“Come to me,” he said, holding out his arms, barely able to watch.
It was the wrong thing to say. She stood where she was, perfectly poised, and crossed her arms.
“I will not. You need not fear that I will ever impose myself on you again, my lord. You have made it clear that you have burdens enough, truly more than anyone can bear. Your sister is blind, but you suffer a worse fate. Your parents are dead, but you . . .”
“You have said enough, madam,” Max said, dropping his arms. Let the harpy fall off her branch and drown in ten inches of water, for all he cared. She was quite right; his cup of guilt overflowed and could hold no more.
“I have not,” she insisted. “And you will listen to what I have to say.”
“I will not,” he said, and picked up his boots. It was wrong for him to leave her here, and certainly ungentlemanly. But he would not allow her to dictate his behavior or remind him of his obligations. She scarcely knew him or Camille, and she certainly did not know what happened that night. He turned his back on her, pausing just long enough to brace himself should she throw a rock at his head, and then stomped off through the woods, cursing every pebble and thistle that pressed into his flesh.
“You must think of Camille,” she called out to him. Here, at least, they agreed, for he rarely thought of anyone else.
***
Claire watched Maxwell Brooks stomp off into the woods and wished she had something to throw at his stupid head, so that she might knock some sense into it. Was there ever a man so selfish that he insisted upon nursing his cold glass of tea forever and ever, without letting anyone warm it or take it from him? Did he truly imagine all of London society had nothing more to divert it than to whisper about a tragedy of long ago, about people they scarcely remembered? Lady Camille would be all the rage, a bit of a novelty, perhaps at first, but someone who would demonstrate her capabilities so quickly that people would need to be reminded of her limitations. She would win them over, and no one would care the least bit about her ill-tempered brother.
Claire carefully balanced herself until she reached the mossy embankment, and sighed with relief; how had she managed to prevent a tumble into the brook? Righteous indignation might provide the fuel for any number of challenges, she supposed. And Maxwell Brooks could provide her with power for many weeks to come.
At least, she hoped so.
What made her so bold, so uncommonly rude, that she would dare to touch him intimately on so short and indifferent an acquaintance? Where did she find the invitation to do what she did, and welcome the kiss that inevitably followed? She did not learn the arts of seduction from her late husband, for she doubted he was a skilled practitioner even with someone other than herself. But how and why did it come upon her now, and with this man?
So long as she searched for lessons in truth, she might as well begin with this riddle. Did she not learn the art of touching from Camille, whom she witnessed exploring her brother’s face and strange new beard? There was nothing inappropriate with what the brother and sister did, and Claire could only envy them their simple pleasure in each other, and happy reunion. But while she watched them she yearned to go even further, to touch Maxwell Brooks as did Camille, but to also put her fingers on his lips and feel them on hers.
She wanted him; that much was certain. She felt the fire ignite when she first spied him amongst the columns in the ballroom, and when it burst into flames here, in the woods. But there was no sense to it, for she could have had any number of eligible gentlemen—and some not so eligible—in all the years since Glastonbury’s death. And yet no one tempted her.
Maxwell Brooks was all delicious temptation, even with his ridiculous beard, and his gruff changes of mood. And now she had already tasted him, and hungered for more.
She left off her stockings, for they would only sag and wrinkle along her damp legs, and struggled to put on her slippers. There was something very tempting about dancing through the woods in her bare feet, but she would make last night’s injuries worse if she followed Maxwell Brooks’s example by trampling over the rough terrain. She imagined him showing up at his own door, bleeding and bruised, due to nothing more than his own stubbornness, and imagined it served him very right.
Still, she hoped he would see to it, lest his cuts fester. If she was not too late, perhaps she would ask the servants to bring him a basin of warm water and some clean linens. Not that it was her business to do so, of course.
She started up the hill towards the cottage, knowing she was far-gone when she found herself worrying about a man’s feet. But such was the state of her distraction, for never had someone so thoroughly irrational and irritating intrigued her more. She wondered about the other women in his life and if he ever thought to marry. She wondered about his business in Portugal. And, as she crested the hill, and walked past an ancient chestnut tree, she wondered why he sat on the far side, surely waiting for her to pass.
She stopped and shook out her loose curls, using her fingers as a comb. She lifted her skirts and examined her damp slippers, thinking they would need to be stuffed with cotton wool to retain their shape. In short, she did everything she might imagine to get him to reveal himself or, at the very least, make him perfectly uncomfortable sitting still for so long, spying on her.
***
Several hours later, having bathed and dressed in her very favorite emerald gown, Claire descended the staircase to the parlour, rehearsing the speech she was now obliged to deliver to her new friend.
“Claire!” Camille said. “You must be dressed very fine tonight for I believe you are wearing something special. Your gown is silk, is it not? And what is its color? Is it an occasion?”
Claire paused with but a few steps to go and studied Camille’s upturned face. From this angle, one could see the slits of reflection of her damaged eyes, but from any angle one would see her radiant smile. She wondered what she knew about the incident in the woods, but then reflected that Lord Wentworth was not likely to share any conversation about his intimacies with women, no matter how close he was to his sister. And yet Camille looked as if she knew something happened.
“I suppose it is, my dear, though not the happiest of ones,” Claire said. “I fear this is my last night at Brookside Cottage, for I must return to London on the morrow.” She descended the last few steps and reached out to grasp Camille’s gloved hand. Through the linen, Camille’s flesh felt like ice.
“But why? Why must you leave? We have only just begun to have fun. And now Maxwell is here to escort us about the countryside,” Camille said. For the first time in their acquaintance, she sounded like a little girl, pouting because she could not get her way.
“I have enjoyed every moment of our time together,” Claire said reassuringly, “but my friend Lady Fayreweather is ill and needs me.”
“Lady Fayreweather? Is she not Aunt Adelaide’s friend as well? I will write my aunt at once and ask for her assistance,” Camille said. “But you must not leave me.”
“Who is leaving?” said Lord Wentworth, just above them.
Claire caught her breath, surprised because she did not hear him approach. And judging by the expression on Camille’s face, she did not hear him, either.
Neither of them answered him. Claire did not know why Camille was silent but for herself, she had quite forgotten how to breathe.
Lord Wentworth had divested himself of his absurd beard, and the pale skin along his jaw, contrasting with the rest of his face, suggested he spent long hours in the sun in Portugal. He looked now as he did when she first met him in London, but with a subtle difference. Whereas he had been studiously indifferent to the company in the Armadale ballroom, something in his expression suggested he was not so indifferent now. Claire would have guessed that the presence of his sister brought him pleasure, but he was not looking at Camille. He was looking at her.
“W
hat is the problem?” Camille asked. “Why will neither of you speak?”
“Your brother has surprised me, that is all. I scarcely recognized him without his great, dark beard.”
Camille smiled. “I am glad it is gone, for all you liked it, Maxwell. You must have looked like Great-uncle Wickersham while you wore it.”
“And he always was a handsome devil,” answered her brother. “I could scarcely compete, nor would I want to. In fact, I am much happier without that burden. Far too many people were interested in it.”
“I cannot imagine anyone would be interested except for myself and your valet,” Camille pointed out, sensibly enough.
“Perhaps even one more person would qualify for your brother as ‘far too many,’” Claire suggested, still studying him. The faint scar she had fingered near his ear was only visible if one looked for it.
“That is quite true,” Wentworth said, and scratched near his ear. “And much depends on that person.”
Camille’s face turned from one to the other and said nothing.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” Wentworth asked, offering an elbow to each lady. “I find I have quite an appetite.”
“Yes, I expect so,” Claire said softly, though she knew full well that Camille was poised to hear every word they uttered. “It must be exhausting to hide behind a tree, spying on what others are doing.”
“It is. Worry and fear are great expenses on the spirit, and I needed to know that the object of my interest was safe.”
“How very noble of you, Lord Wentworth. And once you established that the object of your interest had escaped the roaring brook, was it equally as exhausting to watch that person put her clothing to rights?”
“Even more exhausting,” he said, leaning towards her as they walked through the door of the dining room.
“What was it you said?” Camille asked.
“Nothing of importance, Lady Camille,” Claire responded, telling herself it was absolutely true. A brief kiss in the woods, an overly attentive host, and a guest who was a bit of a tease. It all meant nothing at all.
“I only wished to know who was leaving, Sister,” Wentworth said. “You were speaking of this when I came into the room.” He delivered Camille to her place at the table, opposite his, and then sat Claire between them.
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Camille said. “Claire tells me she is leaving, very soon.”
“Yes, Lord Wentworth, this is to be my last dinner in Brookside Cottage,” Claire said, avoiding looking at him.
“Is that why you are dressed in such a celebratory costume?” he asked. “I assume you do not wear emerald silk and diamonds about your lovely neck for an ordinary, quiet dinner at home. Or is that how people dress in London?”
“It is, my lord. I did pack this costume in my wardrobe for a special occasion, and now it appears I will not have anything other than this evening to dress accordingly.”
“And why must you leave?” Lord Wentworth asked, deliberately unfolding his linen napkin. One of the servants hovered over him, waiting to pour his wine.
“My friend, Lady Fayreweather, is not well, and needs me. You may remember you were introduced to her at the Armadale Ball.”
Wentworth gestured for his wine, and then took his time swirling the potent liquid in his glass and sniffing its bouquet. From the pale, greenish color, Claire guessed it to be vinho verde, perhaps returned with him from Portugal. Wentworth nodded his approval, and looked at Claire.
“I am sure your friend has many who will attend on her through her illness, including her husband. Do you suspect her to be on her deathbed?”
Claire did not suspect Marissa to be anywhere but at the theatre or at a dinner with friends, but Wentworth was not to know that.
“I do not know, but I believe she needs me,” Claire said, hearing the paucity in her own reasoning.
“My sister needs you as well,” he said. “We are to attend the Assembly Ball, I understand, and I do not know how Camille will manage without you. It is a very popular event in our little community of Middlebury, and Camille wishes to attend.”
Claire glanced at Camille, who seemed to be gazing at the ceiling, looking a bit like the helpless blind girl she most certainly was not.
“Lady Camille will manage very well, I am sure. After all, my lord, she now has you to escort her to the party.”
Wentworth sipped his wine and stifled a cough. “I intend to escort two ladies to the party.”
“Is your Aunt Adelaide joining you, then?” Claire asked, and drank rather more of her wine than was considered delicate. But she did not cough. “I seem to recall she enjoys dancing.”
“I would like you to join us, Lady Claire. Was that not part of your bargain with our aunt?”
“Oh, indeed, but things have changed, you see,” Claire said, a bit distractedly. It was the wine, she realized. She was overly warm, and not quite sure what she said.
“They have changed,” he said, “more than I imagined.”
They had, and a good deal more than she had dared to imagine as well. She could not deny her attraction to him, ignited at a mere glance while she was in the arms of another man. But Wentworth was a man with an unfortunate past and a present that was both secretive and possibly dangerous. Claire had once before bound herself to a man fighting his own demons and had vowed she would never do so again. Certainly Wentworth was a man with an abundant reserve of demons, pursuing him at every turn, making the situation quite impossible.
“Please stay, Claire,” Camille begged. “I would like to look very fine, and Maxwell will insist I wear something very plain and very modest.”
“I certainly will not allow you to show off your . . .” He stopped, and Claire wondered if the wine had gotten to him as well. Although, as to that, neither of them had had much to drink.
“Diamonds,” he finished lamely.
Camille laughed. “Diamonds? You know very well I do not own diamonds, and if you never let me go to a ball, I doubt if I ever will. Mother wore diamonds, and emeralds, and those splendid pearl earrings, but they are gone now.”
Claire looked at Wentworth, wondering if they needed to sell their mother’s jewels out of financial necessity. And yet they appeared to live quite comfortably on what remained of their estate.
He shook his head, reading her mind. “Our mother’s jewels were never found. Though other things in her dressing room were nearly intact, the ivory box and the collection it contained perished.” His voice caught on the last words, and Claire realized how much it cost him to say them.
“Jewels are only baubles, no matter how much people value their worth,” Claire said kindly. “I am sure the two of you would spend a king’s ransom if it would only bring your parents back.”
She wondered if she had gone too far. Neither of her companions said a word, and Wentworth took several deep breaths. Camille looked to the ceiling again, and the candlelight reflected tears on her pale cheeks.
“Would you do the same for your late husband, Lady Claire?” Camille asked.
It seemed all of London knew how dreadfully Glastonbury treated her, and how the titles and jewels and level of comfort she now enjoyed seemed some compensation for years of misery and abuse. It was no great secret and still Claire could not yet bring herself to speak of Glastonbury’s cruelty to her friends at Brookside Cottage. Perhaps it was because Camille was becoming a great romantic under Claire’s tutelage, and the knowledge of Claire’s unhappiness in marriage would be a great disillusionment. Perhaps it was because Brookside Cottage provided sanctuary from the knowing glances of society’s minions, full of pity and speculation.
Claire might have been content to preserve illusions and innocence but for her keen awareness of Wentworth’s frankly assessing gaze. Here was a man who was altogether too familiar with painful truths, who
suffered hurts deeper than most people could even imagine.
Suddenly, she wanted him to know that her ghosts were long buried.
“No,” she said. “But I would have given all I had if he would have left me sooner, to heaven or hell or some distant earthly place.”
Camille brushed her finger across her damp cheek and tried to stifle a laugh. But Wentworth gazed at her, seeming to understand something only he could know.
“Stay with us, Lady Claire,” he said. “I feel we will be missing a great deal if you decide to abandon us now.”
Her eyes met his, and for the first time in the day or so since he returned from his adventure in Portugal, she quite forgot that they had an audience, someone who was so perceptive she could read them like an open book.
***
He really should let her go, for there was no place in his ragged heart for a woman like her, who knew everything of life and had the freedom to enjoy it to the fullest.
And yet her odd confession, in which a light tone seemed to cover a great depth of unhappiness, suggested her life was not as it seemed or as she allowed others to believe. He knew nothing of Glastonbury before he met his widow, and would have naturally assumed he was a fellow worthy of capturing a beauty of such grace and goodness. He hoped the man would have treated his wife kindly and might even have loved her. But the woman he himself kissed at the brook seemed an innocent, tentative, and quite unsure of herself. Such was his first impression, before he doubted her and himself, and decided she was a temptress.
Now he conceded that first impression might well have been precisely right.
He looked at her through the filter of his glass of wine, casting a lovely glow upon her pale shoulders and barely covered breasts. Her gown glistened like a fresh meadow, made brighter by the green wine.
Sharon Sobel Page 8