Kitabı oku: «An Impossible Attraction», sayfa 5

Julia gave him another warning look, but Stephen barely saw it. He wasn’t sure he had ever encountered such arrogance, and in spite of himself, he felt the dawning of a grudging respect for the American.

“HERE, A SIP OF TEA will undoubtedly help,” Squire Denney said with concern.

Alexandra smiled gratefully at him, aware that she was still being stared at and, at times, whispered about. She had not dreamed of such a reception to her first social event in nine years. No one had spoken with her since they had arrived at Sara’s birthday party other than her sisters, her father and the squire. She had done her best to pretend that all was well—she did not want to distress the squire or, worse, chase him off. But surely, once he realized what was happening and what society thought of her, he would flee.

They’d been at Harrington Hall for about two hours, and her headache was so bad now that she’d finally confessed to feeling a bit under the weather. Denney was being kind. She had the feeling that compassion was a large part of his nature. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the tea and knowing he’d gone out of his way to find a hot cup at this hour.

She took a sip. She felt as if she had been standing in that corner of the ballroom forever, but it was only nine o’clock. She wasn’t sure she had ever felt so humiliated. She couldn’t believe she’d been so naive as to think she could appear in society when she made a living as a seamstress now. As for the vicious gossip that she’d been jilted by Owen, she couldn’t bear to think about it. At least she could console herself with the truth. Even so, surely the squire would decide that he wanted a socially acceptable wife, ruling her out.

She glanced at her sisters, dismayed. They should have been out on the dance floor; instead, they refused to leave her side. They should have been having the best time of their young lives; instead, they were anxious and frightened, and determined to defend her from further slander and prevent another disaster.

Her glance wandered. And she knew she was looking for him.

Her heart thundered. Her cheeks felt hot.

“I will get you a small bite,” Denney said, his concern as vast as ever.

Realizing he would leave her side for a moment, and that she might speak privately to her sisters, Alexandra nodded. “Thank you.”

When he was gone, Corey whispered, “I think we should leave.” She was pale with distress.

Alexandra faced her, a firm smile in place. “We will not cry over spilt milk, we will merely clean it up.”

“These people are hateful,” Corey continued in a whisper. “Who cares about being at this party?”

“Everyone is not hateful. A handful of these women are mean-spirited, that is all. Wasn’t it nice to see Lady Harrington and her daughters again?” Blanche Harrington had been kind and concerned, and her daughters had actually seemed pleased to renew their acquaintances. Sir Rex had been equally magnanimous. “And, Corey, you remain the interest of several young gentlemen here.”

“I don’t care,” Corey said, meaning it. “When can we leave?”

Alexandra exchanged a glance with Olivia and caught her staring at the same blond man she herself had noticed earlier. Her heart clenched. Whoever that gentleman was, he was not for her sister. “Who is that?”

Olivia flushed. “I don’t know. I overheard someone saying he’s been in the wilds of America for the past two years.”

Alexandra sensed her sister’s interest, and she took her hand and squeezed it sadly. Then she looked at Corey. “We can’t leave this early. That would be grossly insulting to our hosts. And it would be rude to the squire, as well.”

Corey was grim. “I know,” she said. “But one can hope, can’t one?”

“I think we should try to resurrect this evening—and enjoy the next few hours,” Alexandra said.

Her sisters did not buy her optimism for a moment. Olivia said, “Where is Father?”

Alexandra froze. She hadn’t seen him in an hour, and no good could come of that. If he was drinking, she would wring his neck when they got home, and this time she meant it. She could not bear any more disgrace. “Maybe we should look for him,” she said, setting down her cup of tea.

Olivia pinched her—hard.

As she did, Alexandra felt his stare. She inhaled hard, tensing. The sensation of being watched by the Duke of Clarewood was unlike any other. And slowly she turned.

It remained unbelievable that she had almost fainted and that he’d caught her before she collapsed. It remained as impossible that he’d been gallant—and that he had even flirted with her. Just as impossible was the fact that a moment later she had caught him staring closely at her, as he was doing now. Their gazes locked.

Her heart leaped, lurched and then raced wildly.

She could not quite breathe.

He was speaking with several gentlemen, but his gaze was most definitely on her, at once confident and intense. Alexandra knew she would never forget the feeling of being in his strong arms. As for his interest, she was fairly certain she knew what it signified.

He was unwed, and so was she—but she was not in his league. She was too old for him, too impoverished, the family name too disreputable. His interest could mean only one thing.

She was stunned, but also dismayed.

“That is Clarewood,” Corey breathed, clearly in awe and, just as clearly, having no comprehension of the situation.

“I am in his debt,” Alexandra said tersely. She glanced at Olivia, who stared back. Surely Olivia understood that he would never be interested in her in any honorable way. And she still couldn’t fathom his interest, not even in any dishonorable way. Why did he find her interesting? There were many beautiful women in the room. And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw their father heading toward them.

She froze. He was lurching. She had prayed things would not get worse, but clearly her prayers had gone unanswered.

Olivia saw him, too, and she gasped. Then, “Now we have to leave.”

There was nothing Alexandra wished to do more. However, running now, with their tails between their legs, would leave a terrible impression. “The two of you stay here. I am sending him home, and I’ll be back in a moment.”

Olivia’s regard was imploring. “Why?”

“I don’t think Denney has noticed how foxed Father is. And we are staying until the squire is ready to leave—we are his guests.”

Edgemont swayed toward her, grinning. “My beautiful daughter! Are you enjoying yourself?”

She took his arm, moving him into the corner. “You promised not to imbibe.”

“I haven’t. Alexandra, I swear. Not one drop.”

“You reek of whiskey, and you’re staggering,” she accused. She was livid, but even more, she was humiliated and dismayed.

“I did not take even one drop of whiskey,” he slurred. “’Twas gin.”

“And that makes it better?” She looped her arm firmly through his, but even so, he almost fell on her. She hit the wall, flushing, his weight too heavy for her to bear. “You have to leave, Father. You cannot remain in such a state.”

“Too shoon to go, my dear. There’sh cards in the game room.” He tried to push her away and almost fell again.

Alexandra knew that they were being remarked. She seized his arm and tried to get him to stand upright. As he stood up, swaying, she did not know if she would ever forgive him for this.

“You’re having a good time, aren’t you?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes, I am having a splendid time,” she snapped, wondering if she should try to drag him bodily from the room. She did not think she was strong enough to do so.

“Good.” He suddenly pulled free of her and crashed into the wall himself. “Whoops.”

Furious, her cheeks on fire, Alexandra seized his arm and threw it over her shoulders. “We are leaving,” she said, trying to speak as calmly as possible, no easy task when she was furious.

“Don’t want to go,” he said, balking. “Cardsh.”

She looked at him, and when he smiled back at her, she wanted to cry. So this was how he was once he left the house every night? It was simply heartbreaking. And the most heartbreaking part was that she was certain that, had her mother lived, his propensity for alcohol would have never become so out of control.

“May I?” the Duke of Clarewood asked.

She went still. Then, her father’s weight half on her, his arm over her shoulders, her hair now coming down in absolute disarray, she looked up.

His brilliantly blue gaze met hers. There was no scorn on his handsome face, no condescension. He seemed suitably grave, and in that moment he seemed like the Rock of Gibraltar.

Alexandra felt her heart explode. “I beg your pardon?”

“May I be of some assistance?” He sent her a dazzling smile.

It was the kind of smile no woman could resist. Alexandra felt like dumping her drunken father in his arms and bursting into tears. Instead, she jerked her father’s arm more tightly over her shoulders, held her head high and blinked back any rising moisture. Even as she did so, she knew she couldn’t possibly carry him out of the room, much less the house.

And Clarewood, the most devastating man she’d ever laid eyes on, was witnessing this humiliation.

“You can’t possibly carry his weight,” he said gently.

He was right. She wet her lips as it crossed her mind that this gesture—which was truly heroic—would only cause more attention and more gossip. “You are right.” She dared to meet his gaze again.

It was the most speculative and intelligent, the most penetrating regard she’d ever encountered. Then he stooped down and removed her father’s arm from her shoulders, firmly clasping him about the waist. Edgemont began to drunkenly protest.

“Father, you are going outside with the duke,” Alexandra said as calmly as possible. “I will follow—and you are going home.”

“Don’t want to go home…the duke?” Edgemont gaped at Clarewood now.

“Easy, my man,” Clarewood said, a quiet authority in his tone. “The night is over, and you are going home, as Miss Bolton has suggested.”

He knew her name.

Edgemont’s eyes widened comically. “Your Grace,” he whispered, clearly awed and submissive now.

Alexandra fought more tears as Clarewood practically carried her father away.

She realized her sisters had come to stand silently beside her, filled with the same despair and distress she herself was feeling. As Clarewood started across the room, she became aware of the silent, gawking crowd. Every pair of eyes in the hall was trained upon Clarewood and his drunken, clownish burden.

Suddenly a pair of gentlemen came rushing over to the duke. She recognized the young man with tawny hair—he was Randolph de Warenne, Sir Rex’s son, who was perhaps twenty or so. The other man was unmistakable, even if she hadn’t seen him in years—he was the dark and dashing shipping merchant Alexi de Warenne. Both men quickly divested Clarewood of his drunken burden.

“Find a coach to take him home, and a proper escort,” Clarewood calmly said, straightening his tailcoat.

“I’ll see him home,” Randolph said quickly, with a grim smile.

“Thank you.” Clarewood gave the younger man a smile in return. “You can use my coach if you wish. I appreciate it, Rolph.”

Alexandra thought that Randolph was eager to please the duke, not that it mattered to her, except as far as it meant that he would get her father safely home. But she also noticed how much the two men resembled one another—in spite of the fact that Randolph had tawny hair and Clarewood’s was pitch-black. The similarity of their features struck her, as did the darkness of their complexions, and just before Randolph turned away with her father, she glimpsed the brilliant blue eyes the de Warenne men were renowned for. Clarewood had striking blue eyes, as well. None of this mattered, of course. She wasn’t sure why she was noticing such things now.

Clarewood turned and approached her again.

Her heart slammed. Beside her, both her sisters stiffened, and Alexandra felt a flush begin. He had rescued her from a swoon. Had he heard the gossip? Did he think her reprehensible? A castoff? What did he think of her father’s behavior? Of the fact that she had to earn her living by sewing? Why did she care?

Suddenly he took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter without even breaking stride. A moment later he was handing it to her. “Champagne hardly cures all ills. But you appear as if you might need a drink.”

She gratefully accepted the glass. Clarewood glanced idly at her sisters as she did so. As if on command, they nodded at him, turned and hurried a few steps away. Alexandra couldn’t look away from him, but she knew her sisters were staring, too—along with everyone else in the room.

“I am sorry for your distress, Miss Bolton.”

What did that mean? Why would he care? “You have no reason to be sorry for anything. You saved me from a swoon. You escorted my inebriated father from the room and have made certain he will be taken safely home. Thank you.”

“The first instance was my pleasure. The second, my choice.” His mouth curved.

Still, she wondered why he had bothered. “It was certainly an unpleasant choice and one you did not have to make. Again, thank you, Your Grace. Your kindness is astounding.”

He studied her for a moment. “Kindness had nothing to do with it.” He bowed. “You seem to have a suitor waiting in the wings. A gentleman knows when it is time to take his leave.”

She tensed, glimpsing Squire Denney hovering behind them, his eyes wide, and she knew she hadn’t mistaken the mockery in Clarewood’s tone. Her dismay increased. So did a sense of embarrassment. Somehow, he’d ascertained that Denney was courting her.

The duke gave her an odd, almost promising look, as if telling her that he would return, and then he was gone.

Alexandra just stood there, feeling as if she’d somehow withstood a hurricane—or some other impossible force of nature.

Chapter Four

THE STAG ROOM of the Hotel St. Lucien was as exclusive as a private club. While one did not have to be a member, the maitre d’ had no trouble encouraging the wrong sort to turn away from its massive carved doors. Merchants, bankers, factory owners and lawyers were simply not allowed without a proper introduction or the right escort. Simply put, it was a refuge for the country’s upper-class elite. Stephen rarely bothered with the Stag Room or any similar establishment, but once in a while such isolation was welcome.

Now he propelled Randolph forward, his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The maitre d’ bowed. “Your Grace. Mr. de Warenne.”

Stephen nodded as he and his half brother strolled into the dimly lit salon filled with fine furniture, gilded antiques and Aubusson rugs. At this late hour, nearing midnight, the gentlemen present were all his age, with only a few exceptions, and many were well into their cups. Murmurs of “Your Grace” followed him as he walked past the various groups. Alexi, Jack, Ned and his younger brother Charles, generally known as Chaz, were all slouched in their plush seats at the salon’s far end. The windows there overlooked the park. The moon was bright tonight.

“We were wondering if you got waylaid,” Jack O’Neill said, one leg crossed over the other, a cigar in hand.

“I had to pry my young friend away from a particularly voracious baroness,” Stephen said drily. “He was making advances toward Lady Dupre.”

Randolph flopped down onto the couch beside Alexi, who poured a fine cognac into a snifter for him and pushed it over. “She was the most beautiful woman at the birthday soirée, and may I say, in my own defense, she ogled me before I ever approached?”

“They are all beautiful, where you are concerned,” Chaz said.

“Discretion would have been a better course,” Stephen admonished, “as her current paramour was standing beside her and her husband within earshot.”

“Lady Dupre,” Alexi murmured. “Well done, Rolph.”

Randolph saluted him with his snifter.

Stephen took the chair beside the couch, glancing at Alexi as he did so. His friend was lounging against the cushions in a manner that suggested he was hardly drunk and was very intently preparing for their next go-round. He looked like a black jaguar in a cage, one waiting for the gatekeeper to dare to come inside. He smiled indolently at Stephen.

“As long as we are speaking about impending conquests, has Miss Bolton indicated that she will be grateful to you for rescuing her not once, but twice, tonight?” Alexi asked.

Stephen poured himself a cognac, recalling Alexandra Bolton’s humiliation at the hands of her father with a stirring of anger. “Edgemont is a disgrace.”

“Miss Bolton handled herself well,” Ned said firmly. “Grace under fire, all around.”

Stephen silently agreed.

“She is a striking woman,” Jack remarked. “She is almost as tall as I am.”

Stephen gave Jack a deceptively mild look.

“I would never poach,” Jack laughed. Then he sobered. “I did feel sorry for her. And for her sisters, too. Edgemont should be shot.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” Ned said, amused. “You’re back in civilization, Jack. Or have you forgotten?”

Jack flexed his hands. “I suppose I have become a bit extreme, actually.” He glanced around. “Let’s find a tavern and some good lusty tavern wenches. I am bored.”

Chaz and Randolph exchanged looks. “I know a place,” Chaz said, attempting to remain blasé.

His older brother looked at him. “You are the spare,” Ned reproved. “You do have a reputation to maintain.”

“Exactly. I’m the spare, not the heir,” Chaz said, unperturbed, and he finished his drink, whispering to Randolph as they made their plans for the rest of the evening.

Alexi turned to look at Stephen. “I ask again. How goes the latest seduction? Is Miss Bolton disposed to be properly grateful?”

He felt his blood warm. He thought about how proud she was as he said slowly, “She seemed cautiously grateful…as if you care.”

“But I do care.” Alexi smiled. “She is no Charlotte Witte. In fact, you may find yourself with some resistance this time. By the way, Elysse has decided she wishes to know Miss Bolton. Ariella has decided to introduce them.”

Stephen sighed. He expected his cousins to interfere in his personal life—they certainly harped on him for his bachelor status from time to time—but he couldn’t imagine why they would care about his interest in Alexandra Bolton. Now he wondered if Alexi could be right. Not only had she been proud, she hadn’t flirted with him, not one single time, when every other woman who crossed his path was coy and flirtatious. “Considering her dire straits, I am sure that, in the end, we will both come to very agreeable terms. And perhaps you might instruct your wife and sister not to meddle? As there is really nothing for them to meddle in.”

Alexi smiled at him. “But I happen to think that perhaps, this one time, they should meddle—Miss Bolton is so original.”

Stephen stared. “What are you up to?”

“She is not your type, not for an affair,” Alexi said quickly.

“How wrong you are.”

His look was almost smug, and that made Stephen uneasy.

“Isn’t she unwed?” Ned asked, his gaze unwavering. “And isn’t she a gentlewoman?”

Stephen felt a twinge of discomfort. “She is an older woman, Ned, a spinster, for God’s sake. And there was some scandal already, so she is hardly an innocent debutante whom I wish to ruthlessly take advantage of.”

“She is a woman of substance,” Ned said. “And pride. Anyone can see that. You should look elsewhere for your entertainment.”

Stephen stared coldly at him, but Ned wasn’t daunted. One day his cousin would be the Earl of Adare, a powerful title and position. He didn’t expect Ned to bow to him, but he did not appreciate being questioned, and he didn’t like his cousins interfering in this instance. No one had ever bothered to say a word to him about Charlotte, or the mistress before her, or the one before her.

But Alexi was right on one account: Alexandra wasn’t anything like Charlotte.

“I wonder how Anne Sinclair would handle the drama of such a night, if she were ever in Miss Bolton’s position,” Alexi said softly.

The other men chuckled. Stephen smiled wryly, sipping from his drink, wondering why Alexi had raised such a comparison. “I’m sure she would be equally graceful and dignified,” he said, though he hardly thought so. “Are you interested in Lady Anne, Alexi?”

“Me? Of course not. Let’s see…how old is she? Eighteen? And what are her accomplishments? Oh, wait, she has been spoiled and pampered her entire life. But she is an excellent dancer. Her manners are impeccable, as well. The two of you make a pleasing couple, by the way—she would make a stunning duchess. Doesn’t everyone agree?”

Everyone was silent now. Interest was acute.

And Stephen was now very annoyed. “I have considered Anne, and I have decided to reject her.”

“Of course you have. And I do support your decision,” Alexi said. “Tell me, have you heard that Miss Bolton sews to support her sisters and her father?”

Alexi was baiting him. He simply did not know why. “I admire her resourcefulness.”

Alexi gaped. “Really?”

Someone laughed.

“I think it is a tragedy that she must work to support her family,” Randolph said.

“It is a tragedy,” Stephen said, staring closely at Alexi. “Life is filled with tragedies.”

“And life is filled with beautiful, young, spoiled debutantes.” Alexi saluted him with his glass.

“What is your point?” Stephen asked crossly. But he recalled the parade of young ladies he’d been offered over the course of the past decade—every single one of them a mirror image of Anne. “Because I seem to recall another terribly spoiled and pampered young woman…before, of course, you jilted her at the altar and took off for parts unknown.” Stephen saluted Alexi with his glass, which he realized was almost empty.

Alexi’s smile remained, but it no longer reached his eyes. “I made a terrible mistake, leaving her after our vows. I cannot imagine Lady Anne becoming the spectacular woman that my wife has become—a woman of opinions, ideas, of will, of substance. Miss Bolton reminds me of Elysse—not in appearance, but in courage.” He drained his drink and said, “I believe you have just insulted my wife.”

He knew he should apologize, but Alexi’s latest reference to Alexandra Bolton was even more jarring than the previous ones—though Alexandra had been courageous tonight. No one could dispute that. “I personally have no use for a woman with opinions,” he muttered.

“My God, you’ve insulted me, then Elysse, and now you’ve just insulted every woman in the family,” Alexi said, standing abruptly.

“That is not what I meant,” Stephen said, standing, as well.

“I think you should marry Anne or someone just like her,” Alexi said. “You can be such a jackass. Marrying a woman who will bore you to tears just so you can please that bastard who raised you—so you can be just like that bastard—is exactly what you deserve. Apologize.”

Jack started laughing.

Stephen finally lost his temper. “I am a jackass? Because you meddle like a woman.”

Alexi’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits. “Oh ho,” he said.

Stephen tensed for the blow.

But just as Alexi clenched his fist, Ned stood and interposed himself between the two men. “You can’t possibly strike His Grace.”

“His Grace, my arse. Why not? I’ve done so a hundred times.” Alexi glared.

“Stephen deserves it,” Jack said, grinning with relish. “He did insult Elysse—who happens to be my only sister. And if he called me a woman, I’d take a piece of his scalp.” He winked at the two younger men, clearly relishing the prospect of a fistfight.

“Go ahead, hit me,” Stephen said softly. “I won’t hit you back.”

But Alexi knew him too well. “You won’t hit me back because you know that in a roundhouse, I will win.”

Stephen rolled his eyes.

“I’ll place a wager,” Jack said. “Do you want in?” He looked at Chaz and Randolph.

“No one is coming to blows,” Ned said. “Not at this table.” Then, “Are you considering Anne Sinclair for a wife? Is that what this is about?”

“No, I am not,” Stephen said firmly. “And I truly don’t know what set Alexi off tonight. Obviously I will have to marry one day—and yes, I will choose a debutante. I am sorry I insulted Elysse. I am very fond of her. I consider her a sister, in some ways.”

Alexi smiled, instantly in a good humor. “I know you do. But you are still an ass. You’ve considered a hundred different debutantes. However, it isn’t your fault, it is Tom’s. You will imitate him after all, living with a wife you despise, in splendid isolation.”

Ned seized Alexi’s shoulder. “He apologized. Let’s end this subject.”

Stephen folded his arms, staring. He truly hoped that Alexi was wrong. But as a boy, he’d found Clarewood a cold and lonely place, something he recalled vividly now. “Splendid isolation? Now you are a poet,” he said, holding back his rising temper.

“The truth can hurt.” Alexi shrugged. “I have changed my mind. You should cease your pursuit of Alexandra, and you should most definitely marry Anne.”

“Your point is made. It took you long enough.”

“What point has he made?” Jack asked.

“That someone as young and inexperienced as Anne is the wrong choice, which is why he keeps comparing her to Miss Bolton. Next, he will espouse the delights of matrimony with a woman of independence, of ideas, a strong will and opinions.”

“Unlike the rest of this family,” Jack said, “I am against marriage in theory and in practice.” He smiled.

“Those will be infamous last words,” Alexi promised.

“Alexi is too besotted to know that smugness is not becoming,” Stephen added.

“More infamous last words.” Alexi patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, there is hope. You are a de Warenne, after all, and one day we will laugh about how stubborn and stupid you were.”

“I am so pleased you care so much, but can we sit down and enjoy our drinks now? Or will you continue to egg me on?”

Alexi shook his head. “I’ve done enough for tonight—I am going home. To my independent, outspoken, opinionated wife.” He grinned. “Enjoy your drinks.”

When he left, they looked at each other, all of them bachelors, for even Ned was inclined to carouse. “He has lost his manhood,” Jack said.

Stephen tended to agree—almost. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“I think we should toast our freedom—and count our blessings,” Jack said. “I, for one, will never become like that.”

Stephen accepted a glass, thinking about Alexandra. “At least he is genuinely happy,” he said.

ALEXANDRA WENT ABOUT her morning routine in a daze. She could not stop thinking about the previous night. And while it was impossible to forget the vile gossip that had targeted her, it was the Duke of Clarewood who loomed largest in her mind.

Having washed and dressed, she was on her way downstairs for a terribly late breakfast—at eleven, it was already nearly lunchtime—when she paused, her hand on the worn wood banister. Her body tensed, and her heart seemed to clench before hammering hard. His devastating features were crystal clear in her mind. Their paths having crossed as they had, he was a man no woman could possibly forget.

She still couldn’t fathom why he’d rescued her and her father. But most of all, she couldn’t understand why she had been, and remained, so terribly attracted to him.

She could justify the passion she’d felt for Owen—she had loved him, and she had meant to marry him. But Clarewood was an absolute stranger.

And last night he’d indicated that he had an interest in her, as well—one that could only be scandalous. As if she needed more scandal! But it didn’t matter, not at all. Today he would surely come to his senses. He would forget about her. And that was as it should be; she wasn’t the kind of woman he seemed to think she was. Whatever he had intended, she was simply not interested.

Her heart continued to race, but she had awakened saddened, and she remained so. She’d made a mistake by accepting the squire’s invitation, that was obvious, and her sisters had suffered because of it, as well. But going out last night, and winding up briefly in Clarewood’s arms, had opened up all of her old wounds. She hadn’t been able to sleep. She kept thinking about how she’d felt being in his embrace. Her body had become somewhat feverish just recalling it. And she was constantly thinking about Owen now, too, and what they’d almost had. The pain of the past had somehow returned, and it hurt worse than ever.

She almost wished she had chosen differently. And that was just as terrible. She’d never before doubted the choice she’d made. Her decision to take care of her sisters and father had been the morally correct one. She had sworn to Elizabeth as she lay dying that she would take care of the family. That vow meant more to her than her own happiness.

“Why are 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.