An Impossible Attraction (28 page)

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.”

A
LEXANDRA 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 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.