She settled into her chair, still trying to imagine what kissing him would have felt like when her arm accidently brushed against his rather solid one, encased in his black tailcoat. Their eyes held for a moment before she looked down and brushed out the wrinkles from her skirt and opened her fan, hoping to cool the flush spreading throughout her body from that one spot on her arm where his body had touched hers.
He looked very handsome in his formal black evening attire. The jacket and trousers were cut well, showing off his broad shoulders and well-defined form. His cravat had a nice fall to it and his cheeks and jaw were so smooth they must have been freshly shaven. One thing that she found herself continually drawn to was this commanding presence he had about him that led her to believe that he was the type of gentleman who faced his problems head on and would not run away from them. From her marriage, she was more accustomed to the uneasy feeling she got around a gentleman who would run. Her late husband, God rest his soul, had frequently hid from their creditors. That had forced Clara to be the one to try to placate the shopkeepers in town during those times when they were short on funds to settle their bills. She was the one who made sure they weren’t thrown in debtors’ prison. What would her life have been like had she married a man like Mr Lane?
She really didn’t know anything about him. Perhaps he wasn’t as financially solvent as she would have liked to believe. Over the years she had helped to encourage the courtships of a number of women and she had developed a keen sense for how to analyse a person. Lowering her eyelids, she took note of the condition of his sleeve and the fact that it was not threadbare. The cuff of his linen shirt that peeked out from the cuff of his coat was pure white, telling her that he was both clean and financially solvent enough to pay someone to have his clothes washed. He wore no ring on his hand or stickpin in his cravat. His shoes, however, had been buffed to a high shine and, if she had to wager, she’d say they were an expensive pair.
Just as the curtain on the stage was going up, she leaned her head towards his and the topaz stones in her earring brushed against her shoulder. ‘How did you arrive at the theatre tonight?’ she whispered.
‘My carriage.’
‘Yours?’
His attention moved from the stage to her. ‘Yes, people do own them. I did try one of those sedan chairs your town is so fond of, but I could not abide having two men carry me around in it so I decided to take my carriage tonight.’
When Harriet had asked him where he was from when they saw him at breakfast, he’d said he was from London. Having a London town house of her own, she knew that keeping a carriage there was very expensive. If he had one, then he was most probably doing well for himself.
‘Did your family take you to the theatre when you were younger?’ she asked, wanting to imagine what he was like years ago.
Once more he looked over at her and shook his head no. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you said you do not talk during performances.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You are now.’
‘I didn’t realise you were so attentive to the production.’
‘Well, you were the one who told me not to fall asleep. You can blame yourself.’
‘Shh.’
The hush came from the Dowager, making Clara feel as though she was younger than Harriet.
There were so many questions she suddenly wanted answers to. There were so many things she did not know. And, oh, how she wished she could ask him about all of them. However, if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that Mr Lane did not appear to be a gentleman who liked talking about himself.
* * *
They sat side by side and watched the remainder of the play together. Occasionally, they would share a smile over something that was happening on the stage. And at times she felt acutely aware of his body so close to hers, which would prompt her to fan herself and hope the flush she was feeling was not that noticeable. When the curtain went down one final time, she leaned her shoulder towards his, wondering if he regretted accepting her invitation this evening. ‘Are you glad that you stayed awake tonight?’
‘Surprisingly, I am.’
‘And would you agree that coming here tonight was a better way to spend your evening than the way you had planned to spend it?’
He looked as if he were actually trying to determine if it were—which felt rather insulting—and made her very curious.
‘What was it that you were planning on doing tonight?’
‘I was going to review a business report.’
‘Ah, business. The mysterious thing that keeps you so busy and has prevented you from enjoying your time here. What was the report about?’
They stood up to join the rest of their party by the door to the box.
‘It was a profit and loss statement on a stable that I own. I had planned to review all the figures on the facility tonight.’
She appreciated the fact that he was specific and did not oversimplify his answer to her because she was a woman, which some men would have done. ‘You own a stable?’
‘Two, actually. Mainly for racehorses.’
That was not what she was expecting. She wasn’t sure what kind of business she imagined him to be in, but he seemed much too staid to be involved in racing. That seemed more of a business that a man about town would be involved in. But what did she really know of him?
As the small party of five waited by the door to the box for the crowds to lessen so they wouldn’t be jostled about on their way down the stairs, Clara saw Harriet sneak occasional glances at Mr Lane. The fourth time her eyes shifted his way, they stayed there and when he looked her way, her eyes widened momentarily, knowing she had been caught.
‘Did you enjoy the play tonight, Mr Lane?’
‘I did. Thank you. Did you?’ Thankfully he exhibited no signs of his previous gruff demeanour with her. In fact, he appeared to be rather pleasant in his response.
‘Oh, I did. I’m glad that you were able to join us.’
‘As am I.’ Although he wasn’t giving her a full smile, the corners of his mouth were tipping up and there were small creases in the corners of his eyes. His gaze skirted past Clara and settled on the Dowager. ‘Your Grace, might I have the honour of offering you my arm on our way to the carriages?’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Lane. Mr Greeley accompanied me to the theatre tonight. I will give him a reprieve of spending more time with me until my carriage arrives. Then he will be forced to endure my chatter all the way home.’ She was watching Mr Greeley and Harriet with marked interest, which reminded Clara about the woman’s challenge to see who would find the more desirable suitor for the young woman.
‘I assure you it will be my pleasure to ride back with you,’ Mr Greeley replied with a tip of his head before turning to Clara. ‘Mrs Sommersby, Miss Collingswood, might I have the honour of escorting you both outside?’
Harriet took his right arm, leaving Clara with his left. The staircase was wide enough to accommodate the three of them as they made their descent, but when they reached the door, Clara let go of his arm so they could fit through the door to the outside. She threaded both her hands through the braided handle of her reticule as they waited on the pavement for the three carriages to arrive.
The Dowager’s carriage arrived first and, after she bade them a safe trip home, Clara stood alone outside with Harriet and Mr Lane. It appeared they were some of the last to leave the theatre since there was only one other small group of people standing about twenty feet from them. The yellow glow from the lights inside the building shone on to the narrow strip of pavement they were standing on, making it easier for them to see each other in the darkness that surrounded them.
‘Will it be a far drive for you, Mr Lane?’ Harriet enquired, seeming to have completely lost her trepidation about the gentleman.
‘Not too far.’ He stuffed his hand
s in the pockets of his coat. ‘Will you have a far drive ahead of you?’
‘My family is staying next door to Mrs Sommersby. It should not take us long before we are home.’
Mr Lane’s carriage pulled alongside the pavement before Clara’s and he offered to wait with them until her carriage arrived, but Clara could see her driver had just turned down the street. ‘There is no need to wait. Our driver is right there.’ She gestured towards her carriage as the door to his was opened for him.
‘I insist. I will not take the chance of anything happening to either of you.’
She pointed yet again to the carriage rolling up their street. ‘It is right there.’
‘Then I won’t have long to wait with you.’
When her carriage pulled behind his, he helped them both inside. First, he assisted Harriet, then he took Clara’s hand. The mere touch through his glove sent a heated shiver up her spine and she felt the loss when he let go. Through the carriage window she surreptitiously watched him walk away in the golden light from the theatre windows.
While the carriage rocked along the cobblestone road up to the Royal Crescent, Clara eyed Harriet, who was looking out her side of the window.
‘I assume by that smile, Harriet, that you enjoyed yourself this evening.’
Her friend turned back to her and even in the dim light of the carriage lantern she could see the young woman’s eyes were shining. ‘Oh, I did. Very much.’ She looked down at her gloves and back up at Clara. ‘You were right. Mr Lane is a lovely man. I am so glad you asked him to join us.’
‘You are?’
‘Yes. I tried not to make too much of a spectacle of myself when I spoke with him. You don’t think I did, do you?’
How was it that she was speaking of Mr Lane when Mr Greeley had appeared to have also captured her attention? ‘You comported yourself very well. So, you are fond of Mr Lane?’
‘I am. I think he is a fine man.’
‘I agree.’
‘And very handsome.’
What? ‘You do? Think he is handsome, that is?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’
‘Well, yes I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’ Harriet’s eyebrows rose. ‘He has such well-defined features, unmarked skin and such a strong square jaw. And that hair of his appears to be so thick you could start to comb your fingers through it and not finish until the next day. Oh, and have I mentioned that he has a very fine form...if one was to notice such things.’
‘I truly did not look to see.’ Which was a lie. Of course she’d noticed what a fine specimen of a man he was. It was hard not to when she was sitting close beside him and when she was close enough to kiss him. ‘Tell me your thoughts on Mr Greeley.’
‘Mr Greeley is a lovely man,’ she replied with a carefree wave of her hand. ‘I’m not saying he is not, I just think that a woman would be lucky to marry a man like Mr Lane.’ She tilted her head and looked at Clara as if she were waiting for her reaction.
The distant cry of the night watchman carried through the carriage with an ‘all is well.’ It was well, wasn’t it? She had considered matching Harriet with Mr Lane. She was even challenged to do so by the Dowager. And now it appeared it would be no problem at all to convince Harriet to consider him. That should have made her feel good. She should be delighted and relieved that Harriet found him handsome.
Clara looked out into the darkened night and her gaze roamed over the windows of the terraced town houses now glowing with candlelight. She silently reminded herself that she had been married before and had no desire to give up her autonomy to marry again. Harriet had never been married and she probably never would be if they left it up to her mother to make an arrangement. A match between Mr Lane and Harriet was a far better thing than it would be for Clara to simply know what his kisses felt like. She had married for love and discovered that the men you could fall in love with weren’t always the best men to marry. Not that she even felt the slightest bit of love for Mr Lane, but she knew enough now that she was certain no good could come from letting her emotions cloud her judgement. It was time she returned to being practical.
She adjusted her hands on her lap. ‘It would be lovely to see Mr Lane again. He proved to be an entertaining companion tonight. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Very much so.’
‘I do wish there was a way to see him again,’ she mused out loud, ‘unfortunately, I have no idea how to reach him. Each time we’ve met, it has been a bit of serendipity.’
‘I heard him mention to Mr Greeley that he has started taking morning walks through Sydney Gardens.’
‘He did?’
‘Yes, while we were waiting for the carriages. It must have been when you were speaking with Her Grace.’
He was going there in the morning? They had met in the wooded area at the edge of the lawn across from the Crescent. For the days that followed she had found herself scanning the faces of the gentlemen she would pass while walking Humphrey there, wondering if she would see him again. And all this time he was going to Sydney Gardens? She certainly had not left an impression on him if that was where he was going. If he’d had a desire to see her again, he would have made certain to walk near the Crescent. Not that it mattered. She was not looking for a gentleman of her own and, even if she were, she was too old for him anyway. A gentleman as young as Mr Lane would want a family. That was something she could not give him.
For Harriet’s sake, she should try to locate him and find a way to bring them together again. This time Harriet should have an opportunity to spend time with him without Mr Greeley there to muddy the waters.
‘I could take Humphrey for a walk in Sydney Gardens tomorrow on the chance that he might be there,’ she offered. ‘He did seem to enjoy himself this evening. I don’t think he would mind if I invited him to something else.’
Harriet sat up taller. ‘I think you should.’ She really was more attracted to him than Clara had thought.
Just the idea of seeing him again had her opening up her fan. She would have to approach this delicately. If possible, she needed to find something that she could do with Harriet that did not involve her family. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to throw her sister Ann in his path which might have Harriet retreating back into her shell.
There was still more she needed to find out about him before she could recommend him to Mr and Mrs Collingswood. If she needed to spend more time with him to do that, she would find the time for Harriet’s sake, though, she didn’t want Mr Lane to feel like a hunted man. There was no reason he should think of her as Mrs Malapropism from the play. She was no she-dragon and she didn’t want him to see her that way. But the way she did wish he would see her would not help Harriet.
Chapter Twelve
The desire to remain in bed after the sun came up was a new one for Lane. When he was a child, he would be woken up at seven each morning to have enough time to dress and make it down to the dining hall for breakfast. Even now, as an adult, he never slept past six.
But this morning as he lay in his bed in his room in The Fountain Head Hotel and watched the sky change colour outside his window, going from inky black to orange streaked with red, he rested his head in the crook of his arm and thought again about last night. And those thoughts were making him want to remain in bed for as long as he could.
The image of Mrs Sommersby was fresh in his mind. He could still picture her intelligent eyes and amused expression as she sat beside him in her deep blue satin gown that cradled her breasts and skimmed along the rest of her body. The soft scent of roses still somehow seemed to linger in his nose and, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine the puff of her soft, warm breath near his ear that he had felt each time she would lean over to whisper to him.
She had asked if his family had ever brought him to the theatre. It never occurred to him that families would do such things toget
her. Over the years he realised it was best not to think about what families did. He never knew his father or his mother. He had been left at the Foundling Hospital when he was a small infant.
As was their custom with the orphan babies, he was sent to spend the first five years of his life being raised by a wet nurse and her family in the country before he was ripped from that happy existence to be returned to live out the rest of his youth in London at the Hospital. The Hatwells had been very nice to him. But he still could recall the day he called Mrs Hatwell ‘mother’ and she informed him that she was not his mother. When he had asked where his mother was, she ignored his question and asked him to help her make a trifle. When he asked a few more times, the same thing happened. In time, he stopped asking.
He did eventually get an answer, though, when he was returned to the Hospital. One of the older boys told him that Lane’s mother must have been a whore who had let a man rut between her legs and he never bothered to marry her. His father had never wanted his mother and his mother had not wanted him. It was the first time in his life that he heard the word bastard, but it wasn’t the last. How he had hated that boy.
He had no reference for how fathers behaved with their children, save for the few instances when he was around his friends who had children. But for the first time in his life, he thought about what kind of father he would be—and what kind of mother Mrs Sommersby would make.
He saw how she looked out for Miss Collingswood. He saw how she would periodically study the young woman in a way that made him think she wanted to be sure the girl was comfortable and enjoying herself. He imagined that was what a mother would do. And he believed she would most likely be a good one.
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