by Brenda Joyce
The comment was unusual, and she started, looking deeply into his amber eyes. “Yes,” she slowly said, “I have a feeling that you might be too big for this tiny land.”
He blinked and looked closely back at her, then slowly smiled. “Did you just insult me?”
She realized she was smiling back. “That was a compliment.” And suddenly they were staring at one another.
She coughed, about to make a trite remark, when his gaze slipped to her sapphire and diamond necklace. He quickly looked up and said, “You are my first duchess.”
Suddenly she was warm. “I don’t imagine you would meet many duchesses in America.”
“None.”
Julia was warm just recalling their first meeting. He was a man of few words, but she didn’t mind. When he spoke, it was worth listening to what he had to say. That was so different from her peers.
She’d learned more about him at the ball. He had never married. He didn’t have any children. He lived alone. Julia couldn’t really understand that, but she would never pry.
She had reached the stables, and two grooms rushed out. As she dismounted, her thoughts remained on Jefferson. While she thought she’d made an excellent impression upon him last week, at first she had been flustered by his call. She’d been embarrassed that he would catch her so disheveled from her morning ride, but he hadn’t seemed to mind. He had seemed admiring, instead.
Her heart skipped like a young girl’s as she thanked the grooms and started back toward the house, the Danes keeping pace. She’d even given him an open invitation to call, and they had planned to ride together. But a week had gone by, and he hadn’t called. Their paths had not crossed at any evening affair, either.
Her heart lurched with dismay. If he had any interest in her as a woman, surely he would have called by now. Wouldn’t he?
Was she being foolish? She was fifty years old. She knew she remained a very attractive woman, and that she looked only forty, if that. She supposed her youthful appearance was due to her active lifestyle. She was a horsewoman and had been so her entire life—she spent two or three hours every day in the saddle, which kept her legs strong, and her abdomen tight and lean. And she was always busy. While she had had many responsibilities as the Duchess of Clarewood, as she did now, as its dowager duchess, she had also become involved in many of her son’s charities. She didn’t have time to sit around and sip chocolate.
And although she was well into her middle years, Jefferson had awakened something in her that she had thought long since buried. A yearning churned in her now, and it included the desire to be in his strong arms. She was a powerful woman, but he made her feel small, vulnerable and feminine. He made her feel desirable again.
She did not know how long he would remain in the country, but she clearly had a choice—to remain lonely and wistful, or be bold and take matters into her own hands.
Her stride lengthened. Matilda and Henry galloped ahead of her, tails wagging. Julia went into a small library, furnished mostly in shades of cream and gold, and sat down at the desk there. She hesitated, and decided to be direct. She penned Jefferson a very brief note, inviting him for the ride they had discussed. As she sealed the envelope, she was afraid he would refuse.
What if she had misread him? What if his responses to her had merely been polite? After all, everyone fawned over her.
Before she had a chance to change her mind, she rang a small silver bell. “Godfrey, please see that this is delivered by messenger to Mr. Jefferson at the St. Lucien Hotel.”
When her butler was gone, she called the dogs over, petting them as she thought about Jefferson. He would receive the note that evening. Etiquette required an immediate reply. She should know where he stood by tomorrow at this time.
She thought about how Ariella and Elysse had shepherded him over to her. She knew both young women fairly well, as they were so close to Stephen—and Ariella was his natural cousin, as well. She had instantly assumed the call was not without subterfuge. The young ladies were so transparent. It amazed her that they might be matchmaking, but she hadn’t minded. If Stephen ever learned what they were up to, he would be furious with them.
She sobered. Her thoughts were now fixed on her son and the ugly rumors raging about town. The gossips held that Stephen was having an affair with Edgemont’s daughter, and they were thoroughly titillated. Julia did not know Alexandra Bolton, but she’d glimpsed her at the Harrington affair, and it had been obvious that she was an honorable gentlewoman, even if impoverished, and one of great dignity and character. She was not the type of woman her son would try to seduce. To be blunt, Miss Bolton was not mistress material. She was certain there was no affair, but she had seen how attentive he was to the girl. She couldn’t help wondering if Stephen was finally and genuinely interested in a woman—even if he might not know it himself yet.
Julia decided that she should call on Miss Bolton. If Stephen had taken an interest in a proper woman, she would be thrilled, never mind the damned gossips. And if Miss Bolton had been mistaken in her choice of men so long ago, Julia would be the first to forgive her. It was so easy to make mistakes when one was young and naive and filled with silly dreams.
Godfrey returned. “Your Grace? Mr. Jefferson has called.”
Her heart slammed and stopped. Then it thundered. It took her a moment to realize that Jefferson had come of his own volition. “Show him to the Turquoise Room, please, and tell him that I will be right down.” All too aware of Godfrey’s jaw dropping, she leaped from her chair, calling for her maids as she ran for the stairs.
STEPHEN SAT WITH HIS STEWARD in the study, writing checks. Clarewood might be thriving, but there were still monthly expenses, including personal ones. He stared at an account, brows raised, wondering at the item. “Who is George Lavoiser?”
The steward leaned forward to glance at the bill just as Randolph strode in, his tweed jacket, breeches and boots damp from the drizzle outside. “That is the florist you used last month, Your Grace.”
Stephen’s heart seemed to lurch. Ah yes, he’d yet to pay for the spectacular roses he’d sent Alexandra. His entire body stiffened. The tension remained, although he was doing his best to forget about her and her schemes, and it was damned unpleasant. The problem was, she remained oddly unforgettable. He could not seem to erase their last encounter from his mind—nor the hours of passion they had shared.
He remained angry and disbelieving. Yet he was never angry—he’d spent an entire lifetime learning to be calm and controlled. Just as she had shown him the kind of passion he thought impossible, she had somehow broken through his reservoir of composure, not that he would let anyone ever know that.
Stephen scrawled a check and handed it to the steward. “Would you excuse us,” he said, and it was not a question.
Randolph stripped off his sodden jacket and moved closer to the fire in the hearth. Stephen stood, not bothering to roll down the sleeves of his dark blue sweater. It was a dastardly day, cold and rainy. He walked over, almost reluctant to find out what Randolph had learned from their litigators. But as rumors were flying all over town about the “affair,” he was fairly certain what he would hear.
As Stephen poured his younger half brother a brandy, Randolph said, “It’s broken off, Your Grace. Denney has ended the suit.”
He was not surprised. Of course it was broken off. No man wanted a trollop for a wife. And she wanted a far better catch for a husband. He handed his brother a drink.
Randolph sipped gratefully and then said, his gaze direct, “Apparently he was furious. He’s heard all the rumors.” He hesitated, then said, “There’s more.”
Stephen shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the flames dancing in the hearth, his back now to his brother. There was no reason to feel guilty. She’d plotted to trap him, even if he had been amused by having Squire Denney as a rival, one he knew he could squash with one single breath along the nape of her neck. And if she hadn’t been such a conniving bitch, he would feel sorr
y for her. After all, she could have used the security of the match with Denney.
But if he did not know himself better, he would think that he actually felt sorry for her. Just a little. And that was absurd.
She would find someone else to trap into marriage, he thought.
Of course, there was one little fact that was bothering him. She was in her middle twenties. Why hadn’t she used her virginity long ago to ensnare a wealthy husband if that had been her plan?
He did not like that nagging question. Stephen turned. “What more could there possibly be?”
Randolph winced. “Edgemont threw her out. Apparently he heard the rumors, too.”
Stephen reeled. He wasn’t sure he had ever been as surprised, as taken aback. “He tossed her out?” Oddly, his first instinct was to confront Edgemont. “Where did she go?”
“She’s let a room in London. Apparently she continues to sew for various ladies and has set up shop there.”
Stephen’s heart did the strangest thing—it sank with dread. She’d been thrown out of her home. She was sewing from a room in a London inn.
He reminded himself that this was not his concern, and that he did not care. He immediately returned to his desk. “I’d like to go over some ledgers with you, Randolph,” he said, refusing to think of Alexandra any longer.
Randolph approached. “The word is the neighborhood is a very impoverished one. I have an address, by the way.”
Stephen stared grimly, meeting Randolph’s gaze. He couldn’t believe he’d actually heard disapproval in his brother’s tone. “Are you blaming me for her fate?”
Randolph stared back. “I believe that I am.”
Stephen was surprised. “So you will take her side?”
Randolph grimaced and said softly, “We are brothers. I admire you immensely—and I am terribly grateful for your being my mentor. But I do not think she deserves this set-down. I know you would never callously toss her aside as you did. I can’t imagine what she did to raise your ire. Perhaps, whatever it was, you were mistaken, or you might forgive her.” He added, “Your Grace.”
As disturbed as he was, Stephen was briefly proud of Randolph. “Few men would speak to me as you have just done. But I am glad you are being candid with me.”
Randolph smiled. “I do not mean to criticize. But I am concerned.”
“Don’t waste your time. Miss Bolton is a survivor. And I am sure the falling out with her father is a temporary one. After all, she holds that family together.”
Randolph seemed incredulous. “You won’t repair this?”
Stephen stood. “I never forgive betrayal, Randolph, and neither should you. She betrayed me—she played me—and she can find another benefactor to rescue her from her current straits.”
Randolph shook his head. “And if no one does so? Then what?”
“Do not push me,” Stephen warned.
“May I check on her?”
Stephen paused. It took him a moment to consider this course. “If you do so, you are on your own. I do not want a report—not a single word.” And as Randolph looked at him with disapproval, he finished, “This is not my fault. This entire episode is of her own making.”
“Of course…Your Grace.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
TYNE JEFFERSON STROLLED as casually as possible into the salon as he was ushered inside by a servant. It wasn’t an easy task—his pulse was racing, his tension was high, and there was nothing casual about his call. He’d meant to stay away, never mind her invitation last week. He’d decided that, given his growing interest in her, no good could come of any further interactions.
Now he looked at her and his heart roared. She was even tinier and prettier than he’d remembered.
Julia smiled at him. “Another pleasant surprise,” she said softly.
He managed to smile back, though his heart was doing a few odd flips and he was taken aback by his surging pulse. But he didn’t hesitate. “I hope you mean that.”
She came forward, her eyes on his. They were warm; they sparkled. Her cheeks were still flushed from the outdoors. “I do. I am so glad you have called. I was just thinking about you.”
The British were probably the most polite and formal people he’d ever encountered, but her comment just now wasn’t polite, it was familiar. He was startled.
For one thing, he’d decided that her last invitation had been made out of that infamous British politeness, nothing more, while he wanted a bit more than a chitchat. But she was a great lady and a duchess; wanting more was wrong, so he’d decided to stay away. And then he’d tried not to think about her, which had proven impossible. Every day he’d wondered if they would bump into one another that night at a dinner party or the opera. And a part of him had hoped so. But he hadn’t seen her at any of the evening affairs he’d attended. He hadn’t seen her in the park, either, or shopping on Oxford Street. And he’d been disappointed.
Worst of all, he’d even dreamed about her. And that made him uncomfortable, because he couldn’t control the nature of his dreams, which had been sexual and intense.
The Dowager Duchess of Clarewood was on his mind, there was no damned doubt about that. He wasn’t very happy about it, either, because there was just nowhere for them to go. Even if she was a passionate woman, he knew he was not her type of man. She needed someone cultured and titled, someone who wore white gloves, actually liked the opera and had never chopped a block of firewood in his life, much less killed a man.
But he’d broken down. His time was running out; in a few weeks he would be returning to California, so he had decided to see her one more time. He’d been half hoping that when he did, he wouldn’t have any reaction to her at all—that somehow, he’d made it all up in his head.
But he’d been wrong. He was having a reaction, all right. She took his breath away.
She turned to ask the butler for refreshments, giving him the chance to ogle every inch of her. She was so tiny that he thought he might be able to span his hands around her waist. And when the servant left and she faced him, he felt himself flush, because in his mind’s eye, she’d been stark naked.
“It’s going to rain,” she said. “Otherwise I’d take you hacking.”
He recovered somewhat. “In California rain is a blessing. We have long, dry summers.”
“And shockingly cold winters—in the high country,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I was curious, so I have been reading up on the history of America—and California.” She smiled.
His heart jumped again. Why was she curious? He almost wished he could tell her about all that he had endured—most of his friends thought him heroic. But he wasn’t sure she would admire him for wandering through a blizzard with frostbite, then finally digging a hole in the snow to wait it out until he could see where he was. “I don’t claim to be a historian, but you can ask me anything.”
Her gaze held his, her smile fading. “It’s a difficult life, isn’t it—on the frontier?”
It was very difficult, and he wanted her to know that none of her peers could survive all that he had—as if that would impress her. “Our summers are boiling hot. Sometimes there’s no rain. Cattle—wildlife—die. Our winters are worse. The snow can pile up higher than the rooftops of our houses.” He smiled and shrugged. “But we do what we have to.”
Her eyes were wide. “I’ve started reading about the difficulties of crossing the country and settling the western lands. It sounds so dangerous, Mr. Jefferson.”
It almost sounded as if she were worried about him. “It is dangerous.” He smiled at her then. “A man needs ambition, and if he has it, and he has the guts, he’ll be fine.”
Her gaze was wide and searching. “You know,” she said, “you said you’ve never met a duchess before. I’ve never met a frontiersman before—if that is what you call yourself.”
“I call myself a Californian.”
She smiled back at him. “I like that,” she said softly. “It
says so much in so few words.”
He stared, unsmiling, and her smile faded, too. He felt so much tension within his own body and wondered if she felt the same. What man wouldn’t want to take her in his arms and taste that small, pretty mouth? he wondered. What would she say if she knew he’d built his ranch mostly by himself, with his own two hands? That he’d killed a handful of men, mostly outlaws and Indians? That he’d almost starved to death one winter, when lost in the wilds of Nevada? That he’d eaten raw meat, having killed a fox with his bare hands, in order to survive?
He suddenly turned away from her. He knew what she would say. She would be appalled. As she would probably also be appalled by the scars on his body. He had more than his share. He, on the other hand, could imagine the perfection of her body, and he wished he could put his hands all over it.
She was being polite, even now. And despite his earlier assumption, that was undoubtedly the only reason why she had told him he could call anytime, why she had offered to take him riding.
“I do have a question,” she said. “You told me you had come to Britain for personal reasons. I don’t mean to pry, but it does seem like a truly long journey if you were only soliciting Cliff de Warenne.”
He crossed his arms, tensing, and suddenly, he wanted to tell her about his life—not just the good parts, but the bad. “My daughter is buried here.”
She started. “I am so sorry!”
“It’s okay. Donna died twenty-eight years ago. And I should have come to her grave a long time ago, but I never did.”
She reached for his arm and slid her hand over it. He jerked, surprised. “I didn’t know. I can’t imagine what you went through. So you were married?”
“No. She left me, even though I’d planned on marrying her, to return to Brighton, where she was from. I didn’t know she was carrying our child.” There was still sadness in talking about it, but it was distant and faded now.
“Life can be so cruel, so unkind,” she said feelingly.