by Lavinia Kent
Well, she’d cried a lot, but she put that down to the baby. She’d heard that expectant women were prone to such fits.
That was actually one of the problems. She’d heard limited bits and pieces over the years, but now that she was in need of the knowledge, there was not one person she could talk to. Nobody here could know the truth of her condition. Once she was away she could employ some older woman who would know all the details of such matters, but for now she was on her own.
In the past she might have dared to share the truth with Violet. Her friend had knowledge of many things that Clara did not and had lived a life even more full of potential transgressions than Clara’s own. That was, of course, before Violet had met Lord Peter St. Johns and changed her ways. Clara grinned to herself—or at least Violet had changed her ways in public. Clara was very aware that what went on between the unmarried Lady Carrington and Lord Peter could never be described as proper.
But Violet was Masters’s sister and there was no way around that.
Clara would have to hold to her own counsel for the moment.
Maybe she should go out tonight. She’d planned on staying in a few more days until she heard the announcement about Miss Thompson and Masters. She was not sure she first wanted to be confronted by the knowledge in public. She might know that she was doing the right thing, but that did not mean her emotions always agreed.
Particularly—she wiped a stray tear from her eye—these days. Damnation, she’d much rather have been sick every morning than be so blasted weepy.
She stood with great determination. Enough of whining and weeping. She would set the maids to packing and have the coachmen prepare for a journey. She didn’t know where yet, but that would not be hard.
She had money, and that could solve many problems. All she needed was a quiet cottage and some months away and she would be fine.
As with all great problems, it was merely a matter of taking everything step by step, piece by piece.
And she would go out tonight. She would go out and have a wonderful time—and begin to make her farewell whether spoken or unspoken.
And then tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, she would go—go and start the chapter in her life that must be lived before she could return here. Yes, it would not be too hard if she didn’t think beyond the next thing she needed to do.
At least she had not vomited on his boots. That was the best that could be said of the afternoon. Masters stomped up the stairs into the house in an even more hopeless mood than when he had left that morning.
Couldn’t the blasted girl have told him that she had a tendency to get sick in carriages and was also afraid of heights? If she had said something, he would never have insisted on taking her in his phaeton. He shuddered as he wondered if the leather would ever come clean. Yes, he had wanted to show it off, but he was not unreasonable. If she had actually said anything, he would have listened.
Blasted women, why could they never just say what they meant? Why did they always expect men to read their minds and then give in to whatever silly thought took their fancy?
Women not saying what they wanted were the bane of his existence.
If either Violet or Isabella had told him she was unwilling to marry, things might have been different, might not have ended so badly. He might have had suspicions of their feelings, but neither one had ever said a word to him—and when he had learned the truth, he had tried to find another way. It was not his fault that it had been too late to avert disaster. No, it was his fault. It had been his job to protect his sisters and he had failed.
He pulled impatiently at his neck cloth.
If only they had been honest with him.
Damn women.
How could they still blame him for something they had never naysayed? He might blame himself, but that was another matter. Why, Violet still blamed him for not giving her choices when she was a girl, but she’d never indicated she wanted them until much later, long after her husband’s death.
He didn’t even nod to the porter as he strode into the house and straight to the library. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to the stairs. He definitely did not want the library and all that it represented.
Clara, at least, spoke her mind. She let him know each and every time she disagreed with him. He’d never have to worry that she’d blame him for something later. He’d know right away if she was displeased.
It might be most aggravating, but it was certainly better than girls who didn’t let you know before they loosed the contents of their stomachs over new carriages.
And he hadn’t even asked her to marry him.
The impossibility of the thought had him stopping on the stairs and letting out a positive guffaw. He could just imagine having asked for her hand as she leaned over the edge of the carriage.
He sobered quickly. She probably would still have said yes. And he still had to ask her anyway.
A cold, hard lump formed in the pit of his stomach.
This day could not get any worse.
No, that was the wrong attitude. He wanted to ask Miss Thompson to marry him. She was the perfect bride, and with her he would lead an ideal life, just like the one of which he had dreamed since he was a child.
He would just be sure to never invite her to travel in his curricle. It would be closed carriages for her from now on—and he would ride alongside.
It was time to dress for this evening. He hoped his valet was in a talkative mood. That would keep his mind away from things that could not be changed.
Clara looked down at her dress. She had worn it before—several times, in fact. She couldn’t remember when she had first worn it, but it had been soon after she came out of mourning. At that time she had felt almost naked with the low bodice and sheer fabric of the skirts. Now it seemed like just another dress, if a very becoming one.
It was her happy dress. Whenever she wore it, she promised to have a good time, and so far she had succeeded. It was a matter of mind over mood—and a dress that made her feel like a princess in a child’s story.
She twirled slowly before her mirror. The gown was a masterpiece of illusion. The sheer over-layers floated about her when she spun, making the skirt look as full as the dresses of two decades ago, but when she stopped and was still—that was a far different story. She’d once seen a drawing of a painting by a lesser-known Italian artist from centuries ago, a painting of Venus arising from the ocean clothed in foam and mist. When she stopped she became Venus, the dress flowing against her skin closely, almost indecently, every curve revealed.
Or at least that was how it looked. The true illusion of the dress was that there were so many layers of silk required to give the illusion of near nudity, she was more covered than she’d been when presented to the queen.
But it was appearances that counted.
She spun again. It almost appeared that the skirts were going to float away from her, as if she was an Arabian concubine dancing her dance of seven veils. Violet had once shown her a scandalous book of drawings that depicted such a dance—and the way it ended and ended and ended.
One more twirl and that was it. She was sure expectant mothers should not be twirling until they were dizzy.
She stopped and stood staring at herself. She had never looked better—not even when she’d been a much younger woman. Her skin was clear and glowed in an almost ethereal fashion. Her eyes were bright and full of expectation. She’d finally started to gain some weight, but it had only filled in her already full curves, making her look ripe.
Her hands dropped to her belly, pulling the fabric tight. She turned to the side and examined. There was a definite bump. Her belly had always been a little soft and curved, but never with such a definite rise to it. And beneath the softness it was firm, losing some of its accustomed jiggle.
She let the fabric fall loose, glad of the fashions of the day. Not even her maid had yet noticed the changes in her, but it would not be long.
Tonight would be her final perform
ance. She’d been trying to wait until she heard the news about Masters and Miss Thompson, but enough was enough.
She was going to go out tonight, and she was going to dance and twirl and have a delightful time—and then tomorrow she would leave and head north. She didn’t have a final destination, although she knew she’d begin by visiting her mother’s cousin in Middleham. A good packet of currency and letters from her bankers had already been procured, granting her great freedom of movement.
She hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Violet. That could wait until tomorrow. A letter to Robert could also wait. It was a pity she would miss his marriage.
Tonight was about her. She was going to remind herself of why she was doing the right thing, why she didn’t need a controlling, domineering husband.
She heard the clatter of hooves as her carriage pulled up in front of the house. The Gadsworths’ ball would already be well under way. It was time to go.
Masters spied Miss Thompson across the dance floor. That was an auspicious beginning. He had spent the remainder of the afternoon—after checking that his phaeton had escaped without permanent damage—convincing himself to be of better cheer. He was getting what he wanted tonight.
There was no reason to be glum.
He caught Miss Thompson’s smile across the room and nodded back, a nod full of promise.
Tonight would be his night.
Chapter 15
Clara watched him cross the room. Of course he was here. She drew her stomach in, straightening her spine. It was why she had worn the dress. She might have given herself a dozen other reasons, but this was the truth.
She wanted him to remember her in future years and wonder what he might have missed. It was petty. It was childish. It felt so good.
Her hand dropped to her belly. There was so much he would miss.
She turned to her companion, one of the dozen young gentlemen who’d been drawn by her gown. She’d smiled at one and then another, had seen the question in their eyes—were the rumors true? Could she really have done the things they’d heard?
She leaned in toward her chosen companion, gifting him with a look straight down her dress. She paused there, half a space too close, let his eyes find their target and lock, then she stepped even closer and tilted her chin, drawing his eyes to her mouth. And then she smiled, opening her lips slowly—just enough to make him wonder. She flicked her tongue out and ran it over her lush lower lip. She named it lush in her mind, letting her own imagination make it true.
His glance flickered up to her eyes, but quickly fell back down.
She had him.
If only she wanted him. Once she would have, or at least would have told herself that she did. Even now, she could not be sure of everything she had felt during those lost years after Michael’s death.
She could not regret them. They were a great part of what had made her who she was today.
She shot one quick glance across the room. Masters had moved to talk with Mr. Thompson, his daughter standing by his side.
She turned back to her companion, drawing in a deep breath. His eyes dropped as expected.
She didn’t even know his name. It was Mr. James, or Jims, or Thames. Perhaps he was named after the river. No, that she would have remembered.
Yes, she had him. Now what was she going to do with him? The evening certainly was not going in the fashion that she hoped.
But she didn’t wish to hurt him. It was not his fault that she felt the need to prove her femininity. She had not acted this way since those years after Michael’s death.
She should be ashamed of herself.
And she was—until she glanced up and caught Masters glaring at her from across the room. Allowing her shoulders to fall back, she turned to the gentleman on her other side and gave him a slow glance, ending with a raised eyebrow.
He took a half step nearer.
Oh dear, she was going to be crushed by eager men if she wasn’t careful. She peered back at her first companion.
He was puffing up his chest, ready to protect his territory.
She stepped back, leaving them facing each other. “Really, gentlemen, I think you may want to reconsider your options for the evening.” She spoke low and husky, leaving anyone not included in the immediate conversation to wonder what it was about.
Mr. Thames—she still wasn’t sure that was right, but she was willing to go with it—was clearly going to be the more difficult of the two. She couldn’t even blame him. She had been teasing him and there was no excuse.
The other gentleman shrugged and stepped back.
“I believe you might enjoy discussion with Lady Bulham,” Clara said to him, gesturing to a woman descending to the dance floor. “I’ve heard she has been lonely in recent weeks, although I do not know if you shall suit.”
He nodded and walked off, stopping to grab two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter.
“And am I being so dismissed, too?” Mr. Thames asked, not stepping back. She could smell the musk of his cologne. It was not unpleasant, but she found herself longing for the fresh pine of Masters’s soap.
“I would not precisely call it a dismissal. I merely would suggest that you consider where you wish to end up this evening,” she answered.
“Because it will not be with you? You are very blunt for not actually saying anything.” He still did not step back.
Clara made her own move to increase the space between them. Her eyes strayed across the floor again.
Masters was still speaking with Mr. Thompson, and they all looked so cheerful. This must be the moment. Was an announcement going to be made?
There was a moment’s temptation to take back her words to Mr. Thames, to ask him to take her from this room and to make her forget everything but the two of them.
Only she doubted he could.
Why was it always at moments like this that one realized one’s true feelings? She’d always thought that was the stuff of romantic novels.
But now, only now, as she watched Masters making his plans with Miss Thompson, did she realize how much she cared for him. She wasn’t sure it was love. She certainly didn’t want it to be love, but watching him about to announce his future happiness hurt far more than she had ever expected.
Not that she fooled herself. She had made the right decision in not telling him. He would have made her a terrible husband. She was not young and malleable and had no desire to be. She would never have accepted his pronouncements as fact and lived her life accordingly.
And parenthood.
She could only imagine the screaming rows they would have had over how the baby would be raised.
And he would have held all the power. He had already said plainly that husband and wife became one in marriage, and that one was the husband. And the law supported him.
No, she had made the right decision.
“You really meant what you said about my finding a different ending for my evening.” Mr. Thames’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“What?” was all she could answer.
He straightened up, pulling back from her. “You’ve been staring across the room for several minutes without hearing a word that I’ve said. It would have been enough to give a less confident man pause.”
She looked at him steadily. “Yes, I did mean it. I am definitely not the company you seek this evening, and I do apologize that I indicated otherwise earlier. It was most unkind of me.”
“As long as you promise it is not me,” he answered, “but whomever you keep staring at across the dance floor that is the reason for your lack of, shall we say, interest. I do forgive you, on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“Well, actually, it is two conditions. First, you must partner me in the waltz I hear starting. I have long admired your dancing, Lady Westington, and if that is all you have to share this evening I will eagerly take it.”
“And second?”
“You must tell me who else among your acquaintance has be
en lonely these past weeks. It seems most unfair that you advised Barton and not me.”
She laughed. Why could the rest of life not be so simple? “Of course. I am sure that there must be some lonely heart awaiting you. I will just have to recollect who has mentioned how blue and depressed the slow arrival of summer has left them.” She held out her hand to him. “Come, lead me to the floor and I will keep an eye out for the perfect companion for you.”
He was about to ask. The words were just forming on his lips, when he heard Clara’s laugh across the room. He should not have been able to hear it through the crush, but it echoed about as clear as the rooster’s morning cry.
He turned and saw her. He could only hope his jaw had not dropped open. He’d always known she was lovely, but tonight she shone like a goddess, her skin glowing, and her figure—he swore it grew fuller and riper every time he saw her.
He forced his eyes back to Miss Thompson and tried to remember those words he had been about to say—something about a walk in the garden. It was quite cool for the season and they would have some privacy there. Then he could say the words that really needed to be said.
He heard the laugh again, and again he turned.
Clara was smiling fully up at the gentleman now, her lips parted and eyes sparkling. She held out her hand and let him lead her to the floor.
It was a waltz. Of course it was a waltz.
He jerked his head to Mr. Thompson. “I was considering asking your daughter if she’d care to join me in a stroll on the terrace. But, as the evening is chilly, we might find ourselves alone. I do wish to be sure you have no objection to my speaking to her with some privacy for a moment.”
Masters could feel himself being measured by Mr. Thompson. The man gave a gruff nod and, taking Masters’s hand, gave it a firm shake. “Yes, please go ahead. Mind you don’t stray too far. I wouldn’t want to have to chase after you.”
Miss Thompson blushed a bright pink as he offered his arm and led her toward the door.