Praise for
Brenda Joyce

“Joyce’s latest is a piece of perfection as she

meticulously crafts a tender and emotionally

powerful love story. Passion and pain erupt from the

pages and flow straight into your heart. You won’t

forget this beautifully rendered love story of lost

souls and redemption”

—RT BOOKreviews on The Perfect Bride

“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional

weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her

fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride

“An emotionally sweeping tale of heartache,

redemption and rebirth, The Stolen Bride lives up to this reader’s high expectations for a Perfect 10 read.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“The latest from Joyce offers readers a passionate,

swashbuckling voyage in her newest addition to the de

Warenne dynasty series. Joyce brings her keen sense

of humour and storytelling prowess to bear on

her witty, fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

“The latest in the de Warenne series is a warm,

wonderfully sensual feast about the joys and pains of

falling in love. Joyce breathes life into extraordinary

characters – from her sprightly Cinderella heroine and

roguish hero to everyone in between – then sets them in

the glittering Regency, where anything can happen.”

—RT BOOKreviews on A Lady at Last

The Masquerade “dances on slippered feet, belying its heft with spellbinding dips, spins and twists.

Jane Austen aficionados will delve happily into heroine

Elizabeth “Lizzie” Fitzgerald’s family…Joyce’s tale

of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will

enchant those who like their reads long and rich.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Joyce brilliantly delivers an intensely emotional and

engrossing romance where love overcomes deceit,

scandal and pride…An intelligent love story with

smart, appealing and strong characters. Readers will savour this latest from a grand mistress of the genre.”

—RT BOOKreviews on The Masquerade

An Impossible
Attraction

By

Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Brenda Joyce is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and novellas. She wrote her first novella when she was sixteen years old and her first novel when she was twenty-five – and was published shortly thereafter. She has won many awards and her first novel, Innocent Fire, won the Best Western Romance Award. She has also won the highly coveted Best Historical Romance award for Splendor and the Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. She is the author of the critically acclaimed Deadly series, which is set in turn-of-the-century New York and features amateur sleuth Francesca Cahill. There are over eleven million copies of her novels in print and she is published in more than a dozen countries. A native New Yorker, she now lives in southern Arizona with her husband, son, dogs, cat and numerous Arabian and half-Arabian reining horses. For more information about Brenda and her forthcoming novels, please visit her website at www.brendajoyce.com.

Previous novels by the same author:

DEADLY ILLUSIONS

DEADLY KISSES THE MASQUERADE

A LADY AT LAST

THE STOLEN BRIDE

THE PERFECT BRIDE

A DANGEROUS LOVE

Brenda Joyce is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and novellas. She wrote her first novella when she was sixteen years old and her first novel when she was twenty-five – and was published shortly thereafter. She has won many awards and her first novel, Innocent Fire, won the Best Western Romance Award. She has also won the highly coveted Best Historical Romance award for Splendor and the Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. She is the author of the critically acclaimed Deadly series, which is set in turn-of-the-century New York and features amateur sleuth Francesca Cahill. There are over eleven million copies of her novels in print and she is published in more than a dozen countries. A native New Yorker, she now lives in southern Arizona with her husband, son, dogs, cat and numerous Arabian and half-Arabian reining horses. For more information about Brenda and her forthcoming novels, please visit her website at www.brendajoyce.com.

Previous novels by the same author:

DEADLY ILLUSIONS

DEADLY KISSES THE MASQUERADE

A LADY AT LAST

THE STOLEN BRIDE

THE PERFECT BRIDE

A DANGEROUS LOVE

For Sue Ball, one of the most generous and caring

spirits I have ever known. My heartfelt thanks for so

many years of kindness, friendship and support to me and my family.

Prologue

THERE WAS SO MUCH LIGHT, and Alexandra hesitated, confused.

“Alex…andra?” her mother whispered from the bed.

Gold-and-burgundy wallpaper adorned the walls, and dark draperies were closed over the bedroom’s two windows. The bureau was a dark, rich mahogany, as was the bed, and the bedding was wine and gold. The room’s single armchair was a dark, intense red. Yet the light within almost blinded her. “I am here, Mother,” she whispered back.

And then, because Elizabeth Bolton was dying and would not last another night, because she had wasted away from the cancer eating at her, because she was so frail and weak now that she could barely see, much less hear, Alexandra hurried forward. She held back the tears. She hadn’t cried, not even once, not even when her father had told her that her mother had a terrible and fatal disease. It hadn’t been a shock. Elizabeth had been fading away before Alexandra and her younger sisters’ eyes for months. Being the eldest—all of seventeen—meant she had to hold the family together now in this crisis.

Alexandra rushed to her mother’s side, her heart clenching as she looked at her gaunt, unrecognizable face and frame. Elizabeth had been so beautiful, so lively, so alive. She was only thirty-eight years old now, but she looked ninety.

Alexandra sat, reaching for her thin, frail hands. “Father said you wished to see me, Mother. What can I get you? Do you want a sip of water?”

Elizabeth smiled wanly, lying prone on the large bed, dwarfed by the pillows behind her, the blankets over her. “Angels,” she whispered. “Can you see them?”

Alexandra felt the tears rise. She batted her lashes furiously. Her mother needed her, as did her two sisters, who were only seven and nine. Father needed her, too—though he was locked in the library with his gin. But now she understood the odd light in the room, and the equally strange warmth. “I can’t see them, but I can feel them. Are you afraid?”

Elizabeth shook her head ever so slightly, and just as slightly, her grasp on Alexandra’s hands increased. “I don’t…want to go, Alexandra. The girls…are so young.”

It was hard to hear her, so Alexandra leaned even closer to her mother’s face. “We don’t want you to leave us, but you’ll be with the angels now, Mother.” Somehow she managed to smile. “I am going to take care of Olivia and Corey—you needn’t worry. I will take care of Father, too.”

“Promise me…darling…promise.”

She laid her cheek against her mother’s bony face. “I promise. You have done everything for this family, you have been its guiding light, its rock and its anchor, and I will do everything for Father and the girls now. We will be fine. They will be fine.” But it didn’t feel as if anything would ever be fine again.

“I am so proud…of you,” Elizabeth whispered.

Alexandra had straightened so they could look into one another’s eyes. She was the oldest, the firstborn, with years separating her and her two younger sisters, and she and her mother had always been close. Elizabeth had taught Alexandra how to manage the household, how to entertain and how to dress for tea or for a ball. She had taught her how to bake cinnamon cookies and how to make lemonade. She had shown her how to smile, even when upset, and how to behave with grace and dignity, no matter the occasion. She had shown her the true power of love, of family, of diligence and respect.

Alexandra knew her mother was proud of her. Just as she knew she could not bear this last moment with her. “Don’t worry about the girls or Father. I will take good care of them.”

“I know.” Elizabeth smiled sadly and fell silent. And it took Alexandra a full moment to realize that her eyes had become sightless.

She gasped, hard, the intense pain blinding her. The tears finally overflowed, even as she fought them. She grasped her mother’s hands more firmly and lay down beside her, already missing her acutely, the pain unbearable now, and that was how her fiancé, Owen, found her.

“Alexandra.” He gently lifted her to her feet.

She met his concerned, searching gaze and let him guide her from the death room. It was dark and somber now—the warm light long gone. In the hall, he held her for a long time. Alexandra let him, even as her heart broke all over again.

Because she knew what she must do.

Owen was her best friend, her one and only true love, but that didn’t matter now.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” he asked, eyes wide.

She clasped his beautiful cheek. “I love you, Owen.”

He was alarmed. “You are in shock. This is the time to grieve.”

She began shaking her head. “I can’t marry you, Owen. I told her I would take care of this family, and I meant it. My life is no longer my own. I can’t marry you, I can’t be your wife, or the mother of your children. I can’t. I have to take care of my sisters.” And in that moment, she knew it was the truth and was overwhelmed by the turn her life had taken.

“Alexandra!” he cried. “Allow yourself a period of mourning. I will wait for you. I love you, and we will get through this together.”

But she pulled away, the hardest thing she had ever done. “No, Owen. Everything has changed. Corey and Olivia need me, and so does Father.”

“I am going to wait for you,” he warned, and tears glistened on his lashes.

There were no choices now. She would hold the family together, no matter what it meant or what it took. “Goodbye, Owen,” she said.

Chapter One

“I CAN NO LONGER AFFORD YOU,” the Baron of Edgemont said.

Alexandra Bolton stared in some surprise at her grim, rather disheveled father. He had just summoned her and her two younger sisters into the small, shabby library where he occasionally looked at the estate’s books. Oddly, he seemed sober—and it was almost half past four in the afternoon. What did he mean, exactly? “I know how precarious our finances are,” she said, but her smile was reassuring. “I am taking in additional sewing, Father, and I should be able to earn an extra pound every week.”

Her father made a discouraging sound. “You are exactly like your mother. She was tireless, Alexandra, tireless in her efforts to reassure me—right up until the day of her death.” He walked away, his posture slumped, and took his seat behind his equally worn and tired desk. It was crooked. One leg needed repair.

Alexandra was becoming vaguely alarmed. She had been doing her best to hold the family together ever since Elizabeth Bolton had died—no easy task, considering her father’s terrible penchant for gaming and whiskey, which only their mother had been able to restrain. The last time her father had asked her and her two younger sisters into the library, it had been to tell them that their mother was fatally ill. Of course, Elizabeth had been fading before their very eyes. The news had been heart wrenching, but not a surprise.

Elizabeth had died nine years ago. Since then, her father had lost all self-restraint. He did not even try to refrain from his bad habits. Corey was tempestuous by nature, and did as she pleased when away from Alexandra’s watchful eyes. Olivia had withdrawn into her world of watercolors and pastels, and although she seemed content, Alexandra despaired. She herself had given up true love to take care of them all. But there were no regrets.

“Someone must be cheerful,” she said with a firm smile. “We may be short on funds, but we have a fine home, even if it could use some repairs, and we have clothes on our backs and food on the table. Our situation could be worse.”

Corey, who was only sixteen, choked. After all, every rug in the house was threadbare, the walls needed paint and plaster, and the draperies were literally falling apart. The grounds were as bad, for their staff had been reduced to one manservant and the gardener let go last year. Their London townhome had been sold, but Edgemont Way was within an hour’s drive of Greenwich, fortunately or not.

Alexandra decided to ignore her rather reckless, very outspoken and terribly beautiful little sister. “Father? Your demeanor is worrying me.” And he was not yet foxed. He was always foxed well before noon. What did this turn mean? She couldn’t be hopeful. She knew he had no reason to try to change his dissolute ways.

The baron sighed. “My last line of credit has been squashed.”

Her unease escalated. Like most of their peers, they lived on rents and credit. But her father’s obsession with gambling had forced him to sell off their tenant farms, one by one, and there were only two tenants left. Those rents might have been enough to support the family if he didn’t game compulsively almost every single night. But he did game excessively and obsessively, so within a few years of their mother’s death, Alexandra had turned her love for sewing into a source of income for them, though it was, at times, humiliating. The very women they had once enjoyed teas and dinner parties with were now her customers. Lady Lewis enjoyed personally handing over her torn and damaged garments, while making a huge fuss at how “sloppy” the repairs were upon their return. Alexandra always smiled and apologized. She was actually excellent with a thread and needle, and until the downturn, she had enjoyed sewing and embroidery. Now, given a choice, she doubted she would ever thread a needle again.

But they did have clothes on their backs, a roof over their heads and food on the table. Their clothes were out of fashion and well mended, the roof leaked when it stormed, and their diet was generally limited to bread, vegetables and potatoes, with red meat on Sundays. But that was better than nothing at all.

And her sisters did not recall a time of luncheons and balls. Alexandra was grateful for that.

But how would they get on without credit? “I will take in more sewing,” she said, determined.

“How can you take on more sewing? You are already up all night with the customers you have,” Corey shot back. “You have calluses on your thumbs!”

Corey was right, and Alexandra knew it. She was only one person, and she simply couldn’t manage more work, unless she forwent any sleep at all.

“Last summer Lord Henredon asked me if I would paint his portrait. I refused,” Olivia said quietly. While Corey was a true golden blonde, Olivia was that indistinct shade that was neither blond nor brown, but she was also very pretty. “But I could offer my services to the shire as a portrait artist. I think I could make quite a few pounds within a very short time.”

Alexandra stared at her middle sister, dismayed. Her sisters’ happiness meant everything to her. “You are a naturalist,” she said softly. “You despise doing portraits.” But there was more. She knew that Henredon had made improper remarks to Olivia, and improper advances would no doubt have followed. Henredon was known for his gallivanting ways.

“It is a good idea,” Olivia returned as quietly, steel in her green eyes.

“I am hoping it will not come to that,” Alexandra said, meaning it. She was afraid her good-natured sister would be taken advantage of in many ways.

“I doubt that will be necessary, Olivia,” Edgemont said. He turned to Alexandra. “How old are you?”

Alexandra was mildly confused by her father’s odd question. “I am twenty-six.”

The baron flushed. “I thought you were younger, maybe twenty-four. But you’re still an attractive woman, Alexandra, and you keep a fine household, in spite of our means, so you will be the first—to show your sisters proper respect.”

Tension began to knot in her stomach, but she kept a firm smile in place. “I will be the first to do what, Father?” she asked with care.

“To marry, of course. It’s high time, don’t you think?”

Alexandra was disbelieving. “There’s no money for a dowry.”

“I am aware of that,” Edgemont snapped. “I am very aware of that, Alexandra. Despite that, an inquiry has been made about you.”

Alexandra pulled a chair close and sat down. Was Edgemont mad? No one would ever consider marrying an impoverished spinster of her age. Everyone in town knew of her “profession,” just as everyone knew that Edgemont gambled and drank every possible night away. The truth was that the good Bolton name was seriously tainted. “Are you serious, Father?”

He smiled eagerly now. “Squire Denney approached me last night to ask after you—and to enquire if he could call.”

Alexandra was so surprised that she sat up straight, causing her chair to rock on its uneven legs. Was there a chance of marriage, after all this time? And for the first time in years, she thought of Owen St. James, the man she had given her heart to so long ago.

“You know him, of course,” her father continued, smiling at her. “You sewed his late wife’s garments for several years. He has come out of mourning now, and apparently you made a considerable impression upon him.”

Alexandra knew she must not think of Owen now, or of the hopes and dreams they had once shared. She recalled the squire, a rather stately older man who had always been polite and respectful to her. She did not know him well, but his wife had been a valuable customer. She had been saddened for him when his wife had passed away. But now she did not know what to think.

She trembled. When she had given up the idea of marriage nine years ago, they had still been a family with respectable means. But they had been reduced almost to abject poverty now. The squire was landed and wealthy. Marriage to him could improve their circumstances, their lives.

“He must be sixty years old,” Corey gasped, paling.

“He is an older man, but he is very well-off, and he is only fifty, Corey. Alexandra will have a closet full of the latest gowns. You will like that, won’t you?” He turned to her, brows raised. “He has a fine manor house. He has a carriage and a brougham.”

Alexandra started, gathering up her wits. She had a suitor—one with means. Yes, he was an older man, but he had always been kind, and if he was inclined toward generosity, he could be a savior for their family. She thought again of Owen and his courtship, and she was saddened. She must put Owen out of her mind. Squire Denney’s suit was flattering, and more than that, it was a boon. At her age, in her circumstances, she could not expect more.

“You know I don’t care about fashion—I care about you and the girls,” she said carefully. She stood up and dusted off her immaculate skirts, and stared carefully at her father now. He was sober, and he was no fool. “Tell me about the squire. Is he aware that there is no dowry?”

“Oh, dear,” Olivia murmured. “Alexandra, you cannot be considering Denney.”

“Don’t you dare even think about marrying him!” Corey exclaimed.

Alexandra ignored their outbursts.

Edgemont leveled a firm gaze at them both. “You two will keep your opinions to yourselves. They are not wanted. Yes, he is very aware of our predicament, Alexandra.” His stare was sharp.

“Is there any chance he will be able and willing to contribute to this household?” Alexandra asked, after a lengthy pause.

Corey ran over to her. “How can you consider marrying that fat old farmer?” She whirled. “You can’t marry Alexandra to him against her will!”

Edgemont glared. “I have had enough of your harping, missy.”

“Corey, please, I must discuss this opportunity with Father,” Alexandra said, squeezing her sister’s hand.

“You are elegant and beautiful. You are kind and good, and he is fat and old,” Corey insisted. “This is not an opportunity. This is a fate worse than death!”

Alexandra laid her hand on her sister’s arm. “Please calm yourself.” She faced her father. “Well?”

“Our discussions have not taken that turn. But he is a very wealthy man, Alexandra. I have heard it said he has the largest lease of all the Harrington tenants. He will surely be generous with us.”

Alexandra chewed on her lip, a terrible habit of hers. Lady Harrington was an old family friend; Elizabeth and Blanche had been fond of one another, once. Lady Blanche came out to Edgemont Way once or twice a year, when she was passing by, to check on Alexandra and her sisters. Alexandra no longer called on Lady Blanche, mostly because their clothes were so out of fashion and so shabby—it was too embarrassing. But it might be time to call now. Lady Blanche would certainly know all about Squire Denney.

“Father, I will be frank. If he is inclined to be generous, I do not see how I could refuse his offer—if he truly makes one.”

Corey cried out.

“By God, Alexandra, you are such a fine and giving woman! You are exactly like your mother. She, too, was selfless. Morton Denney has implied he will be a benevolent son-in-law. And Olivia can certainly run this household once you are wed.”

Alexandra looked at Olivia, who was clearly distraught. She wanted to tell her not to worry, that it would be all right.

“He will call tomorrow afternoon, and I expect you to be turned out in your Sunday best.” Edgemont smiled, pleased. “I am off, then.”

But Corey rudely seized his sleeve as he turned to leave. “You can’t sell Alexandra off to that farmer!” Corey said, flushed with outrage. “She is not a sack of potatoes!”

“Corey…” Olivia seized her sister’s hand, jerking it away from their father’s arm.

“But that is what he is doing.” Corey was near tears. “He is selling Alexandra off to a fat old farmer so he can replenish his coffers—and then he will lose it all once again, gaming at the tables!”

Edgemont’s hand lashed out, and his slap against Corey’s face rang loudly in the room. Corey gasped, her palm flying to her red cheek, and tears filled her eyes.

“I have had enough of your insolence,” Edgemont ground out, flushed. “And I do not like it when the three of you band against me. I am your father and the head of this house. You will do as I say—every one of you. So mark my words, after Alexandra, the two of you are next.”

The sisters exchanged wide-eyed looks. Alexandra stepped forward, wishing Corey could forgive her father for their circumstances, yet knowing that she was too young and so she could not. But that was no excuse for their father’s harsh behavior. She barred her sister from Edgemont, while Olivia put her arm around her. Corey kept her head high, but she was trembling and furious.

“Of course you are the head of this house. Of course we will do as you say,” Alexandra soothed.

He did not soften. “I mean it, Alexandra. I have decided on this match, whether you agree to it or not. Even if he decides not to contribute to this household, it is high time you are wed.”

Alexandra stiffened. She did not speak her thoughts, but she was amazed. She was too old to be forced against her will into marriage or anything else.

He spoke more kindly. “You are a good daughter, Alexandra, and the truth is, I have your best interests at heart. You all need husbands and homes of your own. I can’t afford handsome young bucks—I only wish that I could. But I will do the best I can, and it is a stroke of great luck that you have attracted Denney, at your age. It has brought me to my senses at last. Your mother must be rolling about in her grave, the way I’ve neglected your future.” He glared at Corey and Olivia. “And by damn, I expect some gratitude.”

No one moved.

“I’m off, then. Plans for the evening, if you must know.” Head down and avoiding their eyes, as they all knew what he would do that night, he hurried from the room.

When he was gone, the front door of the house slamming in his wake, Alexandra turned to Corey. “Are you all right?”

“I hate him.” Corey trembled. “I have always hated him! Look at what he has done to us. And now he says he will marry you off.”

Alexandra took her youngest sister into her arms. “You can’t hate him—he is your father. He cannot help his gambling, and the drinking is an illness, too. Darling, I only want to help you and Olivia. I so want you both to have better lives.”

“We are fine!” Corey wept now. “Everything is his fault! It is his fault we are living this way. His fault that the young gentlemen in town offer me flowers, and then, behind my back, send me rude looks and whisper about lifting my skirts. It is his fault my skirts are torn. I hate him! And I will run off before it is my turn to marry some horrid old man.” She broke free from Alexandra and ran from the room.

Alexandra looked at Olivia, who returned her gaze. A potent silence fell.

Olivia touched her arm. “This is wrong. Mother would choose a prince for you. She would never approve of this. And we are happy, Alexandra. We are a family.”

Alexandra shivered. Elizabeth Bolton had approved of Owen. In fact, she had been delighted that Alexandra had found such love. And suddenly Alexandra had the notion that Olivia was right. Mother would not approve of this eminently sensible and lucrative match with Denney. “Mother is dead, and Father has become entirely dissipated. This family is my responsibility, Olivia, and mine alone. This suit is a blessing.”

Olivia’s expression tightened. A long pause ensued. Then she said, “The moment father began to speak of this, I saw your face and knew that no one would be able to talk you out of this terrible match. You sacrificed yourself for us once, but I was too young to understand. Now you intend to do so again.”

Alexandra started for the stairs. “It isn’t a sacrifice. Will you help me choose a gown?”

“Alexandra, please don’t do this!”

“Only a hurricane could stop me,” she said firmly. “Or some other, equally terrific, force of nature.”

THE HUGE BLACK LACQUERED COACH and its team of perfectly matched pitch-black horses careened down the road, the red-and-gold Clarewood coat of arms emblazoned upon its doors. Two liveried servants stood on the coach’s back fender. Inside the coach’s luxurious interior, as red and gold as the family crest, the duke of Clarewood held casually on to a safety strap, his gaze on the dark gray skies outside. His mouth curved as thunder boomed, as if he approved. Lightning forked a moment later, and his expression seemed to shift again. It was going to storm terrifically. He was amused—of course he was—a dull, dank day suited this dark occasion perfectly.

He tensed, thinking about the previous duke—the man who had raised him.

Stephen Mowbray, the eighth duke of Clarewood, universally recognized as the wealthiest and most powerful peer in the realm, turned his impassive blue gaze to the dark gray mausoleum ahead. Situated atop a treeless knoll, it housed seven generations of Mowbray noblemen. As the coach halted, it began to rain. He made no move to get out.

In fact, his grip on the safety strap tightened.

He had come to pay his respects to the previous duke, Tom Mowbray, on this, the fifteenth anniversary of his untimely death. He never thought about the past—he found the exercise useless—but today his head had ached since he had arisen at dawn. On this particular day, there was just no getting around the past. How else did one pay his respects and honor the dead?

“I WISH A WORD, STEPHEN.”

He ’d been immersed in his studies. He was an excellent student, mastering every subject and discipline put before him, though achieving such excellence required diligence, dedication and discipline. However, the need to excel had been drilled into him from a very early age; after all, a duke was not allowed to fail. He couldn’t recall a time in his life when he hadn’t been struggling to master some thing or another. No amount of fluency in French was adequate enough; no fence was high enough; no mathematical equation complicated enough. Even as a small boy of six or seven, he would be up past midnight studying. And there was never any praise.

“This examination is marked ninety-two percent,” the seventh duke said harshly.

He trembled, looking up at the tall, handsome blond man standing over him. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The examination was crumpled up and tossed into the fireplace. “You’ll take it again!”

And he had. He had received a ninety-four percent. The duke had been so furious with him that he ’d been sent to his rooms and not allowed out for the rest of the week. Eventually he ’d achieved a hundred percent.

HE REALIZED ONE FOOTMAN was holding the coach door open for him, while the other was extending an open umbrella. It was raining harder now.

His head ached uncomfortably. He nodded at the footmen and swung down from the coach, ignoring the umbrella. Although he wore the requisite felt hat, he was instantly soaked through. “You may wait here,” he told the footmen, who were as wet as he was.

As he slogged across his property toward the mausoleum, he could see the Clarewood mansion just below the ridge where the marble vault loomed. Nestled in a magnificent park, it was pale and gray against the dark trees and even darker wet skies. Thunder rolled to the east. The rain was falling in earnest now.

Stephen pushed open the heavy vault door and stepped inside, reaching for matches. He lit the lanterns, one by one, as thunder kept rolling in the distance. The rain was coming down harder and faster now, like sledgehammers on the vault’s roof. He was very aware of Tom Mowbray lying in effigy across the chamber, waiting for him.

He’d come into the duchy at the age of sixteen. He’d already known that Tom was not his biological father, not that he had been told or that it had mattered. After all, he was being groomed to be the next duke, to be Tom’s heir. The realization hadn’t been an epiphany or a revelation. It had been a slowly creeping awareness, a nagging and growing comprehension. The duke was renowned for his affairs, but Stephen had no other siblings, not even a bastard one, which was very odd. And even as isolated as his childhood was—his life was tutors and masters, the duke and duchess, and Clarewood—he was somehow aware of the rumors. They’d swirled about him his entire life, from the moment he’d first understood the spoken word. His young ears had caught the gossip many times, whether at a great Clarewood ball or below stairs between servants. And while he’d ignored the whispers of “changeling” and “bastard,” eventually the truth had begun to sink in.

The lessons of childhood could serve a man well, he thought. Gossip followed him wherever he went, threaded with envy, jealousy and malice. He never paid attention to the barbs. Why would he? No one wielded as much power in the realm as he did—outside of the royal family, of course. If they wanted to accuse him of being cold, ruthless and uncaring of anything and anyone other than Clarewood, he hardly cared. The Clarewood legacy took up all his time, as did the Foundation he had established in its name. Since taking up the reins of the duchy, he had tripled its value, while the Foundation funded asylums, hospitals and other charities throughout the greater realm.

He stared across the chamber at the pale stone effigy of his father. His mother, the dowager duchess, had declined to join him that day. He did not blame her. The previous duke had been a cold, critical and demanding man—a harsh taskmaster for them both. He would never forget her endless defense of him—nor their unending rancor, their hostile debates. Yet Tom had done his duty, hadn’t he? His duty to Clarewood had been to make certain Stephen had the character necessary to succor the estate, and he had succeeded. Most men could not have managed the vast responsibility that came along with the duchy. He looked forward to it.

It was shockingly still in the tomb, but not silent. The rain pounded on the roof over his head, almost deafening him. Stephen took a torch from the wall and slowly walked over to the white marble coffin, then stared down at the duke’s stone image. He didn’t bother to speak—there was nothing he wished to say.

But it hadn’t always been that way.

“HE IS ASKING FOR YOU.”

His insides lurched with frightening force. He carefully closed the textbook he was reading and looked up at his mother. She was so pale now that he knew the duke was finally at death’s door. He’d been close to dying for three days now, and the wait had been almost interminable. It was not that he wanted his father to die. It was that it was inevitable, and the tension had become unbearable for everyone, even for him. Yet he had been taught that a duke could and would bear any burden in the name of the duchy.

He slowly stood, trying to hold his feelings at bay, uncertain of what they were, exactly. He was the next Duke of Clarewood, and he would always accept his duty and do what he must. He had been trained from birth for this day; if his father would die, then he would take over the reins of the dukedom—and he would excel as its eighth duke. Any uncertainty he felt he would simply quash. Uncertainty was not allowed—nor was fear or anger or pain.

The duchess stared closely at him, as if expecting tears.

He would never cry—and certainly not in public. He nodded grimly at her, and they left his suite of rooms. Even if she expected grief from him, he would never reveal such feelings. Besides, he was in control. He’d learned long ago, as a small boy, that self-control was personal salvation.

The man lying on the sickbed, one of the most powerful peers in the realm, was unrecognizable now. Diphtheria had wasted his body away, leaving a small and gaunt shadow in place of the man he’d once been. Stephen tensed, for one moment his control slipping. In that moment, he did not want his father to die.

This man had raised him, claimed him as his own, given him everything…

The duke’s eyes opened. His blue gaze was unfocused, but it instantly sharpened.

Stephen strode forward, aware now that he wanted to take his father’s hands and cling to them, to tell him how grateful he was for all that he had done for him. “Is there anything I can get you, Your Grace?”

They stared at one another. And suddenly he realized that in this last moment of the duke’s life, he would like to know that the duke was pleased with him. Because there had never been a word of praise, only criticism, disapproval, rebukes. There had been long lectures on duty, diligence and the pursuit of excellence. There had been sermons on character and honor. There had been the occasional blow, the dreaded riding crop. But there had never been praise. He suddenly, desperately, wished for praise—and maybe even a sign of affection.

“Father?”

The duke had been staring, his lips twisted with scorn, as if he knew what Stephen wanted. “Clarewood is everything,” he wheezed. “Your duty is to Clarewood.”

Stephen wet his lips, oddly dismayed, a feeling he was unfamiliar with. The duke was going to die at any time, maybe within moments. Was he pleased? Proud? Did he love him at all? “Of course,” he said, breathing in hard.

“You will do me proud,” the duke said. “Are you crying?”

He stiffened. “Dukes do not cry.”

“Damned right,” the duke choked. “Swear on the Bible that you will never forsake Clarewood.”

Stephen turned, saw the Bible and picked it up. He realized his hands were unsteady and his breathing uneven. He realized that no praise, no kindness and no words or sign of affection would be forthcoming. “Clarewood is my duty,” he said.

At that the duke’s eyes blazed with satisfaction. A moment later they were sightless.

STEPHEN HEARD A SHARP inhalation in the tomb. He started and stared at the effigy, then realized he had made that sound. He certainly owed everything to Tom Mowbray, and he would not criticize him now.

“You’re probably pleased, aren’t you? That they call me cold, ruthless and heartless. That they see me in your image.” His voice echoed in the chamber. If Mowbray heard, he did not respond or give a sign.

“Talking to the dead?”

Stephen jumped, whirling. But only one man would dare intrude upon him, and that was his cousin and best friend, Alexi de Warenne.

Alexi was lounging near the vault door, which was ajar, soaking wet and disheveled, dark hair falling over his vivid blue eyes. “Guillermo said I would find you here. How morbid you have become, carousing with the dead.” But he grinned widely.

Stephen was very pleased to see his cousin, not that anyone outside of the family knew of their biological relationship. They’d been close since childhood, and he supposed the old adage that opposites attracted was true. His mother had brought him to Harrington Hall when he was nine years old, on the pretext of introducing him to Sir Rex, who had saved Tom Mowbray’s life in the war. That day he’d met so many children that he could not keep track of their names. Of course, they were all his de Warenne and O’Neil cousins. He hadn’t known that then, as he hadn’t realized until much later that Sir Rex de Warenne was his natural father, and he’d been stunned by the warmth and casual, open affection in the family—he hadn’t known a family could be so loving, and that a house could contain so much laughter. And he hadn’t known what to do, really, because he didn’t know anyone and he didn’t belong there. But his mother had gone off with the ladies, so he’d stood on the fringes of the crowded room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, watching the boys and girls chattering and playing happily with one another. It was Alexi who’d come up to him, demanding that he go outside with him and several other boys and do what boys do: find trouble, and lots of it. They’d stolen horses and gone riding through the Greenwich streets at a gallop, overturning vendors’ carts and chasing pedestrians away. Everyone had been punished that night. The duke had been livid with his behavior—he’d taken out his strap—but Stephen had had the time of his life. Their friendship had begun that day.

Although married and comfortably settled now, Alexi remained the freest spirit and most independent thinker Stephen knew. They could argue for hours on almost any subject; they usually agreed on broad conclusions, but disagreed on almost every detail. Before Alexi’s marriage they had caroused together, and frequently—Alexi had been a notorious ladies’ man. Stephen admired his cousin, and he almost envied him. Alexi had made his life exactly what he wished for it to be—he had not been the servant of duty or slave to a legacy. Stephen could not imagine having had such choices or such freedom. But Alexi had also followed in his father’s footsteps and was one of the most successful China traders of the day. In fact, until he’d married Elysse, the sea had been his great love. Now, amazingly, his wife joined him on his longer voyages, and they had residences around the world.

“I am hardly conversing with the dead, much less carousing,” Stephen said drily, walking over to Alexi and embracing him very briefly. “I was wondering when you would get back to town. How is Hong Kong and, more importantly, how is your wife?”

“My wife is doing very well, and if you must know, she is thrilled to be home—and she misses you, Stephen. God knows why. It must be your irrepressible charm.” Alexi grinned and then glanced at the effigy. “It’s pouring outside, and the road below is about to be flooded. We may have to wait out the storm here. Aren’t you glad I have come?” He took a flask out of his pocket. “We can honor old Tom together. Cheers.”

Stephen felt himself smile. “If I must be honest, I am pleased you are both back, and yes, I will have a drink.” But he didn’t add that they both knew Alexi had despised Tom Mowbray and wouldn’t think of truly honoring him. Alexi had never understood Tom’s methods as a father. He had been raised so differently. There had never been verbal lashings, much less whip lashings.

Alexi handed him the flask. “He does look better in stone, by the way. And the likeness is startling.”

Stephen drank and handed the flask back. “We cannot disrespect the dead,” he warned.

“Of course not. God forbid you fail in your duty to honor him and salvage the dukedom. I see you have not changed.” Alexi drank. “All duty and no play…how respectable you are, Your Grace.”

“My duty is my life, and I have not changed, for better or for worse,” he said, mildly amused. Alexi loved to lecture him on his failure to seize upon life’s lighter moments. Only rarely could he turn away from his respon-sibilites. “Some of us do have responsibilities.”

Alexi made a sound. “Responsibilities are one thing, shackles, another.” He drank again.

“Yes, I am so terribly enslaved,” Stephen responded, “and it is a terrible fate, to have the power to buy, take or make anything I want, whenever I want.”

“Tom taught you well, but one day, the de Warenne blood will emerge.” Alexi was unperturbed. “Even if your power scares everyone else into abject obedience, obsequious fawning or outright submission, I will always attempt to steer you in the right direction.”

“I would not be a very adept duke if I were not obeyed,” Stephen said mildly. “Clarewood would be in shambles. And I believe the family has enough reckless adventurers.” He smiled. The truth was, the de Warenne men were only reckless until they settled down, and Alexi was glaring proof of that.

“Clarewood in shambles? That is an impossibility, as long as you are at the helm.” Alexi gave him a mock salute. “And I gather you have decided not to follow in my footsteps, after all. I am unbearably despondent.”

Stephen smiled.

Alexi smiled back, then said, “So I take it nothing has changed and you are still Britain’s most eligible bachelor?”

Now Stephen was truly amused. His de Warenne relations—those who knew that Sir Rex was his father—loved to nag him about his bachelor status. Of course, he did need an heir. He simply dreaded a cold, bitter and boring marriage. “You have been gone ten or eleven months. What did you expect? For me to find my betrothed at long last?”

“You have just turned thirty-one, and it has been fifteen years since you began searching for a bride.”

“One can hardly rush the process.” His tone was wry.

“Rush? You mean prevent. One can only delay the inevitable, Stephen, not prevent it, and I, for one, am glad you have rejected this Season’s latest offerings.”

“I will admit, inane banter with an eighteen-year-old, no matter how polished, has become a discipline I dread. Of course, you will never repeat this.”

“You are growing up—and of course not!” Alexi exclaimed, crossing his heart.

Stephen laughed, something he rarely did, but Alexi could always make him see the humor in a situation. “I hope so—I am middle-aged.”

They shared another drink, this time in silence. Then Alexi said, “So nothing has changed while I have been gone? You remain as industrious as ever, building hospitals for unwed mothers and managing mining leases for the duchy?”

He hesitated. “Nothing has changed.”

“How boring.” Alex’s smile faded, and he glanced at the effigy. “Old Tom there must be proud—finally.”

Stephen tensed. He glanced at the effigy, too. And for one moment, it was as if Tom sat up and was staring mockingly at him, as alive as they were—and as accusatory as ever. Stephen’s tension increased but then the memory was gone. Tom had looked at him with such scorn a thousand times, and most of the time he preferred to forget, but today was the one day he always remembered. “I doubt it.”

They shared a somber look. “Sir Rex is proud,” Alexi finally said. “And by the way, you are nothing like Tom, even if you try to be exactly like him.”

Stephen considered the comment, knowing that Alexi had overheard him talking to the effigy. “I have no delusions about my character, Alexi. But as far as Sir Rex goes, he has always been attentive and supportive. He was kind to me when I was a boy, before I even guessed at the true nature of our relationship. You are probably right. But frankly, it doesn’t matter. I do not need anyone to admire me or be proud of my achievements. I know what I must do. I know my duty—mock it though you will.”

“Damn it, your character is just fine!” Alexi was angry, his blue eyes sparking. “I came to rescue you from old Tom, but now I think I must rescue you from yourself. Everyone needs affection and admiration, Stephen, even you.”

“You are wrong,” he said instantly, meaning it.

“Why? Because you grew up without any affection, you assume you can and will live that way? Thank God you are a de Warenne by blood.”

Stephen did not want to walk out on that particular plank and only said, “I do not need rescuing, Alexi. I am the one with the power, remember? I am the one who does the rescuing.”

“Ah, yes, and the good work you do for those who cannot help themselves is admirable. Maybe it also keeps you sane—because it prevents you from realizing the cold truth about yourself.”

Stephen felt a twinge of anger, which he quashed. “Why are you harping on me?”

“Because I am your cousin, and if I don’t, who will?”

“Your wife, your sister and any number of other relations.”

Alexi grinned. “Enough said, then. Let’s make a dash for the coach, and if the road below is flooded, we will swim.”

Stephen started to laugh. “If you drown, Elysse will drown me! I suggest we wait out the storm here.”

“Yes, she probably would, and of course you would choose to be sensible and pragmatic.” But Alexi opened the vault door anyway. The downpour remained torrential. “I am bored with old Tom. I vote we adjourn to your library for the very finest and oldest Irish whiskey in your cabinet.” He glanced back into the vault. “You know, I think he is here, eavesdropping on us, as disapproving as ever.”

Stephen tensed and said sharply, “He is dead, for God’s sake, and has been dead for fifteen years.” But he wondered if his friend had felt the old man’s presence, too.

“Then why aren’t you free of him?”

Stephen started. What did that mean? He said carefully, “I am quite free of him, Alexi, just as I am free of the past. But duty rules me, and surely even you can understand that. I am Clarewood.”

Alexi stared. “No, Stephen, you aren’t free, not of him and not of the past, and I wish you could see that. But you are right, you are ruled by duty, and by now I should not expect anything else. Except, oddly, I do.”

Alexi was wrong; Alexi didn’t understand the Clarewood legacy. And Stephen didn’t feel like arguing about it. He simply wanted to escape Tom. “The rain has let up. Let’s go.”

Chapter Two

ALEXANDRA PAUSED, facing her sisters. “Wish me luck,” she said grimly. Her smile felt far too firm, instead of being bright and reassuring. Squire Denney was waiting in the next room with Edgemont. Oddly, she was nervous. Or perhaps it wasn’t so odd. After all, her family’s future was at stake.

Alexandra knew that worrying about making a good impression was silly, given what she had to work with, but she glanced in the hall mirror anyway. Olivia had helped her with her hair, and the chignon seemed a bit severe. Worse, even though she’d chosen a dress that had fared better over the years than her other ones, it was clearly worn and out of fashion. She sighed. No amount of sewing could repair a frayed hem; only costly trim could do that.

“I appear ill kempt,” she said flatly.

Corey and Olivia exchanged looks. “You look like a fictional heroine, one suffering through tragic circumstances,” Olivia said, “and awaiting a dark hero to rescue her.” She reached up and teased several strands of hair from the tight chignon.

Alexandra smiled at her.

“I am not a tragic heroine, although the squire might very well be a hero. I suppose there is no putting this off.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Olivia said softly. “He is predisposed toward you.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t let me do your hair,” Corey complained, the light in her eyes flickering.

“I would have gladly done so—if I could have trusted you.” Knowing her sister, she might purposefully try to mess up her hair in the hopes of chasing off the squire. Alexandra could hear male voices in the parlor now. She started forward, resolved.

Both sisters followed. Olivia hugged her at the door. “I am with Corey, Alexandra. You can do better. He is not good enough for you. Please rethink this.”

Alexandra did not bother to tell her what she herself had already accepted: she was, as always, doing what was best for everyone.

Olivia sighed, glancing at Corey, who appeared distraught now.

“This is not the end of the world,” Alexandra said firmly, offering up a bright smile. “In fact, this is a new beginning for us all.” She shoved her anxiety aside and pushed open the door.

Behind her, she heard Corey cry softly, “Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten how short he was!”

Alexandra ignored that. She was exceptionally tall for a woman, and most men were shorter than she was. Her father and Denney were standing before the window, as if admiring their muddy and overgrown gardens. It had stopped raining that morning, but outside, the lawn had become a small lake. The squire was probably two inches shorter than she was—making his height quite average.

Both men turned.

Her heart suddenly lurched—as if with dismay. Denney was just as she recalled, a big, husky fellow with side whiskers and kind eyes. He wore a frock coat for this occasion, one she instantly saw was very well made—and very costly. Now she noticed a signet ring on his hand. It was gold and boasted a gemstone. And carefully inspecting him as she was doing made her feel like a fortune hunter.

But wasn’t that exactly what she was?

You can’t sell Alexandra off to that farmer!

But he could—it was done all of the time, Alexandra thought grimly. Very few in society married for love. Women in her position never did.

The parlor was small, the walls mustard-yellow, with fading green drapes and shabby furniture. Edgemont came forward, smiling, and looped his arm in hers. “Alexandra, there you are.” He turned so that they faced the squire. And Alexandra was surprised—his eyes were shining.

“I am sorry if I have kept you waiting,” she managed, her pulse pounding. Why did she suddenly feel saddened? Was it because if all went according to plan, she would be leaving Edgemont Way and her beloved family? Suddenly she thought of Owen and the deep bond—the passion—they’d shared. And she was resolute. Ever since her father had declared that she must marry, Owen had been on her mind. But that kind of love had passed her by, and she must forget about the past.

“This is my beautiful daughter, Alexandra,” Edgemont said proudly, beaming.

“You could keep me waiting for days on end, Miss Bolton, and I would still be pleased to see you,” Denney said, smiling at her.

Alexandra somehow smiled again. And she thought of how kind the squire had always been to his wife, before she’d passed away. He was a good man. Maybe, in time, she might come to love him a little. “That is far too kind of you,” she replied, shaken.

“We had a chance to discuss the summer forecast, as predicted by the Almanac. Denney thinks it will be a good summer, not too hot, with plenty of rain,” her father told her.

“That is wonderful,” Alexandra said. She meant it, because every farmer in the shire depended on good weather for their crops and livelihood.

“I have had three good years in a row, enough to make a handsome profit, and then some other investments have paid off, as well,” Denney said eagerly. His brown gaze had become searching. “I have invested in the railroads, mostly. I am now adding a fine wing to the house, for a grand parlor, if you will. There will be a small ballroom, too. I have decided that I will entertain in the future. I should love to show you my plans,” he added.

“I am sure your plans are very pleasing.”

Edgemont said eagerly, “His manor has fifteen rooms, Alexandra—fifteen rooms!”

She somehow smiled again. But her dismay had increased, against her will and intentions. The squire kept staring, his cheeks flushed, his dark eyes shining. Surely he wasn’t in love with her? She did not want to hurt him by being incapable of returning such passion.

“You may come and visit Fox Hill anytime,” Denney said. “In fact, it would be my pleasure to give you a tour of the house and gardens.”

“Then I must call as soon as possible,” she said lightly. She glanced at Edgemont. She needed to be alone with Denney so she could find out how he might be inclined toward helping her sisters.

Edgemont smiled at them. “The squire has been invited to the de Warenne fete tomorrow night. It is such an honor, as it is Lady Harrington’s daughter’s birthday celebration.”

“I am impressed,” Alexandra said. She hadn’t heard about the party, but she knew both girls, even if she hadn’t seen Sara or Marion in several years. They were close to Olivia and Corey in age.

“I am on very good terms with Lady Harrington and Sir Rex,” Denney told her eagerly. “The party is for their youngest, Sara. I should love it if you joined me, Miss Bolton—with your sisters, of course.”

Alexandra’s first reaction was sheer surprise; then, instantly, she thought of her sisters, who had never been to a high-society fete. Her mind raced. Of course she must accept. This would be a wonderful opportunity for her sisters—and the kind of evening they deserved, and should have had and become accustomed to. But neither Alexandra nor her sisters had had a new gown since before their mother died. While the sad truth was that no one invited them out, due to their circumstances, even if someone had, they did not have the proper attire to attend most social functions.

Corey could fit into one of her old ball gowns, with some slight alterations. And surely they could find something for Olivia to wear from among their mother’s clothes. They would be sadly out of fashion, but they would be able to attend.

“We would love to attend,” she said quickly.

Edgemont looked carefully at her. Alexandra knew he was wondering how they would find the proper clothing. “Father, I was hoping to walk with the squire outside, as the sun has come out and all chance of further rain is gone.”

His eyes widened, and he beamed. Then, “I’ll be in the study. Enjoy your walk.” He walked out, leaving the door wide-open.

Alexandra stared at the threshold until he was gone. Then she faced her suitor. “Squire Denney, I am very flattered that you have called.”

“A rainstorm could not have kept me away.”

“Is it possible to have a very frank discussion?”

His eyes widened. “I so prefer candor. It is one of the things I like best about you, Miss Bolton, after your excessively kind nature. You are always direct.”

She turned. “I fear you have put me high upon a pedestal, a stature I do not deserve.”

His brows lifted. “If any woman deserves to be placed upon a pedestal, Miss Bolton, it is you.” When she began to speak, he interrupted. “I have admired you for years. You have taken wonderful care of your sisters and father, and such selflessness and compassion is to be commended. And then, of course, there is your beauty. I am practically speechless, in fact, to be standing here with you now.”

Alexandra almost blushed. She was hardly a raving beauty, but she would not dispute him. “I am glad you find my nature pleasing. And you are right about one thing—I try very hard to take good care of my younger sisters as well as my father. Olivia is only eighteen, Corey just sixteen.”

A slight bewilderment crossed his bluff face. “They are lovely young ladies.”

She gestured at a chair, deciding to forgo their walk. He sat, and she took the adjacent seat, then clasped her hands in her lap. “I was on the verge of marriage nine years ago, before my mother passed on. When my mother died, I made the decision to devote myself to my family—and I broke things off with my suitor.” She smiled firmly. There was some old sadness, thinking of Owen and their dreams now. “I promised her that I would take care of this family. I made a serious commitment to the care and welfare of my sisters and my father.”

“The commitment you are speaking of only heightens my admiration for you, Miss Bolton.” He hesitated. “I have the impression that you loved this gentleman.”

She nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“You are a paragon, Miss Bolton. But why are you telling me this?”

“How direct might I be?” She sat up straighter.

“As direct as is necessary.” He flushed, suddenly seeming dismayed. “Are you about to tell me that you remain committed to the deathbed vows you made to your mother?”

“I will look after my sisters and my father until I die—although I hope my sisters will be wed well before that day.” She smiled.

He slowly nodded. “I see. My intentions are honorable, Miss Bolton.”

“That is what Edgemont indicated.”

He held her gaze. “Do you know why I suggested your sisters accompany us tomorrow night?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Because it seemed to me that it would make the evening more pleasant for you—less awkward—but it also seemed to me that two such young ladies should be given the opportunity to get out and be seen.”

Her heart sped. “That is so kind of you.”

“I consider myself a kind man—and a generous one. If my suit progresses as I hope it does, you will not have to carry the burden of caring for your family by yourself.”

Alexandra gasped. Tears came to her eyes. She was speechless.

But now she knew. He had means, his suit was a serious one, and he would be generous with her family.

“I have admired you for years, Miss Bolton—from afar, and very respectfully.” He spoke thoughtfully now. “I never dreamed my wife would die so suddenly—she was in such good health until her final illness. I mourned her deeply.” He paused, grim for a moment. “But she has died, and a year has gone by. You remain unattached—which bewilders me.” He met her gaze. “I am of a very solid character, Miss Bolton. I am a dependable and honorable man. I am certain things will work out to both our satisfaction, if you give my suit a chance.”

“I will give your suit all the respect and consideration it deserves,” she somehow said. She could barely believe this was happening. Her sisters were going to have futures outside of Edgemont Way. It seemed like a miracle.

He stood, as she did. “Shall we walk outside?”

Alexandra took his proffered arm. “It will be my pleasure to stroll with you,” she said.

But as they left the house, she glanced over her shoulder. Corey and Olivia were standing in the doorway, their expressions grim with dismay. Then Corey turned and stormed into the house.

ALEXANDRA TENSED as the squire’s brougham queued up in the circular drive before Harrington Hall. It was a beautiful evening, and the sky was stained pink above the high gray stone roof of the mansion, with fingers of pink and peach drifting across the magnificent gardens and grounds. A fountain stood in the center of the drive, its waterworks a lavish display, bursting a dozen feet into the air. But she was exhausted, having stayed up the entire night to finish repairing and restoring dresses for herself and her sisters. In fact, she’d been sewing without interruption since Squire Denney had left her yesterday afternoon.

Of course she was tense, not excited, now. And her tension escalated. She, Olivia and Corey sat facing backward, toward her father and Denney, so she had to crane her neck to look outside. The coaches ahead were large, luxurious broughams, with perfectly matching horses and liveried coachmen, and the gentlemen and ladies alighting were in the finest tails and ball gowns. Even in the dusk, Alexandra saw jewels glinting from the ladies’ throats and ears, and from the gentlemen’s hands. She’d almost forgotten how wealthy the peerage was. She looked down at her bare fingers, her green satin gown. The fabric should have shone, but it had been hanging in the closet for too many years. No one wore dresses with full sleeves above the elbow anymore, but there had not been enough time to alter her own dress—she’d altered the sleeves on Olivia’s and Corey’s gowns, instead. Her skirts were too full for the current style, as well. At least, she thought grimly, her gown still fit.

“That is a beautiful dress,” the squire said, clearing his throat.

Had he read her thoughts? Was she being transparent? She somehow managed to smile at him. His eyes had been shining yet again when he’d arrived to pick them up and escort them to Harrington Hall. Alexandra did not think she looked well—she was pale from her efforts to properly garb her sisters, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. He hadn’t noticed, obviously. And maybe he didn’t see how old—and old-fashioned—her dress truly was.

Olivia took her hand. Her eyes were sparkling with the kind of excitement she generally reserved for her paintings and sketches. She had never looked prettier. Her long tawny hair had been pinned up in curls, and she wore one of their mother’s pale ivory ball gowns. Their gazes met. Alexandra was so proud of her.

“You do look beautiful,” Olivia whispered.

Alexandra squeezed her hand. “So do you—and so does Corey. We are going to have a lovely evening—all because of the squire.”

Denney beamed. “I hope so,” he said.

Alexandra glanced at Corey. Her eyes were huge as she stared out of the carriage at the arriving guests, and her cheeks were flushed with excitement, too. She was almost as tall as Alexandra, and only a bit slimmer in build, and the pale blue watered silk was stunning on her. It was far too adult for someone of sixteen, but there hadn’t been anything else in Alexandra’s closet. Corey looked eighteen, at least, and terribly beautiful.

Alexandra felt a pang. Corey and Olivia had never been out in society, not like this—and though she did not want to blame anyone, there was one person to blame. She reminded herself that their father was no longer himself. Elizabeth Bolton’s death had crushed him, leaving him with no passion but drink and gaming, and no spirit to challenge that passion. Did it matter? Her sisters deserved more, and maybe something good would come of this night for them. The gentlemen present would have to be blind not to notice them.

Suddenly hoofbeats sounded, as if an army was approaching. It was almost their turn to alight, but Alexandra turned, as did her sisters, the squire and Edgemont. A huge black coach, pulled by six magnificent blacks, red-and-gold crests emblazoned upon its doors, passed them, clearly cutting to the head of the line. As it did so, gravel sprayed their carriage.

Alexandra stared after the magnificently attired footmen, in red-and-gold livery, pale stockings, patent shoes and long, curled white wigs. She felt her tension increase. She reminded herself that when Elizabeth Bolton was alive, she had been to a few high-society fetes. Being nervous was absurd. Would anyone really care about their sudden appearance in society, or that they wore older clothes? But now she worried, and not for herself. She did not want her sisters ridiculed tonight.

The huge coach had halted, though she could not see who had gotten out. But she thought she glimpsed a tall, dark figure striding through the crowd, bypassing the queue and directly entering the house.

Oddly, her heart thundered, and she stared.

“Ah, it’s our turn to alight,” Denney exclaimed. A coachman had opened his door, and he got out.

Her father was about to follow Denney to the curb. He must not ruin this for them, she suddenly thought. And she did not trust him. She settled in her seat and faced her father, resolved. “I prefer that you do not overimbibe tonight.”

His eyes widened in shock. Then, “You cannot talk to me that way, Alexandra.”

She firmed. The one thing she could control, or at least try to control, was her father’s drinking. “There is a flask in your pocket. May I have it?”

He gasped and turned red.

She held out her hand and somehow smiled. “If you want me to marry Squire Denney, it will not help if he sees you stumbling about. And, more importantly, what if Corey and Olivia attract suitors tonight? We are clearly in dire straits, and that means our behavior must be impeccable.”

Grumbling, Edgemont took a tarnished silver flask from his pocket, and then, before handing it over, he took a swig. “Father!” Alexandra reproved.

“You remind me more of your mother every day,” he groused, handing her the flask.

Alexandra uncapped it and poured the contents out the window. Then she exchanged looks with her sisters. “It is our turn.”

Corey was somehow both pale and flushed at once. Alexandra murmured, “You will be fine.” She gave her hand to Denney’s coachman—he did not have liveried footmen, obviously—and stepped down to the ground. Her sisters followed.

Olivia came close and whispered, “What are you thinking? We are not here to attract suitors! How could we possibly do that? Everyone knows we are in dire straits.”

Alexandra smiled at her. “Being here tonight makes me yearn for better circumstances, not for myself, but for you and Corey. Father and mother used to go to balls frequently. You should have had this life, Olivia. So should Corey.”

“We are fine,” Olivia insisted. “And right now, the only task we must concentrate on is getting you out of an unwanted betrothal.”

Alexandra grimaced, glancing ahead of them, but the squire hadn’t heard. “My mind hasn’t changed. I am very pleased that the squire is courting me,” she whispered back.

“Maybe you will find someone else here tonight,” Olivia said. She was never combative, but her will was steel. It had always been that way. She was simply so good-natured that very few knew that fact about her.

“I am nervous,” Corey suddenly said, interrupting them. “Enough so that I have a headache. And those men are staring at us.”

Corey was never nervous, Alexandra thought, and looked past her sister to see three gentlemen standing by the open front doors, where the doormen were ushering other guests inside. The gentlemen were about Alexandra’s age, and they were regarding her and her sisters. One smiled and touched his top hat, his look of admiration focused on her youngest sister.

Alexandra somehow smiled back. “He was smiling at you,” she said to Corey. “And there was nothing bold or improper about it.”

“He was smiling at Olivia,” Corey said quickly. But she blushed.

Alexandra took her arm, reminded of just how young her sister was. Corey might be reckless and willful at home, but she was overcome now, and Alexandra did not blame her. She would not be so anxious if she’d had the kind of life she had been born into, she thought. And while Alexandra’s marriage to the squire would not give her that kind of life, it would be a step upward.

The squire turned, gesturing for them to join him. They hurried to his side, following other guests up the walk. Alexandra had been to Harrington Hall many times, at first with her mother, and on two occasions, after Elizabeth’s passing, with her sisters. Lady Blanche had greeted them warmly, even after their fall from grace, as recently as last year.

The entrance hall was the size of their dining room twice over, and standing just outside the threshold of the ballroom, Alexandra saw their hosts, Lady Blanche and Sir Rex. He had lost his leg in the war and was leaning on a crutch. It didn’t matter. They made a stunning couple as they greeted their guests, for she was pale and pretty, and he was dark and handsome. Sara was with them, a stunning, bejeweled and well-dressed brunette. Alexandra felt a twinge of envy as she studied her, but the envy wasn’t for herself, it was for her sisters.

Then she realized that they were being remarked.

Alexandra started. Lady Lewis was staring hatefully at her—as if she wished her dead. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Lady Lewis was one of her best customers. The other woman turned away when she saw that Alexandra had noticed her, but then she began whispering to two other ladies, and Alexandra knew they were discussing her.

The squire was greeting several gentlemen, and he’d stepped ahead of them. Alexandra turned to her sisters, uneasy and dismayed. “Did you see that?”

Olivia met her stare. “Why would she look at us that way?”

Alexandra took a steadying breath. Now she noticed Lady Henredon across the room—and Lady Bothley, too. What had she been thinking? She sewed for all these women, and it was unacceptable for a servant—or a seamstress—to step out with her betters.

Her stomach churned. She turned—and bumped into Lady Lewis, who had approached.

“Alexandra, what a surprise. I did not recognize you in that dress.”

Unable to manage a smile, she was aware of her sisters stepping close to her, one on either side.

Lady Lewis glanced contemptuously at the three of them. “I don’t recognize any of you, dressed as you are.”

Alexandra’s heart thundered. “That is very unkind.”

Lady Lewis lifted a brow. “It’s not as if I said that I am accustomed to seeing you all in rags—and sewing my gowns.”

Corey choked.

Olivia took Corey’s hand.

Alexandra forced a smile. She wanted to explode, but she needed Lady Lewis’s account, at least for now. “No, you didn’t say any such thing, and I apologize. You would never speak so disgracefully. I am certain of that.”

“My maid will drop off this gown to be cleaned and pressed tomorrow,” Lady Lewis said, then huffed and walked away.

Alexandra trembled.

“What a witch!” Corey cried. “Don’t you dare clean and press that gown for her.”

“Of course I’ll do exactly that.” Alexandra spoke calmly, though she wasn’t calm at all. Her temples were throbbing now. She was already exhausted, and the cruel confrontation had not been helpful. She glanced about, hoping to sit down.

“Miss Bolton, may I introduce you to my good friend, Squire Landon?” Denney said as he returned to her, smiling and in good spirits. “George, Miss Bolton and her two sisters, Olivia and Corey. And Edgemont, of course, you know.”

Her father had caught up to them, as well, Alexandra noticed, then managed to smile at Squire Landon and wish him a pleasant evening. As Landon began to ask Denney about a bull he’d recently purchased, she heard a woman whispering behind her.

“A disgrace…drunk every single night…the gaming…his daughters…”

Alexandra felt her cheeks burning as she strained to hear exactly what the woman was saying, but the gist was clear. Edgemont was a disgrace, and everyone present knew it.

Corey was oblivious—peering wide-eyed at everyone and everything. Alexandra glanced at Olivia, who was staring at an oddly familiar blond man. She didn’t think she knew him, yet the feeling remained that she did. She took a deep breath. Maybe the worst was over.

But then she saw that three older women were staring at her and her sisters now, and she knew that the worst was far from over.

They were whispering behind their gloved hands, and she felt certain they were discussing her or her sisters or her father. Alexandra trembled and turned her back to them. “Father, do you know those ladies?”

He glanced toward them and paused. “Actually, although it has been a while, those ladies were all friends of your mother’s. Lady Collins was especially close. God, it seems so long ago! She is looking very well, actually.”

“She isn’t looking very friendly,” Olivia remarked. “She is shooting daggers at us.”

“That cannot be. She was very friendly with Elizabeth. Come, let’s say hello.”

Alexandra said quickly, “We haven’t met our hosts yet.”

“There are a dozen people ahead of us,” Edgemont insisted. “And Squire Denney is preoccupied with his friend. Lady Collins!” He hurried over.

Reluctantly—exchanging grim looks with her sisters—Alexandra followed. Lady Collins’s expression was as cold as ice.

“It is good to see you again,” Edgemont said.

She inclined her head. “Hello, Edgemont. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I am most surprised to be here myself,” he said cheerfully. “Do you recall my daughters?”

Alexandra held her head high as Lady Collins said she didn’t believe they’d ever met. Polite handshakes were exchanged. “Enjoy your evening,” Lady Collins said, then left them, making no attempt to hide her desire to get away as quickly as possible.

Edgemont flushed. “By God, she’s changed.”

“This is a mistake,” Alexandra said softly. “I am a seamstress now. I sew for half a dozen of these women. They resent my being here.”

“You have every right! You are Squire Denney’s guest, and Lady Harrington will be thrilled to see you.”

Alexandra turned to look at her sisters, who seemed distraught and dismayed now. She wished she hadn’t spoken so openly. Then, across their heads, she saw her escort. Denney smiled at her and indicated that he would return in another moment. He was surrounded by gentlemen now. Clearly he was well liked.

Three couples were ahead of them on the receiving line. The knot in her stomach had grown and was aching now. Her head hurt. What had she been thinking, to come out this way with Olivia and Corey? She overheard the matron at the front of the line going on and on about how lovely Sara was—how graceful, how genteel. It was true. Of course Sara de Warenne, a nice enough young lady, did not lack for anything.

“Jilted.”

She turned and saw a woman staring cruelly at her. If looks could kill, she would have dropped over on the spot. She focused on making out what the woman was saying to her friend.

“At the altar?” The friend gasped, looking at Alexandra with malicious delight.

“Yes, she was jilted right at the altar. I recall it so well now.” The first woman smiled with triumph at Alexandra. “She got what she deserved. St. James came to his senses—and married a proper title from a proper family.”

Alexandra whirled, putting her back to the two matrons, aghast. Olivia whispered, “Did I just hear what I thought I did? Were those two ladies saying that Owen jilted you?”

Of all she had endured up to that point, that lie hurt the most, and to think Olivia had heard it, too. “It doesn’t matter, Olivia,” she said, feeling oddly faint now. She realized she was too exhausted to linger at Sara’s birthday ball. She looked around for a chair. Seats lined the entry hall, many of them taken. But only two couples were ahead of them in the queue now; she would have to see this through.

She touched her throbbing temples. If she were at home, she would have lain down with an ice pack.

“Why would anyone say such a thing, when it is patently untrue?” Olivia demanded in a hushed tone.

Alexandra managed to sound calm. “I’m sure the lie wasn’t deliberate. Undoubtedly they haven’t recalled the past correctly, that is all. I’m sure those ladies made an innocent mistake.” But she wasn’t certain, not at all.

“Gossip is like wildfire,” Olivia said. “Once it starts, it is impossible to control.”

“I think those ladies are hateful,” Corey said.

Alexandra’s temples throbbed painfully now. She put her arm around Corey. “No one is hateful. And we should not be eavesdropping.”

“They wanted us to hear,” Corey said, twisting away.

“Why don’t we change the topic? We came here to enjoy the evening,” Alexandra suggested.

“How can we enjoy the evening now?” Olivia asked, clearly worried. “Although a small scandal might chase Squire Denney away.”

Alexandra choked. Her despair seemed complete.

She had barely slept in days, mired in so much stress and anxiety since her father’s shocking announcement. Last night she had worked herself to exhaustion—to the point of having numb fingertips. Suddenly she knew that no matter how close she was to the front of the queue, she must sit down—at once. She did not feel well, not at all.

The room spun.

The lights dulled and grayed.

I am not going to faint, Alexandra thought, horrified. If I faint, there will be even more gossip.

But the floor tilted wildly anyway.

As she reached out blindly, she crashed into a hard male body—and a strong arm went around her. For one moment she was filled with disbelief; she hadn’t felt such masculinity in almost a decade. Her heart slammed to a stop, then began hammering. Hard and muscular, her rescuer enveloped her in warmth. Breathless, Alexandra looked helplessly up…

And found herself gazing into the most piercing—and most beautiful—blue eyes she had ever seen.

With utter calm, the man said, “Let me help you to a chair.”

She meant to reply, she really did, but she couldn’t form words. She could only stare at his stunningly handsome face—at those long-lashed eyes, which had turned languid and sensual now, at the straight, patrician line of his well-formed nose, at the curve of his cuttingly high cheekbones. She simply could not breathe. He was devastating, and it had been so long since she had been in a man’s arms.

And her body knew it. It tightened, swelled. Her heart slammed again. Desire was a fist to her midsection, robbing her of all air.

And he was staring intensely back at her. His mouth was full, but chiseled into a hard line, and now, slightly, the corners shifted. But the expression was by no means a smile. “May I escort you to a chair?” he offered again.

His tone was so seductive that desire flooded her again. She wet her lips. As she no longer knew how to flirt, she decided she would not even try—assuming she could even find her voice. “You are very kind,” she managed at last.

His mouth eased a bit more. “Many things are said about me, but I do believe that no one has ever called me kind.”

His arm remained around her. Alexandra realized she was, for all intents and purposes, in his embrace. “Then you have detractors, sir.”

He seemed amused—but it was as if he refused to smile. “I have many,” he agreed. “But the truth of the matter is that kindness has nothing to do with rescuing a beautiful woman.”

And as if she were a young woman, Alexandra blushed.

His brow lifted. “Shall we?” But before she could even nod, he was moving her through the crowd, which parted for them as if on command. Suddenly a red velvet chair was before them. Alexandra was vaguely aware of the whispers in the room behind them, but she couldn’t make out a word and didn’t even try—her racing heartbeat was simply too loud.

“I am reluctant to let you go,” he said softly.

She knew she was blushing again. “I am afraid…there is no other choice.”

“There are many choices,” he said as softly, as he pressed her toward the chair.

He easily could have released her, but Alexandra was certain he held on to her as intimately as he did until the very last moment, when her bottom was securely on the plush seat of the chair. And even then, his large hand was on her waist, and his hard arm remained behind her back. She felt his fingers tighten.

“The pleasure has been mine.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Worse, she couldn’t look away from his warm, intent gaze. He was flirting. She was amazed.

He released her, straightened to his full height—he was over six feet tall, she thought almost inanely—bowed and walked away.

Alexandra just sat there, stunned.

And then, as her sisters rushed over and knelt beside her, she became aware of her hammering heart and throbbing body, and the fact that she was completely undone. Who was that man?

“Do you know who that was?” Corey asked excitedly, as if she’d heard Alexandra’s silent question.

Alexandra looked up and saw that almost everyone in the entry hall was staring at her and whispering behind gloved hands. “No, I do not.”

“That was the Duke of Clarewood,” Corey breathed.

Alexandra stiffened in her seat. She knew all about the duke. Everyone did. He was a paragon of manhood—rich, titled, a great philanthropist. In fact, it was undisputed that he was the wealthiest peer in the realm—and possibly the most powerful one. And he was the most eligible bachelor in Great Britain.

She trembled. Because the most important thing of all was that everyone knew his reputation. He was, it was said, cold and heartless. He’d rejected the best Britain had to offer, time and again, for over a decade, refusing to choose a bride. But he kept many beautiful mistresses. And it was also said that he’d left a trail of broken hearts all across the realm.

Chapter Three

HE COULD NOT ATTEND any kind of function without fawning ladies and obsequious gentlemen hoping to attract his interest and attention. The men wanted friendship, not because he was so likable, but for his connections; the ladies wanted his hand or at least an affair, or marriage for their daughters or sisters. However, even before he had come into his title, he had learned to put up a huge invisible wall between himself and everyone else. Because even when he’d been a boy, as the previous duke’s son and heir, the sycophants had pursued him. Long ago, he’d become adept at walking through a huge crowd without making eye contact. When someone dared to approach, he either tolerated the intrusion, if so inclined, or sent the person such a quelling look that he or she instantly fled.

Now Stephen paused to glance back at the tall brunette who had almost fainted in his arms. His blood did not race at his first glimpse of a beautiful woman; he was too experienced and too jaded. But his blood was racing now.

He slowly smiled to himself.

She was surrounded by several women, two older gentlemen, and their hosts, and was obviously reassuring everyone that she was all right. The two youngest women seemed deeply concerned for her, so he deduced that they were relations or close friends. He thought he remarked a vague resemblance. Sisters?

He kept staring, unconcerned whether his interest was remarked. She was unusually tall and very attractive. Her face had strong planes and angles. He would not call her beautiful, and handsome was too masculine a word. But she was striking. He would leave his analysis at that, but he was intrigued.

And he was never intrigued so swiftly.

Because of her age, he instantly assumed she was a woman of some experience. And as she was obviously impoverished—no one with means would wear a gown so far out of fashion—there was no reason in the world why they might not reach some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement. His mistress Charlotte had already become tiresome. Besides, his lovers never stayed in his good graces for more than a few months.

“It is absolutely disgraceful of them to show up here. Imagine! Alexandra Bolton sews Lady Henredon’s clothes! She makes a living!”

He glanced behind him at two flushed and furious socialites—one silver-haired and one a brassy redhead—and then saw his current mistress standing just behind them. Charlotte’s blue eyes instantly met his, and she smiled.

He nodded politely at her, hardly dismayed. He was instead thinking about the fact that Alexandra Bolton sewed for the upper classes, which surprised him. He did not know of any noblewoman in strained circumstances who would do such a thing. It was actually quite admirable. He could not understand the upper class revulsion for “work.” The truth was, he rolled up his sleeves every single day, whether he was at his desk, at one of his construction sites or at a Foundation office.

“And Edgemont has been banished from our circles for years. He is a drunk,” the redhead added. “I cannot believe Lady Harrington has allowed them through the front door.”

The two women walked away, their faces close together. He heard them murmuring about Miss Bolton being jilted at the altar and how she’d undoubtedly deserved it. He sighed. The bitches were gathering for a kill. He truly hated society at times, never mind that he stood at its peak. And he always despised gossip, especially when it was based on malice or ignorance. He suspected that, in this case, the gossips knew next to nothing about Miss Bolton—but they certainly wished her ill.

He felt a welling of compassion for her. Too well, he recalled and would never forget being a small boy and overhearing the servants or guests discussing him. Not that he cared any longer about being called a bastard, but as a child, those whispers had been confusing and hurtful.

He glanced back at Alexandra Bolton. She remained seated, but suddenly she looked up, as if on cue. His heart raced again. He did not mind, but he was now somewhat amused by his own reaction to an older, albeit attractive, and impoverished gentlewoman in a rather distasteful dress. It had been a long time since the mere sight of a woman could arouse him.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Charlotte Witte murmured.

He turned and bowed. He’d been enjoying Charlotte’s favors for several months now. She was blond, petite, spectacularly beautiful—and very determined to keep his attention.Too determined, in fact, and her desire to become his wife had become more and more transparent. That was crossing the line. “Good evening, Lady Witte. You are in fine form tonight.”

She smiled and curtsied, dutifully pleased, then glanced past him at Miss Bolton. “Such high drama, Your Grace. And I know how you like to avoid drama and theatrics.”

He gazed impassively down at her. He did thoroughly dislike spectacles of any kind. “So you accuse Miss Bolton of deliberately attracting my attention? How unfair, when she is not here to defend herself.”

“If she did not intend to make a spectacle of herself, then she is fortunate, is she not? For she did attract your attention.” Charlotte was smiling, but her blue eyes were hard.

He managed not to sigh. She was jealous, as he supposed she should be. Except that she was only a lover, and he never made promises he did not intend to keep. He’d certainly made none to Charlotte. “I am hardly so 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.

Chapter Four

THE STAG ROOM of the Hotel St. Lucien was as exclusive as a private club. While one did not have to be a member, the maitre d’ had no trouble encouraging the wrong sort to turn away from its massive carved doors. Merchants, bankers, factory owners and lawyers were simply not allowed without a proper introduction or the right escort. Simply put, it was a refuge for the country’s upper-class elite. Stephen rarely bothered with the Stag Room or any similar establishment, but once in a while such isolation was welcome.

Now he propelled Randolph forward, his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The maitre d’ bowed. “Your Grace. Mr. de Warenne.”

Stephen nodded as he and his half brother strolled into the dimly lit salon filled with fine furniture, gilded antiques and Aubusson rugs. At this late hour, nearing midnight, the gentlemen present were all his age, with only a few exceptions, and many were well into their cups. Murmurs of “Your Grace” followed him as he walked past the various groups. Alexi, Jack, Ned and his younger brother Charles, generally known as Chaz, were all slouched in their plush seats at the salon’s far end. The windows there overlooked the park. The moon was bright tonight.

“We were wondering if you got waylaid,” Jack O’Neill said, one leg crossed over the other, a cigar in hand.

“I had to pry my young friend away from a particularly voracious baroness,” Stephen said drily. “He was making advances toward Lady Dupre.”

Randolph flopped down onto the couch beside Alexi, who poured a fine cognac into a snifter for him and pushed it over. “She was the most beautiful woman at the birthday soirée, and may I say, in my own defense, she ogled me before I ever approached?”

“They are all beautiful, where you are concerned,” Chaz said.

“Discretion would have been a better course,” Stephen admonished, “as her current paramour was standing beside her and her husband within earshot.”

“Lady Dupre,” Alexi murmured. “Well done, Rolph.”

Randolph saluted him with his snifter.

Stephen took the chair beside the couch, glancing at Alexi as he did so. His friend was lounging against the cushions in a manner that suggested he was hardly drunk and was very intently preparing for their next go-round. He looked like a black jaguar in a cage, one waiting for the gatekeeper to dare to come inside. He smiled indolently at Stephen.

“As long as we are speaking about impending conquests, has Miss Bolton indicated that she will be grateful to you for rescuing her not once, but twice, tonight?” Alexi asked.

Stephen poured himself a cognac, recalling Alexandra Bolton’s humiliation at the hands of her father with a stirring of anger. “Edgemont is a disgrace.”

“Miss Bolton handled herself well,” Ned said firmly. “Grace under fire, all around.”

Stephen silently agreed.

“She is a striking woman,” Jack remarked. “She is almost as tall as I am.”

Stephen gave Jack a deceptively mild look.

“I would never poach,” Jack laughed. Then he sobered. “I did feel sorry for her. And for her sisters, too. Edgemont should be shot.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” Ned said, amused. “You’re back in civilization, Jack. Or have you forgotten?”

Jack flexed his hands. “I suppose I have become a bit extreme, actually.” He glanced around. “Let’s find a tavern and some good lusty tavern wenches. I am bored.”

Chaz and Randolph exchanged looks. “I know a place,” Chaz said, attempting to remain blasé.

His older brother looked at him. “You are the spare,” Ned reproved. “You do have a reputation to maintain.”

“Exactly. I’m the spare, not the heir,” Chaz said, unperturbed, and he finished his drink, whispering to Randolph as they made their plans for the rest of the evening.

Alexi turned to look at Stephen. “I ask again. How goes the latest seduction? Is Miss Bolton disposed to be properly grateful?”

He felt his blood warm. He thought about how proud she was as he said slowly, “She seemed cautiously grateful…as if you care.”

“But I do care.” Alexi smiled. “She is no Charlotte Witte. In fact, you may find yourself with some resistance this time. By the way, Elysse has decided she wishes to know Miss Bolton. Ariella has decided to introduce them.”

Stephen sighed. He expected his cousins to interfere in his personal life—they certainly harped on him for his bachelor status from time to time—but he couldn’t imagine why they would care about his interest in Alexandra Bolton. Now he wondered if Alexi could be right. Not only had she been proud, she hadn’t flirted with him, not one single time, when every other woman who crossed his path was coy and flirtatious. “Considering her dire straits, I am sure that, in the end, we will both come to very agreeable terms. And perhaps you might instruct your wife and sister not to meddle? As there is really nothing for them to meddle in.”

Alexi smiled at him. “But I happen to think that perhaps, this one time, they should meddle—Miss Bolton is so original.”

Stephen stared. “What are you up to?”

“She is not your type, not for an affair,” Alexi said quickly.

“How wrong you are.”

His look was almost smug, and that made Stephen uneasy.

“Isn’t she unwed?” Ned asked, his gaze unwavering. “And isn’t she a gentlewoman?”

Stephen felt a twinge of discomfort. “She is an older woman, Ned, a spinster, for God’s sake. And there was some scandal already, so she is hardly an innocent debutante whom I wish to ruthlessly take advantage of.”

“She is a woman of substance,” Ned said. “And pride. Anyone can see that. You should look elsewhere for your entertainment.”

Stephen stared coldly at him, but Ned wasn’t daunted. One day his cousin would be the Earl of Adare, a powerful title and position. He didn’t expect Ned to bow to him, but he did not appreciate being questioned, and he didn’t like his cousins interfering in this instance. No one had ever bothered to say a word to him about Charlotte, or the mistress before her, or the one before her.

But Alexi was right on one account: Alexandra wasn’t anything like Charlotte.

“I wonder how Anne Sinclair would handle the drama of such a night, if she were ever in Miss Bolton’s position,” Alexi said softly.

The other men chuckled. Stephen smiled wryly, sipping from his drink, wondering why Alexi had raised such a comparison. “I’m sure she would be equally graceful and dignified,” he said, though he hardly thought so. “Are you interested in Lady Anne, Alexi?”

“Me? Of course not. Let’s see…how old is she? Eighteen? And what are her accomplishments? Oh, wait, she has been spoiled and pampered her entire life. But she is an excellent dancer. Her manners are impeccable, as well. The two of you make a pleasing couple, by the way—she would make a stunning duchess. Doesn’t everyone agree?”

Everyone was silent now. Interest was acute.

And Stephen was now very annoyed. “I have considered Anne, and I have decided to reject her.”

“Of course you have. And I do support your decision,” Alexi said. “Tell me, have you heard that Miss Bolton sews to support her sisters and her father?”

Alexi was baiting him. He simply did not know why. “I admire her resourcefulness.”

Alexi gaped. “Really?”

Someone laughed.

“I think it is a tragedy that she must work to support her family,” Randolph said.

“It is a tragedy,” Stephen said, staring closely at Alexi. “Life is filled with tragedies.”

“And life is filled with beautiful, young, spoiled debutantes.” Alexi saluted him with his glass.

“What is your point?” Stephen asked crossly. But he recalled the parade of young ladies he’d been offered over the course of the past decade—every single one of them a mirror image of Anne. “Because I seem to recall another terribly spoiled and pampered young woman…before, of course, you jilted her at the altar and took off for parts unknown.” Stephen saluted Alexi with his glass, which he realized was almost empty.

Alexi’s smile remained, but it no longer reached his eyes. “I made a terrible mistake, leaving her after our vows. I cannot imagine Lady Anne becoming the spectacular woman that my wife has become—a woman of opinions, ideas, of will, of substance. Miss Bolton reminds me of Elysse—not in appearance, but in courage.” He drained his drink and said, “I believe you have just insulted my wife.”

He knew he should apologize, but Alexi’s latest reference to Alexandra Bolton was even more jarring than the previous ones—though Alexandra had been courageous tonight. No one could dispute that. “I personally have no use for a woman with opinions,” he muttered.

“My God, you’ve insulted me, then Elysse, and now you’ve just insulted every woman in the family,” Alexi said, standing abruptly.

“That is not what I meant,” Stephen said, standing, as well.

“I think you should marry Anne or someone just like her,” Alexi said. “You can be such a jackass. Marrying a woman who will bore you to tears just so you can please that bastard who raised you—so you can be just like that bastard—is exactly what you deserve. Apologize.”

Jack started laughing.

Stephen finally lost his temper. “I am a jackass? Because you meddle like a woman.”

Alexi’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. “Oh ho,” he said.

Stephen tensed for the blow.

But just as Alexi clenched his fist, Ned stood and interposed himself between the two men. “You can’t possibly strike His Grace.”

“His Grace, my arse. Why not? I’ve done so a hundred times.” Alexi glared.

“Stephen deserves it,” Jack said, grinning with relish. “He did insult Elysse—who happens to be my only sister. And if he called me a woman, I’d take a piece of his scalp.” He winked at the two younger men, clearly relishing the prospect of a fistfight.

“Go ahead, hit me,” Stephen said softly. “I won’t hit you back.”

But Alexi knew him too well. “You won’t hit me back because you know that in a roundhouse, I will win.”

Stephen rolled his eyes.

“I’ll place a wager,” Jack said. “Do you want in?” He looked at Chaz and Randolph.

“No one is coming to blows,” Ned said. “Not at this table.” Then, “Are you considering Anne Sinclair for a wife? Is that what this is about?”

“No, I am not,” Stephen said firmly. “And I truly don’t know what set Alexi off tonight. Obviously I will have to marry one day—and yes, I will choose a debutante. I am sorry I insulted Elysse. I am very fond of her. I consider her a sister, in some ways.”

Alexi smiled, instantly in a good humor. “I know you do. But you are still an ass. You’ve considered a hundred different debutantes. However, it isn’t your fault, it is Tom’s. You will imitate him after all, living with a wife you despise, in splendid isolation.”

Ned seized Alexi’s shoulder. “He apologized. Let’s end this subject.”

Stephen folded his arms, staring. He truly hoped that Alexi was wrong. But as a boy, he’d found Clarewood a cold and lonely place, something he recalled vividly now. “Splendid isolation? Now you are a poet,” he said, holding back his rising temper.

“The truth can hurt.” Alexi shrugged. “I have changed my mind. You should cease your pursuit of Alexandra, and you should most definitely marry Anne.”

“Your point is made. It took you long enough.”

“What point has he made?” Jack asked.

“That someone as young and inexperienced as Anne is the wrong choice, which is why he keeps comparing her to Miss Bolton. Next, he will espouse the delights of matrimony with a woman of independence, of ideas, a strong will and opinions.”

“Unlike the rest of this family,” Jack said, “I am against marriage in theory and in practice.” He smiled.

“Those will be infamous last words,” Alexi promised.

“Alexi is too besotted to know that smugness is not becoming,” Stephen added.

“More infamous last words.” Alexi patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, there is hope. You are a de Warenne, after all, and one day we will laugh about how stubborn and stupid you were.”

“I am so pleased you care so much, but can we sit down and enjoy our drinks now? Or will you continue to egg me on?”

Alexi shook his head. “I’ve done enough for tonight—I am going home. To my independent, outspoken, opinionated wife.” He grinned. “Enjoy your drinks.”

When he left, they looked at each other, all of them bachelors, for even Ned was inclined to carouse. “He has lost his manhood,” Jack said.

Stephen tended to agree—almost. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“I think we should toast our freedom—and count our blessings,” Jack said. “I, for one, will never become like that.”

Stephen accepted a glass, thinking about Alexandra. “At least he is genuinely happy,” he said.

ALEXANDRA WENT ABOUT her morning routine in a daze. She could not stop thinking about the previous night. And while it was impossible to forget the vile gossip that had targeted her, it was the Duke of Clarewood who loomed largest in her mind.

Having washed and dressed, she was on her way downstairs for a terribly late breakfast—at eleven, it was already nearly lunchtime—when she paused, her hand on the worn wood banister. Her body tensed, and her heart seemed to clench before hammering hard. His devastating features were crystal clear in her mind. Their paths having crossed as they had, he was a man no woman could possibly forget.

She still couldn’t fathom why he’d rescued her and her father. But most of all, she couldn’t understand why she had been, and remained, so terribly attracted to him.

She could justify the passion she’d felt for Owen—she had loved him, and she had meant to marry him. But Clarewood was an absolute stranger.

And last night he’d indicated that he had an interest in her, as well—one that could only be scandalous. As if she needed more scandal! But it didn’t matter, not at all. Today he would surely come to his senses. He would forget about her. And that was as it should be; she wasn’t the kind of woman he seemed to think she was. Whatever he had intended, she was simply not interested.

Her heart continued to race, but she had awakened saddened, and she remained so. She’d made a mistake by accepting the squire’s invitation, that was obvious, and her sisters had suffered because of it, as well. But going out last night, and winding up briefly in Clarewood’s arms, had opened up all of her old wounds. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She kept thinking about how she’d felt being in his embrace. Her body had become somewhat feverish just recalling it. And she was constantly thinking about Owen now, too, and what they’d almost had. The pain of the past had somehow returned, and it hurt worse than ever.

She almost wished she had chosen differently. And that was just as terrible. She’d never before doubted the choice she’d made. Her decision to take care of her sisters and father had been the morally correct one. She had sworn to Elizabeth as she lay dying that she would take care of the family. That vow meant more to her than her own happiness.

“Why are you standing on the stairs like a statue?” Olivia’s soft voice cut into her thoughts.

Alexandra jerked back to reality, and she smiled, then moved swiftly down the stairs to join her sister. “I overslept,” she said. She’d finally drifted off to sleep at dawn. No wonder she had slept long past her usual rising time.

“You never sleep in,” Olivia said, her green eyes filled with concern.

There was no point in increasing her sister’s anxiety by confessing how distracted and distressed she’d been all night, so she merely ignored the comment. “I am hungry,” she lied. “Will you join me and at least have a cup of tea?”

Before Olivia could respond, the library doors opened and Edgemont lumbered through them, still in his tailcoat, which was thoroughly wrinkled now. Unshaven, he looked entirely disreputable. “Good morning,” he boomed, then blinked at them.

Alexandra was so filled with outrage that she did not answer—she didn’t trust herself to speak. Not yet, anyway. She marched past him to the kitchen, Olivia on her heels.

But Edgemont followed. “How rude!” he exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you today?”

Alexandra went to the stove and used a match to light a burner, her hands shaking. She pumped water into the tea-kettle and set it on the burner.

“Are you angry?” He winced and rubbed his temples. “Was it a good evening? I can’t seem to recall most of it.”

Alexandra whirled. “No, it was not a good evening, as you were falling down drunk!”

He drew himself upright. “I won’t have you speaking to me in such a manner.”

She inhaled. She never lost her temper, never shouted, but she’d just shouted at him. She had just insulted her own father. She fought for calm. “Why not? You humiliated yourself in front of everyone at Harrington House.” She spoke quietly now. “Do you even know how you got home last night?”

He was puzzled. “No, I do not.”

“The Duke of Clarewood carried you across the ballroom, Father. Yes, you were that foxed. And then Randolph and Alexi de Warenne took you outside. I believe young Randolph de Warenne escorted you home.”

Edgemont paled. Then he straightened. “A man has his rights, and I have every right to my gin. You’re exaggerating—I recall it all now.” He paused, breathing hard, and looked at Olivia. “Prepare my breakfast,” he said.

Olivia walked past him to do just that, her mouth pursed.

The kettle began to sing. Alexandra turned slowly, though she felt like whirling in anger, and took the kettle from the fire and calmly set it on the counter, when she felt like smashing it down. She had Clarewood on her mind again. Bloody hell, she thought.

She also never cursed, not even in her thoughts.

“How is the squire today?” Edgemont asked carefully, apparently having come to his full senses.

“I wouldn’t know.” She poured two cups of tea for herself and Olivia. “Would you like a cup, Father?”

“Yes.”

She poured his tea and faced him. “He will surely call things off now, and it will be your fault. Your drinking has to stop. It is disgraceful, and we can’t afford it.”

Edgemont stared at her, and she stared back as she handed him the cup and saucer. Without a word, he went from the kitchen to the dining table and sat down.

Alexandra looked at Olivia. They both knew that he would not change.

“WE HAVE CALLERS,” Corey said. “Or rather, we have a caller.”

Alexandra had just finished her toast and jam. Corey was standing at the kitchen window, and Alexandra got up to see who could possibly be calling before noon. As the dark carriage got closer, she realized it belonged to the squire.

She tensed. He’d brought them home last night, but it had been late, everyone had been tired, and the conversation had been perfunctory. Corey had even fallen asleep on the way, and the squire had encouraged Alexandra to do so, as well. She hadn’t, but she’d pretended to doze, to avoid speaking to him. Now she wondered if he was sending a note breaking things off. Or would he come in person to do so? A note would be kinder. On the other hand, he need only speak to Edgemont. And she was dismayed, because he was her sisters’ last hope.

She refused to go down that path. She was her sisters’ last hope. She would not give up on securing them a decent future.

Corey turned from the window. “He is here. Do you want us to chaperone you?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Alexandra removed her apron and tucked a stray hair behind her ears, the behavior instinctive.

“He is going to break things off, isn’t he?” Corey asked. She was somber.

“Undoubtedly. You should be pleased, being as you are dead set against him.”

“You were accused of horrible things last night, Alexandra! I would never want the suit broken off this way.”

Alexandra patted her shoulder. “Forget about last night, Corey.” She gave Olivia a glance and went to the front door. Rejection was always unpleasant, and her heart lurched with dread as she turned the knob.

The squire had come in person, looking flushed from the drive over, and he was not smiling—he seemed grave. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton.”

Tamping down her dread, she returned the greeting and let him in, walking with him to the parlor.

“Is it too early to call? I could not sleep last night, Miss Bolton, for all my thoughts of you.”

Alexandra smiled grimly. “I must apologize for my father’s behavior last night, and thank you yet again for inviting us out.”

“You do not have to apologize,” he said.

Alexandra inhaled sharply. “Of course I do.”

“No.” He shook his head. Then, “I am so distressed. I am so sorry you had to suffer through the evening. That was not my intention!”

“I am fine,” she said lightly. “And it is forgotten.” She managed a smile. She had to let him off the hook. “I know why you have called, Mr. Denney. And I understand.”

“Good. Then you must know that I am furious with the mean-spiritedness of the gossips last night!” he exclaimed.

She went still. “You heard?”

He nodded gravely.

“But you never let on.”

“I did not want to add to your distress.”

Realizing that he’d heard all the ugly gossip, including the lies about her and Owen, she flushed. “You are let off, Mr. Denney.” She finally said. “No gentleman wants a socially unacceptable wife.”

He recoiled, eyes wide. “What? Is that what you think? I do not believe the ugliness I overheard, not for a minute! And you are the most socially acceptable woman I know. You shine, Miss Bolton, and those harpies cast shadows. I cannot understand why they would want to cast such aspersions on your character.”

She was taken aback, disbelieving. Morton Denney hadn’t believed the gossips. He hadn’t judged her as everyone else had. He had faith in her character.

That was when she saw her sisters standing in the hallway, the parlor door ajar, faces pressed to the crack. “I am surprised, sir, that you would believe in me.”

“You sewed my wife’s clothing for five years, Miss Bolton. I believe I know your true nature.”

She chewed on her lip, then breathed out. “So this is a social call?”

“What else would it be?”

She could not contain herself. “You did not come to end things?”

“No, I did not. I came to make certain that you had survived the evening.”

Alexandra could not believe his magnanimity. She turned, found a chair and sat down. He walked over to her. She looked up and said, “I am not socially acceptable. You can and should do better.”

He hesitated. “How could I do better, Miss Bolton? How?”

She fought for composure, filled with both dismay and relief. He would not walk out of their lives after all, and even as she thought that, she was dismayed—he was so clearly in love with her. God, if only she could come to love him in return. And she had to stop thinking about Clare-wood! Taking a few deep breaths, she stood. “I was not jilted by Owen St. James, Mr. Denney. When I told you about my vows to my dying mother, and my decision to send Owen away, it was the truth.”

He nodded, and as he did, Edgemont came bursting into the room. He looked back and forth between them with alarm. “Father,” Alexandra said, hoping to ward off disaster. “The squire has called.”

Edgemont rushed forward. Denney seemed uncomfortable now. “Did you have a pleasant evening last night?” her father asked transparently. “Alexandra was lovely, was she not? Just like her blessed mother, a true lady.”

“Miss Bolton is always lovely,” Denney said.

“Will you have some tea with me? As it is too early for brandy.” Her father laughed, slapping the squire’s arm.

Denney glanced at Alexandra.

Even though he didn’t seem interested in socializing with her father, the two men would have to get on if this marriage was to go forward, so she smiled a bit at him, and he nodded, then turned and walked off into the library with Edgemont. The moment he did, her sisters rushed into the parlor. They were both pale and wide-eyed.

“He isn’t breaking things off,” Alexandra said.

“We heard,” Olivia whispered.

Corey glanced past her, out the window, at the front drive. “There’s a rider approaching.”

Alexandra turned to see a rider cantering a lathered mount up their rutted dirt drive. The animal was one of the finest specimens of horseflesh she’d ever seen, and she couldn’t imagine who the rider might be. Then she faced her sisters. “The squire is a generous, kind and forgiving man.”

Olivia suggested, “Maybe we should forgive him the crime of being twenty-four years your elder.”

“That was your charge, not mine,” Alexandra said softly.

Their caller was knocking on the front door. Alexandra decided that the rider had to be lost. Still stunned that the squire had not wrongly judged her, she started from the room, her sisters following, and opened the door.

Randolph de Warenne stood there, his boots muddy, his cheeks reddened from the wind. He was holding a very large paper-wrapped bouquet in his hand.

Was he calling on one of her sisters? Alexandra wondered in confusion.

“Miss Bolton.” He smiled and bowed. “These are for you.”

The delight that had begun vanished. Her confusion absolute, she glanced over her shoulder at the closed library doors. Denney would not have Randolph de Warenne deliver flowers to her.

Her heart slammed.

Behind her, one of her sisters inhaled.

He grinned. “There is a card.”

“I have forgotten my manners,” Alexandra said, beginning to tremble. No, it was impossible. Surely Clarewood hadn’t sent her flowers. Absolutely not. She took the wrapped bouquet, gesturing Randolph inside. “Was it a long ride?”

“Very—but my mount is fast and fit, and we galloped most of the way.” He smiled at Corey and Olivia. “I made the journey in barely an hour and a half.”

She was shaking, she realized, and shocked. She did not know what this gesture could mean. Or did she? Alexandra walked into the parlor, saying, “They expect the new rail between Kensett and Clarewood to be completed in forty-seven.”

“I’ll ride anyway,” Randolph laughed. He glanced at Corey.

“Open the flowers,” Olivia whispered.

Alexandra clutched the bouquet and said, “Poor Randolph looks frozen. Can we get him some hot tea and scones? Oh, dear.” She turned back to him. “I never thanked you for your kindness last night.”

Neither sister moved.

“I am fine, really.” Randolph grinned. “And it was my pleasure to see your father home. Open the flowers,” he said. “I am not allowed to leave until you do.”

He was not allowed to leave until she opened the bouquet? Clarewood’s image consumed her now. He had so obviously sent her flowers; he hadn’t forgotten her or even come to his senses.

Still stunned, and very reluctant now, Alexandra tore the wrapper off. Two dozen huge burgundy-red roses, each one fully opened and perfect—and clearly handpicked—were revealed. A small cream-colored envelope was pinned in their midst.

She could not move.

What did he want?

Why was he doing this?

The squire meant to marry her.

Corey gasped. “Those are the most perfect roses I have ever seen.”

“I have never seen roses that color before,” Olivia said as breathlessly.

“They cost a small fortune,” Randolph boasted.

Alexandra stared at the stunning flowers. The gesture was excessively bold, excessively dramatic. And it was even seductive, though she wasn’t sure it was romantic.

“Read the card,” Corey said.

Her hand continuing to tremble, she handed Olivia the flowers, then took the envelope, opened it with her nail and pulled out the small card within. There was nothing written on it except for a large, bold C.

“What does it say?” Corey demanded.

Alexandra showed her the card, looking up at Randolph. He was expectant, grinning at her now. She turned to Olivia, somehow finding her voice. “Can you find a vase, please?” But even as she spoke, she realized she should return the flowers—that she should not accept them.

“Wait!”

Olivia froze. “What is it?”

Her heart thundering now, Alexandra looked at Randolph determinedly. “I cannot accept the flowers.”

His eyes widened.

Corey cried out, “Why not?”

“Alexandra, we should discuss this,” Olivia said tersely.

Alexandra trembled, but she took the roses from Olivia and handed them to Randolph, whose eyes widened still further. But he did not take them. “Please,” she said. She tried to smile and failed. “If anything, I am the one who owes His Grace flowers or some other token of my gratitude for his rescue last night.”

Randolph said, “He wishes for you to have them, Miss Bolton. In fact, he specified the exact roses he wished for me to find—the most perfect, the most costly. He even said one dozen would not do. You cannot return them—he would be offended.”

“I cannot accept them.” She heard the uncertain tremor in her tone. She did not want to offend Clarewood; no woman in her right mind would.

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