An Impossible Attraction

by Brenda Joyce

  “It is only a horse.”

  “It is a very expensive horse, one that belongs to Clarewood.”

  Randolph folded his arms. “He said you’d refuse.”

  She started.

  He smiled. “Come, Miss Bolton, why refuse? He will not give up, especially not in this instance—he truly wishes to help you in your time of need.”

  How could she answer that? “If only I believed you, sir.”

  “I am not allowed to return with Ebony,” he added. Then, slyly, “So I am leaving him here, in your stable. So if you truly feel driven to return him, you will have to do so yourself.”

  Her defeat was complete. She would never go back to Clarewood, not even to return the horse. So she must accept his gift. The Duke of Clarewood had won.

  “HAS ANYONE EVER told you just how clever you are?” Elysse asked, smiling, as the handsome St. Xavier coach turned down Pall Mall.

  Ariella smiled at her friend. “Actually, this was Emilian’s idea. He pointed out that Mr. Jefferson is courting my father and I could surely use that to our advantage.” She warmed impossibly as she thought about her husband. It had been seven years now, and they had two beautiful children, a son and a daughter, but she loved him more than ever. Although he had been dark and distant and so intimidating when they had first met, he was now far more than a lover and a husband—he was her best friend and closest confidant. He’d been amused when she’d begun to tell him about their plans to ignore Clarewood’s plans and encourage a match between the Dowager Duchess of Clarewood and the big, handsome American. But he’d also noticed the couple and agreed that there was obviously some connection between them.

  “We will tell Mr. Jefferson that my father suggested I show him London. Being as he is eager to do business with my father, I doubt he will refuse our offer.” Ariella smiled, pleased with their scheme.

  “And we will just happen to drive by Constance Hall, and when we do, it is incumbent upon us that we call.” Elysse grinned and squeezed her friend’s hand.

  “We can only put the two of them in the same room,” Ariella said. “After that, it is up to them.”

  “Not necessarily,” Elysse said, dropping her hand.

  Ariella looked carefully at her beautiful friend, who was somber now, and she instantly knew that Elysse was thinking about the beginning of her own marriage and the six terrible years of separation that had immediately followed their vows.

  She had suffered terribly. Alexi would probably never admit it, but Ariella knew her brother, and she was sure he had suffered, as well. His anger had been a disguise. But in the end, they had reconciled, and Ariella knew they were deliriously happy together. She had never dreamed her rakehell brother could turn into a devoted husband.

  “Sometimes a couple needs a helping hand.” Elysse smiled grimly at her. “Alexi and I might still be living apart if you hadn’t encouraged me to pursue and seduce him.”

  “Those were terrible times,” Ariella said softly. “And I am glad they are over and you are so enamored now.”

  Elysse smiled brightly, her brief lapse into the past over. “My point is, there is a gulf between Julia and Jefferson. She is a dowager duchess, he a rancher. She is English, he is American. She has a fortune, he does not. If there is a deep attraction, they might need some help overcoming their apparent differences.”

  “Has anyone ever told you how clever you are?” Ariella asked.

  “Only my terribly dashing husband.”

  TYNE JEFFERSON had refused to take the forward-facing seat, even though the two young ladies had tried to insist upon it. Instead, he sat across from them in the rear-facing seat, his long, strong legs crossed. He might be an American who had traversed the country three times before there had been a transcontinental railroad, meaning he had bested both mountains and deserts, suffered through heat waves and blizzards, while surviving Indians and wolves, not to mention just plain bad men, but when around the fair sex, he considered himself a gentleman of sorts. At least he would always try to be on his best behavior.

  Cliff de Warenne’s daughter was pointing out another landmark, this one the home of a renowned British artist. He was bemused. He’d been very surprised when the two ladies had appeared at his hotel, sweetly introducing themselves and asking if they could give him the grand tour of London. And even when Cliff’s daughter had explained that her father had suggested they call on him and make him feel at home, he sensed a plot and a scheme. But he couldn’t imagine what the conspiracy might be, and he was not about to refuse Cliff’s daughter, not when he was trying to convince the man to start a shipping line in Sacramento. Besides, his time in town was limited. He was more than happy to take in every sight that he could.

  But two hours had elapsed and they were no longer in town. He never went anywhere without studying maps first, and he knew they were in Greenwich. This was a suburb where the titled and the rich resided. It was a beautiful part of greater London, filled with palatial homes and smaller mansions, with carefully tended gardens and tree-lined drives. His bemusement had increased. “Should we go back to town? If you ladies care to join me, we can take tea, as you put it, at the hotel. And I can repay you for your hospitality.”

  Lady St. Xavier smiled oddly at him. “You hardly need to repay us, Mr. Jefferson.”

  “It’s just Jefferson,” he said.

  Mrs. de Warenne blinked a bit innocently and said, “Oh, look. Constance Hall. I wonder if the dowager duchess is in.”

  His heart slammed.

  “I believe you have met the dowager duchess, have you not?” Lady St. Xavier said, far too sweetly. “If she is in, we should call. Our families are very close, and I did not get to speak to her at any length at the Harrington ball.”

  He stared at the pale white pillars and the closed iron gates that barred trespassers from entering the grounds. His pulse had calmed now. But he wasn’t very happy with his reaction to their accidental arrival at the duchess’s home.

  He looked at the two women, who smiled innocently at him. There was nothing accidental about this, he decided. But he could not imagine why they had brought him to call on the dowager duchess. He did not have business with her. If this was social, he could accept that. But in that case, why bring him there with so much subterfuge?

  Surely they did not have matchmaking on their minds!

  Her image came forcefully to his mind, pale, blond and beautiful. “I don’t mind stopping by,” he said slowly. And it was the truth. The dowager duchess was one of the most interesting women he had ever met. But then, where he came from, the female gender was rare, ladies even more so.

  And as the coachman was instructed to turn into the drive, he had to admit to his tension. He rubbed his suddenly stiff neck, wondering at it. He almost felt nervous. He was never nervous, not even when facing a mountain lion on foot and in the dark.

  If someone had ever asked him to imagine a duchess, he would have imagined a lady exactly like Julia Mowbray, but he hadn’t realized a woman could truly be so elegant and so refined, so graceful and so gracious. He hadn’t realized anyone could be so wealthy. He’d been very surprised to receive her invitation to the ball. He’d accepted mostly because he had never been to a ball before—not even in his younger days in Boston.

  Since they’d met at a supper party last week, he had tried hard to think of her as a dowager duchess and not as a beautiful woman. But when they’d spoken that night, it had been clear how intelligent she was, and how gracious—causing his admiration to grow. It had been hard not to steal glances at her all night.

  He’d bumped into her on the street a few days later. She’d been shopping with a friend, and he’d been alone, doing the same thing. He’d meant to merely say hello, the polite thing to do, but that simple greeting had turned into half an hour of conversation.

  A man would have to be blind not to notice the dowager duchess’s petite figure and pale beauty, her femininity and grace. But it was all wrong. He had no right to think of her
as a woman. He needed to remind himself that she was a duchess…and a lady. Not only was she out of his league, he would never lay a hand on a woman like that. It would be the height of disrespect.

  He liked his women hot and lusty, anyway. Ladies did not enjoy sex, they suffered it. So that was another reason to keep things tidy and neat—not to mention polite and respectful—between them.

  But he’d had a really good time at the ball—and not because of the hoity-toity crowd. And damn it, now he was nervous.

  “I hope this isn’t an intrusion,” he said flatly, as her doormen opened their carriage doors for them.

  “She will be thrilled to see us,” Mrs. de Warenne said. “We are close friends with her son and have been so since childhood.”

  He made a mocking sound. Clarewood had been overbearing and arrogant, as if he thought the world of himself. “Ah yes, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the Grand Duke.”

  Lady St. Xavier looked at him seriously. “There is more to Stephen than meets the eye,” she said. “He may have airs, but he is at the forefront of reform. He is renowned for his philanthropy—he has built and maintains hospitals and asylums all over the country, and he is currently building proper housing for the working poor.”

  He hadn’t realized that. Still, Clarewood had been an ass. “I’m sure he’s a swell fellow.” He realized he was about to get in really hot water, so he smiled at her and added, “I am very impressed.”

  A moment later they were in the dowager duchess’s entry hall—which was the size of many northern California frontier homes. The women handed a butler their cards, which he promptly put on his small silver tray, asking them to wait. A few minutes later they were shown into a magnificent salon with turquoise-painted walls, gold wainscoting and plasterwork and gilded furniture.

  He realized his heart was beating just a bit more swiftly than usual. He told himself to get a grip and grow up. She was a duchess, for God’s sake.

  And then, just as the two ladies were taking their seats, she came gliding into the room.

  He was surprised, because she was in a riding habit, one with split skirts. And while it was an elegant outfit, it was somehow so feminine, an effect that was dissipated not a bit when he saw a bit of mud on her black boots—and noticed small, English spurs. He jerked his gaze to her face. She was flushed from the outdoors, while several pale tendrils had come loose from the chignon she seemed to favor and curled about her face.

  He was incredulous. His heart was thundering.

  She instantly went to the women and embraced them, kissing their cheeks warmly. “This is such a delightful surprise!” she exclaimed.

  His heart was racing. He’d never seen her look as lovely, and he reminded himself to cool down. But he couldn’t get over the fact that she had been on the back of a horse. He’d assumed she was always driven around. And she had long hair….

  She turned to face him, smiling politely. “I am so pleased you have called, Mr. Jefferson.”

  He’d learned his manners and took her hand, kissing the air above it, hating the foolish gesture. Her hand was small and petite in his own rather large one. “The ladies insisted we drop by. I hope it’s all right.” He meant his every word, and he looked into her eyes, wondering if she was really pleased to see him. And now he caught the scent of female perspiration, sweaty horse and something crisp, like the turning autumn leaves, mixed with lilies. His damned loins stirred.

  And then he realized he was still holding her hand and quickly dropped it.

  “I am very pleased that you have joined Elysse and Ariella,” she said, and the color in her cheeks was a bit brighter now. “And I must apologize for my appearance. I didn’t realize you would be calling, and I’m afraid the time simply slipped away. It usually does when I am riding.”

  Like an idiot, he stared. She rode often, and she enjoyed it enough to lose track of the time.

  It was Lady St. Xavier who broke the silence. “The dowager duchess is one of our most renowned equestrians.”

  He looked at the young lady, wondering what that meant.

  The dowager duchess said softly, “I enjoy my horses very much. Do you like horses, Mr. Jefferson? I imagine they are the lifeblood of your ranch.”

  He came to his senses. And even though he wasn’t sure he should tell her about life on a ranch, he explained, “I run five thousand head of cattle, Your Grace. In the spring, they’re turned out, and by summer, they’re in the high country. We round them up in the fall. It takes a few weeks. No cowboy could get the job done without having a couple of good horses.” He was surprised at how rapt she was. Was she really interested? She was a renowned equestrian?

  She said, “I’ve never tried to imagine a roundup before.”

  “It is hard work, and it can be dangerous. You don’t want to be near a stampede.” And then he wished he hadn’t said that, because he knew the English aristocracy had a disdain for hard work. But she really seemed to be interested.

  “I would love to see a roundup,” she said softly.

  He was speechless, because clearly she meant her every word. What if he invited her to California?

  “Have you ever ridden in a foxhunt, Mr. Jefferson?” she asked, smiling. “It is the sport I prefer.”

  He went still, wondering if he’d misheard. “You hunt foxes—on horseback?” Did this woman chase a fox across the countryside, astride, with a pack of hounds?

  She smiled. “Yes, I do, and I am rather passionate about it. You should join us in a foxhunt, if you can. The hounds are given a scent, and then they set chase. We follow on horseback, wherever we have to go.” She met his gaze and stared.

  He remained incredulous. “I’ve never been to—or seen—a foxhunt. But I’ve read about the sport. Aren’t jumps involved?”

  “Yes, there are fences—and other obstacles—of all kinds. In fact, the master of the hunt often works with a course designer to add interesting obstacles to the terrain. Our mounts are expected to take hedges, as well as stone walls and fallen trees. Balking is considered extremely bad form.” And now, as she spoke, her eyes were shining—and still locked with his.

  This woman rode in foxhunts. She jumped her horse over fallen trees and stone walls. It was amazing. He would never have guessed that the pretty little dowager duchess was such a horsewoman. “The fences are small, I hope,” he somehow managed to say.

  She laughed, and the happy sound made his heart leap. “That would not be very amusing, Mr. Jefferson. Nor would it be very challenging.”

  “Of course not,” he managed.

  “If you wish, I can show you my stable sometime. I have one of the best hunting strings in the country. And I will admit I’ve bred most of the barn myself.”

  She bred horses, too. He was going to have to reassess, he realized. Breeding was as earthy as anything could be. “I’d like to see your horses,” he said gruffly, then added, “when it’s convenient.”

  “You seem very surprised,” she suddenly said, but her blue gaze was direct. “And if I am boring you, I apologize, but I am very passionate about my horses. And, of course, I am allowed my eccentricities. I even feel I deserve them. I’ll show you my hounds, as well, if you wish. They are a formidable pack.”

  He was recovering somewhat. “I’ll bet. Do you breed them, too?”

  “Of course. The hounds need to have the drive to pursue prey, and we breed specifically for that drive.”

  “I’d like to join a foxhunt before I leave,” he suddenly said. He wanted to watch the duchess ride.

  “I’ll try to arrange it. But it may take a while. Would you care to ride with me sometime?”

  He looked at her now. She’d just extended another invitation to him. Why? And why was she even alone? Why hadn’t she remarried? “If it’s no trouble, I’d like that.” Almost disbelievingly, he heard the seductive tone of his own voice.

  She must have heard it, too, because she flushed. “It would be my pleasure,” she returned slowly.

  He h
ad stopped smiling. So had she. And he was staring when he knew he should stop—but she was returning his gaze.

  He was genuinely surprised when one of the younger ladies said, “Why don’t you show Mr. Jefferson your house dogs?”

  He’d forgotten about the other two women. He turned—suspicious now—because he thought there was laughter hidden in Lady St. Xavier’s tone. But he met a pair of straight faces and wide, unblinking eyes. Then he glanced at the duchess, who quickly smiled, as gracious as ever. While his own heart kept thundering.

  “When you next call, Mr. Jefferson, I will give you a tour of both the stables and my kennels.” She looked at the two young women. “I’m sure Mr. Jefferson has no interest in my personal dogs.”

  “Thank you. I’d like that. And I’d like to see your lapdogs,” he added, mostly to be polite.

  She looked at him oddly and went to the door and said, “Send Henry and Matilda in, please.”

  He knew a pair of fluffy, noisy lapdogs would be released into the room any moment, and he felt some relief, because that was how he wanted to think of her, as a regal, elegant untouchable duchess, seated in all her finery in her fancy gold salon in her palatial mansion, with a pair of silly lapdogs by her side.

  A moment later, a pair of black Great Danes almost as tall as she was came trotting into the room. Instinctively, he backed up.

  “Don’t worry,” the dowager duchess said. “They are well trained and only attack if I say so.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ALEXANDRA SAT WITH HER SISTERS in the parlor, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. The chicken was roasting and red potatoes were baking, along with a vegetable dish. A purchased pie was in the icebox. A bottle of red wine had been opened. The dining-room table had been set with their best plates and crystal, two silver candlesticks in its center. Everything was ready for the squire.

  And no one said a word.

  The squire and her father had been closeted in his library for well over half an hour. By now they’d had at least one sherry. When they finally came back into the parlor, Alexandra was afraid of what would happen next.