скачать книгу бесплатно
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.”
