by Mary Balogh
“Ah, Percy,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, “how charming.”
“My pleasure, Florence,” he said. “I hope I do not prick you with the pin.” Lady Florence had an ample bosom.
And then Sir Charles Horsefield was bowing before Olga Garnett and Lord Mingay was approaching Frances Tate. Rufus Tucker had some difficulty writing on silk with the quill pen. There was a delay before he turned to locate Lady Pollard with a smile.
Claire felt quite sick. She and Lucy Sterns were left. The Duke of Langford was bent over the table, the pen in his hand. Maurice Shrimpton waited behind him.
“The suspense is killing,” Miss Sterns murmured, leaning toward Claire. Claire could only swallow.
And then the Duke of Langford straightened up, handed the pen to the remaining gentleman, took what seemed like half a minute to pick up a pin, and turned to walk toward the fireplace. Lucy Sterns smiled. But his eyes were directed downward to the chair when he came up to them and he reached out a hand to Claire.
No, there is some mistake, she almost said foolishly. Miss Sterns is standing beside me. But she did not say it. Instead she set her hand in his—she did not realize until his closed about it how cold her own was—and raised her eyes to his. He was looking at her steadily from beneath lazy eyelids. She got to her feet.
“Ah, Maurice,” Miss Sterns was saying beside her with warm enthusiasm. “How wonderful.”
In fact, the whole room was buzzing with exclamations and laughter. And yet it all seemed to Claire to come from a long distance away. She was wearing a high-necked wool dress. She watched as he pinned the heart just above her left breast, felt the heat of his fingers burn through to her flesh—they were long, well-manicured fingers—and read his name ‘upside down as it had been scrawled in bold strokes beneath the small neatness of her own name. “Langford,” he had written.
She looked up when he had finished to find his eyes gazing directly into hers—keen dark eyes despite the sleepy eyelids. She was too close to the fire again, too far from air, she thought. His eyes were not smiling or his close-pressed lips either. He was displeased, she thought. Of course he was displeased. She fought back the impulse to apologize to him.
And then someone took her right hand in a warm clasp—but of course, she thought in some confusion as her hand was raised between them, who else would have taken it? He touched his lips to the backs of her fingers, and Claire felt the sensation of their touch all along her arm and down into her breasts and all the way down to her toes.
“Well,” someone said heartily—it was Mr. Tucker, Claire realized with a start—and laughed, “may the party now begin, Florence?”
———
The party was to begin with a ride to Chelmsford Castle, six miles away.
“We will all ride together,” Lady Florence said. “There is a remarkably well-preserved castle to explore and a river before and a forest behind. I am sure that we will find six separate ways to go.” She smiled about at the company.
But not at him, the Duke of Langford noticed. Florence was displeased. Furiously angry if he was not mistaken. He would be willing to wager that in the private word she had had with the other gentlemen, Mullins excepted, she had mentioned only the fact that the valentine at the bottom left of the table belonged to Miss Ward. He did not doubt that only he had been favored with the seemingly unconscious remark that Miss Ward’s valentine was as far from her own as it was possible to be.
He would have to think of something to say to her to smooth her ruffled feathers. Especially since by some chance her own valentine had been the last to be chosen—by the last gentleman to choose.
He was still wondering by what folly he had chosen Miss Ward as his valentine and how soon he would actively regret his decision. Tonight, perhaps, when everyone else retired to bed in couples? He doubted that he and Miss Ward would be retiring to a shared bed quite that soon. Perhaps the next night. More probably the next. Perhaps not at all. He had no experience whatsoever in seducing virtuous spinsters. Indeed, he had no experience in seducing any female, having found seduction quite unnecessary since his eighteenth year. After succeeding to his title at the age of twenty-four he had found himself more often than not having to ward off unwelcome advances, rather as he had done with Florence. Not that hers should have been unwelcome exactly. She was attractive enough. Perhaps it was just that he had a perverse preference for choosing rather than being chosen.
Miss Ward was dressed in a russet-colored velvet habit for the ride, a matching hat with a black feather on her smooth brown hair. She looked slim and lithe, the duke thought, his eyes moving over her critically as he drew closer to her to help her into the saddle. She looked as if she probably spent more time outdoors than in. Lucy Sterns, on the other hand, was having to be lifted into the saddle by Shrimpton and was nervously expressing the hope that Florence had chosen her a quiet mount.
“You ride frequently, Miss Ward?” the duke asked her as they rode out of the stableyard into the freshness of a bright springlike day.
“I live in the country, your grace,” she said.
“And not many miles from here,” he said. “You must know Chelmsford Castle. Is it worth a visit?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It is a favorite picnic spot in the summer. It should be lovely now. There will probably be primroses and snowdrops on the bank of the river.”
She spoke softly, seriously, unsmilingly. It was a long time, he realized suddenly in some surprise, since he had spoken with a lady—with a true lady, that was, not just one whose birth gave her the right to call herself so. Noisy flirting and raucous laughter were going on all about them.
“Then we must pick some,” he said.
“I would prefer to leave them to live out their natural span, your grace,” she said. “And in their natural surroundings.”
“Ah,” he said. “Yes, you really are a country dweller, are you not? But if we are to be in each other’s company for three days and if we are to be valentines, I really do not want to be ‘your graced’ every time you address me. My name is Gerard.”
She said nothing.
“And yours is Claire,” he said.
“Yes, your gr—,” she said. “Yes.”
He found it easier after that to ride in near silence, merely commenting on the scenery now and then. She rode well, her back very straight, her hands light on the reins, her body relaxed and graceful. How, he wondered, was he to flirt with such a woman? How was he to seduce her? He should already have been regretting his actions of that morning, he thought, since she was clearly not comfortable when he spoke to her. And yet strangely enough he felt somewhat exhilarated by the near-impossible challenge he seemed to have set himself. There had been so few challenges in life of late.
They dismounted and tethered their horses when they reached the foot of the hill on which the castle was built.
“Unfortunately,” Lady Florence said gaily, “there are only four compass directions and six couples. But I believe we can find six different directions to take, after all. Who wants to take the castle?”
“Claire is going to give me a guided tour,” the duke said. “Are you not, Claire?”
“If you wish,” she said.
They were to have the castle to themselves, it appeared, everyone else having found some other satisfactory destination with Florence’s help. They would all meet in an hour or so’s time and adjourn to a nearby inn for refreshments.
“Have fun!” Lady Florence called gaily, linking her arm through Percival Mullins’s and smiling dazzlingly up at him. “The forest is delightful at this time of the year, Percy. And quite deserted and secluded, of course.”
The duke offered his arm to Claire. “It seems we are to be lord and lady of the castle,” he said. “Is it in as good repair as it looks from here?”
“Not quite,” she said. “The outer walls of castles were always the strongest part. Much of the inside has crumbled away. But there are still two towers
that are quite safe to climb, and the battlements are in good repair and give a wonderful view of the surrounding country.”
“Ah, then,” he said, “we must climb. I would guess that you are not one of those ladies who have to pause for breath every ten steps on a staircase, are you, Claire?”
“No,” she said.
They entered the arched gateway into the grassy courtyard and could see the ruined walls of what must have been the kitchen and living quarters.
“The tallest tower is safe?” he asked, pointing to the one opposite them.
“Yes,” she said.
Spiraling stone stairs led steeply upward from the courtyard, the only light provided by the narrow slits of the arrow windows. The climb seemed interminable. The duke amused himself with the sight of Claire’s shapely derrière and neat ankles as she climbed ahead of him. And then they came out onto the open top of the tower, surrounded by’a reassuringly high crenellated wall. The clouds scudding by on the blue sky made it appear as if the tower were moving.
“Well, at least,” he said, “we are having our exercise for the day.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I have the feeling,” he said, “that I am to be totally nameless for the next three days. You can no longer call me ‘your grace’ since I have specifically asked you not to, but you find it quite impossible to call me Gerard. Am I right, Claire?”
“I am sorry,” she said. “I am afraid I have always moved in less exalted circles.”
“If you pinch me, you know,” he said, “I say ouch. If you cut me, I bleed. Say Gerard.”
“Gerard.”
“Good,” he said. “That point is settled. Do you like Florence’s Valentine’s idea?”
“It is suited to the occasion,” she said. “She thought to bring some sense of romance to the festival.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Romance.” The wind was blowing the feather of her hat across her chin. He reached out one hand to move it aside and looked down at her mouth. It was a rather wide mouth that was made to smile, he believed, though he had never seen it do so. “Do you really believe that is her purpose, Claire?”
She licked her lips in a gesture that he guessed was not meant to be provocative. “Yes,” she said. “Valentines chosen by lottery, rides to places of beauty like this.” She gestured at the miles and miles of country visible from the top of the tower.
“I wonder if you believe your own words,” he said, moving his hand to beneath her chin and rubbing his thumb across her lips. “Can you be that naive?”
“It is meant to be more, then?” she asked.
“More, yes,” he said, and he leaned forward and laid his lips against hers for a brief moment. Her own lips remained still. He found her passivity strangely arousing. Perhaps because he was unaccustomed to it, he thought.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” he asked her. “Is a kiss not appropriate between valentines?”
“We are not—” she began.
“Oh, yes, we are,” he reminded her. “You have a lacy heart pinned to your wool dress with both our names on it. I won you by lottery.”
She said nothing but merely looked at him. Her eyes were a mixture of blue and gray, he thought. Rather lovely eyes. He touched the pad of his thumb to the center of her lips.
“Is a kiss sinful between willing adults?” he asked. “I do not insult you by assuming that you have passed your majority, do I?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I have—several years ago.”
“Well, then,” he said. “Are you repulsed by me, Claire?”
“Repulsed?” she said. “Of course not.”
“And neither am I repulsed by you,” he said. “And we are valentines, after all. For three whole days, Claire.” He was going to add and for three whole nights too, but he stopped himself in time.
“Yes,” she said.
“And there is nothing improper about valentines exchanging kisses,” he said. “Not when they are both adults and in no way repulsed by each other.”
“No,” she said.
“Then we have no quarrel,” he said, setting both his hands on her shoulders and drawing her upper body loosely against his before kissing her again, parting his lips in order to do so. Her own stayed closed, though they trembled as her shoulders trembled beneath his hands. He licked her lips from one corner to the other before raising his head and setting her back away from him.
“It is my guess, Miss Claire Ward,” he said, “that you considered flight both last evening and this morning. And I right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“But you had a little too much courage to give in to the urge,” he said.
“A little too much stubbornness, I think,” she said. “And a little too much curiosity, too.” There was the suggestion of a smile about her lips for a moment.
“Ah,” he said, “stubbornness and curiosity. Qualities I like. Going down the steps of these old towers is far more intimidating than going up, is it not? Would you like me to go first?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
He would have had the vapors from any other female, he thought as he started down into the steep darkness. Or at least shrieks and shrinking pleas for assistance. Claire Ward came steadily and quietly after him. He could see her trim ankles in their black riding boots whenever he turned his head.
He thought of what was probably happening between five other couples down by the river and in the woods and fields about the castle and thought ruefully of his two chaste kisses- And yet he would not, he thought with a wry smile, change places with any of the other five gentlemen. No, not for a thousand pounds.
———
Claire looked at her mirrored image and wished again that she had more gowns as attractive as her blue silk. She had always liked the yellow one she now wore, but she knew that it was unfashionable by London standards, the neckline conservatively high, the sleeves too narrow, the hem unadorned. She spread her hand for a moment over the valentine heart, which she had removed from her wool dress and pinned to her evening gown. His signature, she saw when she removed her hand and looked at it reversed in the mirror, quite overshadowed her own.
It was time to go down to dinner. But there would be none of the awkwardness and self-consciousness of the evening before when she had known no one. Tonight it was all arranged. The Duke of Langford—Gerard—would be leading her in to the dining room and seating himself beside her.
She was almost ashamed to admit that she was beginning to enjoy herself. There had been the ride, an activity she always liked, and the hour spent exploring Chelmsford Castle and the refreshments at the inn afterward. And the ride home. She was twenty-eight years old. All her adult life she had been alone. Oh, not quite solitary, it was true. But whenever she went anywhere with Roderick and Myrtle, it was always they who were the couple and she who was the single. There was great pleasure, she had discovered that day, in being part of a couple. And a great sense of security.
And he seemed not to be too displeased at having drawn her as his valentine. That was what had worried her most that morning. She had fully expected to be treated with haughty disdain. Instead he had behaved with courtesy—and something more. Her cheeks grew warm and her mirrored image flushed as she remembered that he had kissed her on top of the tower. And had done more than kiss her, too. He had touched her lips with his tongue and sent sensation sizzling through her.
At least now, she thought with a wry smile for her blushing image, she would not have to go through life with the regret that she had never been kissed. She had been and by a duke no less. Now that would be a memory with which to soothe her old age. Her smile became more amused.
Yet she really ought not to be enjoying herself, she thought as she left her room and descended to the drawing room, where she could hear that some people were already assembled prior to dinner. It was not a proper party she was attending. If she had had any doubts, the duke had dispelled them that
afternoon. And if any had lingered, they would have disappeared at the inn, where Miss Sterns had sat all through tea with her shoulder pressed to Mr. Shrimpton’s and where Lady Pollard had turned to Mr. Tucker at one point and they had kissed each other. Claire had been very glad at the time that she was not given to the vapors.
But she was enjoying herself. As soon as she stepped into the drawing room he came toward her, his hand stretched out for hers. And he looked quite magnificent in a brown velvet coat and buff-colored knee breeches, with a waistcoat of dull gold and white linen. Oh, yes, she thought, almost smiling at him but holding back in case after all he was less than pleased with the situation—oh, yes, it was all very romantic, whatever the rest of Lady Florence’s guests made of it. To have a valentine for three whole days—and such a very handsome and distinguished valentine—was quite the pinnacle of romance to an aging spinster.
They would play forfeits that evening, Lady Florence announced gaily during dinner and the announcement drew titters and exclamations.
“Really, Florence?” Sir Charles said. “Forfeits?”
“Forfeits?” Mrs. Tate said. “Spare my blushes, Florence.”
Yet they all seemed pleased, Claire thought. She played forfeits with her nephews and nieces on occasion, sometimes with small coins, more often with an imposed task to be performed as a forfeit, like a song to be sung. The children always enjoyed it when the adults joined in and showed themselves willing to make themselves look rather foolish.
But it seemed that she was not to have a chance to play that evening. After they had adjourned to the drawing room and drunk their tea—the gentlemen did not remain in the dining room after the ladies left—the Duke of Langford laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke to Lady Florence.
“You will excuse Claire and me for the next hour or two, Florence?” he said in his most bored-sounding drawl. “We feel a pressing need to, ah, view the portraits of your husband’s ancestors and the other paintings in the gallery. Don’t we, Claire?”