An Impossible Attraction. Brenda Joyce
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you standing on the stairs like a statue?” Olivia’s soft voice cut into her thoughts.
Alexandra jerked back to reality, and she smiled, then moved swiftly down the stairs to join her sister. “I overslept,” she said. She’d finally drifted off to sleep at dawn. No wonder she had slept long past her usual rising time.
“You never sleep in,” Olivia said, her green eyes filled with concern.
There was no point in increasing her sister’s anxiety by confessing how distracted and distressed she’d been all night, so she merely ignored the comment. “I am hungry,” she lied. “Will you join me and at least have a cup of tea?”
Before Olivia could respond, the library doors opened and Edgemont lumbered through them, still in his tailcoat, which was thoroughly wrinkled now. Unshaven, he looked entirely disreputable. “Good morning,” he boomed, then blinked at them.
Alexandra was so filled with outrage that she did not answer—she didn’t trust herself to speak. Not yet, anyway. She marched past him to the kitchen, Olivia on her heels.
But Edgemont followed. “How rude!” he exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you today?”
Alexandra went to the stove and used a match to light a burner, her hands shaking. She pumped water into the tea-kettle and set it on the burner.
“Are you angry?” He winced and rubbed his temples. “Was it a good evening? I can’t seem to recall most of it.”
Alexandra whirled. “No, it was not a good evening, as you were falling down drunk!”
He drew himself upright. “I won’t have you speaking to me in such a manner.”
She inhaled. She never lost her temper, never shouted, but she’d just shouted at him. She had just insulted her own father. She fought for calm. “Why not? You humiliated yourself in front of everyone at Harrington House.” She spoke quietly now. “Do you even know how you got home last night?”
He was puzzled. “No, I do not.”
“The Duke of Clarewood carried you across the ballroom, Father. Yes, you were that foxed. And then Randolph and Alexi de Warenne took you outside. I believe young Randolph de Warenne escorted you home.”
Edgemont paled. Then he straightened. “A man has his rights, and I have every right to my gin. You’re exaggerating—I recall it all now.” He paused, breathing hard, and looked at Olivia. “Prepare my breakfast,” he said.
Olivia walked past him to do just that, her mouth pursed.
The kettle began to sing. Alexandra turned slowly, though she felt like whirling in anger, and took the kettle from the fire and calmly set it on the counter, when she felt like smashing it down. She had Clarewood on her mind again. Bloody hell, she thought.
She also never cursed, not even in her thoughts.
“How is the squire today?” Edgemont asked carefully, apparently having come to his full senses.
“I wouldn’t know.” She poured two cups of tea for herself and Olivia. “Would you like a cup, Father?”
“Yes.”
She poured his tea and faced him. “He will surely call things off now, and it will be your fault. Your drinking has to stop. It is disgraceful, and we can’t afford it.”
Edgemont stared at her, and she stared back as she handed him the cup and saucer. Without a word, he went from the kitchen to the dining table and sat down.
Alexandra looked at Olivia. They both knew that he would not change.
“WE HAVE CALLERS,” Corey said. “Or rather, we have a caller.”
Alexandra had just finished her toast and jam. Corey was standing at the kitchen window, and Alexandra got up to see who could possibly be calling before noon. As the dark carriage got closer, she realized it belonged to the squire.
She tensed. He’d brought them home last night, but it had been late, everyone had been tired, and the conversation had been perfunctory. Corey had even fallen asleep on the way, and the squire had encouraged Alexandra to do so, as well. She hadn’t, but she’d pretended to doze, to avoid speaking to him. Now she wondered if he was sending a note breaking things off. Or would he come in person to do so? A note would be kinder. On the other hand, he need only speak to Edgemont. And she was dismayed, because he was her sisters’ last hope.
She refused to go down that path. She was her sisters’ last hope. She would not give up on securing them a decent future.
Corey turned from the window. “He is here. Do you want us to chaperone you?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Alexandra removed her apron and tucked a stray hair behind her ears, the behavior instinctive.
“He is going to break things off, isn’t he?” Corey asked. She was somber.
“Undoubtedly. You should be pleased, being as you are dead set against him.”
“You were accused of horrible things last night, Alexandra! I would never want the suit broken off this way.”
Alexandra patted her shoulder. “Forget about last night, Corey.” She gave Olivia a glance and went to the front door. Rejection was always unpleasant, and her heart lurched with dread as she turned the knob.
The squire had come in person, looking flushed from the drive over, and he was not smiling—he seemed grave. “Good afternoon, Miss Bolton.”
Tamping down her dread, she returned the greeting and let him in, walking with him to the parlor.
“Is it too early to call? I could not sleep last night, Miss Bolton, for all my thoughts of you.”
Alexandra smiled grimly. “I must apologize for my father’s behavior last night, and thank you yet again for inviting us out.”
“You do not have to apologize,” he said.
Alexandra inhaled sharply. “Of course I do.”
“No.” He shook his head. Then, “I am so distressed. I am so sorry you had to suffer through the evening. That was not my intention!”
“I am fine,” she said lightly. “And it is forgotten.” She managed a smile. She had to let him off the hook. “I know why you have called, Mr. Denney. And I understand.”
“Good. Then you must know that I am furious with the mean-spiritedness of the gossips last night!” he exclaimed.
She went still. “You heard?”
He nodded gravely.
“But you never let on.”
“I did not want to add to your distress.”
Realizing that he’d heard all the ugly gossip, including the lies about her and Owen, she flushed. “You are let off, Mr. Denney.” She finally said. “No gentleman wants a socially unacceptable wife.”
He recoiled, eyes wide. “What? Is that what you think? I do not believe the ugliness I overheard, not for a minute! And you are the most socially acceptable woman I know. You shine, Miss Bolton, and those harpies cast shadows. I cannot understand why they would want to cast such aspersions on your character.”
She was taken aback, disbelieving. Morton Denney hadn’t believed the gossips. He hadn’t judged her as everyone else had. He had faith in her character.
That was when she saw her sisters standing in the hallway, the parlor door ajar, faces pressed to the crack. “I am surprised, sir, that you would believe in me.”
“You sewed my wife’s clothing for five years, Miss Bolton. I believe I know your true nature.”
She chewed on her lip, then breathed out. “So this is a social call?”
“What else would it be?”
She