Читать книгу An Impossible Attraction - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 11

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 cold-hearted 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.”

“She 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 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 pitch-black. 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.