by Lavinia Kent
She shook herself. “And how could you lose two contenders in one evening? Can I not ever leave you by yourself?”
He mumbled something under his breath. She caught the “silly twit” but was not sure if he referred to her or to one of the young misses.
She glanced down at her hands, folding them in a most ladylike fashion. “So tell me what happened.”
“It is really quite simple,” he said. “I cannot stand to speak to Miss Melinda Thwaite for another moment and therefore do not believe that marriage is an option. If I have to hear one more time about why she chose only a blue bow for her hair while her sister decided to weave their mother’s pearls amongst her curls, I will surely become crazed. I can only imagine a lifetime of mornings spent discussing notions and ribbons over breakfast. It could not be borne. I fear that her sister, Belinda, may be the same, but I have not had much chance to speak with her.”
“At least now you begin to understand the reasoning behind letting your companion speak. Can you imagine not finding out until after marriage that your wife’s conversation begins and ends with discussing Ackermann’s fashion plates?”
“You send shivers down my spine.” And based on the sudden pallor that had dulled his skin, he spoke only the truth.
“And who is the other that you no longer wish to consider? Miss Thompson? She seems to be able to hold her own in conversation, and is, I believe, rather well read. Miss Wilkes? She is certainly tall, slim, and blond. Her children will be beautiful. Her entire family is. Miss Pettigrew? She seems quite taken with you.”
He placed his hand over hers. “Miss Wilkes, I am afraid. She made a point of inviting me to look at the long gallery. I must admit I had hopes that I was gaining in her affections.” His thumb stroked the crease between her thumb and fingers. It was all she could do not to open her hand to him. The sensations he evoked were really quite incredible.
“Oh dear, what happened?” She held her voice flat.
“Her affections are engaged by another. She took me aside not for some lovers’ interlude, but to tell me that she wished I would not call again. Apparently her other suitor owns no lands and she is afraid that her parents will look unfavorably upon him. It is the first time I have felt my estates too grand.”
“You are too modest now. I do believe you ignore your work of the past decade or more.” She turned her hand so that his thumb was centered in her palm. “I have heard nothing but good about the growth and upkeep of your lands.”
“Why should you have heard anything?”
Could she admit she had asked? She had not meant to, but somehow several recent conversations had turned to the subject of Masters. And it was true, everything she heard had been good. There were rumors of his parents and the near-destitute state they had left the estate in, but now there was only admiration that one man—a boy, really, when it had all begun—could have rescued everything so completely. Even Violet had given grudging praise on the subject.
“One just hears.”
The corner of his mouth quirked but he made no comment. He merely continued his slow massage of her hand, the fingers now moving to the thin ruffle of lace at her cuff.
She found herself leaning toward him as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, his touch so gentle it could have been the merest breath of wind. But no wind had ever affected her as did his stroke.
She lowered her glance from his eyes and stared at the top button of his shirt, barely visible beneath his cravat. There could be nothing attractive about a button. If she focused on nothing but that, surely her thoughts would remain under control. It was mother-of-pearl, the iridescent swirl of blue and purple running through the snowy white as the froth of foam danced upon the ocean’s waves.
There, that was a good thought. Now she could speak. “So it is to be Miss Thompson or Miss Pettigrew?”
“Yes, I have been thinking—”
Before he could answer, the door pushed open and Violet entered. It really was the morning for unexpected, uninvited guests.
Clara pulled away from Masters quickly, returning her hands to her lap.
“Oh good, you are here,” Violet said.
For a moment, Clara did not understand. Of course she was here. It was her house. Then she realized that Violet did not address her at all. Violet’s eyes were firmly on her brother.
“Why yes, apparently I am,” Masters answered. “But how did you know?”
“I heard from your porter.”
Masters moved farther from Clara and focused slowly on Violet. “And why should he have told you?”
“Oh, don’t take that tone with me,” Violet said. “He told me because I asked him to.”
Clara would have used that tone herself. As always, it amazed her that Masters did not argue. Instead, he considered the words and answered with reason.
“You must have expressed that the matter was of some importance that he shared my whereabouts with you,” he said.
Violet strode over to a hard-backed chair and sat. “Yes, it is most important. That is why I have come.”
“And are you going to tell me?” Masters asked, his impatience clear.
This time Clara admitted that she had to take Masters’s part. Violet was being remarkably slow in getting to the point.
“Well, yes, it’s Isabella,” Violet said after a considered look at Clara.
Masters exclaimed, “You’ve found her.”
His whole body tensed as Violet spoke. He might have relaxed his search, but it was clear how important this was to him.
“Well, no,” Violet answered. “I really am making a hash of this.”
Masters did not answer, but raised a brow. He was trying to act unconcerned, but Clara could not mistake the intensity of his gaze. His fingers shook as he tapped them against his leg.
She could only sit back and watch the interaction between Masters and Violet.
Violet took a settling breath. “I will begin at the beginning. I came to call on you because I wanted to invite you to a small dinner party I am holding.”
“You wished to invite me to dinner? Why did you not just send an invitation?” His voice rang with surprise.
Clara could hear all that he did not say. He wondered that Violet wished to invite him to her home and wondered if this was a sign that they were truly reconciled. He longed for this to be true, but could never have said the words. It was easier for him to ignore his first question and move right on to the second.
Violet granted him the favor of answering only the second. “I am not unaware that you have expressed some interest in a certain lady, and I wanted to know if you wished her invited also. I did not desire to put pen to my thoughts and decided it would be pleasant to call upon my brother. Is there some difficulty with that?”
So perhaps Violet was not totally letting him avoid the issue of their relationship. Clara knew her friend well and could sense that Violet’s discomfort was as great as Masters’s. Whatever stood between them was too great for a simple dinner invitation to repair.
Masters looked taken aback by Violet’s words, but answered smoothly, if with some tension. “Of course not. Were you thinking of Miss Thompson or Miss Pettigrew? And what does this have to do with Isabella?” He was clearly impatient to find out about his sister.
Violet shot Clara an exasperated and questioning glance. “I was not thinking of either Miss Thompson or Miss Pettigrew.”
Surely Violet didn’t think that—No, the very thought was preposterous. Just because Clara and Masters had been seen spending some time together was no reason to think—Clara’s mind was spinning with the possibilities. Even with all that had happened between them she had never considered Masters as a possible marriage partner. Why, the very idea was ridiculous. Then why did her mind seem to fix on it?
“—and Isabella. No sooner did I arrive than your agent burst in and asked for you.” Violet was talking again, and clearly Clara’s wandering mind had missed some crucial detail.
Mast
ers had not missed it, and he leaned toward his sister, his face drawn tight. “My agent? I wasn’t expecting to hear from him until the end of the week, and even then only by post.” Masters stood and began to pace. “What did he say?”
“He wouldn’t tell me much. In fact, he seemed annoyed that I questioned him at all.” Violet clearly had been put off by the man.
“Then what did he have to say that sent you here in such a rush?” Masters asked.
“It was more what he didn’t say. He clearly had hurried to your home with news to share. And he did tell the porter it was about Isabella—I could not help hearing that. I knew I must find you at once so that you could question him in more detail.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so immediately?” The tension grew with each word he spoke. “We must be off. Is the man still at my house?” He turned without even looking at Clara.
“I believe so,” Violet said, turning her face from her brother. “The porter was doing his best to settle him in the library when I left to find you.”
“Then let us be off.” With little more than a nod back, Masters grabbed his sister’s arm and made for the door.
“You will send word when you know more?” It was all Clara could do to get the words out as Masters grabbed his hat and gloves from the table.
“Of course,” he said.
Then they were gone.
Clara sat for a minute, letting the sudden silence close about her. She didn’t understand what had just happened. Masters and Violet had seemed more separated by the task of finding Isabella than united. She had always considered adversity a bonding agent, but whatever issue lay between Masters and Violet prevented this.
And yet—Masters had forgotten her the moment his sister’s name was mentioned.
She felt wounded.
It was foolish, but true. She examined the feeling for a moment, trying to understand its cause.
She had no reason to be upset. She was glad that there might be news of Isabella. So why did she feel a sudden need to mope?
It was that damn man again. For weeks now they had been coconspirators in his quest to find a bride, and now suddenly she was excluded. One second he was rubbing her wrist and causing butterflies to dance in her belly, and the next she was forgotten.
But then so was his quest. In less than a minute he had forgotten his desire for a bride. There was some satisfaction in that.
What was she thinking? Clara grabbed her needlework from the basket beside her. She chose a bright red floss and stabbed the needle into the fabric.
She would not care about what that man thought or did. She did not need him. She would concentrate on her own life again.
Isabella might be in Richmond. Masters could only stare down at his desktop as the thought circulated through his brain. His sister might be found. After all this time searching, she might be so near.
Should he have searched longer himself?
His hands trembled.
What would he do if he found her? It could as easily lead to heartbreak as resolution. Finding Isabella would definitely force him to confront his sins.
He picked up a quill and set it down again.
He needed to tell Clara. She would be so pleased. That, at least, was simple. He had seen the concern that marked her face whenever he spoke of his sister and she didn’t even know the whole story.
It was this last thought that stopped him cold. No, Clara did not know the whole story, not even Violet did. Why then did he have a sudden urge to share it all with Clara, to open up those dark secrets of his heart that he had so long hidden?
Clara was nothing to him.
Yes, she was helping him find a bride, and yes, there had been the wonder of that one morning, and yes, there was this continued urge to touch her, to feel the rapid beat of her pulse, to—
He should not be thinking such things.
He would not even put to thought the temptations his mind played with. Clara was helping him find a bride, and all else must be forgotten as if it had never been.
He picked up his pen again. He would send a note and explain the need for his absence that night. He would leave it to her to make explanations to Miss Pettigrew and Miss Thompson.
Leaving Clara with such a task would make it clear to her where she stood in his life.
Why did it feel like he was trying to make something clear to himself instead?
“Clara.” She heard Robert’s call from the hallway.
Could she never be left with a moment’s peace? Since Masters and Violet had rushed out the day before, she’d been constantly trying to find peace. It was hard to admit that it didn’t matter whether she was left alone or in company—peace was not to be found.
“Clara!” This time he yelled.
There were some habits it had proved impossible to break him of, and screaming from room to room was definitely one.
She considered a moment, placed a smile on her face, and yelled back, “I am in here.”
He came in the room, grinning widely. “If I call loud enough you can always be depended on to holler back. I know that you hate it, but you always do it anyway.”
“I do enjoy how it amuses you, but really, couldn’t you just learn to ask the porter where I am?”
“And where would be the fun in that?”
“You are impossible,” she answered.
“And you love me for it.”
It was true, she did. She must have an attraction for impossible men: first Michael, then Robert—if in a certainly different way—and now Masters. Perhaps that was all the attraction was. He was impossible and therefore she found him irresistible.
She looked more closely at Robert. He was still smiling. “What has you in such a good humor? It is clearly more than getting me to scream like a scullery maid.”
“I’ve found it.”
“Found what?”
“The perfect gift for Jennie.” His voice was filled with pride.
“And whatever did you choose?” It was probably a pretty necklace. Men always ended up with jewelry. Even Michael had given her shiny things more often than not.
“Books and plants.”
“You are teasing me.”
“No, I am not. I thought about what you said about finding something that she would like. You know there is nothing she likes better than her garden.”
“Except perhaps you.”
“Well, I might grant you that.” His eyes crinkled. “But she loves nothing more than to stick her hands in the earth and make things grow.”
Clara had not known that. In fact, she had a hard time imagining the ever-spotless Jennie covered in dirt, but she trusted that Robert knew of what he spoke. She nodded.
“Well, I met Mr. James Wedgewood at Tattersall’s. He mentioned the newly chartered Royal Horticulture Society, and, after talking with him, I came up with a list of several books to get Jennie. Plus he’s going to arrange for some cuttings so that when Jennie moves into the Abbey, I will have the greenhouses already stocked with some exotic specimens. What do you think?”
Clara thought that was the most wonderful thing she had ever heard. “I am so proud of you, Robert. You will make Jennie a truly wonderful husband.”
He blushed. She sometimes forgot how young he was. It was not a matter of years, but of experience. He had come to London a few times during her marriage and perhaps a dozen times since, but he remained a country boy. Perhaps after his marriage he would come to London for a full season and take up his seat at Lords.
Michael had never done that. He’d considered life too much fun to spend time listening to “dusty old men.” At the time she had felt great sympathy for him, but now—having sowed her own wild oats—she wondered if a little more responsibility might have been better.
“You’re looking solemn suddenly.” Robert interrupted her thoughts. “I do hope it is not about me and Jennie.”
“Of course not. I have only smiles when I think of you. No, I was thinking of your father.”
“Normally, you smile when you think of him too. You won’t always talk about him, but he makes you smile.”
“I guess not all memories can bring joy. Even when they are mostly good.”
Robert pushed back to his feet. “I am sorry to have brought you low. I only sought to see if you liked my gift for Jennie.”
She looked up at him. “It is a perfect gift. It will show her how much you care and bring her hours of delight, perhaps even a lifetime of it.”
“I will take my leave then. I promised to meet some fellows at the club and then proceed.”
“Do not think I haven’t noticed that you do not tell me where. I am sure you’re off to Jackson’s to pound at each other a bit.”
“You will notice I do not answer.” He turned to walk toward the door. “I will be leaving for Aylsham in the morning so I will not be out too late.”
“We’ll wait and see.”
She listened to his boots echo down the hall. He was so happy with Jennie. Clara could only be relieved that she had done nothing to ruin their match. She made an even firmer resolve that she would live by society’s dictates until they were wed. Lord Darnell would have no reason for complaint.
Chapter 12
Isabella is gone from Richmond. I am off to Cornwall.
Clara supposed she should be happy for any communication from the man. Masters had at least not depended on Violet to fill her in on the details of his search for Isabella.
Well, that was not strictly true. If she wanted details, she would certainly have to apply to Violet. I am off to Cornwall could not be considered detail. Still, it was something.
She carefully folded the note away. She didn’t really need to look at it anymore. She could see those two sentences in that strong masculine hand with her eyes closed.
Three weeks and she received two sentences—and that had been more than two weeks ago. She wondered if he’d written to either Miss Pettigrew or Miss Thompson or if she’d been supposed to inform them of his whereabouts, as she had when he went off to Richmond for a day or two at most.