An Impossible Attraction

by Brenda Joyce

  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 famo
us. 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.