A Match for Mother

by Mona Gedney, Kathryn Kirkwood, Regina Scott

  EIGHT

  “Please eat something, Mama.” There was an anxious frown on Willow’s brow and she regarded her mother with distress. “You did not take a single bite of Lady Yardley’s supper last night. Both Philip and I observed you merely moving the morsels about your plate.”

  “I was not hungry, dear.”

  “But you must eat to keep up your strength.” Willow’s voice quavered slightly. “You will starve if you do not take sustenance and I could not bear that!”

  Claire smiled ruefully. “One does not starve from a missed meal, my dear. It takes much longer than that.”

  “But you have lost flesh, Mama.” Willow was insistent. “Madame Lanier told me that she was forced to take several inches from the waist of your costume for the ball.”

  “It is true that I am a bit thinner, Willow, but I am in no danger of becoming a wraith. And I am certain that my appetite shall return in full force once this dreadful engagement is past.”

  “Cook has made your favorite this morning.” Willow gestured toward the plate of toast sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar that sat in the center of the table. “She will be most unhappy if you do not take a taste.”

  Claire sighed and removed a piece of toast from the plate. She stared at it for a long moment and then she obediently nibbled at a corner. Willow would plague her until she ate and she wished for a bit of peace. Both Philip and Willow had been insufferably solicitous during the past six days.

  “Thank you, Mama.” Willow smiled at her in a way that reminded Claire of the smile one gives a recalcitrant child when one’s orders are at last obeyed. “Cook will be most relieved. I shall run to the kitchen and make certain that she is preparing your favorite dishes for supper.”

  Once Willow had left the breakfast room, Claire replaced the toast on her plate. The treat that she had enjoyed so thoroughly in the past now caused her stomach to chum alarmingly. It lay there untouched, silently accusing her with its very presence, and Claire picked it up again, carrying it to the French doors that led to the gardens and tossing it out among the bushes for the birds to enjoy.

  When she resumed her seat, Claire sighed deeply and took a sip of the coffee that John had taught her to enjoy. She had dutifully accompanied him to several routs and balls, suffering his presence with a dignity that she had not known she possessed. She had been remarkably civil, smiling up at him whenever others were present, and dancing dutifully in his arms. Claire was certain that none had guessed the extent of her loathing for the man who had crushed her tender feelings so ruthlessly.

  Claire frowned as she thought of the evening when John had accused her of duplicity. Once he had stomped from the drawing room, Claire had fled to her bedchamber to indulge in a bout of tears that left her pale and shaken. When she had managed at last to compose herself, she had vowed to get to the crux of his cruel accusations. John had believed that she had been deceitful and she should never forgive him for that. But someone had been guilty of fabricating the falsehood in the first place and that person was the true villain in the piece. Ringing for Jennings, Claire had instructed him to escort Willow and Philip to her sitting room the moment that they had returned.

  Anticipating firm denials from both Willow and Philip, Claire had been astounded when they had admitted their guilt. It seemed that they had indeed chosen John as a match for her, and had enlisted Miss Fellows to aid them in gaining their objective. The scene that Claire had witnessed in Lady Bollinger’s gardens had been but a simulation performed solely for her benefit. Miss Fellows had harbored not the slightest intention of attempting to trap John into marriage.

  “How could you, Willow?” Claire had stared at her daughter in utter shock.

  “It was my doing, Lady Radcliffe.” Philip had placed a comforting arm around Willow’s shoulders. “I am solely to blame for choosing the earl.”

  “And I am solely to blame for wishing you married.” Willow’s voice had been thick with tears. “I am so sorry, Mama. I only wanted you to be happy!”

  Claire had nodded, acknowledging the truth of her daughter’s statement. “I know that, darling. But you should have told me. When John accused us of perpetuating this deception, I assumed that he was entirely mistaken.”

  “I will explain it to him, Lady Radcliffe.” Philip had risen from his chair. “I shall call on him now and assure him that you were unaware of our scheme and would not have approved if you had known. We have been the cause of this dreadful misunderstanding and I am determined to set things aright.”

  Philip had left immediately and both Claire and Willow had waited anxiously as the minutes had ticked by. When Philip had returned, well over an hour later, he had worn a most dejected expression.

  “He did not believe me.” The anguish had been deep in Philip’s eyes. “He assumed that my confession was but another trick that we had devised.”

  Claire had sighed, accepting the inevitable. The man she loved was lost to her and there was nothing she could do to reverse the damage that had been done. Drawing a deep breath, she had attempted to make the best of it, explaining her necessity for continuing the appearances of her engagement and eliciting solemn promises from both Willow and Philip that they should remain silent about the matter.

  “Do you forgive us, Mama?” Willow’s lip had trembled and tears had run down her cheeks.

  Claire had sighed, tears forming in her own eyes at the sight of her daughter’s distress. “Of course I forgive you, my darlings. And it does not matter in the slightest, for I should not have married the earl in any case. Our engagement was merely a ruse.”

  “A ruse?” Philip had stared at her in shock.

  “Yes, dear Philip. The earl and I entered into an agreement to pretend to be engaged until this Season was over. It was merely a device to save him from the unwanted attentions of greedy mamas and their eager daughters.”

  “You truly intended to cry off at the end of the Season?” Willow had dabbed at her eyes with the square of linen that Philip had provided.

  “Yes, dear.” Claire had forced a smile on her lips. “So you see that the earl’s opinion of my character does enter into the matter. I doubt that I shall ever have occasion to meet him again, once the current Season is concluded.”

  Philip’s eyes had narrowed and he had peered at her intently. “You do not love him then?”

  “Love him?” Claire had struggled to assume a light tone. “That is absurd, my dear Philip. I should never have entered into my agreement with Lord Sommerset if he had engaged my heart. It would have been far too painful to endure.”

  Claire sighed deeply as she recalled the words that she had spoken. Meeting John each day and dancing with him at parties and balls had indeed been far too painful for her to endure. She had no doubt that it was the cause of her sleepless nights and the reason why her appetite had vanished. She had survived in this manner for six long days, striving to keep up the appearance of normalcy even as her heart was breaking, but she did not know how much longer she could manage to hide her grief.

  There was only one small circumstance that gave Claire comfort. Though she knew it was considered mean-spirited to take pleasure in the suffering of another, she could not help but feel her burden lift slightly when she observed how John had moved the food round his plate in a similar fashion, lifting not a morsel to his lips. His eyes had also borne black smudges beneath them, testifying to his lack of sleep, and the smile on his face had held no warmth as he had greeted his acquaintances. John was suffering, of that she was certain. He had said that he had loved her, and perhaps he loved her still. But even if he had come to believe her innocent of the accusations he had hurled at her, he would never confess that he loved her still, nor would he beg her apology for falsely accusing her. El Diablo was far too proud to admit that he was wrong. It was a classic scene from a tragedy, one worthy of Mr. Shakespeare. Oh, how ironic that two people could be so in love and neither of them admit it.

  Claire considered the problem for a moment,
but her privacy was rudely interrupted as Willow burst into the breakfast room, carrying a gown draped over her arm.

  “Your costume for the ball has arrived, Mama.” Willow held it up so that Claire could see. “I declare it is every bit as beautiful as any costume I have ever seen!”

  Willow’s smile was so eager that Claire forced herself to smile back. The costume was indeed lovely, a skilled rendition in golden silk of the gown that the Greek goddess Aphrodite would have worn.

  “Every item is here, Mama.” Willow pushed the remains of their breakfast aside and laid them out so her mother could see. “Here are golden sandals, a perfectly exquisite tiara, and the magical girdle that made her irresistible to Zeus. Madame Lanier has even seen fit to provide us with a packet of gold dust to sprinkle in your hair. It far outshines my shepherdess costume, Mama, though that is also quite lovely. You are pleased, are you not?”

  “Yes, dear.” Claire nodded quickly, but as she glanced at the lovely costume a daring concept popped into her mind. The very thought caused her eyes to sparkle and her smile to grow wide with pleasure. She had just found the perfect way to prove to John that she loved him every bit as much as he loved her. All she needed was the necessary courage to perform such a scandalous act.

  “What is it, Mama?” The smile disappeared from Willow’s lips and she stared at her mother in confusion. “You look so ... so determined.”

  Claire laughed lightly and the anticipation of what she was about to do caused her cheeks to turn pink. “I am determined, dear. I have decided that I shall not dress as Aphrodite. The costume should look far lovelier on you.”

  “Oh, Mama! Could I wear it truly?” Willow’s eyes began to sparkle with excitement. “We are almost precisely the same size and it should suit me perfectly. But are you certain you wish to appear at the ball dressed as a shepherdess?”

  “No, dear. You may give the shepherdess costume to one of your friends. I shall dress in a costume that I shall fashion myself.”

  “But there is so little time, Mama.” Willow began to frown. “The ball is this evening!”

  Claire bit back the totally inappropriate giggle that threatened to erupt from her throat. “I am aware of that, dear, and it is the reason that we must make haste. Do you think that if we ask him nicely, Philip will part with a set of his formal clothing?”

  “Of course, Mama. You know that Philip would do anything to make you happy. But why do you need...”

  “I shall tell you when the time is right and not before.” Claire interrupted what was bound to be a series of queries from her daughter. “Please send a message to Philip immediately, asking him to bring round a full set of his formal clothing.”

  Willow nodded. “Yes, Mama. But I still do not understand...”

  “Do it immediately, Willow.” Claire interrupted her once again and her tone brooked no nonsense. “If I am to be ready for the ball on time, there is not a moment to waste.”

  It was the day of his engagement ball and John frowned as he regarded his costume. When he had first commissioned it from his tailor, he had thought it fitting to attend in the garb of a pirate. Claire had confessed that when she had first caught sight of him, she had envisioned him as a pirate, engaged in daring adventures on the high seas. She had thought that her image was caused by the color of his skin, tanned darkly by the sun, and the thin, white scar that ran along his cheek. When he had explained the scar and the low branch that had cut him while on his first pony, she had begged him never to tell the tale. “Let all assume that the scar is from dueling,” she had advised him with a smile, “and few shall possess the necessary sand to challenge you to a fight.”

  John scowled deeply as he thought of Claire and the cruel manner in which he had accused her. He had thought her like the other ladies of his acquaintance, grasping women whose sole aim was to ascend the social ladder, unscrupulous females who would use any means available to them to marry title and wealth. If he had only taken the trouble to consider it, he should have known that Claire was different.

  He tossed the pirate costume on the bed and sighed deeply. He had stomped into Claire’s Drawing Room with the intention of ringing a peal over her head. His stubborn pride had driven him to shout, and posture and intimidate her to the point where she had feared to speak. He had been an utter madman, already convicting her and deciding upon her punishment before he had even set foot in her home. Why had he treated her so high-handedly? John sighed again and dropped his head into his hands. He had done so because he loved her and he had not been able to bear the thought that she had deceived him.

  She had loved him in return, John was certain. It would have been impossible for even the finest actress to simulate the sparkle that had appeared in her eyes each time that they had met. And it would have been even more inconceivable for her to feign her response to his embrace. Claire had loved him, and he had lost her love through his own failing. Rather than giving his temper full rein, he should have discussed the matter with her calmly and listened to her response with an open mind.

  A fierce wave of guilt washed over John and he groaned deeply in his throat. His old nanny was used to say that his temper would someday cause his downfall, but he had not listened to her, either. And now it had happened. He had lost the only woman that he had ever loved.

  There was a tentative tap upon the open door and Hartley’s face peeped round the corner. “It is past eleven, my Lord. Should you care to break your fast?”

  “Yes, Hartley. I shall dress now.” John sighed as another wave of guilt assailed him. He had spent the past six days snapping at his staff for imagined transgressions and then apologizing profusely for his ill temper. His nerves were rubbed raw and tonight was to be the worst ordeal of all. Instead of the joyous occasion he had anticipated, he would once again be forced to face the pain in the depths of Claire’s emerald eyes.

  John watched impassively as Hartley chose his clothing. Once all was assembled, he stood as silent as a mute while his valet assisted him to dress. It was only when Hartley had brought his Hessians that John spoke. “If a man has lost the love of his lady, Hartley, what action should he take to regain it?”

  “I ... I do not know, sir.” Hartley risked a glance at his master’s face. What he saw must have reassured him, for he reached out to place a hand on John’s shoulder. “He should admit that he was wrong, and beg her forgiveness.”

  “But what if she will not speak with him privately, Hartley?”

  “That is indeed a problem, sir.” Hartley thought about it for a moment. “If I were that gentleman, I should do something to make the lady laugh.”

  “Make her laugh?” John began to frown.

  “Yes indeed, sir. A lady who laughs cannot be angry. The two emotions are quite the opposite, you see, and it is not possible for them to be present simultaneously. I presume we are speaking of Lady Radcliffe?”

  John nodded. Hartley had been with him for too many years to be put off by his use of the hypothetical.

  “Lady Radcliffe has a fine sense of humor, sir, and she has not laughed for a sennight. Mrs. York, her housekeeper, is quite anxious about her as she neither sleeps nor eats.” John did not bother to ask how Hartley had learned of this. He merely nodded and accepted it as fact. The servants in all the grand houses had their own lines of communication.

  “If I were you, sir, I should attempt to make Lady Radcliffe laugh so uproariously that any remaining traces of her anger should disappear. If your joke is truly excellent, it should also serve as your apology.”

  John thought about it for a moment and then he began to smile. “Thank you, Hartley. You have just given me an excellent idea. Would you happen to know where I could procure a boar’s head hat and a set of wings?”

  Hartley’s mouth dropped open and he stared at his master in utter disbelief. “A boar’s head hat? And a set of wings, sir?”

  “Precisely. I shall require them by this evening, Hartley. And I should like a pig’s tail, too, for good meas
ure. It must be one that I can pin to the back of my coat.”

  Hartley nodded. “It is to be a costume then, sir?”

  “Yes, and I shall wear it to the ball. You must not fail me in this, Hartley. It may very well be my sole opportunity to make Lady Radcliffe my wife.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  John grinned as Hartley dropped the pirate costume and hurried from his chamber. His valet had worn a most determined expression and John was certain that he should spare no effort to secure the necessary items. The proof of Hartley’s determination was in the pirate costume that lay in a crumpled heap upon John’s floor. This was the first time in Hartley’s long years of service that he had exhibited so little regard for an item of his master’s clothing. Claire gave a smile of satisfaction as she surveyed her image in the glass. She had closeted herself in her sitting room for hours, clipping and re-stitching the necessary seams to alter the items that Philip had brought to her. His formal set of clothing was now tailored to fit her slender form, but Claire found that she could scarcely face her reflection in the glass as she stepped back to assess the fit of the breeches.

  A flush of heated color rose to cover Claire’s cheeks and turn them bright pink with embarrassment. Most ladies of her acquaintance should be put to the blush if so much as an ankle were inadvertently exposed. Skirts swept down to the floor, thoroughly hiding the body beneath them. It was considered most improper to even refer to the mechanism that made it possible for a lady to walk.

  Claire had laughed about this once with her husband, quipping that a proper gentleman must be quite shocked to discover that his bride possessed two legs of a design similar to his own. The shape of these limbs was never discussed and a gentleman had no certain way of knowing, until after he had spoken his vows, whether his wife’s limbs should be fat and stubby, or long and graceful.