“There are worse things than falling in love,” the garden gnome said quietly.
Claire chose to keep her retort to herself. Just as she would keep what had happened that night to herself. Forever.
Seven
Winter 1817
Change was afoot in the land of the fae. And if there was one thing Claire Thorne didn’t like, it was change. She preferred for all of her thoughts and feelings to fit in nice little compartments, well organized and constantly tended. Otherwise, one lone thought could topple all the others. One rogue feeling could shake the very foundation her life was built upon. She imagined them all crashing into a heap like a fallen house made of playing cards. She’d never had this fear before.
Not until now. Not until her parents had shown up in the land of the fae. Both her fae mother and her nonfae father were here. And it was wrong. Change was wrong. Committing Unpardonable Errors was wrong.
Claire glanced over at her mother, Lady Ramsdale, as she danced barefoot on the riverbank, lifting her skirts high above her knees. She stuck one bare toe into the cool running stream and flicked water toward Claire, who scowled and moved farther up the bank. Her mother tsked at her, and Claire made her face into a horridly mocking scowl.
“Your face could freeze like that,” her mother warned.
Lady Anne, the six-year-old daughter of the Duke of Robinsworth, giggled into her cupped hand.
Lord Ramsdale—Claire’s father whom she’d never laid eyes on until three months ago—dropped down beside her in the grass and nudged her shoulder with his. “Why such a long face?” he asked quietly. His voice sounded almost like he cared. He hadn’t cared for twenty-seven years. Why on earth should he start now? Just because Sophia, her sister, had brought their mother and father to the land of the fae? Just because she’d forced them to remember they had children not of their world? It was too little too late.
It simply wasn’t done. A faerie that had been cast out of the fae and her human husband had no business being in the land of the fae. Nor did Ashley Trimble, the Duke of Robinsworth, and his daughter, Lady Anne, neither of whom was the least bit magical.
Lord Ramsdale, who Claire once more reminded herself was her father, nudged her with his shoulder again. “Are you planning to talk to me?” he asked. He leaned back on one elbow and regarded her warily.
Lord Ramsdale made a motion with his eyes toward his wife, and she took Lady Anne’s hand and led her farther down the stream, supposedly so he and Claire could have a private talk. She didn’t want a private talk. She wanted life to go back to normal. She wanted to go on a mission. She wanted the humans cast from the land of the fae. She wanted all thoughts of Lord Phineas Trimble out of her head. She wanted her boxes back in their appropriate places. She could see clearly where each should sit. She bit her lower lip between her teeth and didn’t respond.
Claire had refused to use magic as long as the humans were in the land of the fae. She’d even gone so far as to have Marcus lock her dust up in the family safe. It just wasn’t proper for humans to be in her land. And she wouldn’t use magic or go on any missions until they left.
“Ignoring us won’t make us go away, you know?” her father chided.
“One can hope,” Claire shot back.
He grimaced and lay back with a huff. Claire almost felt bad for him. But only for a moment. It wasn’t her duty to make him feel good about the way events had taken place. She’d never asked to be born, after all. They’d done that all on their own. Then her parents had let their fae children be taken back to the land of the fae to be raised by grandparents and led to believe they had no parents at all. Twenty-seven years with no parents. She certainly didn’t need any at this point.
“What can we do to make it easier for you?” he asked quietly.
“Leave.”
He frowned. “We just arrived.”
They’d been there since winter, and now it was spring.
Her father picked a handful of daisies and began to make a chain of them, looping one together with the next until he’d made a short circle of them. He held it out to her with one arched brow.
She shook her head. The last thing she wanted from him was a chain of daisies. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a lady. A faerie. And he was not of her world.
“I’d do just about anything for you,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want anything from you.” Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t let her parents make her weak, not under any circumstances. He must have sensed her distress because he grunted and got to his feet.
“When you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here,” he said, and then he called out to Lady Ramsdale for her to wait.
“That’s most unfortunate,” she called to his retreating back.
He turned back to look at Claire for a moment. “I’m not certain if you get your bullheadedness from me or your mother,” he remarked. He looked much too pleased at the thought.
How the devil could he think she’d gotten anything from either one of them? Neither of them had raised her. They hadn’t been involved in the rearing of their fae children. None of them—Claire, Sophia, or Marcus—had the benefit of parents at any point during their young lives. Yet Sophia and Marcus had opened their arms to their parents. Claire couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she called to his retreating back. He raised a hand and waved at her without even looking back. Blast him. He had the ear of the Trusted Few, the governing body of their land. Why her people had welcomed him with open arms, Claire didn’t understand.
She needed to escape the land of the fae, if for no other reason than to get away from her parents. To avoid their wounded looks. To avoid the need in their eyes. But to do so, she’d have to bribe the fish who guarded the portal to the land of the fae. And the only thing the fish, or fallen fae who were sentenced to guard the portal, coveted more than their freedom was men’s clothing. She had none to spare. Claire got to her feet and started toward home. With the absence of magic, she had very little left to occupy her. So, she went to the library to find a book to read.
She turned the pages of Claudine but didn’t feel herself falling headfirst into the pages. Not at all. She placed the book back on the shelf. What was a faerie to do when there was nothing to occupy oneself? No magic to perform? No dust to settle. Nothing to do. She yawned into her cupped hand.
Margaret, the family’s house faerie, barreled around the corner, almost knocking her over. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Claire asked.
“Your grandmother has gotten it into her head that she needs to find your mother’s baby blanket for Sophia.”
Of course she wanted that. Sophia was expecting her first child. No one was certain if the baby would be born fae or not. They wouldn’t know until they saw the pointy ears of a newborn faerie.
“Have you seen it?” Margaret asked.
“Seen what?” Claire shook her head, trying to shake the lethargy from herself like a dog shakes water from its back. She’d been so tired lately.
Margaret snapped her fingers. “The blanket.”
“Maybe in the attic?” Claire tried.
Margaret got a gleam in her eye. “Will you go and check for me?”
Claire heaved a sigh. “Certainly.” If she must, she would go.
“Come and get me when you find it?”
On a normal day, she would just use magic to notify Margaret. But she had no magic. “Shall I shout for you?”
Margaret raised a condescending brow. “If you must.”
She must. There was no other way to get things done. Not with her magic locked in the family safe. And Marcus had the only key.
Claire ducked beneath the cobwebs that crisscrossed the doorway into the attic. The spiders would be perturbed if she messed up their handiwork and wou
ld probably refuse to knit for her. Finicky little beings. She saw a trunk in the corner and lowered herself to her knees before it. She slowly opened the lid, sneezing quickly as dust tickled her nose. Claire looked inside and there lay the small quilted blanket that all the Thorne children had used in the nursery. It was threadbare and well loved, but she was certain Sophia wanted it more for sentimental reasons than anything else.
Claire pulled the blanket from the chest and shook it lightly. It would have to be laundered, she was certain, but small sparks fell from the blanket, burning like fire until they petered out before hitting the floor. Magic dust? She shook the blanket again. More sparks fell from the blanket, and a stick clattered to the floor. Claire snorted to herself. Of course, there would be faerie dust in the blanket, but not enough to do her any good.
She kicked the stick with the toe of her slipper. But then she froze. She bent over it and stared. Claire hadn’t seen the paintbrush in years. She’d gotten into so much trouble with it that her grandparents had taken it away from her, never to be returned.
As she watched the last of the small sparks die, a soft mist began to cloud the floor and swirl around her feet. Claire rustled the folds of her dress to shoo it on its way. But the movement stirred the air just enough to reveal a small painting set in the corner of the room. It was a painting of a door.
The door was no more than four inches in height. The painting looked ancient, like it had been tucked in the corner of the attic for a number of years. Yet, Claire was almost certain it hadn’t been there just a moment ago.
She lowered herself to her knees and wiped away the cobwebs that covered the small painting, hoping the spiders would not be too terribly miffed with her. The door had a tiny brass knocker and a small window, but Claire couldn’t get down low enough to look through it. Not in her human size. She shrank herself to her faerie height—one good for sliding under doors and through keyholes, and for completing missions—and stood before the small opening. She didn’t need magic dust to grow and shrink, as that was inherent to her being fae. She’d eschewed magic, but her curiosity over the paintbrush and the painting were winning over her temper-fit.
Her short skirts fluttered around her knees, and the mist tickled her naked legs. She stood on tiptoe and looked through the tiny window. With the paintbrush in her hand, she could see the door in the painting as if it were real. But all she could see through the door’s tiny window was a shadowed room with a crackling fire in the hearth. It looked fairly harmless. What danger could possibly be lurking in such an average room? She would take a quick peek into the room and then come straight back if anything nefarious lurked in the shadows.
Claire stepped back and regarded the sign over the door. “Dulcis domus.”
If only she’d learned to read Latin.
Curiosity won over her normal reticence. What lay on the other side of the tiny door? She hadn’t stepped into a painting since she was a child. The door lacked a door handle to open it, so she carefully lifted the paintbrush and flicked the horsehair ends against her fingernail. Faerie dust sparkled in the air. The brush still had faerie dust? She touched the tip to the painting and painted a tiny door handle onto the door. She could paint just about anything with faerie dust and the magical paintbrush, no paint required.
Claire turned the tiny brass door handle and pushed to open the door. When it refused to budge, she shoved it with her shoulder. It burst open quickly, and Claire fell into the mist that blew into the open doorway. Something magical waited on the other side. It had to be waiting because magic was scarce in her world. And if she didn’t leave soon, the evidence of her betrayal of her own world would soon be visible. She had no choice but to leave.
Eight
Lord Phineas Trimble bounced his knee beneath the wench’s bottom to eject her from his lap. However, the scrawny bit o’ muslin just wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts firmer against his chest. “Not tonight, love,” he murmured. He unwrapped her from his person and set her to the side as he got to his feet.
“Never thought I’d see the day when you turned down a tumble,” the wench remarked, looking closely at him. “You haven’t replaced me with another, have you?” Her auburn brows drew together sharply.
“I could never replace you,” he soothed, stroking a finger along the line of her chin. “I simply have somewhere I need to be.”
“That mistress of yours is keeping tight to the reins,” she remarked.
He held up his hands as though in surrender. He had no mistress, though the wench had no reason to know that. Mrs. Katherine Crawfield had let him down, not so gently, and had found another protector months ago. She’d also started a little rumor about his prowess in the bedchamber. Mrs. Crawfield had a bit of a mean streak. The rumor was spreading like wildfire in his social circle, and he wasn’t surprised by the number of people who’d already heard about his lack of attention to her needs.
It wasn’t his fault that the only woman he even thought about was Claire Thorne. Every time a wench touched him, he recoiled. All because she wasn’t Claire. Just thinking her name made his heart quicken and his manhood get hard.
Finn called for his carriage and climbed into it alone. He wasn’t used to spending so much time by himself. He usually had the Duke of Robinsworth, his brother, and his daughter, Lady Anne, to occupy his free moments. But since his brother had married Sophia Thorne in the land of the fae, they’d been gone from Finn’s world and had no plans to return any time soon.
His last missive from Robin had bid him to check up on their mother, who lived at the family seat, and to take care of Robin’s holdings for a time. So, Finn had moved himself into the Hall and taken up residence in his brother’s house. And taken up Robin’s life, it appeared. Aside from the fact that Robin was a recluse, Finn was beginning to see the attraction to staying at home where one couldn’t hear the whispers. Robin’s life—now that Finn was taking care of his holdings, his lands, his tenants, and his investments—left little room for dalliances or social engagements.
Finn preferred his life of leisure but was certain he would be able to get back to it soon. But what he would prefer even more was to find out what had happened to Claire Thorne. He’d spent one life-changing night with her, and when he’d woken up, she was gone. He’d traveled all the way back to London through the thickening snow, trying to find some glimpse of her, but she had vanished into thin air and was nowhere to be found. At least not in this world. He wanted to ask Robin if he knew her whereabouts, but doing so would call attention to his desire to find her. That simply would not do.
Finn let Robin’s butler, Wilkins, take his coat and walking stick when he walked into the residence. “Lord Phineas,” Wilkins said stoically. The man rarely cracked a smile, though he did seem more lively when Robin was in residence.
“Wilkins,” Finn murmured. “Anything I need to take care of before I retire?”
Wilkins held out a note on a silver salver. Finn’s name was written in Robin’s bold script across the front.
“The garden gnome delivered it this afternoon,” Wilkins informed him.
“How was Ronald?” Finn asked.
“He was… himself.”
“Pity that.”
The land of the fae employed varied creatures to do their bidding. Though the garden gnome, Ronald, hated Finn with all his being, he still carried missives to and from their land. Finn snorted. Their land. Like Robin and Anne belonged there with Sophia. He shook his head. Perhaps they did. It must be nice to belong somewhere.
Finn scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and headed for Robin’s study. He would look at any pressing matters, any notes from solicitors or business associates of Robin’s, and then he would slide gratefully into his empty bed.
He tore open Robin’s missive and began to read.
Dearest Finn,
We’re planning to return soon
.
Best regards,
Robin
Finn had always appreciated that Robin was a man of few words. Until now. He wanted details. He wanted to know everything there was to know about the land of the fae. It existed. But he didn’t understand how it could be possible. And he wanted to know if Claire would be returning as well, but he didn’t dare ask his brother.
Tossing the rest of the day’s business to the side, Finn started up the stairs toward his bedchamber. He was too tired to do any more.
He let Robin’s valet, Simmons, remove his clothing, and he slid into a silk dressing gown. The man bustled about the chamber long enough to be irritating, until Finn finally motioned for him to leave. With a quick bow, Simmons exited the chambers. Finn was quite certain Simmons didn’t want to be his valet, but the man needed employment while Robin was gone. He might as well make himself useful.
Finn poured a snifter of brandy and drank it in one healthy swallow, hissing as it made a fiery trail down his throat. He poured another. He slept better when he was foxed, if he had to sleep alone. He preferred to sleep sober with a warm, and preferably damp, body wrapped around his.
The brandy began to seep into the corners of his mind, and he relaxed in an overstuffed chair. When he was sufficiently numb, he stood up, shed his dressing gown, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The thought of a warm bed-partner stirred something within him, and he momentarily considered having Wilkins arrange for a visit, but it was just as well that he went to bed. Wilkins couldn’t bring him Claire Thorne, and she was the only woman he wanted.
He scrubbed at his eyes again and stared absently around the room that wasn’t his. The home that wasn’t his. The life that wasn’t his.
Movement against the far wall caught his attention, and he strained to see into the dimness. A small door appeared. Finn blinked, adjusting his brandy-hazed brain to see more clearly. Perhaps he was already asleep; he couldn’t be certain. But then the door flew open and fog rolled out in small waves, clouding the room until it was smoky and hazy. He swiped a hand in front of his face. A shimmer of lights sparked from the opening, and through it tumbled a tiny creature, no more than four inches in height.
The Magic of I Do Page 4