An Impossible Attraction. Brenda Joyce

found a chair and sat down. He walked over to her. She looked up and said, “I am not socially acceptable. You can and should do better.”

      He hesitated. “How could I do better, Miss Bolton? How?”

      She fought for composure, filled with both dismay and relief. He would not walk out of their lives after all, and even as she thought that, she was dismayed—he was so clearly in love with her. God, if only she could come to love him in return. And she had to stop thinking about Clare-wood! Taking a few deep breaths, she stood. “I was not jilted by Owen St. James, Mr. Denney. When I told you about my vows to my dying mother, and my decision to send Owen away, it was the truth.”

      He nodded, and as he did, Edgemont came bursting into the room. He looked back and forth between them with alarm. “Father,” Alexandra said, hoping to ward off disaster. “The squire has called.”

      Edgemont rushed forward. Denney seemed uncomfortable now. “Did you have a pleasant evening last night?” her father asked transparently. “Alexandra was lovely, was she not? Just like her blessed mother, a true lady.”

      “Miss Bolton is always lovely,” Denney said.

      “Will you have some tea with me? As it is too early for brandy.” Her father laughed, slapping the squire’s arm.

      Denney glanced at Alexandra.

      Even though he didn’t seem interested in socializing with her father, the two men would have to get on if this marriage was to go forward, so she smiled a bit at him, and he nodded, then turned and walked off into the library with Edgemont. The moment he did, her sisters rushed into the parlor. They were both pale and wide-eyed.

      “He isn’t breaking things off,” Alexandra said.

      “We heard,” Olivia whispered.

      Corey glanced past her, out the window, at the front drive. “There’s a rider approaching.”

      Alexandra turned to see a rider cantering a lathered mount up their rutted dirt drive. The animal was one of the finest specimens of horseflesh she’d ever seen, and she couldn’t imagine who the rider might be. Then she faced her sisters. “The squire is a generous, kind and forgiving man.”

      Olivia suggested, “Maybe we should forgive him the crime of being twenty-four years your elder.”

      “That was your charge, not mine,” Alexandra said softly.

      Their caller was knocking on the front door. Alexandra decided that the rider had to be lost. Still stunned that the squire had not wrongly judged her, she started from the room, her sisters following, and opened the door.

      Randolph de Warenne stood there, his boots muddy, his cheeks reddened from the wind. He was holding a very large paper-wrapped bouquet in his hand.

      Was he calling on one of her sisters? Alexandra wondered in confusion.

      “Miss Bolton.” He smiled and bowed. “These are for you.”

      The delight that had begun vanished. Her confusion absolute, she glanced over her shoulder at the closed library doors. Denney would not have Randolph de Warenne deliver flowers to her.

      Her heart slammed.

      Behind her, one of her sisters inhaled.

      He grinned. “There is a card.”

      “I have forgotten my manners,” Alexandra said, beginning to tremble. No, it was impossible. Surely Clarewood hadn’t sent her flowers. Absolutely not. She took the wrapped bouquet, gesturing Randolph inside. “Was it a long ride?”

      “Very—but my mount is fast and fit, and we galloped most of the way.” He smiled at Corey and Olivia. “I made the journey in barely an hour and a half.”

      She was shaking, she realized, and shocked. She did not know what this gesture could mean. Or did she? Alexandra walked into the parlor, saying, “They expect the new rail between Kensett and Clarewood to be completed in forty-seven.”

      “I’ll ride anyway,” Randolph laughed. He glanced at Corey.

      “Open the flowers,” Olivia whispered.

      Alexandra clutched the bouquet and said, “Poor Randolph looks frozen. Can we get him some hot tea and scones? Oh, dear.” She turned back to him. “I never thanked you for your kindness last night.”

      Neither sister moved.

      “I am fine, really.” Randolph grinned. “And it was my pleasure to see your father home. Open the flowers,” he said. “I am not allowed to leave until you do.”

      He was not allowed to leave until she opened the bouquet? Clarewood’s image consumed her now. He had so obviously sent her flowers; he hadn’t forgotten her or even come to his senses.

      Still stunned, and very reluctant now, Alexandra tore the wrapper off. Two dozen huge burgundy-red roses, each one fully opened and perfect—and clearly handpicked—were revealed. A small cream-colored envelope was pinned in their midst.

      She could not move.

      What did he want?

      Why was he doing this?

      The squire meant to marry her.

      Corey gasped. “Those are the most perfect roses I have ever seen.”

      “I have never seen roses that color before,” Olivia said as breathlessly.

      “They cost a small fortune,” Randolph boasted.

      Alexandra stared at the stunning flowers. The gesture was excessively bold, excessively dramatic. And it was even seductive, though she wasn’t sure it was romantic.

      “Read the card,” Corey said.

      Her hand continuing to tremble, she handed Olivia the flowers, then took the envelope, opened it with her nail and pulled out the small card within. There was nothing written on it except for a large, bold C.

      “What does it say?” Corey demanded.

      Alexandra showed her the card, looking up at Randolph. He was expectant, grinning at her now. She turned to Olivia, somehow finding her voice. “Can you find a vase, please?” But even as she spoke, she realized she should return the flowers—that she should not accept them.

      “Wait!”

      Olivia froze. “What is it?”

      Her heart thundering now, Alexandra looked at Randolph determinedly. “I cannot accept the flowers.”

      His eyes widened.

      Corey cried out, “Why not?”

      “Alexandra, we should discuss this,” Olivia said tersely.

      Alexandra trembled, but she took the roses from Olivia and handed them to Randolph, whose eyes widened still further. But he did not take them. “Please,” she said. She tried to smile and failed. “If anything, I am the one who owes His Grace flowers or some other token of my gratitude for his rescue last night.”

      Randolph said, “He wishes for you to have them, Miss Bolton. In fact, he specified the exact roses he wished for me to find—the most perfect, the most costly. He even said one dozen would not do. You cannot return them—he would be offended.”

      “I cannot accept them.” She heard the uncertain tremor in her tone. She did not want to offend Clarewood; no woman in her right mind would.