolph grimaced and said softly, “We are
brothers. I admire you immensely—and I am terribly
grateful for your being my mentor. But I do not think she
deserves this set-down. I know you would never
callously toss her aside as you did. I can’t imagine
what she did to raise your ire. Perhaps, whatever it
was, you were mistaken, or you might forgive her.” He
added, “Your Grace.”
As disturbed as he was, Stephen was briefly proud
of Randolph. “Few men would speak to me as you
have just done. But I am glad you are being candid with
me.”
Randolph smiled. “I do not mean to criticize. But I
am concerned.”
“Don’t waste your time. Miss Bolton is a survivor.
And I am sure the falling out with her father is a
temporary one. After all, she holds that family together.”
Randolph seemed incredulous. “You won’t repair
this?”
Stephen stood. “I never forgive betrayal, Randolph,
and neither should you. She betrayed me—she played
me—and she can find another benefactor to rescue
her from her current straits.”
Randolph shook his head. “And if no one does so?
Then what?”
“Do not push me,” Stephen warned.
“May I check on her?”
Stephen paused. It took him a moment to consider
this course. “If you do so, you are on your own. I do not
want a report—not a single word.” And as Randolph
looked at him with disapproval, he finished, “This is not
my fault. This entire episode is of her own making.”
“Of course…Your Grace.”

CHAPTER TWELVE
TYNE JEFFERSON STROLLED as casually as
possible into the salon as he was ushered inside by a
servant. It wasn’t an easy task—his pulse was racing,
his tension was high, and there was nothing casual
about his call. He’d meant to stay away, never mind her
invitation last week. He’d decided that, given his
growing interest in her, no good could come of any
further interactions.
Now he looked at her and his heart roared. She was
even tinier and prettier than he’d remembered.
Julia smiled at him. “Another pleasant surprise,” she
said softly.
He managed to smile back, though his heart was
doing a few odd flips and he was taken aback by his
surging pulse. But he didn’t hesitate. “I hope you mean
that.”
She came forward, her eyes on his. They were
warm; they sparkled. Her cheeks were still flushed from
the outdoors. “I do. I am so glad you have called. I was
just thinking about you.”
The British were probably the most polite and formal
people he’d ever encountered, but her comment just
now wasn’t polite, it was familiar. He was startled.
For one thing, he’d decided that her last invitation
had been made out of that infamous British politeness,
nothing more, while he wanted a bit more than a
chitchat. But she was a great lady and a duchess;
wanting more was wrong, so he’d decided to stay
away. And then he’d tried not to think about her, which
had proven impossible. Every day he’d wondered if
they would bump into one another that night at a dinner
party or the opera. And a part of him had hoped so. But
he hadn’t seen her at any of the evening affairs he’d
attended. He hadn’t seen her in the park, either, or
shopping on Oxford Street. And he’d been
disappointed.
Worst of all, he’d even dreamed about her. And that
made him uncomfortable, because he couldn’t control
the nature of his dreams, which had been sexual and
intense.
The Dowager Duchess of Clarewood was on his
mind, there was no damned doubt about that. He
wasn’t very happy about it, either, because there was
just nowhere for them to go. Even if she was a
passionate woman, he knew he was not her type of
man. She needed someone cultured and titled,
someone who wore white gloves, actually liked the
opera and had never chopped a block of firewood in
his life, much less killed a man.
But he’d broken down. His time was running out; in a
few weeks he would be returning to California, so he
had decided to see her one more time. He’d been half
hoping that when he did, he wouldn’t have any reaction
to her at all—that somehow, he’d made it all up in his
head.
But he’d been wrong. He was having a reaction, all
right. She took his breath away.
She turned to ask the butler for refreshments, giving
him the chance to ogle every inch of her. She was so
tiny that he thought he might be able to span his hands
around her waist. And when the servant left and she
faced him, he felt himself flush, because in his mind’s
eye, she’d been stark naked.
“It’s going to rain,” she said. “Otherwise I’d take you
hacking.”
He recovered somewhat. “In California rain is a
blessing. We have long, dry summers.”
“And shockingly cold winters—in the high country,”
she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I was curious, so I have been reading up on the
history of America—and California.” She smiled.
His heart jumped again. Why was she curious? He
almost wished he could tell her about all that he had
endured—most of his friends thought him heroic. But
he wasn’t sure she would admire him for wandering
through a blizzard with frostbite, then finally digging a
hole in the snow to wait it out until he could see where
he was. “I don’t claim to be a historian, but you can ask
me anything.”
Her gaze held his, her smile fading. “It’s a difficult
life, isn’t it—on the frontier?”
It was very difficult, and he wanted her to know that
none of her peers could survive all that he had—as if
that would impress her. “Our summers are boiling hot.
Sometimes there’s no rain. Cattle—wildlife—die. Our
winters are worse. The snow can pile up higher than
the rooftops of our houses.” He smiled and shrugged.
“But we do what we have to.”
Her eyes were wide. “I’ve started reading about the
difficulties of crossing the country and settling the
western lands. It sounds so dangerous, Mr. Jefferson.”
It almost sounded as if she were worried about him.
“It is dangerous.” He smiled at her then. “A man needs
ambition, and if he has it, and he has the guts, he’ll be
fine.”
Her gaze was wide and searching. “You know,” she
said, “you said you’ve never met a duchess before. I’ve
never met a frontiersman before—if that is what you
call yourself.”
“I call myself a Californian.”
She smiled back at him. “I like that,” she said softly.
“It says so much in so few words.”
He stared, unsmiling, and her smile faded, too. He
felt so much tension within his own body and wondered
if she felt the same. What man wouldn’t want to take
her in his arms and taste that small, pretty mouth? he
wondered. What would she say if she knew he’d built
his ranch mostly by himself, with his own two hands?
That he’d killed a handful of men, mostly outlaws and
Indians? That he’d almost starved to death one winter,
when lost in the wilds of Nevada? That he’d eaten raw
meat, having killed a fox with his bare hands, in order
to survive?
He suddenly turned away from her. He knew what
she would say. She would be appalled. As she would
probably also be appalled by the scars on his body. He
had more than his share. He, on the other hand, could
imagine the perfection of her body, and he wished he
could put his hands all over it.
She was being polite, even now. And despite his
earlier assumption, that was undoubtedly the only
reason why she had told him he could call anytime, why
she had offered to take him riding.
“I do have a question,” she said. “You told me you
had come to Britain for personal reasons. I don’t mean
to pry, but it does seem like a truly long journey if you
were only soliciting Cliff de Warenne.”
He crossed his arms, tensing, and suddenly, he
wanted to tell her about his life—not just the good
parts, but the bad. “My daughter is buried here.”
She started. “I am so sorry!”
“It’s okay. Donna died twenty-eight years ago. And I
should have come to her grave a long time ago, but I
never did.”
She reached for his arm and slid her hand over it.
He jerked, surprised. “I didn’t know. I can’t imagine
what you went through. So you were married?”
“No. She left me, even though I’d planned on
marrying her, to return to Brighton, where she was
from. I didn’t know she was carrying our child.” There
was still sadness in talking about it, but it was distant
and faded now.
“Life can be so cruel, so unkind,” she said feelingly.
Her intensity shocked him. But he’d heard the
rumors—apparently her husband had been a real
bastard. “Yeah, it can—bad things happen to good
people all the time, and there is no justice.”
For a moment she was silent, staring into his eyes.
Then she said, “You deserve good things, Mr.
Jefferson, I am certain of it.”
She laid her small, soft hand on his arm as she
spoke, and his heart lurched like a locomotive hitting
broken tracks. For one moment, as his blood heated, it
was hard to speak. “That’s kind of you,” he said gruffly,
and he actually felt himself blush.
ALEXANDRA WALKED SLOWLY up the crowded
street, zigzagging between the pedestrians while trying
to avoid piles of refuse, sewage and potholes. She
wished she could hold a handkerchief to her nose. The
stench was so foul, she thought she might vomit, but
she couldn’t hold a kerchief, because she had two
bags in her arms. One contained groceries, the other,
sewing supplies.
She was beyond dismay. Twelve days had passed
since she had moved into Mr. Schumacher’s inn, which
she had come to regard as a veritable paradise in this
dank and fetid swamp of impoverished and hopeless
humanity. Alexandra had been aware of the terrible
conditions of Britain’s working classes. She had
always felt sorry for the working poor, especially the
children. But reading about the conditions in factories
and mills—and debating the various ways one might
institute economic and social reforms—was so very
different from living among Britain’s poor. She hadn’t
realized how terribly most of England was suffering,
and just how privileged even the destitute among the
upper classes were.
Everyone here was ragged, tired and hungry. Even
the children had gaunt, expressions and dead eyes. It
was heartbreaking.
And perhaps the worst part was that these men,
women and children didn’t realize she was just like
them. They looked at her with respect, they doffed their
caps to her, they called her “my lady,” and even,
sometimes, “Yer Grace.” They understood that she was
gentry and simply did not know that now she was one
of them.
Alexandra wondered how she would live the rest of
her life like this. The thought was dismal and
depressing. She could bear the burden of her poverty,
but she missed Olivia and Corey terribly, and she was
always tired.
She tensed, an image of Clarewood coming to
mind. She still thought of him all the time, with hurt and
anger, with betrayal, even though almost three weeks
had passed since their ill-fated affair had begun and
so precipitously ended. But she would not blame him
for what had happened. Too late, she knew she’d been
weak; had she been stronger, had she resisted his
advances, she would be comfortably at home right
now.
And then Alexandra saw a beautiful closed carriage
at the end of the street, with two handsome bay
geldings in the traces. She halted, tensing. Only a very
wealthy nobleman or merchant would own such a
coach, but she did not recognize it. At least it did not
belong to Clarewood, not that she ever expected to
see him again, and it was not Lady Blanche’s. She
relaxed a little and decided that the carriage had
nothing to do with her.
She pushed open the door to the inn with her
shoulder, her arms filled with her groceries and
supplies. Randolph had called on her a few days ago,
inquiring after her welfare. It had taken all her resolve to
remain calm and composed, and even indifferent,
while in his presence. She’d met with him in the public
room, claimed she was fine, and refused him when he
had asked if she wished to stay as his guest at
Harrington Hall. She hadn’t told him about his mother’s
visit, but he was an admirable and compassionate
young man.
Now, as she entered the front hall, the public room
ahead, the stairs on her right, she saw a beautiful
noblewoman seated at a table there, chatting with Mr.
Schumacher. Instantly her landlord waved at her; as
instantly, the blond woman turned and stood up.
Alexandra felt faint. Although they had never met,
she recognized the dowager duchess of Clarewood
instantly. She’d seen her at the Harrington ball.
Julia Mowbray glided toward her, smiling. “Hello,
Miss Bolton. I believe I am being terribly bold, but I
decided we must meet.”
Alexandra clutched her bags, afraid she would drop
them otherwise. What could Stephen’s mother want?
Her stomach churned with sickening force. “Your
Grace,” she somehow said.
“Can we go upstairs? Mr. Schumacher has
promised to send us tea.” The older woman smiled.
Alexandra met her gray gaze and realized that her
eyes were warm, as if friendly. But that was
impossible. Her stare was also searching. What could
she possibly want?
She tried to find an excuse to send the dowager
duchess away, but none came to mind. She managed
to smile in return. “I’m afraid my accommodations will
not suffice, Your Grace. I do not think you will be
comfortable.”
“Do you have two chairs in your room?” She did not
wait for an answer. “I thought so. Come, let’s go up. You
can hardly refuse me, especially as it was an hour
drive to find your lodgings.”
Alexandra inhaled, now nauseous. She led the way
upstairs, placed her bags on the floor and unlocked her
door. As they went inside, she stole a glance at Julia
Mowbray.
The other woman’s face was grim as she looked
around the small, tidy but dismal flat. However, when
she caught Alexandra looking at her, she smiled. “You
are very brave, my dear,” she said. “And you cannot
stay here.”
Alexandra placed her bags on the counter, facing
her breathlessly. “I am afraid I have nowhere else to go.

“Nonsense. You will come to Constance Hall.”
Alexandra was alarmed. “You are inviting me to your
home?”
“Is my son not responsible for your predicament?”
Alexandra turned away, inhaling. What did this
woman want? What did her offer signify? Was she as
kind as her son was cruel? She would never accuse
Stephen of anything, especially not to his mother.
“Clarewood is not responsible,” she muttered
uncomfortably.
“Really?” Julia approached and touched her arm.
“My dear, I have heard all the rumors. I rarely heed
gossip, but obviously something has happened to
cause you to have fallen on very hard times. I also
know my son very well, and I saw him at Blanche’s, so I
suspect that Stephen’s interest in you has played a
role in your downfall. Am I right?”
Alexandra turned. “No.” She held herself proudly.
She would never reveal what had happened—to do so
was simply wrong. And she would never lay all the
blame on Stephen, not when she should have refused
his advances. As the dowager duchess looked
startled, Alexandra said, “Choices are rarely simple. I
have always felt that one should take responsibility for
one’s choices. Mine have led me to this moment, Your
Grace.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “You are a remarkable
woman. You will not blame Stephen, will you?”
“No—I blame myself.”
“You still cannot live this way.” Julia’s stare had
sharpened. “But your restraint, and lack of malice, is
commendable. Do you hate Stephen?”
Alexandra gasped. “We had a misunderstanding,”
she said slowly. God, that was such an understatement
—and so much pain remained. “But I could never hate
him.”
“Do you love him, then?”
She flushed and turned away, trembling. She was
afraid to consider the question, much less answer it.
For a moment Julia was silent, but Alexandra knew
she was staring at her back. Then she said, “Good. My
son is an exceptional man, though also a difficult one.”
Alexandra slowly turned as Julia Mowbray went on. “He
was raised to be a difficult man, Miss Bolton. His father
was cruel, cold and critical. Stephen was never loved
and never praised. When he failed in an endeavor, he
was punished, often with a fist or a riding crop. He has
learned to be hard and difficult. He has learned to be
intolerant of those in his employ, in his household, in
his life. But he is compassionate. I am certain of it. If
wrong, he will eventually realize it. And you must know
he is a champion of those who have been wronged, or
who suffer hopelessly and needlessly.”
Alexandra stared. She hadn’t known anything about
his childhood, and she cringed, thinking about any
child being so harshly treated. And she wanted to
believe that he was compassionate. Just then, she
kept recalling the warmth in his eyes as he made love
to her—his promises to be generous. And suddenly
she recalled how safe she had felt in his presence
—and in his arms. She shivered. “There is no right and
no wrong here, Your Grace,” she whispered. “And if you
are suggesting that Stephen—I mean, His Grace—will
champion me or my cause, there is nothing to
champion. Sooner or later I will work things out with my
father and return to Edgemont Way.”
“Really? Are you refusing my invitation, then?”
Alexandra trembled. She could not imagine
accepting, and not only because she was too proud to
take charity. She was not about to live with Stephen’s
mother. Not under any circumstances, particularly
these. “I cannot accept.”
Julia Mowbray started. “You are too proud to accept
my offer? You would rather remain here, as a working
woman?”
“Yes.”
“You are an unusual woman, Miss Bolton,” Julia
finally said. She picked up her gloves, which she’d laid
on the table. “I am pleased to have met you, and now
…I am not sorry you have turned me down.” Alexandra
had not a clue as to what that last remark meant. “And I
must say, I am also pleased that you are the one who
has come into Stephen’s life.”
Alexandra trembled. “I cannot understand.”
“Oh, I don’t expect you to, not yet. But you will.” And
she smiled, as if she knew something Alexandra did
not.
“YOU DO NOT HAVE TO announce me, Guillermo,”
Julia said, striding briskly past the butler.
His eyes widened. “His Grace has left strict
instructions that he is not to be disturbed, Your Grace,
and you did not send word.”
Julia was wry. “Yes, he will be put out—I have not
made an appointment, and I am interrupting some
grand scheme for a new charity. Charity does begin at
home, Guillermo.” She did not pause as she crossed
the hall, the butler hurrying after her.
“I beg your pardon?”
Though she could hardly explain, she had been
referring to Stephen’s former mistress, Alexandra
Bolton, of course, a simply amazing young woman. “Is
he in the study?”
“Yes, he is. Your Grace, please! Let me at least
announce you.”
Julia ignored him, pushing open the door to the
study, where Stephen sat at his desk, flanked by two
lawyers who also handled her own affairs on occasion.
He looked up, startled. “Mother? This is a surprise.”
“I am sure it is. I’m afraid I have an urgent matter to
discuss with you—and that I must interrupt.” She
paused, smiling.
Stephen stood warily, coming out from behind his
desk. “Is someone at death’s door?” he asked, as the
two gentlemen nodded at her and vacated the room.
“I certainly hope not.” She kissed his cheek. “I have
just met Miss Bolton.”
His face darkened. Ignoring her words, he said, “I
have been thinking about you. In fact, I have decided to
begin looking for a husband for you.”
Julia knew he meant to startle her—and change the
subject. And he succeeded. Instantly she thought of
Tyne Jefferson. It had been almost two weeks since
that afternoon when she had learned about the child he
had lost. He had called another time, but the weather
had been too poor for riding yet again, so they had
chatted while touring her stables. And when she had
shown him her horses, there had been so much
tension between them that Julia knew she hadn’t been
mistaken about his interest. Nor had she mistaken his
direct male glances.
Her heart thundered. She had been expecting him to
call on her as a suitor after that. But he hadn’t—and
how could he? She was a duchess, he an American
rancher. She was going to have to take matters into
her own hands.
And now Stephen thought to come to her rescue
—but this was not a rescue, it was a fate worse than
death! “I will not marry,” she told her son. “And I mean it,
Stephen.”
He stared. “Do not tell me you are still besotted with
that American.”
“He calls himself a Californio,” she said, unthinkingly.
Her heart raced again. “I do not think I will confide in
you again.”
“And that is a confession in itself.” Stephen stared
closely. “You seem upset. He does not return your
interest?”
“I am not discussing Jefferson with you again,” she
said. “Are you aware that Miss Bolton has been thrown
out of her home, and that she now lives in a small, dank
room, with no amenities, a room not even fit for a
vagrant, much less a gentlewoman?”
He stared. “There is no stopping you, is there? I am
aware she has taken a room at Schumacher’s Inn.” He
folded his arms, scowling. “I cannot believe that you
have thought to meddle.”
“She is living in abject poverty, Stephen,” Julia said.
“And I believe you are the cause of her downfall.”
He flushed. “That is unfair. If I were the cause, I would
make amends. However, she tried to deceive me. She
is a very clever woman, and I am sure she will manage
her current circumstances well enough.”
“I am disappointed,” Julia said, meaning it. “And I
think you had better call on her before deciding just
how well she is managing her current circumstances.”
“Randolph has already called on her! So have Lady
Blanche and Sir Rex. Now you have called—I believe
she has enough champions. My God, before I even
know it, Elysse and Ariella will visit her and blame me
for everything.”
“So you will let her starve? Sew by candlelight?
Share common bathing facilities?”
He suddenly slammed a fist onto his desk, stunning
her. “And what would you have me do? Marry her?”
Her son never lost his temper. She stared, then said,
“Is marriage to Miss Bolton on your mind?”
“Of course it’s not,” he snapped. And he returned her
regard, finally saying, “You are exaggerating her plight,
are you not?”
She was grim. “No, Stephen, I am not. It is
miserable—and unacceptable. I expect you to rectify
this.”
His only answer was to pace, his expression
resigned and grim—and reflective.
ALEXANDRA WAS BEGINNING to wonder if she was
ill. She was always tired, but then, she was not
sleeping very well.
Several days had passed since the dowager
duchess’s surprising—and incomprehensible—visit.
Alexandra remained shaken by the encounter, and she
was trying to forget it—just as she continued to try to
forget all that had happened with Stephen. But it was
impossible.
She wished the dowager duchess had been mean,
unkind and even cruel. Instead, she felt almost certain
that if she ever came to the comprehension that she
simply could not go on as she was doing, the dowager
duchess would open her home to her. And that made
no sense.
Alexandra slowly walked toward the inn. She had no
funds left—she had just used her last few shillings to
buy precious thread and enough groceries for a few
days of meals. She was owed payment by several
customers, and she was going to have to find a way of
driving out to call on the ladies and beg for what was
due her.
Two thin dogs ran past her, and Alexandra tripped.
She did not want to let go of her sewing supplies, so
she fell, letting go of the groceries instead. She landed
hard on her knees and elbow, clutching the one
precious bag. The other bag landed in a puddle of dirty
water, and three potatoes, a cabbage and an onion
rolled into the filthy street. Sitting back on her calves,
Alexandra cried out as she watched two small children
dive upon her groceries. One of the mongrels came up
to her and licked her face, wagging its tail.
She looked at the happy black-and-white face, the
dancing brown eyes, and she felt tears rise.
“Here,” a child said.
Alexandra saw a small, dirty hand holding an equally
dirty potato under her nose. She looked up and saw a
solemn little girl, her dark hair in pigtails tied with small
scraps of rags. She was razor thin. “You can have the
potato,” Alexandra said.
The girl’s eyes widened. Then she quickly turned
and ran off with her precious cargo.
Alexandra saw that the rest of the groceries were
gone and felt like crying, but she refused to do so, even
though she could not afford more, not until she was
paid. Then she looked at the dog who was sitting
beside her. “If you think there will be scraps at my table,
you are wrong.”
Alexandra was about to get up when she caught
sight of a beautiful royal-blue silk skirt, just inches from
where she sat. The fabric was expensive, and only a
lady would wear such a gown. Instantly she prayed that
one of her customers had come to offer her payment,
but she immediately knew better—her clients paid their
bills by sending a servant. She looked up.
Two extremely wealthy ladies stood there looking
down at her. One was a matron, wearing far too many
jewels, the other a breathtakingly lovely and young
blond girl. The matron stared with contempt, the girl,
with horror. Certain they knew her, and were, perhaps,
new clients, Alexandra got up awkwardly. As she did,
the girl reached out to steady her.
The matron said, “Do not touch her, Anne.”
Anne dropped her hand.
Alexandra looked at the matron. “I tripped and fell.”
“Obviously.” The woman inhaled harshly. “You must
be the infamous Miss Bolton.”
So, she was infamous now. Alexandra held the bag
of sewing supplies more tightly to her chest. “I am
Alexandra Bolton. Are you looking for me?” She
desperately hoped they were new customers.
“Yes, we were,” the matron said with absolute
condescension. “I had merely wondered if the rumors
were true that he had tossed you onto the streets. I
wanted to see for myself the trollop he chose and cast
aside—when my daughter would make a perfect
duchess. Let’s go, Anne.”
But the lovely blonde didn’t move. “Mother,” she
whispered nervously.
Alexandra followed her gaze—and her knees
buckled. Her heart pounded as shock ran through her.
Turning the corner was a huge black coach pulled by
six magnificent black horses—the Duke of
Clarewood’s red-and-gold crest emblazoned upon the
doors. What was he doing here?
For one moment she could not think, could only
stare, horrified. Then coherence began. She did not
know what he wanted, but she knew she had to run. Yet
still she could not move. Her heartbeat had become
deafening.
“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.”
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
would 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.
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
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!”
“Why not? Because I failed to hold your hand?”
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.
It was late afternoon. She’d fled to her room after
their breakfast, intent on escaping both him and the
memories of their passion, which he’d so effortlessly
aroused. But it was impossible. He was Clarewood,
and everywhere she turned, she felt his presence and
his power.
She remained in disbelief that he would approach
her yet again. That disbelief was joined by dismay
—and also panic. The sooner she escaped
Clarewood, the better, she thought.
The coach was passing the white limestone fountain
now.
She would never rekindle their affair. There was
nothing to consider. He’d had his chance and she’d
had hers, and they’d both made monumental mistakes.
They were done. She did not need a protector. And
even if she did, she would never accept Stephen in the
role, not after all that had happened, not even if some
lost, lonely part of her needed someone just then.
She tried to think about Owen, but that had become
impossible now.
Instead, the shocking passion she and Stephen had
shared kept returning to her mind, but it did not matter.
She would never forget his cruelty after. She forced
herself to recall every detail, every horrid word. She
had been filled with joy and expectation after their
lovemaking, and then he had hurt her terribly with his
false accusations.
He was hateful!
But she had lied to him.
Alexandra hugged herself. She wished he hadn’t
rescued her from her London room. She wished he’d
become a distant, blurred memory. She wished he
hadn’t fed her that delicious, desperately needed
breakfast. But he had done all of those things.
She told herself that he was a tyrant, used to having
both servants and noblemen jump to do his bidding,
and that he had no idea as to what it was like to ever
be refused. But she understood him a bit better now,
and she could see how such a difficult childhood,
coupled with the power he now had, would have turned
him into a hard, uncompromising man.
She was so nervous she felt sick. And that was
another reason to leave—the most compelling one of
all: so he wouldn’t find out about her condition. She
never wanted to be accused of being a scheming
fortune hunter again.
She could manage on her own. She would manage
on her own. There was no other choice.
She was so close to tears, confused and uncertain.
She thought about her father and, because it hurt too
much, she instantly shoved the image of him
screaming at her and throwing her out from her mind.
Despite his cruelty to her, she hoped that Olivia was
looking out for him and Corey. She so wished she was
at home with her sisters—and that she had never laid
eyes on the Duke of Clarewood.
Images, heated and frenzied, flashed through her
mind, images of her beneath him, in his powerful arms.
His blue eyes were brilliant, blinding; his smile was
warm….
She sat up straighter, staring outside. She must not
recall the passion they had shared. The elm trees lining
the long drive were now entirely red. The trees closer
to the house were red and gold. The sky was a pale
blue, but the sun was shining. She could no longer see
his coach. In a moment or so, he would be entering the
house.
Alexandra stood up. He was going to have to let her
go. There was no other choice. It was time to go back
to her tiny room. Her life was an impoverished one,
and staying here for too long would simply make the
return to reality worse.
Biting her lip, Alexandra put the embroidery aside
and stood. She paused before the mirror. Her cheeks
were flushed, her eyes bright. She’d pinned her hair
up, refusing a maid’s help, but the simple coil wasn’t
tight enough.
Dread churned in her belly, and she started
downstairs. When she reached the ground floor, she
heard male voices and knew he had company. She
tensed. She would have to delay their battle—and she
had no doubt it would indeed be a battle.
She had no intention of eavesdropping, but she
could hear exasperation in Clarewood’s tone. “You
need to rein in your wife, Alexi, and your sister.”
Good intentions forgotten, Alexandra stepped closer
to the library doors, which were completely open.
“Unlike you, I find a woman’s independence
admirable. And if Elysse has made up her mind to
thwart you, I may even cheer her on. Someone needs
to take you down, Stephen.”
Alexandra could barely believe what she thought she
was hearing—Alexi’s wife was disputing Clarewood?
And Alexi de Warenne was daring to speak to him as
an equal? She crept still closer to the door and looked
into the room.
Alexi was amused. He was a handsome man,
standing there in riding clothes, grinning. Clarewood,
however, was dangerously annoyed. “I don’t know why I
put up with all of you.”
“You put up with us because we won’t be jettisoned,
though God only knows why we put up with you and
your moods,” Alexi said amicably. He went to the
sideboard and began pouring drinks. “Have you ever
thought about the fact that you were a dour boy—and
now, you are a dour man—though thankfully not as dour
as old Tom?”
“Have you come here to insult me? My complaints
are justified. I specifically asked the ladies to find my
mother a suitable match—not to shove her at the
damned American.”
Alexi laughed. “As I said, independent minds.” He
handed Stephen a drink, and to Alexandra’s surprise,
they clicked glasses, Clarewood actually seemed to
be softening. Alexi added, “I don’t think your mother will
obey you in this particular matter. Besides, they make
a striking couple, don’t you agree?”
Clarewood choked. “Do not provoke me.”
“Why not? You are easy to provoke, and it is good
for you when you are refuted, disputed and downright
disobeyed.”
Clarewood gave him a dark look. “I gave them an
opportunity to aid me in finding the dowager duchess a
proper suitor. Now I am dismissing them from this task.

Alexi saluted him. “If they are on a trail, they will be
as eager as bloodhounds. They will not cease and
desist, my friend.”
“Lay down the law,” Clarewood said.
Alexi gave him an incredulous look, then sobered.
“By the way, Charlotte Witte was at Harmon House last
night. I hope you are finished with her. She was beyond
any pale.”
Clarewood inhaled sharply. “What did she do?”
“She told Lizzie that Alexandra Bolton ruined her
gowns, and then went on to elaborate that Miss Bolton
has been thrown out by her father and is now living in a
London slum. She was gleeful, by the by. And she
seems bent on making certain that no one will ever
give Miss Bolton their orders.” He stared. “She had
nothing pleasant to say on the subject of your latest
paramour.”
Alexandra suddenly felt so ill that she reeled and
had to grab the door frame to right herself.
“Charlotte has gone too far.” Clarewood slammed
down his drink. “I made the mistake of allowing her
back into my bed for a night or two. But I am tired of
her rumor-mongering. Miss Bolton does not deserve it.

Alexi turned and spotted Alexandra. “She most
certainly does not deserve any of this.”
She froze with dread.
Clarewood whirled, and instantly he said, “Are you ill
again?”
“No.” She straightened. “I am sorry, I did not mean to
eavesdrop, but I had thought to conclude our earlier
conversation.” She knew she flushed. Did he intend to
defend her from Charlotte Witte and her lies?
Clarewood reached her, steadying her with a firm
grasp upon her arm. She met his gaze and thought she
saw concern there, then realized she had to be wrong.
He stared carefully at her, then asked, “Do you know
my friend Alexi de Warenne? Alexi, come meet Miss
Bolton, my houseguest.”
Her heart thundered as she tore her gaze from
Her heart thundered as she tore her gaze from
Clarewood, expecting to see mockery, disdain or
contempt on Alexi’s handsome face. But he only
smiled warmly at her. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton. I
believe you have recently met my wife. She spoke very
highly of you.”
Alexandra was so surprised, she felt her knees
buckle. Clarewood grasped her again. “You need to sit
down,” he said firmly.
She turned to look at him, then said to Alexi, “I
enjoyed meeting your wife and sister, sir. It is nice to
meet you, as well.”
He kept smiling as he looked back and forth
between them, then said, “Well, I am off. I have been
told I must be home by six, and as you know, my wife
rules the roost.”
Clarewood looked at him, shaking his head.
Alexi grinned, then bowed to Alexandra. “Do not
mind this beast. Beasts can be tamed.” He walked out.
Alexandra felt as if she’d been hit by a whirlwind.
Clarewood was so different around Alexi de Warenne;
clearly they were close, and just as clearly they cared
deeply for one another. He was close to Elysse and
Ariella, too, and—most amazingly of all—he was angry
with Charlotte for her lies and attacks.
“You are staring,” he said softly.
Did that make him human after all?
When she did not speak, he said, “Have you been ill
again, Alexandra? I expect the truth this time.”
He still held her arm, she realized, and pulled away.
“I have not been ill. I have been embroidering this
afternoon, and I saw your coach return.” She breathed
in. “Mr. de Warenne is as charming as his wife.”
“Yes, he can be a charming rogue—when he wants
to be.” He left her side. Alexandra watched him pour a
small sherry, then return and hand it to her. She shook
her head, but he said, “I insist.”
She took a small sip and realized she was staring
into his dark blue eyes.
He said softly, “Have you reconsidered?”
Her heart slammed. He had meant to defend her. He
wasn’t entirely unkind. And he was beloved by some
—the de Warennes seemed to care for him, at least,
so perhaps he was not such a beast.
“I cannot,” she said, but even as she spoke, her
heart began to pound.
“Why not? You cannot deny that an attraction rages
between us, and I wish to take care of you.”
Breathlessly, she asked, “What will you do about
Charlotte?”
“She will never utter another word, malicious or
“She will never utter another word, malicious or
otherwise, about you.” His gaze turned searching.
“When I said I would be your protector, I meant it in
every possible way.”
And she believed him. Her heart lurched, racing all
over again. She trembled, aware of the rapid warming
of her body and the desire to step closer to him. If she
did, he would take her into his arms—and she would
be safe, as never before.
“I despise injustice,” he murmured. “There has been
injustice, has there not? I was terribly wrong to accuse
you of scheming to trap me into marriage.”
Tears arose. “I did not think my innocence
important,” she whispered. “I was afraid you would
walk away.”
He watched a tear fall. “Why are you crying?”
What could she say? That she had fallen in love with
him at first sight? That he had hurt her terribly? That
she missed her sisters, her home, and yes, even
Edgemont? That she dreaded returning to her hovel of
a room? That she hated being whispered about, being
scorned?
His expression softened. He slid one large hand up
her neck, then covered the side of her face. Holding
her head still, he leaned forward. “You cannot deny me
now. I want to make this right, Alexandra,” he said, and
now. I want to make this right, Alexandra,” he said, and
he kissed her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ALEXANDRA FOUND HERSELF in Clarewood’s
powerful embrace. She tensed as his mouth hovered
over hers, as his breath feathered her lips. She had
never wanted anything as much as she did his kiss
—and, frankly, his protection.
As if he knew, she felt him smile, and then he
murmured her name. Helplessly she slipped her hands
onto his shoulders. He looked at her. She looked back
—and his blue eyes were blazing.
She felt his hunger. Desire fisted through her. But
even so, she simply could not do this.
As he pulled her impossibly close, covering her
mouth with his, claiming it fiercely, possessively,
Alexandra hesitated, trying to resist him. But he kept
kissing her, and at last she cried out, tightening her
grasp on his shoulders, finally kissing him back.
He made a harsh sound.
Their mouths had fused. Now their tongues
entwined. Desire made her dizzy, hollow, almost sick.
She needed him desperately. His hands moved into
her hair, and the thick waves fell down. He turned her
and pressed her up against a wall. He pinned her
there, every inch of his hard, restless body urgent and
demanding against hers.
She had never wanted anyone this way, and in that
moment she knew it. Just as she knew she loved him,
foolishly, stupidly and, somehow, irrevocably. And that
was why this could not go on.
“Stop,” she managed, tearing her mouth from his.
He paused, his eyes widening in surprise.
“I cannot restart our affair,” she gasped, pushing at
him now. “Please, let me go.”
He was so surprised, he was speechless. Then,
reluctantly, he eased his grasp on her.
Alexandra ducked beneath his arm and moved a
goodly distance from him. She was shaking, and her
body felt as if it were in flames. But it was her heart that
hurt the most now.
“I vow to take good care of you,” he said harshly.
She turned and saw him watching her like a hawk.
She truly did not want to resist him, but she had to. He
was offering her an affair, and when it ended, her heart
would be broken. She knew that now.
“I do not blame you for mistrusting me.”
“I cannot accept your charity or your protection,” she
managed.
His gaze was solemn, searching. “I see that your
mind is made up,” he finally said. “You are a stubborn
woman. But I am a stubborn man.”
She trembled. What did that mean?
“I am also deliberate, determined and patient. Very
well. I will respect your wishes—for now.”
She gasped. “Do not think to wage another pursuit!”
She already knew she was not strong enough to resist
his advances, if he truly meant to continue them.
“You seem dismayed,” he said softly, his eyes
gleaming. “And I think we both know why that is the
case.”
She began shaking her head. “You must respect my
wishes entirely.”
He folded his arms. “You are off the hook—for now.
But I will make things right.”
“What does that mean?” she asked warily.
“You will stay here—as my respected guest. I insist.”
And he smiled.
Her heart leaped. She knew she didn’t want to leave
Clarewood, especially not to return to Mr.
Schumacher’s room; no one in her right mind would.
But still she said, “I cannot accept.”
“You can—and you will.” His smile became warm. “I
have houseguests from time to time. It is hardly
unusual.”
“Everyone knows what happened between us! My
name is already in tatters. They still whisper about me.”
His smile faded. “Didn’t I just tell you that I would
protect you—in every possible way? There will be no
more gossip. I promise you that. In fact, I will even set
the record straight and see to it that the world believes
nothing happened between us.”
She was disbelieving. He would tell a few cronies
that she was his guest and under his protection. She
had no reason to be his guest—Edgemont Way was
within two hours’ drive. And though he would tell them
that there had not been a seduction…She trembled.
“No one will believe you.”
“Probably not. But does it matter?” He was wry. “No
one disobeys me, Alexandra—except, of course, for
you. If I indicate my displeasure, this chapter ends.”
She inhaled. God, she wanted nothing more than
her good name back and the gossip to die! But though
he could probably put an end to the worst of the
gossip, she doubted that she would have her good
name back—and there would still be scorn. Maybe not
from everyone, but ladies like Charlotte Witte would
always take out their knives when they saw her. Still,
this would be a vast improvement. Society was used to
all kinds of affairs. “Why are you being kind?”
“I am not an unkind man, Alexandra, nor as heartless
as is claimed.” He studied her for a moment. “I have an
engagement tonight. Why don’t you tell Guillermo what
you wish to have for supper? Now, if you will excuse
me—seeing as I have been momentarily rejected, I
have some reading to do.”
She simply stared.
He gestured at the door.
Alexandra realized he meant to read there in the
library, and that he had just dismissed her. Still
stupefied by every moment of their encounter, she
rushed for the doors. When she paused to glance back
at him, he was already at his desk, reading a stack of
papers. He was absorbed, and he did not look up.
Her heart stalled. If only she could have accepted his
offer…if only she’d had the courage to do so.
He glanced up.
Alexandra fled.
THE NEXT MORNING Alexandra learned that Stephen
was an early riser.
She didn’t know what time he had returned last
night, because she’d gone to sleep at midnight, and he
had yet to come in. She hadn’t exactly been waiting up
for him—she had been reading a novel in bed—but
she had been acutely aware of the fact that he was
absent. Reading had proven impossible, as he was
front and center in her mind. She kept thinking about
their conversation and that stunning kiss—and what he
wanted from her now. She worried about how she
would shore up her defenses against him, when she
hardly wanted to—when she had such inappropriate
feelings for him. It had been strange going to bed in
that luxurious guest room, but it had been wonderful,
too. She had almost felt cared for. She had to remind
herself that he merely desired her, which was a far
different thing.
How could she have fallen in love with him?
Because there was no other explanation for her wild,
turbulent emotions, her inescapable memories and her
intense, undying preoccupation with him. All told, they
had shared a few hours together. In sum, she hardly
knew him. And for all the shared good times, there had
been so much that was bad and hurtful. On the other
hand, love was always inexplicable. One did not ever
choose love—love chose its victims. And hadn’t she
heard that he’d left a trail of broken hearts across the
country? Undoubtedly she was hardly the first foolish
woman to take a single look at him and fall headlong in
love.
She wished her errant feelings would vanish, but she
was terribly aware of them now.
Alexandra started downstairs, trembling with
uncertainty and anticipation. It was eight o’clock in the
morning. She hadn’t seen him since their last
conversation, when he had said he would momentarily
respect her wishes, and that she would remain at
Clarewood as his guest. Guests would join their host
for breakfast and politely chat about any number of
mundane subjects. She hoped he expected her to join
him. Foolishly, she looked forward to the encounter,
even while cautioning herself that he must never know
how she felt about him.
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 person.”
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?”
He could not mean this, she thought, trembling.
He stared at her when she did not answer. “You
remain a handsome woman, Alexandra, and I am sure
he will reward you well.”
She did not want to become sick now, but it was so
hard to breathe, and her stomach churned.
“Well? Will you help us? Or will you abandon your
family now?”
It was so hard to speak. “I will try to help,” she said
harshly.
Edgemont stared. She stared back, her vision
blurred. She wasn’t sure when she had started crying.
“I don’t know why you’re crying. You are living like a
queen.”
She was crying because her heart was broken. Her
father had asked her to prostitute herself. And she had
agreed. “Yes…I am…I don’t feel well, Father. I think I
must lie down.”
“You don’t look well,” he said, “and it is a long ride
back home, so I should go.”
Alexandra did not know how she managed to show
him to the door, then stand there waving, a smile
plastered on her face, until he was gone. She vaguely
heard Guillermo ask her if she was ill, and if he could
get her something. She did not know what she said.
Somehow she made it up to her room and crawled into
the bed. The anger was gone. There was only
heartache. She cried.
“What is wrong?” Clarewood asked quietly.
She hadn’t heard anyone come in. She wouldn’t
have let anyone come in, not when she was so undone,
so grief-stricken, and especially not Clarewood. She
sat bolt upright, wiping her eyes, keeping her back to
the doorway where he stood.
“Alexandra? Guillermo said you were ill. I did knock,
but you did not hear me, and the door was wide-open.”
She fought to control her heart, to somehow pull the
sheared pieces back together, to mend them swiftly, so
he would never know what had happened. She used
her sleeve to wipe more tears as she heard his
footsteps. She somehow squared her shoulders and
turned to face him.
He was expressionless, but his gaze was riveted to
her tear-streaked face. “What is wrong? Why are you
crying? Guillermo said Edgemont was here.”
She choked hard. “I’m fine,” she gasped. “I need a
moment, that is all.”
“You are not fine. And I am guessing that your
father’s call was not a pleasant one.”
She realized that his gaze had gone very hard
—frighteningly so.
“If you tell me what is wrong,” he added, more softly,
“perhaps I can fix it.”
She heard hysterical laughter erupt—along with a
sob.
He sat down beside her on the bed, clasping her
shoulders, his gaze boring into hers.
“He wants me to whore myself out to you,” she said.
Tears blinded her. “He needs fifteen hundred pounds.”
His expression tightened. “I see.”
She tried to turn away from him—instead, his grasp
tightened. She looked up at him and was surprised by
the anger she saw simmering in his gaze.
“I am not angry with you,” he said softly. “But I am
disgusted with Edgemont—not for the first time.”
“He is my father! I…Despite everything, I love him.”
His face tightened even more. “Of course you do. It’s
your duty to love him. Just as it was your duty to obey
him and care for him. I will give you the money,
Alexandra.”
“No,” she insisted. “I can’t take it.”
He caught her face in his hands. “Then I will give it to
Edgemont myself,” he said, his gaze searing. “Damn
it!” And he kissed her.
She went still. As his mouth moved over hers, some
of the terrible grief lessened. The need to be in his
arms surged as never before. He was her safest
haven. She knew that now. And then he pulled back
and looked at her—and his eyes seemed filled with
anguish, as if he was sorry for her, as if he understood.
Desire exploded in her, shocking in its intensity.
“Stephen.”
He was looking at her, and his eyes blazed, the
desire she saw there mirroring her own. He still held
her face, and now he kissed her slow and deep and
thoroughly.
She closed her eyes and began to cry, even as
pleasure washed through her.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered.
Her mouth opened for him, encouraging him now,
her hands seeking his shoulders.
He grunted, deepening the kiss. Alexandra threw her
arms around him, holding on to him tightly, hoping to
never let go. I love you, she thought. I love you so
much.
“I have missed you,” he said hoarsely.
She thought she had misheard, but she didn’t care.
She touched his high cheekbone, his strong jaw.
“Make love to me.”
His eyes blazed, and he moved over her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SHE HAD FALLEN ASLEEP, and now, as she
blinked, she was aware that it was nighttime. She
instantly recalled their making love several times, their
passion shocking and frenzied. She was Stephen’s
lover again.
She sat up, clutching the down covers to her chin.
He’d turned two lamps on, and now he stood on the
other side of the room, tucking his shirt into his
trousers. Her heart leaped wildly. She was so deeply in
love, and he had been so kind about her father. She
inhaled, not wanting to think about that catastrophic
interview. He was facing the mirror, and instantly he
turned to gaze at her.
Her heart hammered wildly. She prayed that he
would be as kind now as he had been before. From
this distance, in the dimly lit bedroom, it was
impossible to see his expression. Too well, she
recalled what had happened the last and only time they
had been together.
He slipped on his silver brocade waistcoat and
approached. Although anxious, watching him gave her
so much pleasure, and joy burgeoned. She tried to
control it.
He paused by her hip. His mouth was soft, his eyes
were warm, and his gaze was searching. She let the
joy blossom.
She didn’t know what to say, and she was hardly
used to being naked in a bed, much less after
lovemaking, so she tried to smile. Instantly he smiled
back. And to her surprise, he said softly, “Do you wish
to remain abed? I don’t mind if you want to sleep.”
She hesitated. The joy was beginning to wash fully
over her now. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost nine.” His gaze moved slowly over her
features, causing her to warm and blush. “You are a
very beautiful sight like this, Alexandra.”
She thrilled. And now she thought perhaps he really
had told her that he had missed her. “I am an old
spinster, and you know it.”
His mouth curved. “Really? You are younger than I
am, and I do not consider myself old.”
She smiled back at him, so oddly happy now.
His smile vanished. “Do you have regrets?”
She tensed, her own smile fading. “Will there be
hurtful and hateful accusations?”
“No.”
She sat up higher, holding the covers as modestly
as possible. “Then how can I have regrets, Your
Grace?” She wanted to use his name but didn’t quite
dare, though she’d used it once or twice during
moments of the most extreme passion. She blushed
now.
“Not ‘Your Grace.’ Just Stephen,” he said softly,
sinking down to sit at her hip. “And I believe we have
sealed our agreement, have we not?”
She tensed. If he offered her a check now, she
would be dismayed—no, horrified—to be paid for what
they had shared. Because this did not feel like an
agreement or an arrangement—not at all. Yet her father
desperately needed money and Olivia must not marry
Denney. “I do not think I can go backward,” she said
softly.
“Good.” His gaze roamed over her face. “And you
feel better…I hope?”
She tensed, afraid he was referring to her father. “Of
course I do.”
His smile came, then went. “I don’t want you to worry
about anything.” His gaze intensified. “I am going to
take care of Edgemont.”
She felt relief—and alarm. “He is my problem, not
yours,” she said.
“Really?” His gaze kept moving over her face.
“Because when I extend my protection, I do so without
parameters or limits.” He slid his hand onto her hip,
leaning closer. “Surely you must know that,” he
murmured.
Desire reared up, sudden, intense and shocking.
She could not take anything from him now. If she did,
he would not understand that she had come to love
him. But at the same time, she was worried about
Olivia.
“You remain sad.”
There was no escaping the topic, she thought. “No
matter what he has said, or what he has done, he is my
father.”
He pressed his mouth against her neck. “I know.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant to do. But he
was rubbing his lips over the tense cords of her throat,
making her start to forget that afternoon.
“I want you,” he said softly.
Alexandra sighed.
THE CLAREWOOD COACH turned onto a very rutted,
ill-kempt drive. Bracing himself against a safety strap,
jouncing hard, Stephen stared out the window at the
small, two-story house where Alexandra had lived. The
grounds were bare and neglected, the front lawns
mostly mud, and the barn behind the house was
tumbledown and possibly in danger of collapsing. He
was certain that once he went inside, her home would
be as poorly kept. He had seen much worse—single
rooms with no lights or windows, housing extended
families, at once so crowded one could not move and
so dirty one could not breathe. But his tension
escalated anyway.
Alexandra deserved palatial living arrangements,
and he was pleased he could provide them for her.
His heart felt as if it had lurched, and it was so oddly
warm inside the coach. He had a disturbing suspicion
that his heart was trying to tell him something,
something impossible and unlikely, and he refused to
listen to it. Because it was impossible that he had
come to genuinely care for her, wasn’t it? He was a
cold, heartless man. He was not capable of love. Not
because society accused him of as much, but because
he had been shaped in old Tom’s image.
Yet his heart raced, and it felt genuinely buoyant. He
couldn’t quite recall ever feeling this way, at once so
satisfied, and so pleased—so happy. He wondered if
he was smitten—and if so, if he was becoming a
besotted fool, like Alexi and his other de Warenne
cousins.
A de Warenne loves once and it is forever. He
tensed. He was very familiar with that old family adage,
but he was certain he was the exception to that
particular de Warenne rule.
He did not want to analyze his strange feelings. He
was simply glad he had come to his senses about
Alexandra and rescued her from that horrid urban slum.
He would always feel guilty for triggering the events
that had put her in such horrific circumstances, but at
least he was making amends.
He softened in a way he once would have
considered impossible as he thought about her, even
as he stared at the ramshackle house and dilapidated
grounds. She was such a proud and responsible
woman, and he knew, without having to be told, that
living like this, in poverty, with a drunken father and two
dependent and unwed sisters, had been a terrible
drain on her. Hadn’t she mentioned that she’d turned
down a love match in order to care for her sisters? The
tension in him grew. That had been a long time ago,
but even so, he hadn’t cared to examine how much she
had once loved another man.
He was certain that Alexandra had not given her
heart lightly. She might even be the kind of woman to
love once and forever, like his relations. On the other
hand, he was certain she felt something for him.
His heart stirred. He wanted her fiercely attached to
him, and fiercely loyal. Perhaps, after a few more
nights of excessive passion, she would be thoroughly
besotted with him. He intended to make it so.
He did not want her having fond, secret and loving
memories of someone else.
His coach had almost reached the front of the
house, and he grasped the safety strap more tightly.
He wasn’t certain when he had first begun to admire
her. Perhaps it had been that first evening at
Harrington Hall, when she had held her head high in
spite of the vicious gossip. But his admiration for her
was growing by leaps and bounds, more so each and
every day. In fact, he wasn’t certain he had ever met
anyone as strong, adept and determined. They had
more in common than anyone would ever suspect.
He rarely had regrets, but he had many of them now.
He was sorry he had so badly misjudged her, and that
she had suffered so much in direct consequence of
that. But that chapter was over now. This was a new
beginning for them. If he could institute justice for her,
he would. Starting with taking care of Edgemont and
her sisters. That was the least that he could do.
The coach had halted in front of the house. Now that
she was his mistress, he would give her all that she
deserved. He looked forward to showering her with
amenities he never even thought about: lavish meals,
fine wine, silk sheets and hot baths, a new wardrobe,
shopping excursions, vacations in France and Italy.
And he looked forward to showering her with jewels.
His footman opened the door, interrupting his
thoughts, reminding him to watch out for mud puddles.
Stephen thanked him and stepped down from the
carriage.
The front door of the house opened.
He met the gazes of her two sisters, who were wideeyed
with shock. He instantly started forward as the
younger one, Corey, cried, “Is something wrong? Is
Alexandra all right?”
“She is fine,” he called out, increasing his stride. He
had treated her cruelly and unfairly, but he was making
amends now. On the other hand, his treatment of her
was nothing like Edgemont’s. He despised the other
man. Having reached the front steps, he bowed to the
young ladies. “Good afternoon. Your sister is fine, but I
have some business matters to discuss with your
father.”
Olivia was staring intensely at him now, her cheeks
flushed. “Please, do come in. I am sorry, I do not know
what has come over me.” She stepped aside so he
could enter the house, obviously flustered.
He smiled at her. “I could have sent word, but I’m
afraid I decided the matter is a rather urgent one.”
Olivia’s green gaze was searching. He was a good
judge of character, and he knew that she was a
sensible, intelligent young woman, in some ways very
much like her older sister. He sensed a deep strength
of mind and character. The younger one, however,
seemed far too innocent for someone so beautiful, and
very impulsive. It crossed his mind that both sisters
needed husbands.
He stepped into a clean and tidy but very shabby
parlor. The upholstered furnishings were tired, torn and
worn, as were the draperies. The rug in the center of
the sitting area was threadbare. The wood floors were
scratched, and a few planks were chipped. The walls
needed both paint and plaster. One chair sat on a
broken leg.
“Corey, get Father and make tea,” Olivia said,
staring uncertainly at him as the younger girl ran
upstairs. “Why didn’t Alexandra come with you?”
“I believe she has a great deal of sewing to do
today.” Olivia looked disbelieving, but he could hardly
tell her that Alexandra remained asleep in his bed.
“Why don’t you and your sister call sometime soon? I
am sure my chef would be delighted to serve you all a
very pleasant luncheon, and I happen to know that your
sister misses you both—she would be thrilled to see
you.”
Olivia hesitated, wetting her lips, the gesture so
familiar. He realized then that she would love nothing
more—and suspected that their father had refused to
let the girls visit. His temper rose, as it did every time
he thought of Edgemont. He reined it in with some
difficulty.
Just then the subject of his thoughts came ambling
downstairs behind his youngest daughter, clearly
having hastily shoved on his jacket. He looked every bit
the drunk that he was and as if he’d had a bad night
—he was unshaven and unkempt.
Stephen looked at Olivia. “I do not wish to be
interrupted.”
She curtsied, took Corey’s hand and hurried down
the hall. Stephen closed the door behind them and
looked at Edgemont with utter contempt. The baron
bowed, however, smiling obsequiously. “Your Grace! I
did not expect you. Had I done so, I would have been
up and about, and preparations would have been
made for your call.”
“Don’t bother trying to placate me,” Stephen said,
rigid with anger. “I will get right to the point. You are
never to call on Alexandra again. You are never to
speak to her in an unkind manner, you are never to
suggest that she must perform any kind of service in
order to provide for you—and you are never to ask her
for funds. Do I make myself clear?”
Edgemont paled. “You are mistaken, Your Grace,”
he began.
He realized his fist was clenched and that he was a
mere moment from striking the man. He, who never hit
anyone—except, occasionally, Alexi. He trembled and
fought for control.
“She is my daughter. I would never be unkind or—”
“Shut up,” Stephen said harshly.
Edgemont shut his mouth instantly.
“She is under my protection, and no one mistreats
anyone under my protection. Have I made myself
clear?”
The older man nodded, ashen.
“How much do you owe?”
“What?”
“I believe you heard me, Edgemont.” Stephen knew
his stare was so hateful that if looks could kill, the
baron would have keeled over.
Flushing, Edgemont mumbled, “About a thousand
pounds, give or take a guinea or two.”
“You will give me all your bills. I am going to pay
them for you.”
Edgemont gaped. “They are in the library, Your
Grace.”
“Do not move. There is more. I will be providing an
income for you and your two daughters. The funds are
to be used exclusively for food, clothing and daily
expenses—not for poker games and roulette, for horse
racing or for liquor. I am warning you, sir. If I find that
you misuse the monthly allowance, I will have you
removed from these premises and thrown in debtors’
prison. Do you understand me?”
Edgemont said, “I do, Your Grace, I do, and I am
delighted, truly delighted, but surely I will have some
small sum with which to go out at night?”
Stephen’s disgust was boundless. The man was
sick. He would never be able to restrain himself, but
Stephen had no intention of supporting his gaming or
drinking. And while he knew he could never put
Edgemont in jail, he could remove the sisters from his
keeping. And if the man reverted to type, that would
probably be for the best, he thought. Still, there was no
harm in repeating a good threat. “If you abuse my good
will, you will find yourself behind bars.”
“I understand,” Edgemont replied.
And because he knew the girls were at the door,
undoubtedly pressing their ears to it and
eavesdropping, Stephen said, “Ladies, please come
in.”
The door opened, and the two stunned young
women walked forward, their eyes riveted on him.
He smiled and handed Olivia a very large check.
“This is for new wardrobes and any other necessities
that you and your sister might need.”
She didn’t even look at it. Instead, tears came to her
eyes. “We cannot possibly accept this,” she
whispered, reminding him so much of her sister.
Corey jabbed her with her elbow and said quickly,
“Thank you so much, Your Grace.”
SHE WAS A KEPT woman now.
Alexandra smiled, unashamed, tingling right down to
her toes. In fact, she was filled with joy and happiness.
Stephen’s handsome image was engraved on her
mind. In it he was smiling, his eyes warm. They were
lovers now—and she was deeply and irrevocably in
love with him, as well.
It was midday, and she was working on one of Lady
Henredon’s older gowns, a very lovely Parisian couture
creation of lace and chiffon. It was hard to concentrate.
Several days had passed, days that felt like a dream
come true, days in which she wandered about
Clarewood very much like its mistress, while being
thoroughly well loved at night. She did not feel like a
mistress or, worse, a fallen woman. Oh, no. She felt
like a bride.
She had to pinch herself, because she knew this
was not a fairy tale, that she was not a bride, and that
there would not be a happily-ever-after ending. But that
knowledge could not change her feelings—feelings
that seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds.
She’d fallen in love with him before taking up her
place in his bed again, but her love seemed to intensify
with every passing moment. And how could it not, when
he treated her like a wife, and when even his entire
staff was reverent and deferential to her? The chef had
begun asking her to plan the day’s menus. The
housekeeper had begun to ask her which linens she
preferred. Her own personal maid would ask her which
of the new gowns he had insisted she buy she
intended to wear for supper, and which for the next day.
How could she not feel like a cherished bride? And
most of all, it felt as if this interlude would last forever
—as if he loved her, just a little, in return.
It was so hard to chide herself for thinking that. And
her warmth increased as she thought of how he’d
awoken her before dawn to make love again, this time
slowly and tenderly, before he left for a midday meeting
in Manchester. He’d even kissed her goodbye.
Alexandra paused in her sewing, smiling. He was
such an extraordinary man.
She was living in a fairy tale with her own prince
charming.
How had she ever thought him a cruel, unkind man?
He had devoted his life to alleviating the misery of
others. She had quickly come to realize that as much
as he revered his duty to Clarewood, which was bound
up with his sense of duty to his deceased father, the
success of his philanthropies was even more important
to him.
They had fallen into a routine, with each of them
going about their affairs by day, and then sitting down
together to a wonderfully intimate supper in the
evening. He had stopped going out to attend other
social engagements, though she knew those
engagements existed—after all, he was a premier
peer and had many social obligations. Yet ever since
their relationship had changed, he had stayed in every
single night to be with her.
She knew the time would soon come when he would
begin going out again—more evenings than not, no
doubt—and she told herself that she did not care. She
refused to think about spending the evenings alone at
Clarewood while he went out, or the fact that if she
were a bride, she would be going out with him.
And he was as generous as he had said he would
be. Alexandra looked down at her raspberry silk gown.
It was the loveliest dress she had ever worn.
A week ago a very famous seamstress had
appeared with two assistants, informing her that His
Grace had insisted an entire wardrobe be made for
her. She had tried to refuse. They had scattered the
loveliest, costliest fabrics she had ever seen about the
drawing room, making it so hard to breathe, so
shocked had she been by the lavish display. She had
itched to touch the gorgeous bolts of silk and chiffon, of
satin and velvet. But she had refrained. Then they had
piled up equally lavish samples of stunning and
expensive trims. Alexandra had been in disbelief—why
would he spend such a fortune on her? She had spent
would he spend such a fortune on her? She had spent
the day trying to refuse each and every suggestion, but
in the end, if she so much as indicated that she liked
something, the seamstress instantly decided to make
a day dress or an evening gown from it. Five dresses
and an evening gown had already been delivered.
Clearly an entire team of seamstresses had been
sewing ever since the day of the fitting.
But one terrible problem loomed. She hadn’t told
him about the child.
Alexandra instantly felt ill. He hadn’t seemed to
notice the ongoing nausea. Surely he would have said
something if he had. Not a morning passed that she
did not rush off to find a chamber pot, but he was
already downstairs by then—or off the grounds and on
his way to town. She cleaned the pots herself, though
she thought her personal maid knew what was going
on. He had accused her of deception once, but the
deception she was now engaged in was far worse than
misleading him about her innocence. A child’s life and
future were at stake.
She did not know what to do. She thought every
single day about the child she was carrying and his
right to know about it. But even though it seemed like a
faraway memory, she hadn’t forgotten his rage when
he’d thought her a scheming fortune hunter. She never
wanted to be accused and hurt that way again. She
had been so certain he would think the child a plot to
trap him into marriage if she revealed her condition to
him. Now, she was not so sure. Now she wondered if
he might understand that it had been a fateful accident.
Now she wondered if he might continue their affair,
even knowing she was pregnant.
She did not want to lose him—not yet.
He had every right to know that he would be a father.
And he would be a wonderful father, she had no doubt.
Her son or daughter had every right to the benefits of
having the Duke of Clarewood as a father. She
believed that with all her heart and all her being. But
when she told him, their relationship might end. If he
thought she was trying to manipulate him yet again, it
would certainly be over.
Alexandra was so deeply in love that she could
hardly imagine their relationship ending. Yet she hadn’t
lost every shred of common sense that she
possessed. He would learn the truth in a few more
months, when her condition became obvious.
And since he was going to find out about the child
sooner or later, it was becoming clear that she should
tell him now. It would relieve her conscience. It was the
right thing to do. Still, she remained afraid of how he
might react. If he could accept the news, she would
cling to their affair until he lost interest in her.
This might feel like love, and for her it might actually
be love, but in truth it was only an arrangement, though
Stephen made it so easy to forget.
Now Alexandra stood and stretched. She’d turned a
small withdrawing room on the ground floor into her
sewing room. She rubbed her aching back and walked
over to the window. As she looked outside, she saw an
oddly familiar carriage parked in front of the house.
Tension instantly began to roil in her stomach.
Stephen was gone for the day, and she could not
greet his callers. She stared, suddenly grim. She would
have to hide until Guillermo sent the visitor away. So
much for feeling like a beloved bride.
She was surprised when Guillermo knocked, the
sound now familiar to her. She hurried to the door,
thinking that there must be a problem. “What is it?”
“You have callers, Lady St. Xavier and Mrs. de
Warenne.”
She blanched. “No, that’s impossible—they must be
calling on the duke.”
“The ladies have explicitly stated that they are calling
on you.”
Her alarm was instantaneous. “Send them away!”
“May I suggest you entertain them in the Gold Room,
Miss Bolton?”
She was shocked. In the entire week and a half that
she had been at Clarewood, Guillermo had never
offered an opinion, much less advice. “No good will
come of this.”
“To the contrary, His Grace is very fond of both
young ladies, and I believe he would insist you take
their call.” He left.
Alexandra was dumbfounded. She took a breath
and decided that he would never have said such a
thing if he did not believe it. And she was filled with
dread—while she had liked both women, she couldn’t
imagine why they had called. She hadn’t thought about
it, but the entire town had to know that she was living at
Clarewood, and the most vicious gossips like Lady
Witte would surely be accusing her of being Stephen’s
mistress. He might have quelled some gossip, but their
affair could not be a secret now.
Ariella and Elysse were in the Gold Room when she
arrived, chatting about someone she did not know, a
cousin named Margery. Instantly both women turned to
her, smiling as if they were thrilled to see her.
She was relieved, but she was cautious, too,
wondering if the daggers would soon appear. “Good
afternoon,” she said carefully. “It is so pleasant to see
you both again. But I am afraid that His Grace is not in
at the moment.”
“We know,” Elysse said, smiling. “But we are here to
see you, and this call is long overdue. We wanted to
make certain that Stephen is treating you well. You
seem to be in one piece—one very lovely piece,
actually.”
Alexandra tensed. What did the other woman
mean?
“Actually, we are going shopping,” Ariella said,
stepping forward. She gave Elysse a quelling look.
“And we decided that you must join us.”
“Do you want to go shopping? Stephen will hardly
mind, and he is gone for the day, anyway. Although he
can be so difficult,” Elysse said. “By the way, we think
you are very brave to be putting up with him. He is
renowned as a terrible host.”
Alexandra started.
“He rarely has guests here, and when he does, they
do not stay for very long,” Ariella explained. “It is not
that he shows rudeness or ill will, but he is too
preoccupied to entertain. Though he is intolerant of
those who overstay their welcome.”
They were trying to ascertain the extent of her
relationship, Alexandra decided. “He has been an
excellent host,” she said carefully.
Both women seemed delighted by her response.
When they simply smiled and did not speak, she
added, “I’m sure you have heard that I had a falling out
with my father. The duke was kind enough to suggest
that I stay here until I could make other arrangements.”
Elysse sobered. “That is awful, about your having to
leave your home,” she said. “We are both so sorry.
However, we are pleased that you have not joined in
the universal condemnation of Stephen as a host.”
“I would never speak ill of him,” Alexandra said
tersely.
“Apparently he is capable of being a good host
—when he wants to be,” Elysse said with a smile.
Ariella said softly, “He must be smitten.”
Alexandra tensed and bit her lip. She did not know
what to say. Surely they knew she was his lover, not
truly his guest. Yet these women were acting as if there
was nothing wrong with her being Stephen’s mistress.
“He is a gentleman,” she finally said. “He is kind…a
pleasing and thoughtful host. If I have overstayed my
welcome, I have not noticed it.”
The two women exchanged another glance, both
remaining delighted. Then Ariella laughed. “You are
clearly welcome here. Very few know how kind he is,
Miss Bolton. His reputation is that he is cold,
demanding, difficult and heartless. And I will admit that
with most people he is very autocratic and rude.
Clearly he has changed.”
“And you have not lost patience with him,” Elysse
added.
Alexandra’s cheeks were on fire, and she was
breathing with some difficulty. Did they expect a
confession? “I doubt anyone would be foolish enough
to lose patience with His Grace.”
“I lose patience with him all the time. Stephen can
be a boor. He can also be boring,” Ariella stated.
Alexandra felt her eyes widen. “He is far too clever
to ever be boring, and he is actually charming,” she
began, then stopped abruptly.
“Well, I am very glad—” Elysse grinned “—to see
you in such good spirits, and so utterly loyal. You must
be terribly good for him.”
Alexandra was speechless.
Ariella looped their arms together. “Miss Bolton, I
have known Stephen since he was nine years old, and
he and my brother are best friends. We are thrilled that
he has finally found someone as genuine as you to light
up his dark, dreary life.”
Alexandra pulled away. “I don’t know what you
mean!”
“We knew he was uncommonly interested in you
when he helped your father home at Sara’s birthday
party,” Elysse said. “Because we know Stephen so
well, and he would not have bothered otherwise.”
She felt helpless—as if being pushed along by a
huge gale into a confession she did not want to make.
“I had nowhere to go, as I said. He was kind enough to
offer me accommodations, that is all.”
“Good,” Ariella said. “As it was his fault you wound
up booted in the first place—was it not? He is
honorable. So he did what was right.”
Alexandra sat down, only to realize she was being
rude, as she hadn’t allowed her guests to sit first. If she
confessed her feelings to these two women, would they
laugh at her? Mock her? Scorn her? She was
beginning to think they were genuinely pleased that
she was carrying on with Stephen.
Ariella sat down beside her on the sofa and took her
hand. “Love is such a strange bedfellow. When I first
laid eyes on Emilian, it was all over for me—though I
thought him a Romany vaida! I was smitten, besotted,
obsessed, never mind that he was partly Roma and my
father disapproved. And it was a difficult journey, one
that, at times, seemed impossible. But he is the love of
my life,” she said happily, and squeezed Alexandra’s
hand.
“I was eight when I first met Alexi,” Elysse said
cheerfully, sitting down on the other side of Alexandra.
“I thought he was the most dashing boy I had ever seen
—and the most annoying! We spent our childhood
years trying to impress or outright ignore one another
—until he rescued me from scandal and then
abandoned me at the altar. But we found our way back
to one another, and I could not live without him,” she
said, smiling.
Alexandra had to smile. Her heart was racing now.
Those were beautiful love stories—so unlike her own.
But they clearly knew she was Stephen’s lover and
even seemed to know that she loved him—and to
approve. “But this is wrong!” she burst out. “Why don’t
you condemn me?”
“Because we like you,” Elysse said firmly. “I liked
you the moment we met. And we love Stephen
—enough to worry about him. And sometimes there is
writing on the wall.” She grinned.
Alexandra did not have a clue as to what she meant.
“Besides, love can be so impatient,” Ariella said,
somewhat wickedly. “Good, now that is settled.” She
stood. “Come on. We are going into town, I need
gloves, and Elysse needs clothing for her baby. You
can accompany us—I am sure there is something you
might wish to buy. And don’t worry, if we come across
any jackals, we will fend them off for you.”
“Better yet,” Elysse said, “we will send them to
Stephen, and he will dispatch them for us.”
Alexandra bit her lip, hard. It seemed that she had
somehow made two new and wonderful friends.
ALEXANDRA HURRIED downstairs, hoping to catch
Stephen before he became too involved in his daily
affairs. The girls had kept her out past supper last
night; she had gotten home at half past nine. He had
been in the library, reading contracts, having delayed
supper until she returned. He had seemed pleased that
she had spent the afternoon with the two women, and
had refused to let her apologize. And then they had
forgotten about supper. He’d pulled her close, and
they’d made love on the rug, in front of the fire.
Eventually they’d gone up to bed, and this morning
she had overslept. It was half past ten. She ran down
the hall just as Stephen stepped into the corridor. Not
for the first time, they practically collided, but he caught
her and steadied her.
She let him pull her close. “We didn’t speak last
night except for a moment, and I was afraid you’d be
gone by the time I came downstairs.”
He slid his hand up to the nape of her neck and into
her loosely coiled hair. “I wasn’t in the mood to
converse last night—as you well know.”
She blushed. He had been so terribly amorous. “I
meant to send word that I would be late. I never meant
for you to wait on me—and to miss supper. I am sorry,
Stephen.”
His smile was indolent. “I said I didn’t mind, and I
never say what I don’t mean. In fact, I am glad Elysse
and Ariella got you out of the house. You never said
—was it an enjoyable day?”
She nodded. “I did not buy anything, but I helped
Elysse choose her baby things.” She stopped.
He stared.
She was uneasy. When she made those kinds of
slips, she had the distinct sensation that he knew she
was with child. But if he knew, he would confront her,
she was certain.
He broke the tension. “Were you treated well?”
She was relieved by the question. “The
shopkeepers treated me like royalty, Stephen.”
He smiled, pleased. “Then maybe you will start
going out more often. And why didn’t you make any
purchases? Didn’t you see anything you liked?”
She bit her lip. How could she tell him that she would
never feel comfortable using his credit?
He pulled her close. “I thought so. It would please
me, Alexandra, if you went shopping. In fact, it would
please me very much if you spent an excessive amount
on yourself.”
She had to smile back at him. “I think you mean it.”
“I do,” he murmured. Then, “Come into the library
with me.”
His eyes were so warm that for a moment, she
thought he meant to make love to her there in the bright
light of midmorning. But a moment later he was
opening a locked desk drawer. He straightened to face
her, and she could not see what he was holding. “It is
my pleasure to give this to you, Alexandra.”
He held out a velvet-covered jeweler’s box. As he
opened it, she glimpsed a diamond bracelet inside
and, for one moment, thought it was the one he had
tried to give her when they had first met, after the
Harrington ball.
But then he lifted out the bracelet, and she saw it
was far different—it was even more stunning and
costly. She knew her eyes were huge.
“I want you to have this,” he said roughly,
approaching, and began placing it on her wrist.
She came out of her shock. She had never seen so
many large diamonds. “Stephen…how can I accept
this?”
“You can—and you will,” he said firmly, fixing the
clasp. His gaze met hers. “It is a token of my affection
—my admiration—my respect.”
She inhaled—and tears flooded her eyes.
He tilted up her chin. “Remember, I never say what I
do not mean.”
She trembled, crying. This was not a payment for
services rendered—it was a token of his affection. And
he admired her. He respected her. “I love it,” she
whispered, thinking, I love you.
He slowly smiled, keeping her face tilted toward his,
and slowly, his mouth feathered over hers. “I believe
you are turning me into a shamelessly content man.”
She was so moved, she was speechless.
And then he glanced past her, at the window.
Alexandra followed his gaze—and saw her old, tired
carriage outside, with Ebony in the traces. “My sisters
have finally come to visit!”
He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her on
the mouth. “Make sure they stay for lunch. I’ll see you
later.”
“No, wait.” She clasped his beautiful face in her
hands and kissed him fiercely. “I do not deserve such
jewels. But I love it!”
He smiled. “Go greet your sisters. And, Alexandra?
Enjoy yourself.”
Alexandra barely heard him now. She tore free,
lifting her skirts so she could run. She raced through
the house as swiftly as she dared, and when she
reached the front hall, Olivia and Corey were just
handing off their coats. They cried out as she skidded
into the front hall, and everyone embraced wildly. Tears
of joy filled Alexandra’s eyes. “I have missed you so!”
“I have missed you, too,” Corey said, hugging her
hard one more time. “You are so elegant! Look at that
dress.” Then she saw the bracelet. “Oh, Alexandra!”
“He just gave it to me, as a token of his affection and
respect,” she managed.
Olivia held her hands, clinging, her eyes wide. “It is
gorgeous—and you are so beautiful. You are radiant
—as never before.” Her gaze held Alexandra’s, and it
was searching now.
“I have hardly changed,” Alexandra said, but she
flushed as she spoke, her eyes still moist. She was an
entirely different woman now—and they both knew it.
“He is good to you, isn’t he? You are so happy—I
can see it in your eyes,” Olivia said softly.
Alexandra cupped her cheek, as Corey said, “He
came to Edgemont Way. He set Father down and gave
him a list of things he must never do again—including
being rude to you!”
Alexandra gasped, stunned.
Olivia took her hand back. “He has given us a very
generous monthly allowance. The pantry is full, as is
the hay storage, and we have ordered three new
gowns each.”
She reeled. Look at what Stephen had done for her
family.
“He is a good man, isn’t he?” Corey asked, her
gaze intent and searching. “He must love you very
much, to take such good care of us, and to put Father
down the way he did—and to give you that stunning
bracelet.”
Alexandra froze. What if Stephen loved her? Was it
possible? This is a token of my affection—my
admiration—my respect. She thrilled. “He is generous
by nature,” she managed. Then, swallowing, “I do
believe he is fond of me.”
“Fond?” Corey echoed. And she looked at Olivia,
who returned her glance. Instantly, Alexandra knew that
they had a secret.
Olivia said softly, “Are you in love with him now?”
Alexandra met her sister’s searching gaze and
knew that something was wrong. “What is it? What has
happened? Something has happened, I am sure of it.”
Her sisters shared another glance, but for once
Corey held her tongue.
Olivia broke the silence. “Owen is in town,
Alexandra. He called yesterday—looking for you.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ALEXANDRA WAS SO SURPRISED that for one
moment she thought she had misheard. But her sisters
were staring expectantly at her. Owen was in town? Her
heart skidded wildly.
She did not know what to think. He’d probably been
to town many times in the past nine years—but he had
never tried to call on her before. A month or so ago she
might have been ecstatic, but now she was simply
stunned.
Why had he appeared in her life again?
What could it mean?
Her heart lurched again as she fought for
composure. Memories began flooding her, and in all of
them Owen was as bright as the sun. He was smiling,
and he was her best friend. But he was also her suitor,
and she suddenly recalled being in his arms, in the
heat of a passionate kiss. She tensed.
But even as she recalled his golden image, his
smile, his dancing eyes turning dark with passion,
Stephen’s image loomed. Her tension spiraled
impossibly, and she glanced at the dazzling bracelet
on her wrist and thought of how he’d made love to her
that morning. She loved Stephen now—Owen had
married someone else a long time ago.
“Why did he call on me—after all these years?” she
managed.
Olivia took her arm. “Maybe we should sit down,
Alexandra.”
She flinched, dread beginning to pool in her
stomach. Olivia had further news—and it was not going
to be good, she instantly decided. “Is he all right?”
Olivia smiled grimly, pulling her toward the closest
open doors. “He is well enough, considering.”
What did that mean? Alexandra followed her sister
into the Gold Room.
“You are upset,” Corey said, her tone odd, and she
glanced again at Olivia.
Alexandra realized her breathing was shallow. “What
aren’t you telling me? This is clearly ominous. And of
course I am upset.” Owen had been the one true, great
love of her life. She loved him still. Of course she did.
She would always love him—and always consider him
a dear friend—but that would not change her feelings
for Stephen.
Olivia clasped her shoulder. “He is a widower now,
Alexandra. He buried his wife six months ago.”
Alexandra heard herself gasp. Her knees felt weak.
Olivia caught her elbow, saying, “Will you swoon?”
Her shock knew no bounds. His wife had died.
And he had called on her….
She went to a chair and sat down, breathless. Her
temples felt about to explode, and because she knew
Owen so well, she knew how filled with grief and
mourning he must be, and her concern for him was
boundless. But even as she thought that, Stephen’s
image was there in her mind, dark, powerful and
somehow accusatory.
She inhaled.
She was with Stephen now. She was carrying his
child. There was no reason to suddenly feel caught
between two very polar and powerful forces
threatening to pull her in opposite directions. She loved
Stephen, even if she didn’t dare admit it to him—even
if she was only his mistress and would never be more.
“Is he devastated? When did this happen?”
“I do not know if he is devastated, but he isn’t happy.
He is not as I recalled him,” Olivia said somberly. “Was
I wrong to remember him as being dashing and sunny,
and always ready to smile or laugh? He was grim,
Alexandra, and sad.”
“He was very sad,” Corey offered as soberly. “But
“He was very sad,” Corey offered as soberly. “But
he was eager to see you.”
Alexandra’s tension increased. “He is in mourning.”
She was so concerned for him, and that put her on
firmer footing, somehow. “He must need a shoulder,”
she said. “He must certainly need a friend. No wonder
he has sought me out.” This wasn’t about renewing
their romance, she realized. Was she relieved?
Dismayed? All she knew was that she had to see
Owen and comfort him if she could. And Stephen
would understand.
Olivia sat down beside her, staring. “He was very
disappointed that you were not at home.”
Alexandra looked at her, because of the innuendos
in her tone. What was Olivia thinking? That they would
renew their grand love affair? “He did not come to town
with romantic intentions.”
Olivia and Corey exchanged a new round of looks.
“How do you know that?” Olivia asked carefully.
“Because it has been nine years, and he is
mourning his wife’s passing.” She heard the sharp
edge to her tone. And she wasn’t certain, even as the
memories of the years they had shared kept flooding
her now, but hadn’t he told her that he would never stop
loving her—and that he would never forget her? She
trembled, thinking of Stephen, distraught. She had the
trembled, thinking of Stephen, distraught. She had the
notion that he wouldn’t like Owen very much. And Owen
would certainly disapprove of her living arrangements.
He might even expect Stephen to marry her. “What did
you tell him? How did you explain that I no longer live at
home?”
“I told him that you were currently Clarewood’s
guest. I don’t think he understood.” Olivia stared with
significance.
Corey added, “He said he would call on you here.
He will find out very shortly.”
Alexandra inhaled. “I never had secrets from Owen,
and I do not intend to keep them now. In any case, he
will realize that I am Stephen’s mistress soon enough.”
Her mind was made up. He certainly needed her as a
friend, but he had not come to town with any romantic
intentions. And even if he had, it didn’t matter. “If he
doesn’t call tomorrow, I will call on him—I intend to
renew our friendship. Where is he staying?”
“He is staying with Lord and Lady Bludgeon in
Greenwich,” Olivia said.
Alexandra did not know the couple. She rubbed her
throbbing temples. She realized she was now eager to
see Owen, and comfort and console him, if need be.
Olivia took her hand. “Are you really all right? You
are as white as a sheet.”
“This is a shock,” Alexandra admitted. “And I am
worried about Owen.”
“Of course you are,” Olivia said, her gaze searching.
She met Olivia’s kind, concerned eyes. And she did
not like the question there. Olivia wanted to know if she
had any romantic feelings for Owen.
“So what are you going to do?” Corey asked
suddenly. “Once you see Owen again.”
Alexandra tensed. “I will offer him comfort, Corey.”
Corey and Olivia looked at one another again. “That
isn’t what she meant,” Olivia said.
Alexandra leaped to her feet and began to pace.
Her sisters did not know she was with child. Surely they
would stop insinuating that something romantic might
happen between her and Owen if they did. And they
liked Stephen—they had made it clear how impressed
they were with his generosity.
“You loved him so much once,” Corey said. “I
remember your crying yourself to sleep.”
Alexandra came to a stop. “That is the past!” Olivia
was one of the most sensible women she knew—she
had always been Alexandra’s confidante, and
Alexandra needed to speak with her privately now.
“Corey, could you find Guillermo, who is the butler, and
tell him that we are three for lunch today?”
Corey smiled. “Clarewood said we should come for
lunch.”
When their sister was gone, Alexandra looked
carefully at Olivia, who said, “You seem remarkably
composed, considering that you have just had the
shock of learning that the love of your life has been
looking for you and that he is now available.”
“I am with Stephen now, and you know it as well as I
do.”
It was a moment before Olivia spoke. “Will Stephen
offer marriage?”
Alexandra tensed, dismayed. “Olivia, come. You
know as well as I do that he would never consider me
eligible to be his duchess.”
Olivia’s mouth tightened. “There are dukes—and
princes and kings—who marry commoners, for
goodness sake. You would make a wonderful duchess.

Alexandra’s heart missed a beat. “Please don’t.”
She took Olivia’s hand and exhaled. “Olivia, I sent
Corey away because there is something I must
discuss with you—desperately.”
Olivia started. “What is wrong?”
“I am with child. You are the first to know—I haven’t
told anyone yet.”
Olivia gasped. “Alexandra!” Then, her eyes huge,
“You haven’t told Clarewood?”
“No. I am afraid he will think my pregnancy a
scheme to trap him into marriage.” She stared at her
sister now and said nervously, “The first time we were
together, he thought I meant to trap him into marriage
because of my innocence.” Olivia had paled. “He was
so very angry. I cannot bear such anger again.”
Olivia inhaled, standing. “He should marry you,
Alexandra. It is the honorable thing to do. No wonder
you keep insisting that you are with Clarewood.”
“That isn’t fair—and you like him. You know you do.”
“Yes, I do, but now that I know you are carrying his
child, he must marry you. This changes everything! You
are with child—this is actually joyous news! And surely
he will marry you now. I cannot believe you have been
afraid to tell him.” She had begun to smile, no doubt
thinking about the niece or nephew she would have.
Alexandra trembled. “I…I love him, but he is
frightening when he is angry.”
“Has he hurt you?” Olivia asked.
“No, of course not—not the way you mean. Olivia, I
think he cares for me now, and that my news might
even please him. But…I am so afraid I am wrong and
that he will accuse me of scheming again—and then it
will be over.”
Olivia clasped her arm, grim and angry. “Alexandra,
he should adore you. He should be head over heels in
love with you.”
“Stop!”
“The way Owen once was.”
Alexandra pulled away. “That isn’t fair. Owen has
nothing to do with this.”
“Really? I feel certain of one thing—Owen still loves
you, and if Clarewood walks out, I am certain he would
never let you bear a child by yourself.”
“Stop! You can’t possibly know any such thing.” She
hugged herself. “Please, you are being absurd. I care
about Stephen, and this is hard enough as it is.”
Olivia actually scowled, shaking her head. “You must
tell him about the child—immediately. Then we will see
what happens.”
Alexandra could not believe Olivia expected
Stephen to consider marriage to her—or that she
actually considered Owen a knight in shining armor
who would ride to her rescue if Stephen refused to
marry her. But Owen was a knight in shining armor, she
thought in despair. He had always been kind, caring
and a man of honor. He would not care about the
gossip—or her reputation.
Alexandra steeled herself not to feel the stabbing
pain in her heart. “I have always known this affair was
not meant to last forever.”
“Why not? Because you are not good enough for
him?” Olivia asked. “Clarewood has been very
generous with all of us. But if he won’t marry you, then
you should rethink what you are doing.”
Alexandra was silent—because a child’s future was
at stake, and maybe her sister was right.
Olivia barreled on. “I know you believe you love
Clarewood, but do you really? Because I know how
much you loved Owen. And I do not think a love like that
ever dies.”
JEFFERSON HAD NOT RESPONDED immediately
to her written invitation, which a servant had delivered.
When several days had passed without a reply, Julia
had begun to think he meant to reject her invitation
—which was an obvious rejection of her very cautious
advances. But then his reply had come, with an
apology—he had been in the south of Scotland. And
when she realized he had accepted her invitation to
join her for a ride about the countryside, her relief knew
no bounds. She was thrilled.
She stole a glance at him now. Her mouth was oddly
dry, and she was breathless. They were both mounted
and walking their horses away from the stables; he
hadn’t said much since arriving, other than to greet her
and offer some polite inquiries after her well-being.
She’d tried to respond with her usual grace and a
nonchalance she did not feel, but it had been almost
impossible. He seemed larger and more masculine,
and even more attractive, than before. He seemed to
dominate the space between them. She was more
aware of him than ever before. The tension she’d felt
the last time he’d called had somehow become
magnified, until it was almost unbearable.
She looked carefully at him and caught him staring,
his regard male and bold. Her heart leaped. “Did you
enjoy Scotland?”
“Yes, I did. My mother came from Glasgow.”
She hadn’t known. “I believe I have an ancestor on
my father’s side who was born in the western isles.”
“Then I suppose we have something in common.”
And for one moment their gazes locked, before he
glanced away.
She wondered if something was wrong. He was so
unusually quiet. “Have you enjoyed your time here?”
she asked, hoping that nothing was wrong.
“Yes.” He finally glanced at her, and his smile
seemed forced. “I should have come to see my
daughter’s grave decades ago.”
He had told her something terribly personal. She
wished she could tell him more about her life—about
Tom. She hesitated. “I’m glad you finally did. I hope it
helped.”
He was silent for a moment. “It did.”
She heard herself say, “I decided years ago not to
visit my husband’s tomb.”
He was staring intently now. “Why not, if you don’t
mind my asking?”
“It’s been fifteen years, and I was tired of paying my
respects.” She shrugged. “Or pretending to do so.”
“I heard it said he was a son of a gun.”
She bit her lip. “He was a cold, difficult man…and
frequently cruel.”
“You deserved better. So why pay any respects,
ever?”
She was surprised by the vehemence in his tone. “It
was my duty, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Yeah, of course it was. Duty is everything over
here.” He glanced ahead.
She stiffened, dismayed. Something was wrong,
she sensed it. “Surely you believe in duty?”
“I don’t know, Duchess. Where I come from, a man
needs pride, courage and ambition, not duty, in order
to survive.”
She felt as if she’d been slapped. She turned away,
shaken.
“So we really don’t have anything in common, now
do we?” he asked softly.
She blinked back the sudden moisture in her eyes.
Something was wrong—she was not imagining it.
“Shall we gallop?” she somehow said, managing a
bright, false smile.
“Can you control that mare? She looks hot-blooded,”
he said.
“Yes, I can control her,” she said tersely, not looking
at him. Without waiting for a reply, she urged the mare
into a canter. She heard him following and sensed him
just behind her, and the humiliation hit her, mingled with
sorrow.
She was a fool. She had only imagined the
attraction between them.
Then she saw the low stone wall ahead. “You can
avoid the jump by veering right, Mr. Jefferson,” she
called.
The wide, three-foot stone wall loomed. Julia didn’t
look back at him as she collected her mount for the
jump. She was aware that he abruptly halted his
gelding, but she continued to approach the wall and
then soared easily over it. On the other side, she pulled
up her horse, and for the first time in her life, she wasn’t
exhilarated. She was too distraught.
She gave her mare a quick pat on the neck as she
turned back to face the way she had come. Jefferson
remained on the other side of the wall, and she
gestured to his right.
But he ignored her. And as he cantered toward the
wall she stiffened, surprised—he intended to take the
jump! She saw instantly that he knew nothing about
taking a fence. His mount was out of the bridle, making
a good jump difficult, at best. As if he sensed the
problem, he urged the gelding to a faster speed
—which could be a disaster in the making.
“Put him together!” Julia called. “Pick him up!”
It was too late. Horse and rider soared—badly—the
gelding lurching awkwardly without the proper
impulsion and then clipping the stone with his hind
legs. Jefferson was already off balance, and she saw
him lose a stirrup. As the gelding came down, he
almost fell off, but he seized the gelding’s mane and
managed to right himself in the saddle.
As he dropped to a trot and then a walk, Julia bit her
lip, relieved he’d made it to safety. Then she tried to
feign indifference to the worst display of horsemanship
she had ever seen. She kept her face expressionless
as he paused before her, red faced. “Are you all right?”
“How do you do that?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, dear.” She gave up and smiled. “You have
never jumped a fence, have you?”
“We try to avoid jumping dead wood,” he said, still
red. “Our horses need to turn on a dime, stop on
‘Whoa,’ and push a cow up a fence.”
She found herself genuinely interested, some of her
dismay vanishing. “There is a technique,” she said,
then asked again, “Are you all right?”
“Other than humiliated?” He gave her a look and
dismounted, then knelt to check his horse’s back legs.
Julia slipped off her mare, kneeling beside him.
“He’s not even nicked—he’ll be fine.” She
straightened.
He stood, too. “Thank God for that. I wouldn’t want to
hurt one of your horses.”
And that was when she realized how close they
were standing to one another. Instantly she went still,
her heart slamming. Mere inches separated them, and
it was hard to think about anything other than the man
she was alone in the countryside with.
As if he felt it, too, he stared, and his gaze grew
dark.
She knew she had to say something to break the
moment, but she couldn’t look away from his amber
eyes, which were smoldering like coals now.
“You’re full of surprises, Duchess,” he said roughly.
She meant to speak. She truly did. But no words
came out as she stared into his beautiful eyes—as he
stared back at her.
“Hell,” he muttered.
And then he leaned over her. She was stunned—but
her blood roared. His hands settled on her shoulders
—and she loved the feeling of his touch. “Julia,” he
said thickly.
She inhaled. “Tyne.”
“I’m leaving soon,” he whispered, pulling her closer.
She was in his arms, her thighs pressed against his
legs, her bosom crushed by his chest. She looked at
his mouth, desperately wanting him to kiss her.
His eyes blazed, and he pulled her impossibly close,
wrapping his huge arms around her, as his mouth
covered hers.
Julia cried out, stunned by the feeling of his lips
claiming hers, and he deepened the kiss. Their mouths
fused. His tongue went deep. And she felt every inch of
his hard, aroused body. She clasped his shoulders,
about to kiss him back. But he tore his mouth from hers
and stepped away, breathing hard.
“I guess that was goodbye,” he said.
ALEXANDRA HAD JUST FINISHED giving her sisters
a tour of the house. And for that hour, as her troubles
almost vanished, receding to the corners of her mind, it
was so wonderful to be with them both. She knew she
would be despondent when they left to return to
Edgemont Way.
They were coming downstairs when Guillermo
appeared at the bottom of the staircase. “Miss Bolton,
you have another caller.”
She was so surprised that she stumbled, instantly
wondering if Ariella and Elysse had returned. But she
did not think so—it was quite a trip from their homes to
Clarewood, and she had just seen them. “Who is it?”
And then, as she finished speaking, she suddenly
knew, and not because she recognized the card on the
silver tray Guillermo was holding.
She trembled, certain it was Owen. Guillermo
confirmed her suspicions, saying, “Lord St. James has
called, and he is in the Gold Room.”
On the lower landing, she paused, her hand on the
banister. “Please tell Cook that we may be four for
lunch,” she said carefully.
He nodded and hurried off. Alexandra crossed the
hall, her sisters behind her. No one said a word.
He was standing beside a sofa, not far from the
open doors, a tall, elegant figure. He turned.
Alexandra faltered. Nine years had passed. Once
Owen had been a beautiful young man. He was thirty
now, and he was even more handsome and more
dashing—time had weathered him perfectly. She was
trembling, but her heart warmed. She began to smile.
He wasn’t smiling as he stared, taking her in from
head to toe. “Alexandra,” he finally said. “My God, it is
so good to see you.”
She started forward—so did he. They met halfway,
instantly clasping hands. His were so familiar—large,
warm, strong. And now she saw the dark light in his
eyes. “It is so good to see you, too, Owen,” she
whispered. And she meant it.
“You haven’t changed,” he said roughly, his gaze
slowly traveling across her features, “yet somehow you
are more beautiful than ever.”
She smiled again. “I am no raving beauty, and we
both know it—and I am an old maid now, as well.”
He smiled for the first time, and her heart leaped a
little. His old smiles had been dazzling, and this was a
poor shadow, but he had just lost his wife. “If you are an
old maid, then I am an old man,” he said. “And you are
so beautiful—and it has been so long—that my heart is
pounding madly.”
She realized her heart had picked up a swifter beat,
as well. She also realized that they still held hands. She
gently dislodged hers and said, “I am so sorry about
Lady St. James.”
His smile vanished as his gaze met hers. “Thank
you. She was a kind, gracious woman, and it
happened so quickly that it took me a long time to
recover from the shock.”
She touched his elbow. “Will you sit? And will you
join my sisters and me for lunch?” She turned. Olivia
and Corey remained on the threshold behind her,
uncertain. But they both smiled immediately at Owen.
He smiled back at them. “I should love to stay for
lunch. Hello, Miss Olivia, hello, Miss Corey.” He turned
back to Alexandra. “I can’t get over your sisters. When I
last saw them, they were small girls. They are both so
lovely—you have raised them well.” But his eyes
changed as he spoke, becoming searching as he
glanced at her costly raspberry silk dress—and the
bracelet she wore.
She flushed. She was dressed like nobility—and her
sisters were in their ancient, well-mended and very
tired gowns. “I did my best.”
He said, “I take it the duke is out?”
“He is in Manchester today,” she said, uneasy now.
He studied her. “We have a great deal to catch up
on.”
“Yes, we do.” She smiled firmly. “Why don’t we have
lunch, as it is already half past one, and afterward we
can stroll in the gardens and reminisce?”
“I would like that…very much.”
THEY HAD FINISHED DINING, ending a superb
luncheon of roasted guinea hens with lemon tarts and a
fine sauterne. Owen had just pulled back her chair, and
Alexandra smiled at him. Being with him again was as
natural as being with her sisters. It was as if days had
passed, not years. The initial awkwardness was gone.
They were best friends—and they would always be
best friends, she thought.
But more than that remained. Of course it did—there
was the past.
They had talked about the parties and picnics and
croquet games they had shared, and moments in
Elizabeth’s kitchen, waiting for her sugar cookies to
finish baking. They had recalled too many small
moments to count—moments Alexandra had forgotten
until then. There was the time Corey had vanished
during an afternoon of fishing and everyone had
thought she’d fallen into the lake, only to find her asleep
in the backseat of the carriage, buried beneath the
blankets. There was the Christmas when Edgemont
had just returned from Paris with thoughtful French gifts
for everyone, and the time Owen had sprained his
ankle so badly that Elizabeth had insisted he stay and
recuperate with them. He had stayed in their guest
bedroom, and Alexandra had been the one to entertain
him with games of checkers, baccarat and cards. She
had read to him, too, only to find out before long that
his ankle had been fine, and he had feigned the injury
so he could stay. She’d thrown his pillow at his head.
He’d caught it and thrown it back at her, and they’d
screeched with laughter, ruined all the pillows on the
bed and wound up sharing a kiss. Elizabeth had
walked in, frowning—but clearly she hadn’t really
minded. There had been so many good times….
He had his hand on the back of her chair. Alexandra
was very aware of him now. He remained as attractive
as ever. She hadn’t stopped caring, in spite of the
passage of so much time, in spite of his marriage to
another woman. But when he touched her hand, it was
familiar, not stunning. It was comforting, not arousing.
And throughout the luncheon, Stephen was there in her
mind.
She almost felt guilty for being with Owen now.
“I suppose we should start home,” Olivia said, rather
despondently.
“I don’t want to go home,” Corey said flat out.
Alexandra shared a look with Owen, and when he
smiled at her, she smiled back. She knew he was
thinking what she was. “Why don’t you stay the night?
Obviously we have many guest rooms, and it has been
so long—we have our own catching up to do.”
Corey screeched in glee. “I would love to stay!”
Olivia looked from her to Owen and back again,
then said, “Who will take care of Father?”
Alexandra sobered instantly, but Owen touched her
elbow. “He can get on for a night or two without you, I
have no doubt.”
She looked gratefully at him. He was right. “We
pamper him.”
“Of course you do,” he said, staring intently. And he
slowly smiled. “You promised me a walk in the
gardens.”
She grinned. “I haven’t forgotten.” As they left the
dining room, she gave instructions to the staff to get
two guest rooms ready. Her sisters were shown
upstairs, and she finally found herself alone with Owen.
Suddenly nervous, she laid her hand on the smooth
wood rail of the banister. Maybe reminiscing while
alone was not the best idea.
He said, “I am glad your sisters are staying the night.
Clearly you have missed one another.”
She met his gaze and knew there was no avoiding a
full confession now. “I miss them greatly. I miss
Edgemont Way…. I even miss my father.”
“Even?” He took her by the shoulders, so they faced
one another. “What is going on, Alexandra? We have
never had secrets, and I must be blunt. Edgemont Way
has fallen into such disrepair. What happened?”
She trembled, aware that he was edging carefully
into the topic of her residency at Clarewood. “Father
drinks obsessively—and gambles compulsively.”
His eyes widened. “I heard something like that, but I
had assumed it was vicious, untrue gossip. I am so
sorry.”
She inhaled for courage. “I have done the best that I
could. It hasn’t been easy. I sew for a living now.”
He was shocked. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I sew for those ladies who were once my
mother’s friends. Now they look down their noses at
me, very openly, and gossip about me behind my
back.” She stopped, wishing she hadn’t gone off in that
tangent.
He flushed.
She looked at the ground, then up into his blue eyes.
“We have no secrets, but you would never ask me
directly, would you? Why I am living here?”
He was terse. “It seems quite obvious, but I am
hoping that my suspicions are wrong.”
She felt tears rise and touched his arm. “Owen,
there was a suitor, after all these years, an older, kindly
squire. But I simply could not bring myself to marry him.
After what you and I shared, the fact that I felt nothing
for him was glaring. And his suit brought back so many
memories of our love.”
He stared, and it was a long moment before he
spoke, his mouth downturned. “You must feel
something for Clarewood. I know you too well. You
would never accept such an…arrangement, unless you
were in love.”
She trembled. “He began pursuing me the moment
we first met. I resisted, of course I did. But he refused
to take no for an answer.” She hesitated. “Father found
out and he—he has disowned me.”
“I cannot believe your father!” he exclaimed, coloring
rapidly now. “As for Clarewood…What kind of man
stalks and seduces a good gentlewoman?”
“Don’t! Owen—I do love Stephen, and he has been
good to me.”
“Really?” His tawny brows slashed upward. “He is
wealthy, Alexandra, so do not be fooled. For him, that
bracelet is worth a penny. It means nothing, because
he is so rich.”
She recoiled. “Please don’t attack him.”
“Why not? Unless he marries you—which he must
do—he is the scum of this earth, and I don’t care what
his title is.”
She’d forgotten how noble and honorable Owen
was. She caressed his jaw. Instantly he pressed her
hand more firmly there. Their gazes locked, and he
said, “You do not deserve this life. You deserve more.”
“We do not get to choose our fate.”
“So you will accept this as yours?”
She did not know what to say. Owen would be
furious when he learned of the child. “I am so glad,” she
finally said, slowly, “that we are still friends. I am sorry,
though, that you have returned to town under such
tragic circumstances.” She caressed his cheek and
then dropped her hand. Too much remained between
them, she thought.
Owen said thickly, “I will always be there for you.”
She brushed at a tear. “I know.” And that was when
she became aware of a new tension in the room, apart
from the tension arcing between them. She glanced at
the door.
“I see we have a guest,” Stephen said, his tone
mocking. He strode forward. “Do make the
introductions, Alexandra.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ALEXANDRA FELT HER CHEEKS heat. She felt
terribly guilty, though she had done nothing wrong. She
was only entertaining an old, dear friend. And then she
knew her own thoughts rang false. Owen was more
than that—and she was guilty of having a deep
affection for another man. Her gaze locked with
Stephen’s.
His expression had become impossible to read. His
cool regard moved to Owen, who stood stiffly at
attention. “I am Stephen Mowbray, the Duke of
Clarewood. Welcome to my home.”
Owen didn’t smile, so to cover the awkwardness
she said quickly, “Your Grace, this is Lord St. James,
an old family friend.”
Stephen didn’t look at her now. His mouth curved,
rather unpleasantly, as he said, “How wonderful for you.
St. James? Are you any relation to the viscount
Reginald St. James?” His tone was dangerously soft.
“He is my uncle,” Owen said tersely. “How good it is
to meet you, Your Grace.” He still didn’t smile, and his
eyes were dark and angry. Clearly he did not mean a
word he had said. But he kept his tone neutral and
polite.
This was impossible, Alexandra thought, alarmed.
“Owen was just leaving,” she said quickly.
Stephen turned his searing blue gaze upon her.
She flushed. She had called Owen by his given
name—in front of Stephen. She said thickly, “I have
known Owen since I was a girl of fifteen.”
Stephen stared, his odd smile fixed in place now.
Owen said, almost belligerently, “We were about to
become engaged. My offer was accepted, but then the
baroness died. Alexandra decided she must take care
of her sisters and father, instead of starting a marriage
with me. I was crushed,” he stated flatly.
Stephen’s tight expression never changed. “She has
told me all about it, St. James.”
Alexandra trembled, sick with dismay. She’d said
almost nothing about it. “Lord St. James has just come
to town. He is staying with Lord Bludgeon in
Greenwich. I am delighted he has called. I invited him
to stay for lunch, which he did.” She realized she was
speaking in a breathless rush. “And my sisters are
here. They dined with us. It was delicious, was it not?”
She smiled falsely at Owen now.
He stared closely at her, and she knew his unspoken
thought: Why are you afraid of your lover?
She rushed on. “We had guinea hens stuffed with
apricots. And I invited my sisters to stay the night—they
are in their rooms, settling in. I did not think you would
mind,” she said. “We must plan a special supper
tonight.”
Owen continued to stare, and now Stephen was
staring at her, too. He said softly, “You are so nervous,
Alexandra.”
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!”
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.”
Stephen stared, breathing hard. He wanted to
believe it, and for one moment, recalling the way she
had caressed his cheek and looked at him with soft,
shining eyes, he almost did. Hadn’t he been her first?
Hadn’t she tried to refuse him on moral grounds? But
then he recalled how he had found her and St. James
in the front hall, and Alexandra had been caressing the
other man’s cheek just the way she’d caressed his. He
could barely breathe. “You haven’t seen them together.”
“No, I haven’t, but as I said, right now you are blind.
Have you spoken to her? Really spoken to her?”
Stephen tensed and began to pace.
“I thought so. You had a terrific row and then you left.
Why don’t you go home and go to sleep, and when you
wake up—and recover from tonight’s overconsumption
of whiskey—you can have a calm, rational discussion
with her.”
Stephen turned. “I do not think I will ever be rational
again.”
Alexi smiled.
“It is hardly amusing.”
“Actually, Stephen, seeing you brokenhearted and
taken down a peg or two by a good woman is very
amusing—and well overdue.”
A part of him did want to go home, awaken
Alexandra and demand to know if she cared about him
—if she loved him, even a little. And if he made love to
her first, he could probably entice her into just such a
declaration.
Do you love St. James?
I love you.
Do you love St. James?
Of course I love him….
“Thank you for being so understanding,” he
muttered. But what if she did love him a little? After all,
she was carrying his child, not Owen’s.
Alexi came over and clapped him on the shoulder. “If
you tell her how you feel, or even if you don’t, and you
simply offer marriage, I feel certain she will accept.”
Stephen wasn’t certain, not at all. And then he
realized that didn’t matter, either. What mattered was
their child. They should marry for the sake of the child.
He stared, his heart hammering. “I am not going to
tell her that I love her, given the probability that she
does not love me back.”
“Why not? What do you have to lose?”
“I have some pride left,” he said brusquely. He
somehow knew he could not withstand making that
kind of confession, not if she did not say the words to
him in return.
“And that might be all you have left, if you don’t tell
her how you feel,” Alexi said. “So what will you do?
Allow her to run off with St. James?” His stare was
piercing.
Stephen felt his anger surge. “You bloody well know I
would never let my child be raised by someone else!”
“But you’ve told me a hundred times that you will be
a terrible father—just like old Tom.” Alexi’s eyes were
wide and innocent.
Stephen told himself that he was not going home to
tell Alexandra that he had fallen in love with her, nor
would he beg her to choose him over St. James.
Dukes did not beg.
Dukes issued orders—and ultimatums.
Tom mocked him openly now.
“I never said Tom Mowbray was a terrible father. He
was a harsh disciplinarian—but he has made me the
man that I am.”
“No, you are who you are because you are a de
Warenne, Stephen, and you had Julia to offset Tom’s
cruelty.”
“I have to go,” Stephen said abruptly, turning.
Alexi followed him through the door. “What will you
do?”
Stephen paused in the front hall. “We will marry for
the sake of the child,” he said.
Alexi’s eyes widened. “I suggest you ask her
pleasantly.”
Stephen smiled coldly. “I am not feeling very
pleasant, Alexi.”
Alexi groaned.
ALEXANDRA SAT IN THE WINDOW seat of her
bedroom at dawn, Olivia beside her, Corey curled up
asleep in a nearby chair. A tray of refreshments sat on
the small breakfast table to their left. Her sisters had
apparently overheard them shouting at one another,
and had come to Alexandra’s room immediately. They
hadn’t left her even once during the course of the
entire, endless night.
And endless it had been. Her eyes were red and
swollen from crying. Her heart ached so much. She
hadn’t slept at all last night, and how could she? She
had been shocked and hurt by Stephen’s anger and
accusations. It was a nightmare come true. To make
matters even worse, he’d left Clarewood at midnight,
returning three hours later. She didn’t want to imagine
where he’d gone, but there seemed to be only one
possible explanation for a man leaving his home in the
middle of the night like that. He’d sought comfort from
another woman, she was sure.
Alexandra sat with her cheek on her raised knee.
She was brokenhearted.
Olivia caressed her stiff shoulder. “What will you do?

She lifted her head. “I will have to make myself
presentable, go downstairs and continue the
discussion.”
Olivia’s stare became searching. “That was not a
discussion.”
“No, it was not.” Alexandra hugged both knees to her
chest.
“How could he become so hateful to you when he
was so kind and generous before?”
“I was afraid of this. I have never known anyone with
such a temper. It is rare. But he apparently cannot
withstand what he thinks is dishonesty.” She felt like
crying all over again. “I was going to tell him about the
child last night. Can you believe it? And I would have
told him Owen was in town, too!”
Olivia took her hand. “You were right and I was
wrong—at least about Clarewood.”
Corey surprised them when she said, “I think he
loves Alexandra.”
Alexandra jumped, surprised to realize her sister
had awoken. “I wish you were right, but I am afraid you
are wrong.”
“No, I am right—two men love you, and he is angry
because of Owen.”
Alexandra did not think so. He was furious over the
child, just as she had expected in her heart of hearts.
She slid her feet to the wood floor, which was icy cold.
“I should get up. He is an early riser.” She trembled,
already ill with fear.
But as she stood, a knock sounded on her door,
startling her. “Come in.”
The door opened and Stephen stood there, so
ravaged in appearance, his eyes so dark and
determined, that she gasped in shock. Instantly she
knew he’d not yet been to bed. She wondered if he’d
been drinking, but it was impossible to tell. “I wish a
word with you now,” he said.
She was alarmed and looked at her sisters, but they
were already standing, their expressions indicating the
same worry and surprise that she felt. Olivia caught her
eye, and Alexandra said, “I’ll be fine,” though she knew
the words were a lie.
They hurried across the room and scooted past
Stephen, who did not even look at them, much less
greet them. When they were gone, his hands went to
his hips, his posture aggressive.
Alexandra hugged herself. “I despise arguing with
you.”
“Then don’t lie.”
She debated defending herself yet again but was
sure he wouldn’t believe her. “I don’t want to fight with
you.”
“Good. I have no intention of fighting with you, either
—not now. Not when you are carrying my child.” He
paused, looking at her meaningfully.
She tensed. “Yes, I am,” she said, unsure as to his
intent.
“We will marry, Alexandra, for the sake of the child.”
She was shocked.
“You will not bear my bastard,” he added. Then, “And
if this was your plan, it has succeeded.”
She began to shake. This had not been her plan,
and while she loved Stephen, and marrying him was
beyond her wildest dreams, he was angry with her,
cold and distant, and he was suggesting marriage not
because of any feelings for her or desire for a future
with her, but for their child. How could she accept?
How could she refuse?
Instantly, she thought of Owen, who would offer for
her because of the love in his heart.
“You are strangely silent,” he said coolly.
She inhaled. “I am shocked.”
“Really?” His tone was mocking. “I am the greatest
catch in the realm, yet I haven’t heard you accept my
proposal.”
What should she say? That she loved him too much
to marry him this way? Or should she marry him
anyway, because she loved him? “I am going to have
to think about it.”
His eyes widened briefly, and then he smiled
dangerously. “I must admit, I did not expect that
answer.” His stare hardened and smile vanished. “I
expected you to turn me down.”
He was no longer furious, she thought, sickened with
dismay, he was simply hateful. “I need to think about it,
Stephen,” she repeated.
“Really?” He laughed coldly at her. “Let me make
myself clear, Alexandra. I have dreaded marriage for
as long as I can recall—I have been searching for a
suitable bride for a decade, at least. This will be
another arrangement for us—for the sake of the child. I
will not bring a bastard into the world.”
She trembled. “Do you hate me?”
He started. Then, “No.”
They had that, at least. She closed her eyes briefly. “I
still have to think about it.”
“Why? Because you want to wait and see if St.
James will step up?”
Before she could deny that, he said, “Let me
rephrase. This was not a proposal, it was a choice. You
may choose to marry me, or you may run off with your
beloved St. James.” She cried out, but he barreled on.
“However, if you decide to run off with your lover, the
child stays here, with me, and we will be married first.”
She gasped in disbelief.
His smile was cold. “The child is mine. You have a
choice to make.” He turned and started from the room.
She ran after him. “I cannot agree to either choice!”
He whirled, and they collided. He caught her
savagely and said, “Oh, no, you will make a choice
—it’s me or St. James, and the child stays here.”
Alexandra was too stunned to say a word.
He flung her off and strode out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AS JULIA ENTERED the St. Lucien Hotel, heads
turned. She hurried across the spacious lobby,
ignoring the stares. Even those who did not recognize
her could surmise that she was a lady of wealth and
rank—her stature was obvious from her clothing, her
jewelry and her comportment. But some clearly knew
who she was, for murmurs of “Good morning, Your
Grace,” drifted in her wake. She did not look at
anyone, nor did she respond. She simply couldn’t think
about anything or anyone other than Tyne.
He had kissed her briefly, but with so much passion
—and she had kissed him back. Then he had told her
he was leaving and pulled away. They had remounted,
Julia in a daze, partly from desire and partly from
shock. And when she had tried to make conversation
as they’d returned to the house, he’d been quiet and
withdrawn. He’d left before she could ask him if he
wished to return and ride again.
He was returning to America tomorrow. She’d made
inquiries.
She was ill with dismay and sick with dread. She
hadn’t slept in days, not since their outing—not since
his kiss. She was smitten with an American stranger,
and she was never going to see him again—unless
she did something about it.
Julia had lived most of her life in isolation. While
Tom was alive, she’d formed and maintained the
appropriate relationships and acquaintances, but
never any close friendships. To anyone who chose to
consider the question, her life had been centered on
her duties as a mother and a duchess. Secretly, her life
had revolved around protecting Stephen from his
father’s criticisms, cruelty and rages.
After Tom had died, she’d maintained a portion of
those relationships, while allowing others to wither and
fade. She’d remained close to Stephen, as he was
only sixteen, to help him with his new responsibilities. It
had quickly become clear that he would manage
Clarewood far more astutely and efficiently—and
economically—than Tom had ever done. He hadn’t
needed her help, only her support.
Exulting in her freedom, she’d begun building a new
life for herself, one founded on her love for horses and
dogs. New friendships were formed with other
horsemen and women. But she was reserved by nature
—and none of those relationships had become close.
Consequently, she had no one to confide in.
After Tyne had left, she had sat down by herself, with
her Danes, to analyze her situation. She had realized
her choices were few. She could do nothing and hope
he returned to see her, or she could go to him and take
matters into her own hands.
The truth was that she was lonely and wanted to be
with Tyne. She wanted to walk with him, talk with him,
ride with him—and she wanted to share his passion.
She did not want him to disappear from her life. She
even thought she might want to share her life with him.
And she knew he might not share her feelings—but
there was one way to find out.
Now she paused at the hotel’s front desk. Because
it was so early, she was the only patron present. A clerk
rushed to attend her.
She didn’t even try to smile. “Is Mr. Jefferson in?”
“I have yet to see him come down, madam,” the
clerk said.
“What is his room number?”
He did not blink, merely turned to a ledger and gave
her the information. Julia thanked him and headed for
the wide wood staircase.
She knew she was being stared at as she went up.
She didn’t care, even if it was unheard of for a woman
to call openly on a male guest in his room. The gossips
would have a field day, she decided. Let them. It was
so early that they couldn’t believably accuse her of
lechery. They would go mad, trying to decide who she
had seen and why she had done so.
She almost smiled, but she was as nervous as a girl
of sixteen. Would he be pleased to see her—or would
he be dismayed?
If he was clearly dismayed, she wouldn’t even
attempt to flirt with him, she thought, her anxiety
increasing. She hurried down the corridor, clutching her
purse, already breathless. When she saw his room,
she inhaled for courage and knocked on the door.
“One moment,” he called.
Suddenly she flushed. What if he was with a
woman? She would die of embarrassment.
And then the door opened. He stood there in his
trousers and a shirt, the shirt half tucked in, as if he’d
been undressed. His eyes widened when he saw her.
She knew her color remained high, and she could
not look away from his amber eyes, but instead of
reciting the lines she had rehearsed, she said thickly,
“You are leaving tomorrow.”
He slowly nodded, his gaze locked with hers. Julia
was acutely aware of his powerful body, his heat, his
scent. Tension seemed to fill the small space between
them. He kept his hand on the door. Suddenly, his gaze
never moving from hers, he stepped back, pulling the
door fully open.
No invitation could have been clearer.
Breathing hard, trembling, Julia stepped past him,
into his suite, and stopped. There was a desk and a
sofa, but she saw only the bed. And now he stood just
behind her, so close that her skirts touched his
trousers.
He closed the door, saying, “I’ve been thinking about
you.”
She turned to him; it was impossible to think. She
could only feel now, only want. “Tyne,” she murmured.
Suddenly he gripped her shoulders, and his grasp
was crushing. For one moment he looked at her, his
eyes ablaze. And then he pulled her up against his
body, wrapping his arms around her, so she was
dwarfed by his huge embrace. She felt every hard inch
of him as she breathed in his thick male scent, her
cheek crushed against his chest.
His heart was pounding.
He tilted up her chin, and their gazes collided. Julia
realized her heart was beating as hard as his, harder
than it ever had before. He understood—and he
covered her mouth with his.
His kiss was hard and demanding. She caught his
shoulders, deliriously excited, as he forced her mouth
wide, his tongue going deep. Julia began to whimper.
To squirm. Nothing had ever felt as right as his kiss, his
touch or his huge body engulfing hers.
They kissed wildly, frantically, moving across the
room. The backs of her thighs hit the mattress. Julia
caught his shirt as he broke the kiss, fumbling at the
buttons. It never crossed her mind not to tear his
clothes off. She couldn’t breathe as his bare chest was
revealed.
He caught her hands. “Are you sure?” he asked.
She slipped her hands over the shockingly hard
planes and muscles of his chest. She inhaled sharply,
and he groaned. “I have never been as sure. Make love
to me, Tyne.”
He tore off his shirt and flung it aside. Julia took one
look at his huge, muscular and scarred torso, and
almost fainted from the intense flood tide of desire. He
lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed, his
mouth on the swell of her breasts, above the bodice of
her grown. His mouth left small, hard kisses there while
she stroked his hot skin, his nipples and his hard,
rippling arms. She couldn’t stand being apart or feeling
so heavy and so hot. “Hurry,” she whispered.
He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes
ablaze, but there was surprise there, too. Then he
reached for the buttons at the back of her dress.
She sat up, panting, and suddenly she was the
woman she’d once been, the woman she’d forgotten
all about. As he unbuttoned the dress, she reached up
and removed her hairpins and small hat, and as she
slid her hands in her platinum hair, she looked at him.
Her dress was unbuttoned, but he hadn’t pulled it
down, and he went still. Wanting him terribly, she
suddenly lifted her hair, allowing it to spill free, while the
bodice of her dress fell, revealing her to him. Her
corset was Parisian, the chemise transparent silk. Her
nipples had become so sensitive that even the soft silk
hurt.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered roughly, reaching
for her.
But she stood, breaking his hold, and slid the dress
off, revealing her silk drawers and stockings.
Instantly, Tyne grabbed her by the hips. “You’re so
tiny.” He sounded almost afraid.
She had never felt as desirable. As they kissed
wildly, frantically, they fell to the bed. He fumbled with
his belt and trousers, shedding them, and then his
hands were all over her. Julia didn’t know how she got
out of her underthings, but his hands and mouth were
everywhere, in places that hadn’t been seen or
touched in decades, and she wept in growing
pleasure.
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 seized 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!”
“Stephen, what is wrong with you?” Alexi grabbed
him by both shoulders. “Why won’t you fight for her?”
Stephen wrenched away. “We have been through
this before.” Suddenly he could not breathe—he was
panting harshly.
“My God, you are a man who has moved mountains
to build hospitals and asylums and housing for the
working poor, and now one man stands between you
and the woman you want, and you are a complete
coward!”
Stephen went still. Was he a coward? She didn’t
want him. She wanted St. James. Didn’t she? “You
don’t know what you are talking about,” he snapped,
walking away.
Alexi followed. “But I do. Elysse and I hardly got off
to a good start—years of pride and anger kept us
apart. I think I know what the problem is. And it’s not
about pride—not for you. It’s about love.”
Stephen faced him scornfully. “Are you mad?”
“No. I think it is about the fact that you truly don’t
believe in love. And that is because of how you were
raised—your parents hated one another, and frankly, I
think old Tom hated you, never mind that he decided
you’d be his heir.”
Stephen choked in surprise. Hadn’t he wondered,
as a boy, if his “father” hated him? Too often it had
seemed that way. And it had especially seemed that
way when he was being punished.
“I think old Tom resented you because you reminded
him, on a daily basis, that he couldn’t sire a child.
Every time he looked at you, he saw Julia and Sir Rex.
But he would never let the world know that he was
impotent, so you were turned into his perfect son, the
future duke. He was so hateful, so cruel! I cannot blame
you for your distrust of Alexandra—or your own
feelings. But you aren’t Tom, and she isn’t Julia. Tom
tried to make you in his image, but damn it, you are a
de Warenne. And while we are proud and arrogant, we
cannot get on without the love of a good woman. Look
at me and Elysse. Think about your real father, Sir Rex,
and Lady Blanche. I believe they secretly admired one
another for years before they managed to find their
way to one another. What about Ariella and Emilian?
She defied society to be with St. Xavier. Or my father
and Amanda? He rescued her at her father’s hanging!”
He took a breath and said, “You are a de Warenne,
Stephen, and you are capable of a deep and undying
love. Whether you know it or not, it is in your blood
—and it is your right.”
Stephen cursed as he sat down on the sofa, hard.
His heart clamored at him, all the while breaking apart.
He kept remembering his parents in heated and bitter
arguments, while he turned and ran away, not wanting
to see or hear them, as they fought one another as if to
the death. He saw old Tom’s livid expression as he
raised his hand to strike him across the face, though
he could not recall his transgression. Hatred had
sparked in the man’s eyes.
He covered his face with his hands. Was Alexi right?
Because he had never believed in love until St. James
had returned from the past, making him confront his
feelings for Alexandra. Damn it. He did love her. But he
remained impossibly hurt—no, devastated. She had
walked out on him. She had chosen someone else.
Like old Tom, she didn’t love him back.
He felt raw and vulnerable, powerless—like a boy of
ten, not a grown man of thirty-one who all but
commanded an empire.
Alexi sat down beside him. “If you go after her, you
might live in a home filled with warmth and laughter, not
cold silence, and damn it, I am not leaving until I have
cold silence, and damn it, I am not leaving until I have
convinced you to go climb this particular mountain.”
Stephen breathed hard, trying to hold back the
bone-deep pain of rejection. In his mind, old Tom
leered at him, pleased that Stephen was undone. Of
course he was—he had despised love, and embraced
hatred and bitterness. He did not want Stephen to be
anything other than the cold, calculating eighth duke of
Clarewood. He wanted him to wander its cold, silent
halls alone.
Stephen slowly looked up. “I have a confession.”
Alexi waited.
Stephen saw old Tom standing behind the sofa, his
face furious now. “My father couldn’t even express his
affection for me on his deathbed. I was desperate,
even at sixteen. Just once, I wanted him to say he was
proud of me, and that he cared.”
Alexi laid his hand on Stephen’s shoulder, but only
briefly. “I’m sure Tom couldn’t say those words, nor
could he care about anything or anyone—except the
duchy. He was a cold, heartless bastard. But what
about Sir Rex? He came into your life when we were
nine. I heard Sir Rex praise you many times—he was
always kind and attentive. You are every bit as much, if
not more, Sir Rex’s son as you are Tom’s.”
And suddenly Stephen recalled how Julia had been
desperately determined to bury the past—how she
never wanted to visit the mausoleum again. And he
suddenly felt the same way.
He was sick and tired of having those talons in his
back. He was sick and tired of looking up and seeing
old Tom in the corner of the room, mocking him,
ridiculing him.
He rubbed his neck. Blood was thicker than water,
and he was a de Warenne—and he had fallen in love.
There—he had admitted it. It hurt terribly. So now what
should he do? Was Alexi right? Should he fight for her?
Why shouldn’t he fight for Alexandra? He wanted
her, needed her, and he did not want to fight her for
their child—because he would win, and she would be
destroyed.
He could never do that to her, he realized, sitting
straighter.
“What is it?” Alexi asked.
Stephen inhaled, the pain vanishing. What had
happened to him? He always got what he wanted—he
was Clarewood. He had pursued her once and won. Of
course he would pursue her now. But this time, he
would not make mistakes. Too much was at stake.
He turned to Alexi. “Is it true? St. James is now
courting her?”
courting her?”
“I believe he calls on her daily.” Alexi stared far too
blandly now, trying to contain what Stephen knew was
a satisfied smile.
Stephen wasn’t sure Alexi was telling the truth, but it
no longer mattered. He stood, deeply determined now.
He was going to lose Alexandra if he didn’t do
something about it. “I have had it with St. James,” he
said softly. “Enough is enough.”
Alexi stood, grinning. “And when this is all over, you
will thank me properly, won’t you? Because I believe
you will be vastly in my debt.”
Stephen ignored him, leaving the room.
“Advice is rarely free,” Alexi called after him,
laughing.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
“YOU SEEM TO BE in better spirits today,” Owen said
softly.
Alexandra smiled at him, but she was tense as she
sat with him in the front seat of his gig. It was a sunny
day, although cool, so she’d bundled up, and they’d
taken a drive in the country. The leaves were red and
gold, and soon the trees would be dark and bare.
They’d brought a basket lunch with them and had eaten
in a roadside meadow, not far from a herd of grazing
sheep. It had been a lovely, lazy afternoon, though she
should have been sewing. They would be home in a
few more minutes.
Very carefully, she said, “You have lifted my spirits,
but that has been your intention all along, hasn’t it?”
He smiled. “Of course it has. I hated seeing you so
glum.”
She glanced away, keeping her smile in place.
Owen had called every day. She anticipated his visits
because his presence was warm and reassuring, and
she enjoyed his company thoroughly. Chatting with him
was so much better than hunching over her sewing, her
thoughts dark with despair and her heart heavy with
loss, her every moment filled with images of Stephen.
Her heart was broken, and though she felt as if it would
never heal, the truth was that she knew better. Once
before, nine years ago, she’d suffered such
heartbreak. Broken hearts did mend—eventually.
They had not discussed her return home or the
cause for it. But he had told her that he was fiercely
glad she had mended things with her father—and
returned to Edgemont Way. Alexandra couldn’t recall
what response she had made. But she knew that Owen
was aware that her affair with Stephen was over, and
that he was pleased. Not a visit went by that he didn’t
offer up a remark that could lead to a very frank
discussion of the affair and her feelings, but she had
grown adept at steering clear of all such conversations.
She could not, and would not, discuss her relationship
with Stephen with him.
And it had become obvious that she was right—he
was still deeply in love with her. His eyes shone when
he looked at her, he often made jests to make her
laugh, and his gestures were affectionate and
flirtatious. But when he touched her, she flinched or
even pulled away. She wasn’t ready for a suitor—not
yet, not now, and maybe not ever.
She cared deeply for him, but everything had
changed—it was Stephen Mowbray whom she loved.
And Owen didn’t know about the child, either.
Alexandra clasped her gloved hands together,
deciding not to reply to his remark about her recent
despondency.
In response to her silence he said, “We used to talk
about everything.”
She turned to face him, her eyes wide. “We can
hardly talk about everything now.”
“Why not? I am concerned about you.”
“I know, and your loyalty has meant so much to me.”
His gaze was searching. “When you are ready,
Alexandra, I will listen. But you might feel better if you
talk about Clarewood and what he has done to you.”
Amazingly, she bristled, wanting to defend Stephen,
even though his actions were inexcusable. “Owen, I
accepted his proposition. We were both in the wrong.”
His face hardened. “As much as I hate to say it, he
should marry you and make things right.”
She inhaled, looking away.
He took her hand instantly. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve said
as much before, and I swear I won’t say it again. But I
despise him, Alexandra. You deserve so much more.”
She wanted to tug her hand free, but she didn’t. And
she wasn’t going to argue about her lack of
qualifications to be Stephen’s wife and duchess, not
when she no longer believed them. Olivia had been
right. Noblemen married commoners for love—not
often, but it did happen. He simply didn’t love her. Love
and lust were not the same thing.
“I hate seeing you so brokenhearted,” Owen
growled.
She did pull her hand away then. “I am fine—really.”
“You are not fine, but you are incredibly brave and
resilient.” He then added, glancing ahead, “You have
company, Alexandra.”
She had already seen the coach in her drive—and
recognized it. Elysse and Ariella had called, much to
her dismay. Why had they come now? She wasn’t with
Stephen anymore, and they were his friends, not hers.
Had they come to berate her for the falling out? Surely
they had not come to comfort and console her.
“Who is it?” Owen asked softly, halting the gig
beside the larger black lacquered coach.
“Elysse de Warenne and Ariella St. Xavier. They are
recent…acquaintances.”
He gave her a puzzled look.
Alexandra did not explain as they alighted and went
inside, too overcome with new nerves. Olivia and
Corey were entertaining them, a fire burning in the
hearth, hot tea and scones on the table. Both callers
leaped up as she came inside with Owen. They were
smiling, as if pleased to see her once again, but they
looked Owen up and down with great circumspection
and speculation.
Alexandra took off her coat, coming forward. “This is
a pleasant surprise,” she said cautiously.
Elysse hurried over and hugged her warmly. “Do not
stand on formality now—not after the wonderful outing
we shared! We heard rumors, and we are so worried
about you.”
Alexandra looked into the other woman’s kind,
concerned eyes and was shocked. Elysse de Warenne
did not have a mean bone in her body.
Ariella had also come close, and she patted her
shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked with concern,
her gaze soft and warm.
Alexandra was undone by her concern, as well. They
seemed to truly care. Her broken heart screamed for
mercy. They were Stephen’s friends from childhood,
and maybe they could explain his behavior. Maybe,
somehow, they could help. “I am fine,” she lied.
“You do not look fine,” Ariella said flatly. “Trust me,
Stephen does have a very human heart beating
beneath that cold exterior, but he can be impossible
when he believes he has been crossed.”
Alexandra trembled. “He is so angry with me,” she
whispered.
Ariella and Elysse exchanged looks. Elysse
wrapped her arm around her again. “You have turned
his very proper and perfectly ordered life upside down,
Alexandra, simply by coming into his life and waking
him up. Alexi tells me he is in dismal spirits.”
Alexandra pulled away, glancing at Owen, who was
looking grim and unhappy as he listened to them. “I
haven’t made the proper introductions,” she said. As
she made them, she was surprised to see how
pleasant and polite both women were to Owen, when
he was obviously a suitor and Stephen’s rival, if such a
word could be used. She paid little attention to their
exchange, however. She kept thinking about what
Elysse had just said—that Stephen was in dismal
spirits. Why? Did he miss her? Was it possible? Or
was he simply worried about the child?
Ariella and Owen were chatting, and Elysse took
Alexandra’s hand and dragged her into the front hall.
“You cannot give up on him!” she exclaimed.
Alexandra bit her lip. “You do not understand. He
thinks the worst of me. And he…” She stopped. She
couldn’t tell the other woman the truth. “He offered
marriage, but for all the wrong reasons, and I refused
him.”
Elysse looked at her without surprise, and Alexandra
realized she knew about the offer of marriage. Of
course, her husband was Stephen’s closest and oldest
friend—and Alexandra immediately wondered what
else she knew. As if reading her thoughts, Elysse took
her hand and squeezed it. “Men can be such fools,”
she said softly. “How do you know that he offered
marriage for the wrong reasons?”
Alexandra didn’t know how to reply. “I love him,” she
finally said. “He doesn’t love me back.”
Elysse smiled. “Are you sure?” Then she said, in a
whisper, “There is something you must know. Stephen
is not an expressive man. He never shows his
affection. He doesn’t know how. He was raised by the
previous duke, a cruel, difficult, harsh and hard man.
An example was set, Alexandra.”
“The dowager duchess said as much, but he can be
tender,” she whispered.
“And that is only because of the depth of his feelings
for you,” Elysse spoke with certainty now. “There is
more. Stephen is very sensitive on the subject of
fathers and sons—due in part to the horrid relationship
he had with old Tom. But it is more than that. Are you
aware that he has sworn never to allow himself to sire
a child out of wedlock?”
Alexandra went still. “No, I did not know. Why? Many
noblemen have bastards.” She was certain now that
Elysse knew about her pregnancy.
“I’m afraid he will have to tell you that himself. But
this is a subject that can arouse him as no other.”
Elysse studied her.
Alexandra’s mind was racing now. She knew she
was being given important clues, and that solving them
would somehow shed light on what had happened, but
she couldn’t fathom how to put them together.
“You should ask Stephen about his father—and why
he has vowed never to allow another man to raise his
child.”
Alexandra began to tremble. If this was Stephen’s
Achilles’ heel, it began to explain so much. “Are you
certain?”
“I am very certain.” Elysse smiled. “There is hope,
dear. Unless, of course, you are in love with the oh-sodashing
St. James?”
“I love him, but I am in love with Stephen,” Alexandra
said. Was there truly hope? Because if there was, she
would fight for her love, their love, and a future together
with their child.
“I thought so.” Elysse sounded triumphant.
They returned to the parlor, where Owen instantly
caught her eye, his gaze concerned. She smiled at him
to reassure him, but she was hardly all right. Her mind
was racing. Stephen had an issue when it came to
illegitimate offspring. She could not imagine why.
Perhaps he had bastard siblings who had somehow
suffered and it had affected him greatly. It was the only
conclusion she could draw. But now she thought about
his rage when she had refused to give him their child
—and when he thought she would marry Owen, that
she and Owen would raise that child.
She must explain things to him again, but more
carefully, now that she knew he was so sensitive to the
subject, she thought, feeling frantic.
A few minutes later Owen’s expression changed. It
became dark and grim, and he walked over to the
parlor window, his hands in his jacket pockets.
Alexandra turned to see what had caught his eye. As
she did, Corey squealed in excitement. Olivia rushed
past her, and Ariella said, her tone satisfied, “Well, I
wonder what that is?”
As everyone rushed past her to look out of the
window, Alexandra, too, stared outside. Randolph de
Warenne was in the driver’s seat of a farmer’s wagon.
The back was filled to overflowing with red hothouse
roses. And Ebony was tied to the back fender,
whinnying.
Alexandra’s heart began to race madly.
Randolph leaped to the ground and started for the
house. Corey looked at Alexandra, smiling, and then
she ran from the parlor to open the front door.
The parlor had fallen frighteningly silent—the only
sound Alexandra could hear was her heart thundering.
What had he done? What did this mean?
Randolph strode into the room, going directly to her
and bowing. “Good day, Miss Bolton.” And then he
grinned.
She trembled—she could not breathe. “What is he
doing now?”
“I believe he has sent you flowers, Ebony and a
small token of his affections.” Randolph smiled and
produced a jeweler’s box from his breast pocket. “I
believe you know I am not allowed to return to
Clarewood with the flowers, the horse or the jewelry.”
She stared at the velvet box. He had returned the
bracelet. “Why is he doing this?”
Randolph’s brows lifted as he snapped open the
box, holding it up for her to view the contents. “I believe
box, holding it up for her to view the contents. “I believe
His Grace is most insistent that you take this, Miss
Bolton,” he said, then added, “I believe he is finally
smitten.”
Alexandra could do nothing but stare at the huge
diamond engagement ring.
JULIA LOOKED AT HERSELF in the mirror over the
handsome mahogany bureau in Tyne’s hotel room,
morning light sneaking in past the curtains. He had
stepped outside to allow her to dress. They’d spent the
entire day and night since her arrival in his hotel room
—making love, then talking about their lives, then
making love again. They’d ordered room service for
supper. And then they’d made love once more.
He was leaving today.
Julia trembled. She knew that she had never before
looked so radiant, but she couldn’t smile now, and her
eyes were filled with despair. He was a strong,
determined man, but a simple one in many ways. And
his life was the homestead he had fashioned on the
harsh California frontier over the course of two
decades. Now she knew what that had entailed. She
had seen the physical scars, and he’d shared the
mental ones. He’d told her a dozen stories of
miraculous escapes. It was amazing that he was even
alive.
She trembled. Her life was a dutiful round of teas
and balls, her horses and her dogs. Stephen hadn’t
needed her advice or guidance or even her support in
years; he was a grown man, and a very successful,
driven and accomplished one. And while she was sorry
he wasn’t settled yet, she felt certain that day was
rapidly approaching. He was so obviously head over
heels in love with Miss Bolton. Everyone seemed to
know it except for him.
She knew that Tyne would love for her to visit, and
she intended to do just that. But she couldn’t bear the
thought of his leaving now, when they’d just begun such
an impassioned friendship, nor could she bear the
probability that she might not see him for six months or
even a year.
He knocked softly on the hotel-room door.
Julia managed a smile. “Come in.”
He slipped inside, his smile brief, his eyes dark.
“I need help with the back of this dress,” she said
softly.
“Of course you do.” He studied her as he
approached. She gave him her back, and as he did up
the last few buttons, she closed her eyes. Even his
fingers skimming across her back felt so terribly right.
He clasped her shoulders and turned her around.
“You don’t seem happy today.”
She met his unusually somber gaze. “Neither do
you.”
“What man in his right mind would want to leave
now?” he asked simply.
She gasped. Then she seized his hands. “Then
don’t!” she said. “Stay a little longer—so we can further
our friendship.”
“And then what?” he asked. “I’ll have to leave
eventually, and your life is here.”
She stared.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
“I meant it when I said I want to visit you in
California,” she whispered.
His stare widened. “But you have a full life here,
Julia. You are a dowager duchess.”
“I am,” she agreed, “and soon, if I do not miss my
guess, there will be a new Duchess of Clarewood.”
“What are you saying?” He gripped her hands tightly
now.
“That my duties here can be escaped, but the
Danes must come with us.”
His eyes were wide and intent. “Julia, I have a
confession to make.”
She tensed.
“I am glad to stay on longer, to see you. But there is
a problem. If you come with me to California, I may not
be able to let you leave when you need to go.”
“And what if I never want to leave? What if I want to
stay?” She clasped his face. “I have fallen in love with
you, Tyne, and there is nothing here for me now.”
He pulled her close. “I can’t believe it…. You’d leave
everything you have here—for me? What if you don’t
like California? I have told you how hard life is there.”
She slid her hands to his shoulders. “I am more than
ready to start life over,” she said softly, meaning it.
“And I am tougher than I look.”
He started to laugh before catching her by her waist
and lifting her up, and then he hugged her fiercely. “For
such a tiny woman you are very tough, but you no
longer have to be, because I will be tough enough for
us both. Julia. I love you.”
Her heart exploded with joy. And she knew then that
everything else that had transpired in her life had been
leading up to this moment—to Tyne.
She tilted her face up, and he kissed her, then
murmured, “But I want to make an honest woman of
you.”
HOLDING THE JEWELER’S BOX, Alexandra walked
past Stephen’s doormen into the front hall of the house.
Guillermo beamed as he saw her, rushing forward to
take her coat. “I will tell His Grace that you are here,
Miss Bolton,” he said. “He is in the study, of course,
with his architects.”
She trembled. Should she stand on formality now? “I
know the way, Guillermo, but thank you,” she said, her
heart racing so swiftly that she thought she might faint.
She had been up all night, staring at the engagement
ring. A part of her was thrilled. She knew Stephen so
well now, and she knew he would never be defeated in
something he had decided he must accomplish. They
had come full circle, hadn’t they? He was pursuing her
again. He would not take no for an answer. But this
time, his seduction would make her his wife.
She loved him so much that she felt dizzy thinking
about it. She loved him so much that she thrilled at the
notion. But her pride remained, and so did innate
caution. He was a proud, complicated and difficult
man. He did not understand compromise. A marriage
without mutual affection and understanding would be
impossible. And he had to genuinely care for her in
return. They could not marry simply out of convenience,
or for their child. It would hurt too much.
Ariella and Elysse knew him as well or better than
anyone, and they were certain that he loved her. But
then why hadn’t he simply said so?
She knew him well enough now to imagine that such
a confession might be difficult for him. He wasn’t
demonstrative, except in bed. He might not even know
how to express such feelings. And he certainly wouldn’t
think it necessary to explain himself, not even to the
woman he wished to marry.
Alexandra paused on the study’s threshold, praying
that he truly cared for her, too. The door was wideopen.
Sunlight was pouring into the room. Her heart
slammed as she looked at Stephen, standing by the
far desk, with two architects, his shirtsleeves rolled up
to his elbows, his gaze trained on the drawings spread
out before them. The sunlight illuminated his high
cheekbones and the sharp bridge of his nose. Her
heart slammed and filled with love, but the hurt
remained. She needed him so.
He looked up, and their gazes locked.
Then his eyes fell to the velvet box she held. He
straightened, his expression impossible to read.
“Would you excuse us?” he asked the other men.
Alexandra didn’t move as the two gentlemen smiled
at her and filed out. She was absolutely breathless
now. She prayed for a happily-ever-after fairy-tale
ending.
He came forward, unsmiling, his eyes searching and
somber. “I see that you’re not wearing the ring. Have
you come to return it?” He spoke quietly.
She bit her lip. “I have come to discuss it.” That
hadn’t sounded right—it had sounded so detached. “I
have come to discuss us, Stephen.”
“Good,” he said harshly. Then, “Is it true? Is St.
James already courting you?”
She tensed. “Stephen, he has been calling, but as a
friend. He knows I am heartbroken.”
“And why would you be heartbroken, Alexandra,
when your long-lost love has returned? I thought you
would be delirious with joy.”
“I am hardly delirious with joy.” She inhaled. Was
their inability to communicate so severe? “You never let
me tell you why I couldn’t agree to marry you,” she said
tersely.
“So you have come to reject me. Be warned. I have
thought a lot about this. I am not going to back down,
and I will not take no for an answer. Nor will I allow my
wife to run off with another man.”
“In a relationship, in our relationship, you must step
down from tyranny, Stephen.”
He winced. Then, “I am not giving up. I meant my
every word.”
Her heart thrilled, but she had to be sure. “Because
of the child,” she said. “Because you have a sore spot
where bastards are concerned.”
He stared. “Who told you that? Let me guess
—Elysse? Ariella?”
“Yes, but they did not say why.”
“Then I will tell you why, and if you ever use it against
me, I will deny it. I am a bastard, Alexandra. My natural
father is Sir Rex.”
She cried out, shocked.
“With that background, how could I ever allow
another man to raise my child?” he asked. “My child
must have my name!”
She reached for his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He didn’t pull away. “It is a serious matter, never
mind the rumors that abound, some of which are
correct. One does not confess such a secret at the
drop of a hat. Clarewood is at stake, should that truth
ever be revealed and confirmed.”
She was still reeling from his revelation. “If I had
known, I would have understood why you were so
insistent that we must marry—or that I must leave my
child with you.” It began to make so much sense now.
She considered what Elysse and Julia had told her
—that Stephen had been raised harshly and unkindly.
He studied her. “I had a difficult childhood. While St.
James seems a reasonable man—and nothing like
Tom Mowbray—I could not bear to leave my son or
daughter in another man’s custody. I simply cannot do
it.”
She touched his face, the comprehension surging.
He was afraid his child would suffer an unhappy
childhood in another man’s care. “I am not marrying
Owen. I am not with Owen. I am not in love with Owen,
Stephen.”
He seemed puzzled. “But you—”
“I love him, but you are the man I am in love with.”
His gaze widened with disbelief. “What?”
“I think I fell in love with you at the Harrington ball,
when you rescued me and then my father,” she said,
tearing up. “I’ve never believed in love at first sight, but
not only were you an impossibly handsome prince, a
true knight in shining armor, you were strong and kind.”
He reached for her and pulled her close. “And that is
what you desperately needed, Alexandra, and I felt it
immediately. You needed someone else to bear the
burdens you had been struggling with for so long.”
She met his somber gaze. She had needed his
strength and he had known it—he had offered it to her
immediately. “I am strong, but I am tired, Stephen, tired
of always having to be the strong one, of always having
to do the right thing, of sewing until two or three in the
morning.”
He clasped her face. “You will never have to be tired
again. You will never have to struggle again, and you
will end that damned business immediately! Can’t you
understand? This isn’t simply about the child. I want to
take care of you. I always have—from that first moment
we met. I will take care of you!” He wiped a tear away
from her mouth. “And I need you, Alexandra. You have
warmed these icy halls.”
She wondered if this was his way of telling her that
he loved her.
He added thickly, “I truly thought myself a heartless
man, until you came into my life. You showed me love,
and you taught me passion—now can you see why I
can’t allow you to leave me?”
She somehow nodded, crying. “I love you so much.”
His eyes widened. He inhaled, trembling. “Do you
really love me? You have seen me at my worst. I can’t
quite believe that you could truly love someone like me.
You have seen my temper and my cruelty. How can you
love me?” he asked harshly.
She took his face in her hands. She knew very little
about his past, but he suddenly seemed to be a small,
vulnerable boy, not a powerful grown man. He clearly
needed reassurance, and she was glad to give it to
him. “You have lost your temper, I agree, but very rarely,
and you are not cruel. You are the kindest, most
generous man I have ever known.”
He glanced past her.
Alexandra turned. No one stood behind them. “What
is it?”
As if he had just realized something, his expression
became relieved, and he smiled at her. “Nothing.
Alexandra? I have been miserable without you. I do not
want to live alone at Clarewood, in these damned halls,
without you.”
She laid her hand on his cheek, surprised by the
passionate admission. As he blushed, she said, “I
have been miserable without you, too. I cannot live
without you, either.”
“Good,” he said, pulling back. And suddenly he was
the powerful, arrogant, confident Duke of Clarewood
again. “Then that is settled. We will be wed
immediately, without fanfare.”
Alexandra nodded, crying all over again.
And he swept her up into his arms, smiling.
“What are you doing?” she asked, astonished.
“Carrying my soon-to-be bride over the threshold.”
JULIA PAUSED ON THE THRESHOLD of the great
dining room at Clarewood, and before Guillermo could
announce her, she smiled. Stephen sat at the head of
the table, with Alexandra on his right. Their heads were
together, and he had his hand on top of hers. Both of
them were smiling, but it was her son’s warm, open
smile that caused her heart to swell with joy.
She had been right about them, she thought,
pleased. And she had been right to pray that Stephen
would find love, not just a bride. He was so obviously
happy, and she was thrilled.
“Your Grace? The dowager duchess has called,”
Guillermo intoned.
Stephen leaped to his feet. “Mother, you have
impeccable timing. Guillermo, set another place.”
The butler smiled and hurried off.
Julia entered the room, and he hurried over to kiss
her cheek. She turned to Alexandra, who was standing,
looking expectant. “How are you, dear?” she asked.
“I am fine, Your Grace. It is a pleasure to see you
again,” Alexandra said, her cheeks tinged with pink.
Julia glanced at her son and saw him staring at
Alexandra with a besotted expression. She laughed,
happy as never before.
He turned sharply. “Your timing is perfect because
we have news to share, and I wanted you to be the first
to hear it. But I must say, you are in very good spirits.”
His gaze had narrowed with suspicion.
“My spirits have never been better, and I also have
news. But why don’t you go first?” She was too deeply
in love to be worried by her son’s impending
disapproval. Nothing would stop her from being with
Tyne now.
Stephen turned toward Alexandra, who came
around the table to stand beside him—and he pulled
her close. He faced Julia and said, “I have asked
Alexandra to be my wife, and she has agreed.”
Julia, overjoyed though not surprised, clapped her
hands together. “I am so happy for you both!” She
instantly reached for Alexandra and hugged her hard. “I
am so thrilled, my dear. I thought and hoped this would
be the outcome of your affair.”
Alexandra beamed. “You are so kind. Thank you. I
love your son, Your Grace, and I intend to spend the
rest of my life making him happy—while teaching him a
thing or two about compromise.”
Julia laughed. Stephen was staring at Alexandra
again, with the same smitten look. “Oh, dear,” she said.
“There is a wedding to plan. And I have a feeling
Stephen has realized that sometimes a queen rules,
not the king.”
Alexandra laughed.
“We are eloping,” Stephen said firmly. “Alexandra
and I have already decided on it—and we did not even
have to compromise.” He glanced warmly at her again.
Julia wondered at that—every woman wanted a
wonderful wedding. Alexandra had suffered many
hardships, and she deserved a big event. “I refuse to
be excluded,” Julia returned instantly.
Alexandra took Stephen’s hand. “That is what Alexi
said…and Elysse and Ariella. And what about Sir Rex
and Lady Blanche? They will surely wish to witness the
nuptials—and so will Randolph—and my sisters, of
course.”
Julia grinned. Alexandra had no intention of eloping.
He sighed. “I had truly hoped to avoid a society
affair.”
“You cannot avoid such an affair, you are the Duke of
Clarewood,” Julia said firmly. And then she thought of
her own plans with Tyne. He wanted to marry her. He
loved her. It was a dream come true.
She smiled to herself. Their timing was clearly
perfect, too. “But if you are truly in a rush, I could help
—I am sure we could manage a small family affair
within a month or so. I have an excellent caterer.”
“Ah, that means just a hundred—or two hundred
—guests.” But Stephen smiled as he spoke.
Alexandra couldn’t help it. She looked at him. “My
sisters would love to be my attendants.”
Julia said softly, “Sara and Marion would love to be
bridesmaids, too.”
Alexandra instantly thought of her two new and dear
friends. “And Ariella and Elysse, who gave me so much
hope when I thought we were finished.”
“I give up and I give in!” He put his arm around her. “I
see I have been deluded all along. Very well. We will
have small affair, then. Under two hundred—” he
scowled “—but as soon as possible.”
Alexandra bit her lip in pleasure. She was becoming
Stephen’s wife, and they would have a beautiful
wedding after all. “I hope I am not dreaming. Maybe I
should pinch myself.”
“You are not dreaming, and if I did not know better, I
would think that the two of you conspired against me in
advance.” But he smiled.
“We are women—we think alike when it comes to
weddings, darling,” Julia said, smiling.
Alexandra could guess why Julia seemed so
ecstatically happy, and she smiled to herself. Once in
love, it was easy to recognize another person who was
in the same state.
“Mother? I am now thoroughly worried. You keep
beaming like a moonstruck girl.”
Julia sighed. “I am moonstruck, Stephen—I am head
over heels in love.”
His horrified expression was comical. “Pray God
you are not in love with that American!”
“I am marrying that American, Stephen. In fact, we
are eloping.”
He stared at her, for once at a loss for words.
“I am happy as I have never been before, and we will
be leaving for California after your nuptials.”
He sat down.
Alexandra rushed to him. “Stephen, this is wonderful
news! Your mother so deserves love and a good
second marriage.”
He looked up at her. “A good second marriage? In
California? With an American?”
“Look at how happy she is,” Alexandra said, taking
his hand. “I know you want the dowager duchess to be
happy, beloved and cared for.”
Stephen looked at Julia, slowly standing up. “Are
you really happy? I did have Jefferson investigated.
Unfortunately, as he is an American, it will take months
for my runners to learn if he has a shady past. But the
one thing I know is that he does not have means,
Mother, not as you do.”
“And I don’t care that his means are modest! He
doesn’t have a secret past. He is a good man,
Stephen, and I would like you and Alexandra to join us
for dinner tonight, so you can get to know him. After
one evening you will realize how solid and dependable
he is.”
He stared grimly at her.
Alexandra looked back and forth between them. The
dowager duchess was glowing. She had every right to
this second chance at life and love and happiness.
She hadn’t met Jefferson, but she’d seen him that one
time at the Harrington ball, and anyone could tell that
he was a strong, sincere man. He had seemed as
solid as an ancient oak tree.
And now that she knew a little about the kind of life
Julia had led, about how she had sacrificed everything
for her son, Alexandra understood her so much better.
She looked at Stephen. She knew how protective he
was of those he cared about. But he was changing. He
smiled often now. He laughed. He often took her hand
and squeezed it. And he’d mentioned his childhood
twice to her now, speaking first of Tom, and then of Sir
Rex. She hadn’t realized how cruel his “father” had
been. He had suffered so much as a boy that she was
amazed he’d become the good man that he was. And
now, understanding him as she did, everything made
so much sense. In return, she had shared the agony of
her mother’s passing and her decision to break up
with Owen.
The past felt as if it was finally that, the past. It finally
felt buried, as it should be.
And Stephen had stopped looking over his shoulder
and into dark corners.
Now he wanted to start thinking about marriages for
her sisters. He said it would be his first priority after
they were wed.
But of course it would be. Stephen was that kind of
man—a family man. His protection wouldn’t extend just
to her; it had automatically been extended to her
sisters, and even to her father. He hadn’t said so, but
she was fairly certain he’d paid off all her father’s
debts.
There were no more secrets. There was no more
pain. Clarewood’s long, lonely halls were suddenly
warm, suddenly bright, as if the walls had been painted
the color of the sun. And there were so many daily
callers now. Alexi was a frequent guest, as was his
wife, Elysse. Ariella and Emilian, Jack O’Neil, Sir Rex
and Lady Blanche came almost as often. The once
infamous Captain Devlin O’Neil, Elysse’s father, had
even come for supper with his American wife, and it
had been a fascinating evening. In fact, every de
Warenne and O’Neill who lived within a county or two
had begun calling on a regular basis. Nor did anyone
come alone. Children—and grandchildren—of all ages
were always in tow.
They hadn’t made their wedding plans public, but
Alexi, Elysse and Ariella knew—and Alexandra felt
certain that therefore every de Warenne and O’Neill
knew, as well, which was the reason for their sudden
popularity. While congratulations weren’t offered, there
were plenty of winks and handshakes and kisses.
Clearly the fact of Stephen’s paternity was common
knowledge in this large, warm family.
Her sisters came weekly now, too, bubbling with
smiles and eagerly discussing plans for her future.
Obviously Olivia and Corey knew about the wedding,
and they were overjoyed for her. They wanted to come
more often, but they were busy with Edgemont Way’s
reconstruction now. After all these years, the house
was being rehabilitated, inside and out. It was being
refurbished, too. The stables were being razed and
then rebuilt. And their new wardrobes had arrived. Her
sisters were so fashionable and elegant now!
They were going to be thrilled that there would be a
real wedding, not an elopement. Alexandra smiled
—she couldn’t wait to tell them.
But then she sobered, just a bit. She didn’t know
what it meant, but she had caught the notorious Jack
O’Neil staring at Olivia while she wasn’t aware of it.
She hadn’t known whether to be happy or dismayed by
such intense scrutiny on his part. Although he was
Captain O’Neill’s son, he had only modest means and
intended to return to America, where he was making
his fortune. Additionally, he was a reputed rake.
Alexandra had told herself that she was mistaken and
he was not interested in her gentle sister, but in fact
she was not entirely sure.
Alexandra smiled at Julia now and said, “We would
love to dine with you and Mr. Jefferson tonight.” She
looped her arm through Stephen’s. “I am sure we will
become as fond of him as you are.”
Stephen sighed. “Very well. As much as it pains me,
I can see you have made up your mind. Not only will we
dine together tonight, I will give him the benefit of the
doubt.”
Julia beamed, hugging him, and Alexandra smiled.
She had not been in any serious doubt that Stephen
would bend to Julia’s wishes. He had changed too
much. He would allow the dowager duchess to live her
own life.
Just then Guillermo appeared on the threshold once
more. “Your Grace? Miss Bolton? The Earl of Adare
has called. The countess is with him, as are several
small children.”
“Show them in, then see if Cook can accommodate
everyone,” Stephen said instantly. He gave Alexandra
a look. “Do you mind? You have not met Tyrell yet, and
his wife Lizzie is a wonderful woman.”
“Of course I do not mind,” she said. She hadn’t met
a relation yet who she hadn’t liked.
A moment later six boys and girls ran into the dining
room, followed by the darkly handsome Tyrell de
Warenne and his plump wife, Lizzie. As introductions
were made, Stephen pulled Alexandra close and let
the cat out of the bag, announcing their wedding plans.
The earl kissed her cheek and welcomed her into the
family, while Lizzie hugged her, asking her if she
needed anything. As she began chatting with the earl’s
wife, the children began playing with one another, their
screeching and laughter filling the dining room. No one
chastised them, because no one cared.
Across the room, she caught Stephen’s eye. As one
of his little cousins ran past him, bumping into him, he
smiled at her, his eyes shining. She smiled back, her
heart so swollen with love she felt as if she might drift
to the ceiling. Alexandra realized that her prayers had
been answered. There was going to be a happily-everafter
ending after all.
And as she looked around the room, she knew why
Clarewood’s rooms and halls were warmer and
brighter now. It was because they now rang with
laughter and were filled with love.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4965-7
AN IMPOSSIBLE ATTRACTION
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited,
Inc.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the
reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in
part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other
means, now known or hereafter invented, including
xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden
without the written permission of the publisher,
Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road,
Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.





BRENDA JOYCE
An Impossible Attraction

Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoy reading An Impossible Attraction as
much as I enjoyed writing it. I wanted Stephen and
Alexandra’s story to be a bit off the beaten path, and
hopefully you’ll be intrigued by their trials and
tribulations. And now I am happy to announce that the
story you have been waiting for—and asking me for
—is on its way to you! I am halfway through Alexi and
Elysse’s epic love story, which will be released later in
2010.

This is truly a thrill ride! As you know from A
Dangerous Love, Alexi married Elysse in 1833—then
left her at the altar and hasn’t seen his bride in the sixyear
interim. In An Impossible Attraction, Elysse and
Alexi are ecstatically together, with a child on the way.
So what happened, exactly?
I always follow my muse. That is why I wrote these
stories out of order; I simply wasn’t ready to delve into
Elysse and Alexi’s incredibly intense and passionate
love story. The novel opens in the spring of 1833, with
Alexi returning home after a two-and-a-half-year
absence. Elysse can’t wait to see him, and to get his
attention, she flirts shamelessly—with his friend. Her
reckless flirtation leads to murder and marriage—and
to Alexi coldly and furiously leaving Elysse right after
their wedding vows are exchanged.
Six years later, Elysse is one of London’s reigning
socialites. And Alexi has become a national icon—a
China trader, he has set the record for the Canton to
London run, and has been the first ship home two
years in a row. Outwardly, Elysse is the woman every
other woman wishes to be—beautiful, gracious, witty
and wealthy, and not only are her invitations fought
over, she is married to one of the country’s most
dashing men. But Elysse has spent six years
maintaining a terrible pretense—that her life is exactly
as she wishes it to be, and that her marriage is a
successful one. But that lie is about to be exposed….
That spring, when Alexi’s ship is spotted off Plymouth,
Elysse is convinced by her friends to greet him at the
docks. Obviously he is not expecting her; obviously he
has gone to great pains to avoid her. After six years,
their reunion finally takes place. And nothing has
changed. He is furious with her—and she is furious
with him. But now he intends to stay in London, and
she instantly realizes he must play the role of a proper
she instantly realizes he must play the role of a proper
husband, because her pride is at stake….
And so begins the clash of love, pride and passion!
I can’t wait to share their story with you!
Happy reading,
Always,
Brenda Joyce

Also by New York Times bestselling
author
BRENDA JOYCE

The de Warenne Dynasty
A Dangerous Love
The Perfect Bride
A Lady at Last
The Stolen Bride
The Masquerade
The Prize
The Masters of Time®
Dark Lover
Dark Victory
Dark Embrace
Dark Rival
Dark Seduction

No comments:

Post a Comment