“But Simon lived in London for years.”
“According to his friends, it was never in one place,” Locky explained. “He would remain at his town house for a week, perhaps two, and then he would be off with Philip and Barth on some lark or another. Almost as if he feared becoming settled.” There was a pause as he considered her pale features. “But since coming to Devonshire, · he has been almost at peace.”
Claire shifted uneasily beneath his regard. Surely he was not implying that she was somehow responsible for Simon remaining in Devonshire? He could not be more off the mark.
“This is his home.” She pointed out.
“And what is home?” Locky demanded. “Is it a place or is it a feeling?”
Claire briefly considered his words. Blakewell Manor was certainly her home, but while she possessed a sense of appreciation for the familiar mortar and stones, it was indeed her father and the staff who had helped to raise her that she loved.
“I suppose it is a feeling,” she slowly admitted. “And what of you, Locky? Do you have someplace to call home?”
“I hope to someday very soon.”
Wondering if he had someone or someplace already in mind, Claire was halted in asking the question as a familiar tingle of awareness had her abruptly turning toward the door.
As expected, Simon was filling the doorway with his large frame. Who else could create that disturbing flutter deep in her heart by merely being near? And as expected, he was elegantly attired in an indigo-blue coat and yellow breeches that set off his well-toned muscles to perfection. What was not expected was the deep scowl that marred his handsome features as he absorbed the obvious comfort between Claire and his best friend.
“Simon,” she murmured, her expression wary.
“Good morning, Claire.” His glittering gaze turned to Locky. “Am I intruding?”
Locky slowly rose to his feet, his heavy features set in stoic lines.
“Do not be a fool, Challmond,” he growled.
The two men regarded each other in prickly silence before Simon gave a sharp shake of his head.
“Forgive me,” he muttered. “Mr. Cassel is here to see you, Claire.”
Uncertain what had occurred between the gentlemen, Claire breathed an audible sigh. At least she would be freed from this infernal bed. She was far too active to take this enforced bed rest in stride. She longed to be up and about.
“Thank goodness.”
She missed Simon’s rueful grimace as he stepped aside and the small, rapidly balding surgeon bustled into the room.
“Here we are, then,” he proclaimed, bending to inspect Claire’s wound without batting an eye at the fact that Claire had obviously been entertaining a gentleman in the bedchamber.
As if realizing the impropriety of his presence, Locky gave a brief bow.
“I shall make myself scarce. Until later, Miss Blakewell.”
“Good day, Mr. Lockmeade,” she murmured, flinching as the surgeon pressed against her bruise.
“Mmm . . .” Mr. Cassel narrowed his gaze. “Any dizziness?”
Not as long as Simon was not kissing her, she acknowledged even as .she gave a firm shake of her head.
“No.”
“No fainting?”
“No.”
“No fever?”
“No.”
He held her lids wide to peer deeply into her eyes. “You are eating well?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm.” At last satisfied, he stepped back, his expression one of disapproval, as if holding her fully responsible for her accident. “It seems that you have been quite fortunate, young lady.”
Claire’s eyes brightened. “Then I can get up?”
“Yes, but I still wish you to take care for the next few days,” he warned. “No more banging your head.”
Claire gave a sudden laugh. “Believe me, I shall do my best.”
“See that you do.”
Suddenly Simon moved farther into the room, his dark features unreadable as he studied Claire’s pleased countenance.
“Thank you, Mr. Cassel. Mrs. King will see you out,” he murmured, then, waiting for the surgeon to make his bow and hurry from the room, he slowly strolled to tower over-the bed. “Well, it appears that you have been released from the jail.”
Suddenly realizing that being allowed to rise from her bed also meant she no longer had a reason to remain in Simon’s home, Claire battled an absurd, thoroughly unexpected stab of regret.
No, she told herself sternly, she could not wish to remain at Westwood Park. Or to be close to Lord Challmond. It had to be a lingering. . . malaise. A reaction to her severe blow to the head.
What other explanation could there be?
“Yes, indeed.“ She forced a light tone. “If you will call for a maid, then I can be dressed and on my way.”
The emerald eyes narrowed. “In such a hurry, Claire?”
She would rather have her tongue removed than admit she was in no hurry at all.
“There is little point in postponing my leave-taking. I am certain you shall be relieved to be rid of your unwanted guest.”
“Do not be so certain. We have, after all, enjoyed the past two days, have we not?”
“Yes, but . . .” Her voice trailed away in bewilderment.
“Perhaps I shall lock you in this bedchamber and toss away the key.”
She caught her breath as they gazed at each other for a disturbing moment. Then, with an effort, she lowered her head. He was merely jesting. He would no doubt be delighted to see the back of her.
“You are being foolish,” she murmured.
There was a long pause. “Yes, perhaps I am,” he at last admitted. “Claire . . .”
With reluctance she lifted her head. “Yes?”
“I . . .” He appeared oddly hesitant, as if uncertain what he wished to say, then, with an abrupt frown, he took a decisive step backward. “It is nothing. I shall fetch your maid.”
Not certain what she expected, Claire experienced a queer sense of disappointment as he gave her a small bow and left the chamber.
So that was that. She was free to go, and as she had predicted, Simon was eager to be rid of her.
There was no reason at all to feel as if she should bury her head in the pillow and cry like a wounded child.
* * *
Three days later Claire was seated in the empty schoolroom of the orphanage, sorting a box full of books that had been donated by a local merchant. It was a task that unfortunately took little concentration, and for what seemed to be the hundredth time her renegade thoughts turned to Lord Challmond.
He seemed to have simply disappeared.
With every passing hour Claire had expected him to appear. After all, he had haunted her for days, even weeks. He was always popping in when she least expected him. And certainly she assumed that he would wish to assure himself that she was recovering.
But day after day passed without a word, and Claire discovered herself growingly vexed with his lack of attention.
What was the matter with her? she silently chided. She had wished Simon in Jericho when he had pestered her with his persistent presence. Then the moment he had behaved with a bit of decorum, she felt oddly abandoned.
There seemed no means of pleasing her, she reluctantly acknowledged. She could only wish she could return to the contentment that had been hers before Lord Challmond’s return to Devonshire.
The sound of the door opening had Claire turning about to discover Harry entering the room and awkwardly crossing the stone floor to join her. With an effort Claire conjured a smile.
“Good morning, Harry.”
“Morning, Miss Blakewell.” He shifted uneasily before thrusting out his hand. “I have something for you.”
Claire reached out to take the smooth rock that Harry offered.
“Why, thank you, Harry. It is lovely.”
“It is a magic rock,” he confessed in low tones.
“Magic?”
&n
bsp; “Aye.” He nodded his head in a vigorous fashion. “It will protect you from the bad blokes.“
Clearly the rumors of Mr. Foster had made their way through the neighborhood, and Claire felt a warmth fill her heart at the child’s concern.
“I see.”
Harry squared his thin shoulders. “I t’ain’t need it now that I live here.”
She studied the freckled face. “And you are happy here, Harry?”
A wide grin abruptly split the homely face. “I reckon I t’ain’t never been so happy.”
“I am very pleased.”
His grin faintly faded. “And I promise that I won’t disappoint you, Miss Blakewell.”
Claire was suddenly struck by his solemn words. She recalled Simon’s sense of duty and obligation that had haunted his life. She did not wish to see Harry burdened in the same manner.
“You could never disappoint me, Harry.” She assured him with a smile. “I only wish you to be happy.”
“Harry.” Ann entered the room, regarding the pair of them with raised brows. “You are about to miss lunch.”
“Blimey.” With wiry speed Harry darted out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Gently laughing at Harry’s antics, Ann crossed toward Claire.
“I wondered where you had disappeared to. How are you feeling?”
She was not going to admit that she had deliberately been avoiding Ann.
“I feel quite recovered.”
The dark gaze deliberately lingered on the pale features and sleepless circles beneath her eyes.
“Then you must feel remarkably better than you appear.”
“I am fine,” Claire insisted.
“Well, Mr. Foster has a great deal to answer for,” Ann retorted, her gaze moving to the fading bruise. “Of course, he has no doubt learned to regret his scandalous behavior. It could not have been comfortable knowing that Lord Challmond’s entire staff was searching for him or that the earl had threatened to have him hung from the nearest tree. He is fortunate that he was discovered by the magistrate.”
Claire determinedly kept her countenance smooth. It was far too tempting to presume that Simon’s outrage was more than neighborly concern at a villain being on the loose in the area.
“I am only relieved that he can no longer be a threat to others.”
Ann picked up a leather-bound book, her manner determinedly casual.
“And speaking of Lord Challmond, I believe he should be here any moment.”
Claire felt her heart falter. “Here? Why?”
“I mentioned your suggestion of adding a greenhouse to the orphanage, and he wishes to bring Mr. Davis along and discover if it would be a viable plan.” Ann slowly lifted her head to study Claire’s heated countenance. “I thought you would be pleased?”
Pleased? How could she be pleased when Simon was bound to assume that she had coerced Ann into luring him to the orphanage? It was, after all, what he had learned to expect from women.
And even worse was the fierce, undeniable realization of just how badly she wished to see him. To view his countenance. To hear his voice. To smell that warm, masculine scent.
It sent a shaft of fear straight through her heart.
With a sudden motion she was on her feet.
“I fear I cannot.”
Ann regarded her in surprise. “No?”
“I . . . am expected home for lunch.”
“You could send along a note with your groom,” the older woman pointed out in reasonable tones. “This is, after all, what you have wanted to achieve for years.”
“Yes, well . . . I really must go,” she retorted lamely.
Aim set aside the book and regarded her squarely. “Claire, is there something the matter?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
“Are you avoiding Lord Challmond?”
She desperately battled the urge to blush. She did not know what she was doing. And that, of course, was the trouble. She wanted to be with Simon, but she didn’t. She wished to continue with the life she had chosen, and yet, she felt a restless dissatisfaction deep within her. She wished to turn back the hands of time but realized it was far, far too late.
“Of course I am not attempting to avoid Lord Challmond,” she deliberately lied. “I simply promised Father that I would join him today and I have no wish to disappoint him. I can view the plans on another occasion.“
Not surprisingly Ann regarded her with a hint of suspicion.
“If you insist.”
“I shall return tomorrow.”
Without giving Ann an opportunity to respond, Claire rounded the desk and hurried from the room. Ann knew her far too well not to suspect that something was amiss. All Claire could hope was that she would eventually regain her usual composure.
She moved down the hall and out the door to the front courtyard. Glimpsing her waiting carriage, she began to cross toward it, only to come to a startled halt as she realized the large mare as well as her groom were missing. With a frown she glanced toward the elder servant tugging at an errant weed.
“Rossen, have you seen my groom?”
The servant jerked his thumb in the direction of the pathway.
“He feared that the horse be coming a bit lame. He is walking it to Blakewell Manor and said he would return directly to collect you.”
Blast, she inwardly cursed.
“When did he leave?”
“Not more than a moment ago.”
Now what did she do?
It would be half an hour or more for the groom to return. Certainly not before Simon would arrive with the builder.
Did she wait here and face him, or ignore all practical sense and walk home?
It took only a moment to decide.
She had walked home hundreds of times without incident. And Mr. Foster had been captured several days before. There was no need to linger here like a helpless child.
Not when to linger meant encountering Lord Challmond.
She would go to great lengths to avoid such an event.
Great lengths, indeed.
With a toss of her head Claire determinedly began marching toward the path through the woods.
Fourteen
Simon ducked beneath the low branch and narrowly missed the large puddle that blocked the path. Gads, why did he not simply call for his carriage to take him to the orphanage? It would certainly have been a great deal faster, not to mention a great deal kinder to his Weston-cut coat and once-glossy Hessians. But then, he had futilely hoped that the walk would clear his muddled thoughts.
A ridiculous hope, of course.
For the past three days he had attempted every method to rid himself of the memory of Miss Blakewell.
He had closeted himself for hours with the new steward to discuss the changes he wished to be made to Westwood Park. He had coerced Locky into halfhearted games of chess. He had drowned himself in brandy. He had even ridden to the village with the thoughts of seducing the local barmaid, only to return to Westwood Park with the certain knowledge she would never be capable of conjuring his passion.
It was as if he had been . . . bewitched, he seethed as he marched down the narrow path.
From the moment he had held Claire in his arms and leaned her back into the soft pillows, he realized his danger..
Suddenly the game ended and a sharp, savage desire to keep this woman in his home, in his bed had consumed him. It took every bit of his strength not to sweep her off to his chamber and lock the door against the world.
At least he possessed the sense to realize his folly, he tried to reassure himself. With a desperate sense of self-preservation he retreated behind a mask of cool civility. He even allowed Claire to leave Westwood Park without her ever suspecting the cost to himself.
Perhaps absurdly he presumed that her return to Blakewell Manor would ease his discomfort. Instead, he discovered her memory haunting his every thought. Each room he walked in he longed to see her seated upon a chair or standi
ng beside the window. Each night his blood burned with an unfamiliar need.
And if the truth be known, it was only stubborn pride that kept him from camping upon the doorstep of Blakewell Manor.
Fool, fool, fool, he chided, angry with both himself and Claire for putting him in this godawful position.
He should never have come to Devonshire, he told himself. He should have remained in London and found a beautiful mistress to soothe his restless soul.
Thoroughly vexed, Simon was paying little heed to his surroundings, and it was not until too late that he noted the slender frame rounding the corner at the same moment as himself.
With an instinctive motion he reached out to grasp the tiny woman as they roughly collided. A startled scream echoed through the trees, and Simon pulled back to regard the wide, startled blue eyes with angry disbelief.
Claire Blakewell all alone in the woods again.
By God, did the woman never learn?
“Oh.” She breathed in obvious relief. “It is you.”
Belatedly realizing his hands were lingering on the warmth of her back, he made a sharp move backward to glare at her in open disapproval.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Her relief abruptly faded at his sharp tone, and a decidedly icy expression settled on her countenance.
“Attempting to walk home.”
“By yourself?”
Her chin tilted. “Obviously.”
“Good God,” he breathed in exasperation. He had promised himself that he would treat this woman with a cool disregard. That he would train himself to view her as a mere neighbor. But there was no preventing his violent reaction to her bloody-minded stupidity.
She had already been attacked once. Would she not be satisfied until she had been ravished or even killed? The thought was enough to twist his heart in horror.
“Do you not possess any sense at all?”
Typically her reaction was one of denial at her childish behavior.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” he growled. “Less than a week ago you were attacked and nearly killed. I thought even someone as ill tempered and unreasonable as you would have learned your lesson.”
“In case you have forgotten, Mr. Foster is in the hands of the magistrate.”
Here Comes the Bride Page 14