Corbin climbed the stairs to the nursery wing.
Edmund had said his stomach ached when Corbin had left him with Caroline’s nursemaid. No doubt he was ill from worry and tension. He hoped Edmund was feeling better. He hoped Alice had stopped crying. He hoped Clara would allow him to hold her again.
Corbin could still remember how she’d felt in his arms, as if she was made to be there. His other half. He’d let her go very reluctantly, knowing he’d likely never have another opportunity to hold her.
He knew which room in the nursery wing Edmund had been given and crossed directly to it. A light burned inside. He stepped through the doorway. Edmund was sleeping, curled in a ball on his side on the bed. In a chair very near him sat Clara, Alice asleep in her arms.
Corbin stood still and quiet, taking in the scene. It was the closest he’d ever come to seeing perfection.
The illusion dissolved at the sound of a muffled sob, one he knew did not belong to either of the children.
“Clara?”
She looked up at him, and he saw tears streaming down her face. Pain pierced him at the sight of her hurting like she was. Even in the retelling of her encounters with Robert Bentford, she hadn’t cried so openly, without any effort to control her emotions. Corbin crossed to where she sat and gently took Alice from her arms. He laid the girl on the bed beside Edmund, careful not to wake her as he slipped the blanket around her as well.
Clara hadn’t risen when Corbin turned back toward her. He held his hand out to her, wondering if she would accept it. He’d been less than heroic during her ordeal, letting his brothers undertake the rescue efforts. She might very well have written him off as useless.
She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his and allowing him to help her to her feet. Holding her hand, he discovered, was not nearly enough. He wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the heel of his hand. She closed her eyes. She was still too pale, her eyes red-rimmed from prolonged crying.
“What can I do, Clara?” Corbin asked, desperate to be useful.
She looked up at him, anguish in her eyes.
Corbin slipped his hand from hers and cupped her face. He’d never kissed a woman before, something most gentlemen would never admit to. He’d often wondered if, when the opportunity arose, he would even know what to do. But in that moment, instinct simply took over.
He gently pressed his lips to hers, holding her face in his hands. Slowly, gently, he kissed her, breathing in the sweet scent of her. Every thought fled from his mind, every sound silenced. He was aware of nothing but her.
His hand slid from her face to her shoulders, then down her back, his arms wrapping around her and holding her close. Clara didn’t pull back, didn’t object. He felt her grasp his waistcoat as she kissed him in return.
“Mister?”
Clara broke away first, though she didn’t flee his embrace. Corbin was certain he was as red as a strawberry.
“Yes, Alice?” He kept his arms around Clara as he glanced at her daughter.
She still appeared half asleep. “Kisses for me too?” She held her arms up in an obvious request.
If he hadn’t been red before, Corbin certainly was then. Kisses too. Obviously, they’d had an audience.
He met Clara’s gaze. She gave him a small, tremulous smile.
He moved to the bed, hunching down beside Alice, and kissed her forehead. “Good night, sweetheart,” Corbin whispered.
“G’night, Mister.” She curled up beside Edmund.
Corbin smoothed back her hair, watching her for a brief moment. She seemed to have recovered to some degree from her earlier ordeal. He hoped Edmund had as well.
Corbin rose and turned to Clara. She was no longer there.
“Clara?” he quietly called after her, not wanting to disturb the children. She wasn’t outside the door in the schoolroom.
Had she fled from him? Certainly his kiss hadn’t been so unwanted, so unpleasant. No. She had returned the gesture and, as far as his inexperience could ascertain, had enjoyed it. Corbin’s heart sank. She’d had a difficult evening. She’d been tired and upset. Had he taken advantage of that? Had he pressed unwanted attentions on her?
Corbin closed his eyes and leaned against a wall of the nursery, hoping he hadn’t ruined everything with that kiss, a kiss he knew he would never forget.
* * *
More than a moment passed after Clara awoke the next morning before she realized where she was. The events of the evening before rushed over her. She was tempted to simply crawl under the blanket again and pretend it was all a horrible dream.
You are no helpless hothouse flower, wilting at the first difficulty. She had set out on her own and saved herself and her children—at least temporarily—from her brother-in-law. She would not sit by helplessly when there was a problem to be addressed. The Jonquils were helping her. She didn’t know their reasons, but she was grateful for all they’d done. She would, she vowed, help them in any way she could.
She sat up, her head faintly aching from a night of weeping. She walked barefooted across the cool, wood floor to a dressing table. Her eyes were a little puffy but far better than she would have anticipated.
“Are you awake, then?” a voice asked from the doorway.
Clara looked over to see a servant girl, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, smiling kindly at her.
“Mr. Jonquil had your things sent over this morning.” The girl crossed to the clothespress and opened the doors. Her clothes, probably very nearly all of them, hung neatly inside.
Clara crossed to the clothespress herself and opened the drawers. Her underthings and stockings sat inside.
“The children?” she asked quietly.
“Their things as well,” the girl confirmed. “Mr. Jonquil said you would want your things here. ’Specially the children’s. ’Twould make them feel more at home.”
“It certainly will,” Clara said.
“Now, what would you like to wear today? I’m to be your maid, if you’ve no objection.”
“None whatsoever.” She hadn’t had a lady’s maid since Mr. Bentford’s death. “What’s your name?”
“Fanny,” the girl answered.
Fanny? Why did that sound familiar?
“Thank you, Fanny.”
An hour later, Clara made her way through the long corridors of Havenworth, having broken her fast in her room and looking, in her opinion, better than she had in some time.
She felt inexplicably nervous. Would she come across Corbin? Would he be indifferent, stiff and disapproving? Would he be sympathetic and gentle? She couldn’t possibly predict. Clara knew she would probably blush the moment she saw him, remembering, as she had all night and all morning, that lovely and unnerving kiss. She’d realized as she’d stood in his embrace, kissing him and being kissed in return, that she’d fallen in love with him. And it frightened her.
“You cannot say anything to anyone, Caroline.” That was Charlie; Clara was certain of it.
“But I saw you driving Corbo’s carriage.”
Clara reached a bend in the corridor and spied Charlie and Caroline facing one another with equally defiant expressions. Clara kept to the corner, out of sight.
“I was only putting the carriage back,” Charlie insisted. “And the scratch was already there.”
“You scratched it?” Caroline’s eyes grew wide. Apparently, even at her young age, she understood the significance of that misdeed.
“It wasn’t my fault. And you cannot tell Corbin.”
Charlie forever seemed to be in some kind of mischief. Clara had heard of a broken window and a shattered vase. Edmund had spoken more than once of Charlie disrupting the stable hands and making more work for them.
Not wanting to find herself in the midst of another of Charlie’s larks, Clara stepped inside the sitting room.
“Mrs. Bentford.” The dowager countess sat on a sofa embroidering but was looking up now that Clara had entered. “How are you fe
eling this morning? What a horrible day you had yesterday.”
Clara nodded. The dowager motioned for her to join her on the sofa. She sat and waited, unsure what would come next.
“A Squire Reynolds was here this morning,” the dowager informed her.
Clara closed her eyes, forcing a slow breath.
“He was quite easily persuaded to return to Sussex. It seems he is remarkably impressed with our Crispin.” She sounded as though she was holding back a laugh. “I suppose I would have completely ruined the effect if I had told the squire about the time Crispin and Philip got their breeches stuck in the back garden gate at the Park. My husband laughed for fifteen minutes without hardly stopping for breath at the time.”
Clara smiled at that, the first smile she’d managed since Mr. Bentford had entered Ivy Cottage the evening before. She looked at the dowager. “How old were they?”
“Thirteen.” The dowager chuckled at the memory.
“Philip is your eldest?” Clara asked. There were a lot of Jonquils, and she couldn’t quite keep them all straight.
“Yes,” the dowager answered fondly. “He is in Scotland just now.”
“Yes, Corbin said so last night.” Clara remembered hearing as much.
The dowager nodded, a look of concern once more etched in her features. “Philip took Sorrel, his new bride, to Scotland to see a surgeon. She was injured many years ago and walks with a profound limp. This surgeon thought he might be able to help her. The surgery, I understand, went well, but Sorrel is not recovering quickly.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean she is suffering any serious complications.”
“So do I.” The dowager sighed. “Philip’s last letter indicated she was experiencing a tremendous amount of pain but that the surgeon believes her leg will heal well.”
“Philip seems to be a very attentive husband,” Clara said. Was there yet another Jonquil who was gentle and kind? It was almost unfathomable.
“Sorrel has been very good for him.” The dowager sighed again. “She has sobered him in ways he needed. And Lady Marion has lightened Layton, who has a tendency to be too sober. They have both chosen well for themselves. But I worry for Corbin.”
The dowager was intent on her embroidery once more and couldn’t possibly know the discomfort her words caused Clara.
“He has always been painfully shy,” the dowager continued. “Few ladies would be willing or able to see past that. Even with his own family, Corbin is terribly quiet.”
Shy? She’d never thought of Corbin as shy.
The dowager continued stitching. “Philip took Corbin to Town for the Season—oh, it must have been three, perhaps four years ago. Corbin has a great deal to recommend himself. He is wealthy enough to support a family in style. He is good-natured, well mannered, and would be a faithful and loving husband. Yet the moment he was in society, at a ball, a dinner, a musicale, he would freeze up, his tongue tying in knots. The poor man couldn’t speak a word to anyone. More than one person, I am afraid, came away convinced our Corbin was arrogant, which, I assure you, is as far from the truth as possible.”
Clara looked away, her mind churning. Couldn’t speak a word to anyone. Arrogant. She thought back on all of the interactions she’d had with Corbin, the myriad times he’d seemed unhappy in her presence, unimpressed and distant, cold even. Could he simply have been uncomfortable because he was shy?
“Corbin hardly speaks to his own family, let alone strangers,” the dowager added. “Philip could not convince Corbin to return for the next Season. He has seemed a little better these past couple of weeks. He doesn’t stammer as much as he once did. That dear boy. I hope he can overcome his timidity enough to catch some lady’s eye.”
Clara bit down on her lips, thinking. Shy? No, she shook off the thought. He hadn’t seemed at all shy last evening with Mr. Bentford. He’d tossed him out of her house after threatening him rather eloquently and, she remembered with some satisfaction, very likely breaking his nose.
And timidity certainly hadn’t factored into his kiss.
She closed her eyes and thought of that kiss. Somehow, he’d touched her soul with that simple, lingering gesture. She’d lost her heart to the gentle and considerate side of him. If the disapproval she’d seen was indeed simply shyness . . . With a surge of welcome hope, Clara tucked the possibility away.
“Your Edmund is a sweet little boy,” the dowager said.
“He is that.” The love she felt for her nephew had grown and deepened over the years he’d been in her care. She thought of him like her own son. What would she do if Mr. Bentford carried his point? She couldn’t subject Edmund to that life again.
“Corbin has enjoyed having Edmund as his little shadow in the stables.” The dowager smiled fondly. “The way he describes the boy’s love of horses reminds me of Corbin as a child. Such a hard worker. Such a tender heart.”
Corbin and Edmund did have a special bond. Clara had seen it many times over. And Alice had fallen so fully in love with her mister all those weeks ago when she’d first seen him behind them at church.
A thought rushed through her mind in that moment. She’d been at loose ends searching for a way to assist in her family’s rescue. She might not have had any ability to save herself, but she knew she could help the children.
You can take the girl anywhere you like, Mr. Bentford had said of Alice. He had no interest in the children. Should the unthinkable happen to her, she could at least be sure her children were safe and happy.
Chapter Nineteen
Clara took a portable writing desk out to the back gardens of Havenworth. It was a peaceful and quiet place, something she welcomed after the upheaval of the past few days. She hoped Corbin’s family and their lofty associates could clear her name. But even if they managed to solve her legal difficulties, it would hardly free her of the crushing weight she carried.
She would never be truly free of Mr. Bentford so long as he knew where she was. She would have to run again, find another tiny hamlet in which to hide.
Poor Edmund. What will he do without Corbin and the horses? He’ll be heartbroken. And Alice has grown so attached to Corbin as well. I cannot pull them away from the first kind and caring man either of them has ever known.
If she uprooted the children so often, neither of them would ever form any lasting friendships. How would Alice ever hope to marry if she never stayed in a neighborhood long enough to be courted? Edmund might manage to make friends once at Eton.
Clara stared down at the blank parchment in front of her, her heart growing heavier by the moment. Could she truly do what she was contemplating? Could she sacrifice so much for the sake of her children?
So long as Mr. Bentford needed her widow’s jointure, he would never leave her be. And to have his scheme crushed as decisively as the Jonquils were planning would be a blow to his pride he wouldn’t soon forget. She would never be truly free of him. She would likely spend the rest of her days running and hiding.
But I cannot subject the children to that kind of life.
Trouble hadn’t sunk her yet; she wouldn’t allow it to now. Should Corbin’s family be unsuccessful and she be imprisoned, transported, or hanged, she simply needed to have a plan in place for the children. Even if she were forced to return to Bentford Manor, she would not make the children return there as well.
Corbin, she felt certain, would allow Edmund and Alice to stay at Havenworth. Edmund could earn his keep helping in the stables. When Alice was old enough, she too could find a means of being helpful. And Corbin would be kind to them. That meant more than almost anything else.
Sweet, kind Corbin. His gentleness had assuaged so many of her fears over the past weeks. He was the first man she’d truly trusted and depended on. Her man of business in London had proven himself reliable, but she still preferred him at a distance, as she did all men. But Corbin . . . Corbin was different.
He has always been painfully shy. She had pondered the dowager’s declaration many times o
ver and could see the first hints of truth to it. She had seen him color on occasion. And he most certainly stammered and stumbled over his words. There did seem to be a thread of timidity running through him.
Clara bent over her portable writing desk and began writing out instructions. She gave the name and direction of her man of business. She listed the amount of Edmund’s inheritance and how she wished it be used. She made a list of the names of Edmund’s relatives on his father’s side, warning of their unsuitability. Corbin would need these details written out for reference.
After the ink had a chance to dry, Clara pulled out a second sheet of paper. She would need to write out instructions to her man of business to transfer the keeping of Edmund’s inheritance to Corbin while explaining her continued need for secrecy in her whereabouts.
“I heard rumors the Jonquils had taken on another pet project.” Mr. Finley’s voice cut into her moment of determination, leaving her unsettled and nervous again. “I didn’t realize you were their latest stray.”
There he stood but a few paces ahead, leaning quite casually against the thick trunk of a tall tree.
“I do not believe Mr. Jonquil wishes you to be on his land,” Clara said calmly. She slipped her papers back in the desk.
He simply gave her an overly confident smile. “Are they rallying to your cause, Clara?”
She held her chin high. Past experience had taught her that correcting his use of her Christian name would do no good. “I bid you good day, Mr. Finley.” She stood and began walking with as much confidence as she could muster.
Even with her long strides, Mr. Finley caught up to her in the shortest of moments. “Let me guess. The Jonquils took up the challenge of ridding you of your bothersome relative without so much as a second thought, without waiting to be asked?”
She didn’t at all like that he knew exactly how her rescue had played out. She avoided his question with one of her own. “How do you know about my ‘bothersome relative’?”
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