by Lavinia Kent
Now she was not so sure. “Violet has never mentioned your taste in literature. She was much more interested in discussing your taste in matrimonial partners.”
“I assume we are speaking of her first two husbands.”
“And your own lack of a bride.”
He let his head fall back, and stared up at the ceiling. “From almost any other woman I would take that as the beginning of a flirtation.”
“It is not and you are changing the subject.”
“Perhaps I do not choose to discuss the way I raised my sisters and the decisions I was forced to make.”
“That is your prerogative, but then you leave me free to believe what I wish about you. There was much gossip when your younger sister ran off—and then there was Colonel Foxworthy’s death.”
“Yes—think what you will, you would do so anyway—as I do about you.”
So he did think her a harlot—and a thief. She must not forget that. She should ask him again about the watch—about that night, but her emotions felt so on edge after the kiss, she was not sure she was ready to hear him verbalize his clear opinion.
Instead, she sat straight, determined that the subject of his sister’s marriages and the gossip about Isabella not merely be avoided. He could refuse to discuss it, but she would have it be a true decision, not just a turn of conversation. “So you have no desire to explain why you forced your seventeen-year-old sister to marry a man well over seventy?”
Chapter 6
Masters looked away for a moment. He was still unsettled from the kiss, his body still demanding more. He knew he had sounded brusque there on the stairs, but what was a man to do when his body screamed with frustration?
It was clear that Clara suffered no such difficulties. She was probably accustomed to such flirtation, and could throw off heady desire without a thought.
The kiss might have been a tool to relax his guard.
No, he did not really think that. It had caught them both by surprise, that was all.
But her question about Violet, that was another matter.
That required a moment’s thought.
He had known it would come to this from the first moment that he’d realized her identity. He filled his lungs with air and slowly exhaled. What was he willing to tell her? He had answered partially before, and she had not seemed satisfied. Saying more would imply a level of intimacy that he was not certain he wished to encourage.
A kiss was one thing, even a kiss such as they had shared. A kiss was physical, easily dismissed, if not forgotten. The sharing of histories, of minds—that was something else.
It was hard to know what to do. He could still feel the softness of her lips beneath his, tempting him on. But that is what she was, a temptress—and a thief. He must not forget it, no matter how delicious her lips, no matter how sweet her smile. His mother’s smile had been sweet on occasion, as well.
Even as he thought this, she stood.
He had waited too long to speak.
Her body was taut with emotion as she paced once across the room and back, almost vibrating with unsaid words. “If you don’t wish to discuss it, I can go. We really do not need to converse. The maid will bring your tea.”
She stopped by a shelf and grabbed a book. “Here, the latest of Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads. Not precisely sonnets, but perhaps you will find it entertaining.”
The book was heavy, but she held it out to him with her arm fully extended. He left her there, holding it, a moment before taking it and dropping it carelessly in his lap. Wordsworth had never been a favorite and offered no temptation now.
Her lips drew tight as she stared down at him. He could see that there was much more she wanted to say. An impulse to reach up and draw a finger across her narrowed lips took him. He sensed that even in her darkest moments it would be easy to soften her, to bring out unwilling smiles.
Instead, he held firm, watching as she turned, and while she did not stomp out of the room, she gave every impression of doing so.
He waited until she was a step beyond the door to speak, one small step from being too far to hear. He did not speak loudly, as if testing the fates to see if she would answer. He was not yet sure what he meant to tell her. “Do you really wish to understand what happened all those years ago? To understand why things happened as they did?”
His words stopped her, but she did not turn. Her back stayed stiff and straight. She was as motionless as he had ever seen her.
When she did turn it was a toy dancer’s pirouette, her whole body moving as a solid piece. He was again reminded of the porcelain doll he imagined when first he saw her. Her lips were too pink against her pallid skin to be unpainted and her eyes glowed like glass jewels, echoing the bronze satin of her dress. It was only the faint lines of much laughter about her eyes that spoke of her humanity. For once he could not determine her thoughts.
She stepped toward him, back through the library’s doorway. “Mr. Masters.” Her voice was cool, but flowed smoothly like a brook. “I am not in the mood for games.”
“Nor am I.”
“Then what would you call this? You knew you were going to speak, but waited to see if I would relent before you were forced to.” She was more direct than any woman he had ever met. “What has happened between us the last days is most out of the ordinary. No, do not make some insinuating comment about whether anything can be out of the ordinary for one such as I. You know and understand me as little as I you. If you wish to explain your past actions, which have left me with a less than generous opinion of your character, then do so. I am as you find me and I do not feel the need to make excuses—not to anyone.”
The doorway framed her with light from the great windows of the hall. It was hard to discern her exact expression, but again he knew she would not surrender. He could play by her rules or not at all.
Before he could answer, the maid appeared behind her, a small figure of a girl encumbered by a great tray. Clara stepped forward and moved some small statuary about on the table to clear a place for the tray. She waved the maid away with the gentlest words, the ice of her temper contained.
When the maid had left, Clara’s glance caught on the two delicate Spode creamware cups. She stared at them for a moment. “These were a gift for my wedding. We do not normally use them.” Her voice was low, as if she spoke to herself and not to him.
She picked up the pot and filled his cup. She placed a sliver of lemon on the saucer and handed it to him. He took it from her, but held it without drinking. He stared at her still empty cup.
The decision was hers. Would she pour?
“You are sitting in my chair.” She continued to look at the empty cup and not at him. He wondered at her petty comment. It was out of context with what he knew of her. When she was mad, the storms brewed in her eyes. She did not play nursery games.
“I am sorry. I did not know.” He made no move to stand up.
“I realize that, but being a gentleman you should have waited for me to sit first.”
“And you would have placed me here, in the seat nearest to the fire, would you not?”
She lifted her glance to him then. “Given your health, yes.”
She still did not pour her tea.
“Would you like me to move?” It was a delicate balancing act between them. He did not wish her to leave, but was unsure how far he would go to make her stay.
“No. It was most impolite of me to mention it.”
“As it was impolite of me to sit first.” He relented slightly, sharing what he would never have shared with any other. “The truth is I was not sure my legs would hold me longer. I thought only of not having a footman summoned to be of assistance.”
“You have too much pride.” She said it flatly, leaving off the sting.
“Perhaps so.”
The silence was awkward as it had seldom been before. She shifted slightly from foot to foot, still unable to contain her nervous energy.
He was reminded of their fir
st encounter when he held his tongue, waiting for her to speak. It was his turn. “Will you please take a seat?” He gestured to the low cushioned chair next to the tea table.
“Forgive my temper. I am afraid I am still unsettled by—earlier events.”
“The kiss.” Perhaps if the word was said the emotions could be laid at rest.
“Yes. It was out of character.”
Not from what he’d heard. He saw her catch his glance and her fingers trembled. It was clear she’d understood his thought.
She bit her lip, and then her chin jutted out with firm determination.
There was still doubt spread across her face, but she sat and, concentrating on the table in front of him, poured herself a cup, dousing it liberally with milk and sugar. She poured deftly, despite the tremor of her fingers, as if she had done so many times. Undoubtedly she had, although it did not fit with what he knew of her character.
He picked up his cup from the saucer and, after a squeeze of the lemon, lifted it to his lips. It was hard to keep his expression still. He felt like he’d stuck his head over the fire openmouthed. Not even the fresh taste of the lemon could cover the taste of burnt leaves.
“It’s my stepson’s favorite blend.” Her mouth hooked up at one corner, and he knew his expression had not fooled her. He noticed she did not sip, but placed the saucer back on the table.
“It is most unusual.” He took another sip. Really, it was not so bad. He could begin to understand the attraction. He allowed a small grimace to pass his lips anyway. He would grant her the small victory. She deserved it for staying.
“You were going to speak of your sister,” she replied. “You know Violet is most dear to my heart.”
He wondered how little he could tell her. As long as her questions focused on Violet and not Isabella and Foxworthy, he was safe. He could tell no one the full story. He sensed that she would not be so easy to deter this time. “I know. From what she has said, I know she reciprocates the emotion.”
“I was not aware that you were in frequent communication with your sister. I cannot believe that I am an important topic of conversation.”
“You would be surprised. My sister holds you in high esteem and uses you as a frequent example of what a woman can be.”
A faint flush of color rose on her cheeks at the compliment. “But you do not.”
“I do not know you.”
“But that has not kept you from judging.”
That was hard to answer. Such discussion always reminded him of his mother, and that could only lead a foul taste in his mouth. “I would admit to not liking what I have heard. I have never been fond of licentious behavior.”
“Licentious. It is as good a word as any other, I suppose.” She picked up her tea and took the smallest of swallows. “It is much better with milk and sugar than lemon. But we are supposed to be talking of you and your relations, not mine,” she concluded.
He took another sip, then leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He closed his eyes. “I was seventeen when my parents died.”
With his eyes closed he could still see them as they’d looked that last day. His mother had worn crimson velvet, a dress she’d been particularly fond of based on the number of times he could remember her wearing it. She’d looked beautiful, but tired, as she’d prepared for another night’s revels. His father’s eyes had been shadowed as he’d said his farewells and donned his hat. He’d lost weight over the past months and his suit had hung a little loose. Other than that there had been nothing different from any other evening.
Nothing different until the knock on the door hours later, after which his parents’ bodies were carried in. His mother had still breathed and she’d called for his father again and again, each call quieter than the last. At the very last she’d grasped his hand tight and whispered, “I am so sorry.” He’d never even been sure if the comment had been meant for him.
His shock had only grown greater over the following days as the few details came forth. His parents had been shot returning from a ball—their carriage stopped by masked men. That was all anyone knew. There was talk of brigands and highwaymen, of a lover’s anger, but no true fact ever emerged.
He was left with nothing. No knowledge. No single fact that could explain the devastation of the life he had always known.
He was left with nothing. Only two sisters. Two sisters and endless bills—and that final secret, his father’s treason.
“My parents died when I was seventeen,” he repeated the words. This time he opened his eyes and stared up at the elaborate frieze on the ceiling. It was better than seeing his mother’s beautiful face laughing in the candlelight as she left that final night. He hated that he’d loved her despite everything.
Clara answered softly. “You were much too young—not that there is ever a right age.”
“What has Violet told you of their deaths?”
“Only that she was not there. She spent the night with a friend and returned the next day to find the maids draping the house in black.”
“Isabella was still little more than three or four. I don’t believe she even remembers their deaths or them.”
“How did they die? Violet has never said.”
“They were shot.” He waited for her to ask questions. She stayed silent. He lowered his head and looked at her.
She stared straight at him. Her eyes were honey now, soft and glowing, but filled with sadness. Still she did not speak.
“They were returning from a ball. It was one of those things that never happen. Men with guns stopped the carriage. The driver and the grooms could do nothing to prevent the attack. The driver survived, injured. The groom did not. That is all that is known.” He closed his eyes again.
He felt a gentle pressure on his knee, felt her delicate fingers grip him. He didn’t know if she sought reassurance or offered it.
“My life changed in a minute. One moment I was thinking of university and of mischief with my friends and the next I was alone and didn’t know how to proceed.”
“When Michael, Lord Westington died, the feeling was the same.” Her voice was halting. “I remember being angry that he was late returning from his ride. He’d wanted me to go with him and I was sure it was a petty revenge.”
“But you were not left penniless with two sisters to raise, one still in the nursery. I do not mean to sound irreverent, but I do not see that you can know what I faced.”
“No, Robert was almost eighteen and had already learned much of what he needed to know about running the estates. I still felt so alone. I knew Robert had just lost his father, but all I could feel was my own pain, that a piece of me had been lost.”
“It was the same with Violet. I knew she grieved, but I was too preoccupied with my own mourning—my own mourning and the creditors. They scarcely gave me a day before they appeared in droves.” He could not believe he was discussing this with her. One never discussed such things—not even with family—and Lady Westington was certainly not family.
“Perhaps that is what you never allowed Violet to understand—your need to deal with your own pain before you could see hers. Perhaps I am lucky that Robert and I never had such problems.”
He dropped his glance to the small hand that still gripped his knee. He wondered if she had forgotten it. Her thumb moved rhythmically across the thick velvet of his robe, sending small tingles up his leg.
Ignoring the desires her touch woke, he answered. “I am not sure that Violet and I did either until the matter of her marriage arose.”
Her finger gripped him once tight and then relaxed. He placed his own hand over hers. The unfamiliar intimacy felt both awkward and comforting.
“Ah, yes, her marriage. When you forced her to marry a man in his seventies.”
He started to defend himself, and stopped. He was telling her far more than he had ever intended. This whole matter was none of her business. The thought shook him and almost had him pushing her hand away. He was not about to share the closest-he
ld details of his life with a near stranger, no matter how she drew him in. She hadn’t even given him permission to use her Christian name despite the increased intimacy between them.
He brushed her hand off, then he swung his feet off the ottoman. He rose hurriedly and turned from her, afraid that his face said too much.
“I cannot do this.”
“I didn’t suppose you could.” Clara held her disappointment to herself. For a moment she had doubted all her thoughts about this man, had thought that he could open up, could treat her as his equal, as a person.
Licentious.
The word stood between them.
He had kissed her every bit as much as she had kissed him. Perhaps if she had not felt so judged she would have taken his withdrawal with more grace.
She placed her teacup and saucer back on the tray with deliberate precision. She brushed imagined crumbs off her skirts before standing with easy grace. “I will leave you to the books. If you do not care for the Wordsworth, I am sure that you can find something else to your liking on those lower shelves.” She pointed to a long shelf of slim embossed volumes.
“My thanks, Lady Westington. I shall choose a few volumes and then retire. I do find that I am weary, and I must regain my energy before I can begin my journey again.”
She stopped in the process of summoning the maid to clear the tray. “You seek Isabella?”
“I believe that we have already discussed the purpose of my travels. It is my responsibility to find her.” He was so crisp and proper. He did not betray how he felt about his search for his sister.
“Yes, we have. I merely wondered that you still search after all this time,” she said. She longed to ask about the gossip that had followed Isabella’s disappearance. “Do you believe her to be in Norfolk?”