Lord Clairmond’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “More likely he wishes we had a piece of bread to feed him.” She glanced at him, half reproachfully at his commonsensical reply, and he laughed at her look, and comfort returned.
And yet, Eveline was dissatisfied. The day continued to be bright and clear, but though he smiled and talked so easily, she could see just as clearly the fleeting shadows in Lord Clairmond’s eyes.
Chapter Six
Richard, Viscount Clairmond, however, was quite satisfied. Slowly, surely, he was pulling Miss Seton in, like a fish on a line. He had heard her hurried steps as soon as she left the parlor: She had been eager to ride in the carriage with him earlier this afternoon. All for a title, he was certain.
He sighed, sitting on the inn’s bed, trying to tug his boot off. Lescaux cleared his throat in a meaningful way, but Richard ignored him. He bent his attention to thoughts of Miss Seton instead, smiling a little in relief. She was a creature of little compassion, surely. He’d seen other women weep at the mention of all the men dead in the war, but not a tear filled Miss Seton’s eyes. She was pretty, and had no heart—and he was thankful for it. It would make the seduction and eventual abandonment much, much easier; for all his depredations amongst the demimondaine and high-born light-skirts, he had never seduced a young woman innocent of fleshly delights. Well, he thought, she was certainly not a lady of birth. Perhaps she knew nothing of respectable behavior, whom she should entertain or not. Was she not nearly unchaperoned in that house, with her father an invalid?
Richard’s conscience rebuked him for this last thought, for he had heard nothing disreputable of her, but he turned a deaf ear to his conscience. So what if Lady Brookland had introduced Miss Seton to him? He only knew Lady Brookland as an old acquaintance of his father’s, and nothing about the lady herself. Perhaps she was faulty in her judgment of dressmakers.
He absently tugged at his boot again. This time he could not ignore the louder throat-clearing from Lescaux, for the valet stood directly in front of him. Richard glanced at his supremely disapproving expression and laughed.
“Oh, very well, you old fraud!” he said, extending his foot, Lescaux sniffed—as haughtily as any patron of Almack’s—and flicked out a handkerchief from his sleeve.
“For God’s sake, Lescaux, get on with it!”
His valet eyed him sternly, the handkerchief delicately poised in midair between his thumb and index finger. “Milord le Capitaine, there is a wrong way of removing a boot, and a right way, n’est-ce pas? I, Lescaux, cannot do anything but what is right. It would be a … a smarch upon the reputation of Milord.”
“ ‘Smirch,’ Lescaux.”
“Bah!”
The little man tenderly wrapped the handkerchief around the heel and pulled. It came off easily. He smiled in obvious satisfaction.
Richard rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Very well, I admit it, you are correct. I am incapable of pulling off my own boots.” He stood up and walked to the washstand to wash his face.
“I did not say that, Milord.” Lescaux’s expression was still complacent, however. “You are, of course, capable of it. But a man who is thinking of l’amour cannot be responsible for looking at his boot, when he would prefer to look at a lady, particularly one such as Mademoiselle Seton, eh?”
The cloth in Richard’s hand dropped into the washbasin. “I am not thinking of l’amour, I assure you.”
The valet’s smile was skeptical.
“Lescaux! For God’s sake!”
“Of course not, Milord. What do I, a valet, comprehend of these things?” He shrugged his shoulders expressively. The knowing look still remained, however.
Richard did not know whether to laugh or snap at his servant. He’d known when he agreed to have Lescaux as his valet that the man would barely respect the boundaries between master and man; he’d never stood on ceremony with anyone when they were in the army, yet even Wellington himself had overlooked it and laughed at the Belgian’s outspokenness.
Lescaux sighed. “English! They appreciate only horses. Were such a one as Miss Seton to come upon a Belgian … ah!” He kissed his fingers to the air. “Such grace, such beauty—et très douceur!”
“She is, I assure you, merely a flirtation.”
The valet pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Ah? And so she thinks it, eh?”
“No doubt,” said Richard lightly. He removed the rest of his clothes, readying himself for bed.
Lescaux sighed sentimentally. “And many opportunities for the flirtation, oui? The assembly, the musicale, the ride in the park, the masquerade, and tomorrow the alfresco luncheon in the country.” He ticked off each item on his fingers.
“For God’s sake, have done!” Richard snapped. “If she thinks my attentions are anything more than trivial, then it is she who is at fault, not I!” He flung aside the bedclothes and moved between them, turning his back to Lescaux.
The valet stared at his master for one moment, then shook his head. He had not spoken of fault at all; it was Milord who had spoken of it. Lescaux sighed again, not sentimentally at all, and removed himself from the viscount’s chambers.
Richard was lost again, but this time he did not have his horse, Satan. He could feel mist, as he had the last time—cold and clinging to the skin of his face. A chill presence grew behind his back, and he turned. Teufel.
“What do you want?”
Teufel looked thoughtfully at him and swung his diamond-topped walking stick slowly to and fro.
“Well?” Richard clenched his teeth in impatience.
“You are taking your time about seducing Miss Seton’s virtue, are you not?”
“And you are taking your time about your promise of wealth, are you not?”
Teufel raised his brows. “I will deliver it after you have done your task.”
“Pardon me,” Richard replied sarcastically. “That is not how I remember our bargain.”
“I thought you a gentleman and an officer, bound by your word, and here you are trying to squeeze out of our agreement.” Teufel shook his head sorrowfully.
Anger boiled within Richard at the insult. “I would meet you for that, were you human, Teufel.”
“But I am not, and there is nothing you can do about that, can you?” Teufel replied kindly. “I forgive you, however. You were quite ill when we met, as I recall. I cannot really blame you if you do not remember exactly the way I phrased the terms.”
Richard gazed at Teufel in frustration. Briefly, he had hoped his recollection had been as he remembered it. But it was true he had been ill, having contracted influenza as Lescaux later informed him. It was also true that his memory was elusive on exact wording of the agreement, for the thing that dominated his mind was the wracking pain of fever he had felt at the time. If he was, however, no longer an officer, certainly he was a gentleman and had made a gentleman’s agreement. He was bound by his word, no matter how Teufel spoke mockingly of it.
“Your creditors grow impatient, I think,” Teufel said.
For a moment the viscount averted his face. “They can wait. Besides, you must know seduction is best done slowly.” There was a sneer in his voice.
Teufel grinned. “Of course. But you could have had it done and over with, oh, yesterday. You could have suggested a longer ride to the lovely Miss Seton, taken her off to one of the abandoned cottages on your estate, and have ruined her quite successfully, I am sure. It is only a two-hour ride there, after all.”
Richard’s hands almost curled into fists, but he made them relax. He smiled coolly. “How crude. You must know I prefer the elegance of slow seduction to the vulgarity of rape.” His voice was heavily ironic.
“Of course.” Teufel gave an equally ironic bow. “But I grow impatient. Surely your charm is such that you can accomplish a seduction within a month?”
“You flatter me.”
“Not at all, my dear Clairmond. How many women have you seduced in the past, hmmm? In far less time? Shall I name them for you?
”
Richard felt nauseated. For all that Miss Seton was a grasping merchant’s daughter, she was an innocent compared to the women he had lusted after in the years before the war. They had known what lovemaking would entail and were experienced in it; Miss Seton no doubt was not experienced at all. If she struggled, it would be little better than the rape he detested.
“And how is the lovely Miss Seton so very different? These merchant’s daughters—they are far more earthy, however virginal, than the ladies of your own rank, shall we say?”
The viscount stared at Teufel in barely concealed disgust. “I will do it in my own time. You need not remind me.
“Oh, but I must, I must!” replied Teufel. He gently tapped the diamond end of his walking stick against his smiling mouth. “I think you forgot yourself yesterday—forgot your purpose in pursuing Miss Seton.”
“Not at all,” replied Richard, keeping his voice cool with an effort. “But I merely thought I’d take some pleasure in the process, you see.”
“Of course. And I am sure you shall.” Teufel chuckled. “Tomorrow.”
Richard’s lip curled in distaste for his vulgarity.
“Oh, oh, so high!” mocked Teufel. “I do admire pride, you know.”
“Go away. I will do it in my own time. I cannot guarantee it will be tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Teufel said. He saluted Richard with his walking stick, and the mist enveloped him.
Richard stared into the dimness where Teufel had disappeared. He unloosed his clenched fists and pressed his palms into his eyes with weariness.
When he removed them, it was day, and he was sitting up in his bed, chill sweat trickling down his face. A dream. Of course. It was a dream, and he had been asleep … but Richard did not feel rested at all.
He closed his eyes again, but sleep eluded him. He shivered violently. Cold—he felt cold. He looked at the low fire in the fireplace across the room from the bed, and pulling on his robe as he arose out of bed, he threw some logs upon the fire, scattering ashes in his haste. The fire sank, then flared higher as the flames licked at the dry wood. He pulled a footstool to him and sat on it, holding out his hands and moving his feet toward the heat. Slowly, slowly, the warmth returned to his limbs, his fingers and toes aching with the blood now coursing through them. A knock sounded on the door.
“Come!” called Richard.
It was Lescaux, carrying carefully ironed neckcloths. The little man glanced at the fireplace and the roaring fire, and feeling the tremendous heat coming from it, looked curiously at his master. The sun was streaming through the windows, bright and warm, but it seemed the viscount did not feel it or see it. The room was almost suffocating in its heat.
The valet reverently laid the neckcloths over the back of a chair. “I think Milord le Capitaine has need of his sleep, so I did not disturb him, oui? But the time, she passes, and I think also you do not want to miss the alfresco luncheon with Miss Seton.”
The viscount looked at the old clock above the mantelpiece. “Good God. I should have left here already to hire the curricle.” He rubbed his face wearily. “I shall depend on you, Lescaux, to help get me ready as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Milord.” And yet, Milord le Capitaine did not move as fast as one would when looking forward to an appointment with a lovely young lady.
Eveline awoke with a warm sense of anticipation, feeling as if she were a child promised a treat on Christmas Day. She opened her eyes and chuckled to herself. It was the wrong season for Christmas, for the bright spring sun flung its rays through her window and the singing of sparrows told her it was quite otherwise.
Ah, but the treat, however, was soon to be given her, for was she not to go out into the country with the Viscount Clairmond today? She stretched her arms joyfully, then tossed back the bedclothes and rose from her bed.
She did not take long to dress, for she had already chosen the clothes she would wear. The slight dissatisfaction she had felt upon the close of her carriage ride with the viscount was totally routed when she had later received, not two hours later, a missive writ in his large, dark handwriting, requesting her company on an outing to an alfresco luncheon. It would be with a few of his friends, perhaps two hours out to his estate. It would take nearly the whole day, but she was sure she could not find the length of the event tedious at all.
For she fully acknowledged that she was in love with the viscount, and though she did not know whether he felt the same toward her or not, she felt she could not, should not, put a stop to her feelings.
It had come to her in the night, in dreams of light and shadow. Eveline had dreamt of the sleepless nights when she did not know if her father would live or die, the fatiguing travels to her father’s house of business, made even more wearying by wondering if he would be alive when she returned. She remembered, even before her father’s accident, the halfhearted morning calls of young men who clearly believed young ladies should read nothing more than descriptions of the newest fashions in Ackermann’s Repository. She did not want to become a bored matron filled with trivial thoughts and petty gossip, as she had seen many of these young men’s wives become, though she thought wistfully of marriage as well.
She could never marry the viscount, of course. He would find someone of his own station to wed. But here now was love, and though she might die a spinster, she’d seize the experience and it would warm her as a cold and tedious marriage would never do.
How could such an emotion be wrong? It filled her heart with light, and she told herself she did not care whether he returned her affections. She knew it was an impossible thing—that he could want to marry her, a merchant’s daughter. Time and time again she had reminded herself that he was merely looking for amiable company, perhaps a flirtation, but never, never marriage. He was a viscount, and of an old family, she had heard. And so, the most she could hope for was to love, and take what joy she could from his company.
She knew he would probably leave at one point, never to see her again, perhaps to marry another, better-born lady. The thought brought a sharp, hot pain to her; but she knew also that if she did not take what she could of love, she would regret it all her life.
She took her pink round gown that Nurse had set out the night before and put it against herself, swinging around in a little waltz. She would think only of now, and when Clairmond came for her, she’d gaze and gaze at him as many times as she dared, so that she could remember him always.
The door opened to let in Nurse, who also carried in Eveline’s breakfast. The woman gazed sternly at her mistress and put down the breakfast tray. “As if I hadn’t taken great care to take all the wrinkles out of that lovely dress, here you go crushing it, Miss Eveline!”
Eveline put down the dress hastily on the bed, spreading and smoothing the skirts. She smiled demurely at her nurse.
“Oh, no, Nurse Conny! I was not crushing it, truly! Only … only seeing if it fit as it should.”
Nurse eyed her skeptically. “And it’s a grand number of inches you have grown in the last month, I’ll warrant.”
Eveline burst out laughing. “Of course!”
Nurse’s lips twitched, and a twinkle grew in her eye, but she tried to keep her face stern. A chuckle broke out instead. “Aye, and well do I know you’ve taken a fancy to that Lord Clairmond!” Her face sobered, and she looked keenly at her charge. “But you’ll not be losing your heart to the gentleman now, I hope. That one may be all of a lord, but I’ve heard he might look higher for a wife, Miss Evie—and I mean no disrespect to you or Mr. Seton.”
Eveline’s eyes grew grave. “Of course I know that, Conny.” She turned away, gazing out of the window. “It is a flirtation only, I am sure.” She looked at her nurse again, giving her a brilliant smile. “Meanwhile, I shall enjoy every minute of it.”
Nurse Connor sighed quietly and picked up the dress. There was no telling her young lady anything; she’d taken the bit between her teeth and run. She was sure Miss Evie would never
do anything disreputable; but she feared she’d break her heart instead.
Chapter Seven
The Earl of Wyvern turned over the invitation card meditatively. He was certain it did not come from Clairmond himself. The man disliked him, possibly for the same reason the late viscount had refused to associate with the earl’s family, and very probably because Wyvern had forced Richard Clairmond’s hand regarding Miss Clairmond’s fate.
The card was, most likely, from Miss Clairmond herself. He was sure she would be going to the alfresco luncheon; no doubt Clairmond had told her to invite what friends she wished. Wyvern’s hand tightened, creasing the card, and his lip curled at the thought. Did he not know Marianne had no friends to invite? She had had no time for frivolous pursuits, no time for calling on friends too far away to travel safely in her decrepit little gig. She’d had to use what time she could squeeze from the day to attend to estate affairs, and spend a few hours with his daughters for the frankly meager salary he gave her.
He’d wanted to give her a higher wage, for he well knew she and her servants had barely enough to manage both the estate and their stomachs; but he knew if he had, she’d grow suspicious of his charity and would not take the extra money if she found out how much more she was already being paid than the usual governess’s wage.
The earl turned the little card over and over again in his fingers, then flicked it down on the silver salver his butler had left on his escritoire. If Clairmond knew nothing of Marianne’s friendless state, it would serve Wyvern’s purposes just as well. He would go. If he did not, Miss Clairmond’s pride would surely suffer. He smiled a slight, ironic smile. Her image grew in his mind’s eye, and he could see her back stiffening in defiance if he were not there. He could not do it to her, of course. Life had dealt her pride severe blows, not the least of which was a thoughtless brother, but she had bravely held up her head through it all.
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