An Impossible Attraction (24 page)

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 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.”

J
ULIA
M
OWBRAY 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 rough-edged 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.”