An Impossible Attraction (21 page)

He crossed the few paces between them and towered over her, the effect distinctly frightening. Alexandra tensed, as if for a blow. “I do not like being deceived.”

He was enraged, but he hadn’t raised his voice. She wanted to back away, but she held her ground. “I do not know what you are talking about.” But a terrible inkling began.

“You were a virgin, Miss Bolton,” he ground out.

She recoiled, too deeply in shock to think clearly. He had retreated into formality just when she expected intimacy, and it hurt.

He walked past her and slammed both doors closed with so much strength that the floor shuddered. She had turned to keep him in her sight, still shocked by his anger, and very frightened now. He had assumed the worst of her, and, admittedly, she had deliberately misled him. But she had never expected such anger. “Is that why you are so angry? Because I did not have the experience you assumed I had?” she managed.

“I am well beyond anger,” he said flatly. “You lied to me.”

His words were worse than any physical blow. “I didn’t think it important,” she tried, suddenly aghast and near tears. But in truth, hadn’t she sensed just how important it might be, why else had she let him believe the lie?

“You didn’t think it important?” He was incredulous.

“I think there has been a terrible misunderstanding,” she whispered, trembling.

He made a harsh sound, mirthless, and clapped his hands slowly together. “A laudable performance, Miss Bolton.”

She jerked. “I do not know what you mean, Stephen!” But the moment she used his given name, as he’d instructed her to do during the height of passion, though she had been unable to do so at the time, she was sure it had been a mistake.

It was. “It is ‘Your Grace,’” he said dangerously.

She backed up, still in shock, but now it was combined with absolute disbelief. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” He stalked her as she retreated, not allowing her to keep her distance. “I should have known that this was a game. You are very clever player, Miss Bolton.”

She stared, too appalled by his assumption to say anything.

“After all, no woman has ever rejected my advances as you have, or played hard to get, but then, you sought to whet my desire, did you not? And giving back the bracelet…I must commend you for that ploy! I know of no woman in your circumstance who would refuse such jewels.”

Alexandra was so disbelieving and so horrified that she sank into the nearest chair. But he had followed her, and he towered over her still. “There has been no ploy!” she insisted. “I could not accept such a gift.”

“I beg to differ with you. There have been nothing
but
ploys, my clever one, and you have led me a merry chase.” He paused, breathing hard. “This was a trap, Miss Bolton, admit it.”

She cringed. “No,” she whispered. “I do not understand what you are talking about.”

“I am
not
marrying you.”

She stared up at him, shocked all over again. Her befuddled mind finally managed to come to the conclusion he had jumped to earlier. “You think I meant to trap you into marriage?” she gasped.

“I
know
you meant to trap me into marriage.”

She clasped the chairs arms, so sick that she felt faint and dizzy. But of course he would think that a ploy, too.

“But I must applaud your scheme. Many women have pursued me in the hope of becoming my duchess. You are the first to give me her virginity.”

She choked, fighting down the bile, fighting the need to retch. Her heart was screaming at her now. He had pursued her ruthlessly, in spite of her sensibilities and morals, yet now he was accusing
her
of pursuing
him
—and of plotting to trap him into marriage. She felt so faint now. How could this be happening?

When at last she looked up, he was shoving a piece of paper at her. “Take it and get out.”

It took her moment to realize that he was holding a bank check. Without thinking, she looked down again and started to shake her head.

“Take it,” he gritted, flinging it at her. “Use it for a dowry.” Then, “My coachman will drive you home.”

He’d flung the check at her bosom, and it had fallen onto her lap. Alexandra didn’t move, she couldn’t, not even to look up into his hate-filled eyes, but his fury was so intense that she felt it anyway.

She was afraid to move, or even breathe, because if she did, she would retch or faint or start weeping. And then she heard him striding rapidly from the room. She heard the doors hit the walls as he flung them open. She did not move a single muscle, not even her eyelashes, waiting until she could not hear his footsteps anymore. And then she glanced at the check on her lap.

He’d made it out for five thousand pounds.

She gagged, falling to her knees on the floor, her heart wrenching. She fought the rising sobs, fought the spinning floor. Somehow she found the check and, still on her knees, tore it into shreds.

T
HE DRIVE BACK
to Edgemont Way was endless. Alexandra refused to cry, and fought the rising bile and the need to retch. She remained in shock. Every moment of the afternoon and evening kept replaying her mind: she would recall Clarewood moving over her, smiling warmly at her, and then she would recall him flinging the check at her and telling her to use it for a dowry. It hurt so much.

But when the coachman twisted to look at her and said, “Miss? We will be at Edgemont Way in a few more moments,” she somehow snapped out of her painful reverie, forced into a harsh new reality in which she had no doubt destroyed not only her own prospects—such as they had been—but her sisters’ as well, and she stiffened.

No one must ever discover what had happened that day. She was in her own carriage, with Ebony in the traces, and the coachman had a mount tied to the back fender. She could not be seen being driven home; coming home alone at this hour was bad enough. But Edgemont would be out, as he always was, so at least she would only have to lie to her sisters. She closed her eyes, despairing. Of course lying would be a consequence of her terrible behavior.

What had she been thinking?

She had been thinking that he was a prince,
her
prince….

A stabbing pain went through her chest.

A few minutes later the coachman was on his way back to Clarewood and she was driving her carriage up the small, rutted driveway of her home, then halting before it. The lights were on in the parlor, and she knew her sisters were seated there, worried and waiting for her. It must, she decided, be close to ten o’clock.

As she got down and prepared to lead Ebony to the stable, the front door opened and her sisters came running outside, wrapped in shawls.

“Where have you been?” Corey demanded, her eyes huge. “We have been worried sick about you!”

“You should have sent a note,” Olivia admonished. Then, “Father is home, but he is in the library with two friends, and they are foxed.”

Alexandra stiffened. They had to get Ebony put away immediately, and then maybe she could sneak inside and he would not know she had come home so late. “Can you help me unhitch and feed the horse?”

“Of course,” Olivia said, staring. But it was dark outside, and Alexandra knew her sister had no idea of the distress she was in.

Corey led the gelding to the stables, Alexandra and Olivia following. Alexandra was grateful her sisters weren’t pestering her with questions, but she knew their silence would be short-lived.

In the interior of the small, four-box barn, Corey lit a kerosene lantern. Alexandra had already walked to the horse’s far side, so neither one of her sisters could see her face, and was unhitching the traces, ordering herself to find composure and, if possible, a disguise for her feelings.

As she led Ebony into his stall, Olivia said, “Well?”

Alexandra meant to smile, but she failed entirely.

And now, in the flickering light of the lantern, Olivia saw her and she cried out, “What did he do to you?”

Alexandra hugged herself, perilously close to tears, knowing that if she broke down, her sisters would comfort her. But they must never know what had happened. “You were right. His intentions were dishonorable, and I realized I could not lower myself to his immoral level.” She closed her eyes, thinking about just how immoral she had in fact been.

Olivia rushed over and hugged her. “Something happened. I can tell.”

There was no possible excuse to make. Alexandra pulled away. “I am exhausted. I am going to sleep.” She started from the barn.

Olivia followed. “You cannot return looking as you do—utterly distraught and disheveled—and then simply walk away from us!”

Alexandra hurried across the yard, and the moment she grabbed the knob on the front door, she heard boisterous male laughter. She paused, bolstering her resolve, and then walked inside.

Her father was standing in the front hall, putting on his coat, with two elderly friends. He beamed when he saw her. “So you have come back!”

She still couldn’t form a smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Father. Hello.” She nodded politely to the two gentlemen, whom she did not know.

“You missed supper. I saw the carriage come in a moment ago.” He squinted, suddenly puzzled. “Where have you been until such an hour?”

“I took a very late tea with Lady Harrington.” God, it was unbelievable how one act could lead to one lie, which then led to so many others. “I am sorry I missed supper, but Lady Blanche sets a wonderful plate at tea time. Excuse me.” Aware of her sisters staring at her and not believing a single word that she had said, Alexandra rushed upstairs, into her bedroom.

She shut and locked the door, then slumped against it. And when she opened her eyes, she found herself staring at his red roses.

They were dying now. It was so unbelievably appropriate.

“I hate you,” she said. “I do.”

She hugged herself, because hating wasn’t in her nature. But his image loomed, at once handsome and kind, his eyes warm, and then so hateful and mocking. He was not a prince, he wasn’t even a gentleman, and he was nothing like Owen.

Owen
was
a prince and a gentleman. He had loved her, he had wanted to marry her, and he would never have condemned her as Clarewood had done.

Too late, she realized it was Owen she missed and loved, not the damned duke.

I
F POSSIBLE
, the following day was even worse. And she should have known, for the sky had clearly been an omen—black with an approaching storm. It was bitterly cold out, the wind gusting, making their outdoor chores terribly unpleasant. And her sisters were giving her the cold shoulder now, which was even worse than being pestered with questions she didn’t dare answer. Clearly they were angry with her, just when she needed their love and support. And then the squire called.

It would be rude to send him away, and Edgemont was home anyway, inviting him to come in, while insisting that Alexandra join them. Denney was kind and charming, and clearly as good as his word—he intended to court her properly now. But nothing had changed for her, and the last thing she would ever do was go from the duke’s bed to the altar with another man. She spent a miserable hour, trying to converse politely, while still failing to summon a single smile. Impossibly, her heart felt broken. And that was absurd, because she neither knew nor loved Clarewood. She had made the mistake of confusing Owen and Clarewood, that was all.

Finally the squire stood up, indicating that he was ready to leave, though she noticed he had begun to look at her with concern. Edgemont pumped his hand. “Good of you to come by,” he said. “Excuse me.” And very obviously, he vanished into the library, leaving the two of them alone.

Instantly Alexandra was dismayed. To cover it, she took the squire’s heavy mantle from the coatrack. “Thank you for calling,” she said politely, careful not to inject any warmth into her words.

He did not take the mantle; he took her hands instead. Instantly she stiffened. “Sir,” she objected.

He released them. “You seem upset, Miss Bolton. I pray I am not the cause.”

She wet her lips. “Of course you are not the cause, and I am not upset, just fatigued. I have taken on extra sewing,” she said quickly.

He was clearly dismayed. “I do not like your working yourself to the bone! What if you became seriously ill?”

He was such a caring man, she thought, but her feelings hadn’t changed. “I am hardly that fragile.”

“My dear, can I help you and your sisters somehow?” he asked gently.

She was ready to cry over his kindness, but it was Clarewood’s image she saw in her mind. And, albeit too late, she knew there was nothing kind about him; he was cold, calculating and selfish, as ruthless and heartless as the gossips claimed. “We are fine. But thank you,” she added, and this time, she meant it. “You are truly a good man,” she said impulsively, still focused on Clarewood.

His eyes brightened. “Does this mean my suit has a chance?”

She tensed, dismayed. She did not know what to say. But he deserved honesty, not lies. “I meant what I told you the other day, sir. You deserve a woman who loves you.”

“And I remain convinced that one day, you will return my feelings,” he whispered.

They were at an impasse. Alexandra was about to lead him to the door when she heard a horse galloping up the drive. She ran to the door and saw Randolph leaping down from his chestnut gelding. She inhaled. What did this mean?

Had Clarewood had a change of heart?

Her mind leaped and raced—could Clarewood have sent her an apology? It was the least she deserved.

“That’s young Randolph de Warenne. He was here last week, I recall. Does he call frequently?” Denney asked, scowling.

She trembled as Randolph strode up the walk, his cheeks red from the blistering cold. “No, he does not.”

The squire made no move to leave, and suddenly Alexandra realized the implications of his remaining with her, and she tensed in some alarm. “He must be interested in one of my sisters,” she said quickly.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he is interested in the fairest, and most intriguing, of you all.”

Before Alexandra could declare that Randolph was not courting her, he was standing on the stoop before them, nodding at the squire but looking directly at her. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton.”

She began to fidget. Denney had to leave before the truth crept out. But the squire seemed intent on staying, and he said, “It’s a terribly long ride from Harrington Hall.”

Randolph looked down rather imperiously at him. “I am clerking for His Grace, the Duke of Clarewood, and it is less than two hours from here.” Then he turned to Alexandra, clearly dismissing the squire. “I would like a private word, Miss Bolton, if you do not mind.”

“The squire was just about to leave.” Alexandra found a smile for the first time since leaving Clarewood last night. Denney seemed ready to object, looking back and forth between them, clearly mistrustful of Randolph. But he finally bowed and walked away to his carriage, promising to return tomorrow.

She managed another smile and then ushered Randolph inside, not daring to hope. But her heart was racing perilously anyway.

He handed her a sealed envelope, which he took from inside his jacket.

“What is that?” she asked. Her heart hammered. If he was asking for forgiveness, she must not give it. But she would so dearly love an explanation for his having drawn such a terrible conclusion about her.

“I don’t know everything that’s inside. But I have been given a message—if you do not deposit the check, he will make the deposit for you.”

She was so shocked that her knees buckled. Randolph steadied her as dismay began. She tore open the envelope—and saw his check inside, this time made out for the two thousand pounds on which they had agreed. There was no note.

She began to breathe heavily, harshly, with difficulty.

“Are you all right?”

She slowly looked up, trying to keep her outrage from showing. “I am fine,” she lied. She knew she would never be fine again.

H
E WAS RUTHLESSLY
determined to finalize his architectural drawings. Nothing would stop him—
no one
would stop him. In fact, he had stayed up the entire night, redrawing them three times.

“You look like a wastrel,” Alexi de Warenne said.

Stephen looked up, startled, as Guillermo said, frowning, “Captain de Warenne has called, sir, and, as usual, refused to await your convenience.”

Alexi sauntered into the study, smiling, but his blue gaze was sharp. “What is wrong with you?” he asked bluntly.

“Can you bring coffee, Guillermo?” Stephen asked, ignoring the question as he stood up. He realized he had yet to change his clothes from the day before, and he was so wrinkled, there was no point in unrolling his shirtsleeves.

He could not get that lying bitch out of his mind.

And what was even worse than recalling her tears—which had been pure theatrics—was that every time he looked up from his desk, he saw old Tom standing there, mocking him for his feelings of rage and betrayal.

As Guillermo vanished to do his bidding, Alexi walked past him and looked at the drawings on the desk. Then he turned. “Well? Have you been carousing?”

She had lied, she was exceptionally clever, but he had been played, and that made him the ultimate fool.

Tom said, as clear as day, “You are Clarewood. She is nothing. She
means
nothing. Your duty means everything.”

His inner tension seemed unbearable now. And had the old man been alive, had he really spoken, he would have been right. Stephen would never marry her, not ever, because he never gave his enemies the satisfaction of defeating him. “I was working on those plans last night.”

“How boring,” Alexi drawled. “Why do you look like hell warmed over?”

Stephen folded his arms and stared. “I have been played, Alexi.”

Alexi raised his eyebrows. An amused smile began. “Uh-oh. I can’t wait to hear the gory details.”

“It is not amusing.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

And as her image filled his mind—not when she was in the throes of passion, but when she was about to cry, as if he’d devastated her—Stephen cursed and decided it was not too early for a stiff drink. He knew he hadn’t hurt her. Players as consummate as Alexandra Bolton were heartless.

Mostly he was in disbelief. He had wanted her as he had never before wanted a woman; his passion had been out of control—passion he had never dreamed possible. And that made him even more furious.

He poured a brandy and took a sip. There was a slight tremor to his hand. “I began an affair with Alexandra Bolton,” he said. “And she has turned out to be a scheming witch.”

Alexi’s brows lifted. “Really? And she is scheming for what, exactly?”

Alexi was amused, Stephen thought angrily as he turned. “She was a damned virgin, Alexi—and she did not say a word!”