by Lavinia Kent
Three weeks.
She dropped the folded sheet on her dressing table and stared straight into the mirror. Had she changed in three weeks?
It was a silly question on its surface, but she knew that she had changed.
Her hair was still the same, dark and thick with a tendency to curl, but never when it was supposed to. Her skin no longer had the shiny firmness of youth, but it was still smooth and clear, with only a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. She leaned forward, examining the first faint lines that ran from the corners of her eyes. They were always more visible when she’d neglected to wear her bonnet.
She scrunched her nose, exaggerating them. They did not disappear as quickly as they once had, but she did not mind. They were the markers of every smile she’d ever had. She would rather have the lines than have missed the experiences that caused them.
She drew her brows together and released them, running a finger over the two slim furrows that grew between. Those had never been there before Michael’s death. It would be easy to wish them away, but even there she was not sure. Would wishing them away be changing the past or only canceling out her emotions?
She sat back, pushing away from the mirror. She was being a twit. She turned thirty-one tomorrow, not a hundred and three. Yes, she had the beginnings of lines, and being a woman she was entitled to fret about them, but this was silly.
Picking up her brush, she ran it through her hair, counting the strokes as if that would blank her mind.
Her eyes were drawn again to the mirror. She imagined herself as she had been on the day of her marriage. She’d been slimmer then, her breasts less full, her waist more willowy. She rather thought her eyes had been more carefree, but less playful at the same time. She was a woman now, a woman ready to deal with whatever cards the world dealt—even this one.
She tossed the brush on the table and rose, pacing across the room and back.
It was good that she was no longer that sweet young girl who had drawn Michael’s attention. That girl would be useless now. It was far better to be the woman she had become.
The woman who could face scandal and laugh.
The woman who could smile at the most powerful of men and cast a spell.
The woman who managed her own money, hired her own staff, and never let another take responsibility for her actions.
It was good to be this woman.
Clara walked across the room and stood before her high dresser. She reached up with care and took the ebony and mother-of-pearl box off the top. She turned to her bed and placed it gently on the coverlet.
She took a deep breath before opening it.
Inside were her memories.
First, the badly written poetry that Michael had slipped into the base of her glove on their second meeting.
Second, a silk scarf he tied around her eyes during some foolish Christmas game, before leading her into a quiet room and kissing all the thoughts out of her head.
Third, a dried flower from her bridal bouquet.
A small book of verse from their first anniversary.
A single pearl on a chain from when she’d told him she was expecting.
There was no marker for the baby that had never come to be. Some memories needed no marker. Her hand fell to her stomach and cradled it.
There was a small piece of black twill cut from her widow’s weeds. She’d debated that marker, but somehow it had seemed fitting to include that chapter of her life. She picked up the shred of fabric and rubbed it between her fingers.
Michael was the past. She’d acknowledged that in the past year and felt only bittersweet sadness now. He would have understood what she needed to do.
The fabric dropped back into the box. She reached into her own pocket and with some care pulled out her watch, Michael’s watch, the watch that had started this all. She ran her thumb over the case, kissed the warm metal, and then with great care, she added it to the other memories. All these memories were stored on the top shelf of the box. She grabbed it by the edges and lifted it out to reveal the space underneath.
Here was more of a mixture of her life. The medal she’d won by running the fastest at a local fair at the wise old age of twelve. A bit of silk braid from her first real gown. A locket with her parents’ pictures.
And then the more recent memories. It was these she pulled out to examine.
There were not many of them. Only three, to be exact.
The world imagined so many more, but there had been only three.
Brisbane, the dashing young duke. She pulled out the flashing green ring. If it had been real, it would have ransomed a king, but it was only paste—the marker of a masquerade that had started her rapid fall from grace. She’d thought she could love the young duke, but he had not been ready for love. And if she was honest, neither had she. Michael had still been too often in her thoughts.
Mr. Winchester. His memento was an ivory gaming marker carved like a fish. It was small and fragile, so unlike the man it represented. He’d been a cit, a self-made man no self-respecting hostess would ever have entertained. His lower-class accent had entertained Clara and made her laugh. Not even Michael had known how to laugh like Jeremy Winchester.
Jeremy had sailed off to America to seek a place that he could call home, far away from the narrow, cold streets he’d grown up on. She’d understood his need and sent him off with a kiss and a letter of introduction to a shipbuilder’s daughter. They’d wed within three months and now had four children of their own. She’d been full of delight when she heard, and there had not been even a heartbeat of regret.
Finally, she picked up the large brass button and rolled it between her fingers. She’d been to the vilest of gambling dens with Alex Clarke. He’d been so lost in the horrors of what he’d seen in the muds of Belgium that nothing else could penetrate. She’d done her best, been her gayest, but none of it had mattered. Some men were beyond a woman’s abilities to save.
She dropped the button back into the box and returned her other memories as well. The top shelf was firmly fitted into place, and she closed the box with a decisive click. She stared at it for a moment before picking it up and carrying it to the next room. She opened a bottom drawer in a tall dresser and wedged it between a pile of old gloves and an ostrich feather headdress that might have been worn to court by some long-dead relation of Michael.
Shutting the drawer, she stood and walked to the door without turning back. It was time to move forward.
Her hand dropped to her belly for the briefest of moments.
Yes, it was time.
Time to face what the world must be.
She needed to know where Masters was.
Her baby was already three months along, and she needed to make decisions before things progressed further. She had never thought to marry because of a baby, but then life was full of the unexpected.
He was tired, tired to the very bone. It had only been three, nearly four weeks of searching this time, but the lack of success had robbed him of all energy.
He thought he’d accepted that Isabella was gone. Now he had to accept that he could never give up hope—and that the pain would never fade. Finding her might have presented problems of its own, but this was so much worse.
It was not the first time he had failed to find his sister—indeed, this was the first time he was sure beyond a doubt that he was on the right track. She had left behind a scattering of belongings in Richmond, and the small filigree brooch had definitely been Isabella’s. He had given it to her for her fourteenth birthday. He hoped it had been abandoned in error and not intentionally. He needed to still hope that he could reconcile with her—if she was ever found—as he mostly had with Violet.
He sagged forward, letting his head rest in his hands. She had been in Richmond, and all the signs were that she had gone on to Cornwall. Only in Cornwall there was no indication that she had ever been there. The family she was reported to work for did not exist. Nobody could remember seeing a girl with br
ight cinnamon curls. He’d found one driver who might have remembered picking her up in Richmond—Isabella was memorable—but he couldn’t remember where she’d left the coach.
Masters rubbed an aching temple. It should have been good to be home, but it didn’t feel like a home. The house was so quiet, as it had been for the last year or more, and nothing seemed quite right. Violet had described it as dull and dour, and he feared that she was right.
He longed to hear Clara’s laugh filling the halls. Her laughter always made him feel that things were right in the world. And the smile that went with it, when her lips turned up just that little bit at the corners, and—
He would ask Miss Thompson to wed. It was time he had a wife and a home. Being here, in this house, only made that clearer in his mind.
If he wed, he would stop thinking unsuitable thoughts about unsuitable women, or an unsuitable woman. He would marry and take his bride home to Dorchester. He would set up a nursery and lead a peaceful life.
He would visit London on occasion to see Violet, and he could hope that at some point Isabella would be found, but in the meantime, he would let life progress. A sweet young wife, a baby watched over by a nurse, an assured place in society, and the continued success of his estates—this was the life that he wanted, the life that he would have.
He rubbed his temple harder, wishing the pain would leave. It was tempting to take to his bed for the rest of the day, but having made up his mind, he would brook no delays.
He would call upon Miss Thompson and then her father. His natural inclination was to call upon her father first, but he wanted to be sure that nothing in Miss Thompson’s affections had changed while he was away.
He would call and ask her if she wished to ride in the park. He might even decide to address her by her first name. He paused for a moment trying to remember what that name might be. Kathryn. That was it.
After he was assured that she received his suit favorably, he would call upon her father. Perhaps they could have a July wedding. It was not much time, but if he remembered Isabella’s past ramblings correctly, June was the preferred month for weddings. July must be almost as good.
He was determined to do this right.
And once that was all in place he would visit Clara—Lady Westington—and inform her that his quest was done. He felt both eagerness and dismay wash over him at the thought. It would be good to see her again, to show her that he had not needed her help to accomplish his task. Miss Thompson did not seem put out by his desire to be sure that she understood what he looked for in a proper wife.
No, it was only Clara who seemed to find his wants questionable. Well, not all his wants—some of them she seemed to understand very well. He had a vision of creamy skin and passion-darkened topaz eyes. Her lips would part slightly, the flash of a tongue between. He’d lean closer, feel the heat of her breath upon his neck, taste the sweet salt of her skin as he—
She would never make a biddable wife. She was too full of ideas for that.
He rubbed his temple again. It sometimes felt that he had spent his whole life giving up what he wanted for what he should have. He felt like a child in the nursery, eating eggs with toast soldiers instead of cake.
Damnation. It was all too much for him. He would go upstairs and rest. Then, when his brain had recovered, he would speak to Miss Thompson. He picked up a pen and wrote out a card letting her know of his intention to call.
He rang for the porter to take the card and poured himself a good snifter of brandy.
He took a deep swallow, feeling the burn down his throat. The door creaked behind him.
He held out the card without turning. “Please deliver this to Miss Thompson. I assume you know the direction.”
“Why yes, I do.” The low, husky voice filled the room. “Do you want me to convey a verbal message as well?”
“What are you doing here?” Masters answered, his eyes taking their fill of the luscious picture Clara presented. There was nothing the least bit daring about the butter yellow silk dress, but somehow it gave the impression of revealing as much as it covered—or perhaps it was simply her shape. He suspected that even burlap would flatter her curvaceous figure.
She laughed softly, drawing his eyes to the long lines of her throat. “Is that the correct way to greet a guest? Didn’t I listen to you explain to Miss Northouse how the exact words you used in greeting explained the different levels of relationship?”
“You are hardly a guest.”
“What am I then?” She had stepped toward him, her voice growing even huskier. The light odor of vanilla and cinnamon wafted to his nose. How could a smell be so comforting and arousing at the same time?
And what was she to him? He could not think of a single word that described their relationship. “You are simply you.”
She gave him a crooked smile that said she understood very well his avoidance. “But, to answer your question—no matter how rudely it was phrased—I am here because it truly is urgent that I speak to you.”
“Have you heard something new of Isabella?” He could not stop the hope from sounding in his voice, but even as he spoke he knew that was ridiculous. “No, of course you have not. It must be something else. Miss Thompson or Miss Pettigrew, perhaps?”
She paled slightly at his words. “No. I have no news of them.”
“What then?” He knew he sounded abrupt, but he found her pallor most unsettling. “And how did you know I was home? I have not even been here a full day.”
Clara stepped back from him and walked to the couch. She sat, her legs shaking. “I did not actually expect to find you here. I merely planned to leave a note asking you to call upon me when you returned. It was only when I knocked that the porter said you were in. I suppose he has come to accept our meetings. I told him I would show myself in.”
“That is simple enough.” He walked back toward her until he could smell the soothing odor of vanilla again. He stopped as his boot brushed her skirts. There was a curl falling over her cheek, and he had to tense his fingers to keep from brushing it aside. “You still have not said why you are here.”
“Yes, well—” She seemed to have difficulty finding the words.
“I suppose it must be one of my young misses.”
He watched her neck tighten as she swallowed. “Does it not occur to you that I might—”
For some reason she was having difficulty, and he rushed ahead to help her out. “Before you go on, I should tell you something.”
Her hands were twisted into a tight knot in her lap. He had never seen fingers so intertwined. She glanced down at her hands and then forced her eyes up to his. “I really should tell you first that…” She paused, and he could see her gulp as she tried to find the words. She licked her lips nervously.
Normally, it would have been the most arousing of gestures, but now he could only feel her distress. He started again, eager to remove her dismay. “No, let me speak. I must tell you that—”
“That what?”
He drew in his own deep breath. “I must tell you that I have decided to marry Miss Thompson.”
“Marry Miss Thompson?” her voice faltered. Clara could only drop her hands back to her lap. This was some trick of fate. She had come to tell him that they must marry because of the coming baby, and all he could talk of was Miss Thompson. It had not even occurred to him that her news could be about herself. She had tried to tell him and he had not listened.
“It has become clear to me that she will be a near ideal wife. She is fair to look at, of good conversation, fine breeding, and seems to have a most compatible temperament. I did consider Miss Pettigrew, but I must confess I find her a bit silly.”
“A bit silly.” She sounded like Miss Pettigrew herself, repeating phrases.
“Yes, I have found it difficult to have a decent conversation that does not involve ribbons, kittens, or her best friend, Betsy. I do desire to discuss at least a few more subjects.”
She knew he was attempting hu
mor, but it fell flat. She forced herself to smile. “You want to discuss the newest height of heels for half boots, and whether blue or green is a more conducive color of paint for dining?”
“I don’t actually care for dining on paint.” His words seemed as strained as her own. While she had never questioned his sense of humor, it had never been the main means of communication between them.
Fighting perhaps, but never poor jokes.
She relaxed her fingers, one by one, and smoothed her skirts. It was hard to understand what she was feeling. There was shock, certainly. A small measure of fear, perhaps. She had certainly never dreamed of being an unmarried mother. But there was no despair or anger.
She would have expected anger.
She stood and walked to the window, resting her face against the cool glass.
“Are you not going to offer felicitations?” His voice sounded right behind her. She had been so caught by her own thoughts that she had not heard him approach.
She blew out a long breath, watching as a circle of mist formed on the window. She lifted a finger and drew a line in the condensation. It seemed a moment for symbolism, but the line remained only a line.
She pulled herself straight and turned. “Of course, I wish you only the best. I merely thought to hold my congratulations until after Miss Thompson had agreed to the match. She has not done so yet, has she?”
“No, she has not.”
It was relief she felt. Plain and simple relief. Her mind told her that it was relief at his last answer, relief that he was not yet promised, that she could still tell him and change the future.
Her heart told her differently.
She was relieved that she would not be forced into marriage. He would not be a good husband for her. He was domineering and would expect obedience. He would try to rule her, and with the law on his side, he might succeed. She would lose all the independence she had worked so hard to obtain.
And as a father? She had seen how he raised his sisters, the extremes he had driven them to. If a wife was property, how much more so was a child?