An Impossible Attraction. Brenda Joyce
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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,