An Impossible Attraction. Brenda Joyce

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