An Impossible Attraction (27 page)

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.”

S
TEPHEN 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.

S
HE 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 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
.