by Mary Balogh
Claire determinedly blocked images of the Reverend Clarkwell and of a lifetime of moral training from her mind. She was in love, she thought as she turned away from the window and considered what to wear. But that was irrelevant to anything. Of course she was in love. Was it surprising that a romance-starved spinster should fall in love with the first man to kiss her? She would suffer from her feelings. She knew that too. Life would be almost unbearable for a while after she went home again. But it did not matter. The suffering would be worthwhile. And there were two whole days to be lived through before the suffering began.
She would wear her favorite pink wool day dress, she decided, shrugging off the wish that she had clothes as fashionable as those of the other ladies. She did not, and that was that. Nothing was going to spoil this day for her.
Although she had feared that she was late for breakfast, Claire found that there were only five people in the breakfast room—Lady Florence and Mr. Mullins, Miss Garnett and Sir Charles Horsefield, and the Duke of Langford. She felt suddenly shy as all heads turned her way and not nearly as confident as she had felt since waking. He looked again the very remote aristocrat. Surely it could not have been about him that she had been weaving such dreams?
But he got to his feet immediately and came across the room to her, his hand outstretched for hers. And his eyes looked far less haughtily lazy than usual as he smiled.
“Claire,” he said, taking her hand. “Good morning. Come and have some breakfast.”
He looked almost like an eager boy, she thought in some wonder, and all her happiness came back in a flood. She smiled radiantly at him. “Good morning, Gerard,” she said, and she looked about the table to include everyone in her greeting. “Is it not a beautiful morning? I do believe spring is here to stay.”
Sir Charles groaned. “Morning, did someone say?” he asked. “Would you not know that I would pick up the valentine of a morning person?” He shook his head at Olga and raised her hand to his lips.
“My dear Miss Ward,” Lady Florence said, “you are looking quite radiant this morning. I wonder why.”
“Ah,” Mr. Mullins said. “Probably because it is Valentine’s Day tomorrow, Florence.”
“And so it is,” she said. “If the weather holds, we will have a drive this afternoon. Everyone is free this morning since we do not seem to have a large number up yet anyway.”
“Ah, freedom,” Sir Charles said. “I do not suppose I can interest you in a little more, ah, relaxation, can I, Olga?”
The Duke of Langford seated Claire beside him after she had filled a plate at the sideboard. “Would you care for a ride?” he asked.
She smiled at him again. She could think of nothing she would love more even if she had had to do it alone. But with him? “More than anything in the world,” she said.
Sir Charles groaned again.
———
He fell in love with her when she smiled. His stomach felt as if it performed some sort of somersault, which was rather a shameful thing for a man of thirty-four to admit to himself. But the smile utterly transformed her and made nonsense out of all the barriers he had tried to build up about his heart during a largely sleepless night. He had never been in love before. But he was in now—deeply.
With a totally unsuitable woman. He was a rake and had lived a worthless adulthood. He could not think of one worthwhile thing he had done in the past ten years or more—unless it was allowing her to go to bed alone the night before. She had lived a selfless adulthood and was very definitely—despite her behavior of the evening before—a virtuous woman.
Marriage and the raising of a family did not enter his plans at all. Years ago he had decided that his brother and his brother’s sons were quite worthy of taking his place when he died. More worthy than he, in fact. He would take no personal responsibility for the succession. The only use he had for women was that they cater to his pleasure.
Claire Ward was not the type of woman with whom he normally associated. One could think of Claire only in terms of virtue—of spinsterhood or marriage. And marriage seemed to have passed her by. She was not the type of woman with whom he would have chosen to fall in love, if he could have chosen. But then if he could have chosen, he would not have fallen in love at all. He had never either wanted or expected to do so.
But in love he was, he thought, watching her as she ate a hearty breakfast, watching that brightness and radiance that he knew the other occupants of the room were interpreting quite wrongly as having come from a night of sexual activity. He did not care what they thought. All he cared for was that there were two full days left before he would have to face reality and say good-bye to her, knowing that the total difference in their lives necessitated such an ending to their Valentine’s romance.
Romance! He had always laughed at the word and thought it for women only.
She had finished eating. Horsefield and Olga had left the room already, evidently on their way back to bed. Florence and Mullins were impatient to be gone from the table too, perhaps with the same destination in mind.
“How long will you need to change into your riding habit?” he asked Claire, laying a hand over hers on the table.
“Ten minutes.” She smiled into his eyes. There was light in them and color in her cheeks, and he found himself smiling back.
“I shall meet you in the hall,” he said. “In ten minutes’ time.” He rose as she got to her feet and left the room. Any other woman would have demanded at least half an hour, he thought.
“Oh, Gerard,” Lady Florence said. “Do have a care. You will be having Mr. Roderick Ward and the Reverend Hosea Clarkwell paying you a call in town within the week demanding to know your intentions and waving gloves in your face.”
“Will I?” he asked, fingering the handle of his quizzing glass. “That might be an interesting experience.” He strolled from the room.
———
It was like the middle of spring, they both agreed, but with the added attraction of freshness in the air and pale green grass dotted with primroses and snowdrops. The trees were still bare, but there was all the promise of the coming season in the warmth that radiated through their branches.
They rode and rode for what must have been hours but might as easily have been minutes. They rode the length of the park to the south of the house and through pastures and around hills and even over a low one, along country lanes and through lightly wooded groves. They rode without conscious purpose or direction.
And they smiled and laughed and talked on topics that they would not afterward remember. It did not matter what they talked about. They were together and happy and in love—though that was certainly not one of their topics of conversation—and the next day was St. Valentine’s Day and it was spring and the sun was shining. Was there any reason—any whatsoever—not to be happy?
They came to open pasture after riding slowly through one grove of trees and nudged their horses into a canter by unspoken consent. And then into a gallop. And then into a race. Claire laughed as her mount nosed ahead of the duke’s.
“What a slug!” she called and laughed again. And would have won the race to the gate at the other side of the pasture, she was sure, if she could have stopped herself from laughing. As it was, he beat her by almost a length, and leaned across to take the reins of her horse as she drew level.
“What did you say?” he asked. “Were you referring to my horse or to me, ma’am?”
She laughed.
“I will assume it was my horse,” he said. “But if he is a slug, pray, what does that make yours?”
“Lame in four feet?” she asked, and they both dissolved into fits of laughter far in excess of the humor of the joke.
They passed through the gate and walked their horses through the trees beyond it until they came unexpectedly to an ornamental lake, half covered with lily pads.
“Oh,” she said. “Beautiful.”
“Oh,” he said. “Opportune. I think our horses could use a rest, Clair
e. I certainly could.” He slid from his horse’s back and lifted her from hers before tethering the animals to a tree under which there was grass for them to graze on.
He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers. They strolled together about the small lake, not talking, enjoying the utter peace of the scene. Only the chirping of birds and the occasional snorting of one of the horses broke the silence.
“Well, Claire,” he said when they had completed the walk, “even nature is on our side. Pure romance, is it not?” He smiled at her in some amusement.
She nodded. “I should have known this was here,” she said. “But we have never had many dealings with the Carvers.”
They sat down on the grass facing the lake and lifted their faces to the warmth of the sun.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked her.
“Yes.” She turned her head to look at him. “Yes, I did. I knew I had today and tomorrow to look forward to.” She flushed. “Did you?”
“Sleep well?” he said. “Well enough. You asked me if I was sorry I had picked up your valentine. Are you sorry I picked it up? Do you wish it had been someone else? Or do you wish that after all you had gone home?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said.
He smiled slowly at her. “Ah, Claire,” he said, “you should be sorry. But now is not the time for that, is it? Today and tomorrow are for romance.”
“Yes,” she said.
He was regretting it, she thought. He was wishing he was back at the house with one of the other ladies. Or perhaps wishing he had not come at all. But he was still smiling, and his hand was stroking gently over one of her cheeks, and his head was lowering to hers. And she knew that he was not feeling regret but that he was enjoying the day as much as she. She closed her eyes and parted her lips.
He had agreed to romance, he thought as his mouth met hers and he felt heat flare instantly despite his intention to make it a light and warm embrace. But how could he give her romance when he knew only about physical passion? And how could he toy with her body and her feelings when she was not like those women back at Florence’s house, eager and able to change lovers as they would change their frocks? And for the same reason—that keeping the same one bored them.
And yet the choice, the control over the moment, was not his for long. He lowered her to the grass and kissed her eyes, her temples, her cheeks, her throat, and her mouth again. His hand found its way beneath her velvet jacket to the warm silk of the blouse covering her breasts. Her arms reached up for him and circled his back, drawing him down half on top of her. And she moaned into his mouth.
She was aching, and throbbing with the ache from head to foot. And yet she had never known a pain that was pleasurable, a pain that she wanted to perpetuate. She searched for his mouth when it moved from hers for a moment and sucked inward on his tongue when it slid between her teeth. Thought, rationality, were gone and only feeling was left. Only the pleasure and the pain.
His hand was on her knee. She could feel the cool air against her lower leg, where he had pushed up the velvet skirt of her riding habit. And then his fingers were feathering their way along her upper thigh before stopping and lying still and warm there.
“Oh, please, Gerard,” she said, turning in to his body when his hand did not resume its movement. “Please. Oh, please.”
His mouth found hers again and kissed it warmly while his hand lifted from her leg and lowered her skirt again. She heard herself moaning and did not care.
“Claire,” he murmured against her ear, wrapping both arms around her and drawing her snugly against him. “It is too public a place. We dare not.”
Yet it was not public at all, he knew. He doubted that anyone had been there since the previous summer. There was an overgrown, neglected air to the place despite its beauty. And he knew that if she had been any other woman he would have had her skirt to her waist by now and the buttons of his breeches dispensed with. He would be inside her by now, taking his pleasure of her, bringing her pleasure as payment.
If she were any other woman. Her face was against his neckcloth. She was trembling. He was unsure whether she was crying or not but did not have the courage to shrug her face away from him so that he could see for himself. He settled his cheek against the top of her head and held her tightly until she relaxed. And then for five, perhaps ten minutes longer.
She was warm and comfortable and sorry it had not happened. And perhaps a little relieved as well. To be taken on the hard ground in the outdoors—would there not have been something a little sordid about it? No, there would not have been, she decided. But it did not matter. She was comfortable and he felt wonderful and smelied wonderful. Why was it, she wondered drowsily, that masculine colognes smelied so much more desirable than feminine perfumes? Perhaps because she was female, she thought with an inward smile. This was what it must feel like to sleep in a man’s arms at night, she thought. But the thought threatened to make her sad. She drew back her head.
And they looked deeply into each other’s eyes and smiled slowly.
“I have very little experience with romance, I’m afraid, Claire,” he said.
“And I have none at all,” she said. “We make a fine pair.”
He chuckled. “Does luncheon sound tempting?”
It did not. She did not want to go near civilization for at least the next ten years. “I suppose so,” she said.
He laughed again. “Marvelous enthusiasm,” he said, laying one finger along the length of her nose. “We had better get back and fall in with Florence’s plans for this afternoon, Claire, or we will incur her undying wrath.”
Claire really did not care about Lady Florence’s wrath, undying or othe rwise. But she merely smiled.
“Naughty,” he said. “Very naughty. She is our hostess, my dear valentine. On your feet immediately.”
But he was laughing and making no move to get up himself. Another five minutes passed before they rose and mounted their horses again. Five minutes of kissing and smiling and talking nonsense.
But finally they were on their way back—to civilization and a Valentine’s house party.
After luncheon Lady Florence and all her guests drove in three closed carriages all the way to the seashore, almost ten miles distant. Not that there was anything to be seen there, she said, except a few fishermen’s cottages, but there were miles of headland to be walked along and miles of beach for those adventurous enough to descend the precipitous cliff path. And there was a small inn for those who did not enjoy being buffeted by sea breezes, however sunny the day.
“Just a short walk to look down at the sea before coming back here, Gordon,” Mrs. Tate said firmly to Lord Mingay as they all descended from the carriages outside the Crown and Anchor Inn.
“If we are not blown off the cliff, Frances,” he said. “It is considerably more windy here than at Carver Hall.”
“I have seen enough lovely scenery from the carriage windows,” Lady Pollard said. “Do you not agree, Rufus?”
Mr. Tucker put up no argument, and the two of them disappeared inside the inn in search of warmth and refreshments.
Olga Garnett thought that a brisk walk along the clifftop would nicely blow away the morning cobwebs. Sir Charles grimaced and pulled his beaver hat more firmly down over his brow. “Not only a morning person,” he muttered, “but an outdoors one too.”
Lucy Sterns was already strolling away from the inn on the arm of Mr. Shrimpton.
“The beach, Florence?” Mr. Mullins asked. “Do you know the way down? I have never been on this particular stretch of the coastline before, I must confess.”
“There is a perfectly safe path,” she said, “even though it is rather steep.”
The Duke of Langford looked at Claire with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, yes, the beach,” she said. “This is another place where we used to come for picnics in summer. We even used to bathe as children.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “you will have to carry me up this prec
ipitous path afterward. But by all means let us give it a try.”
She laughed and took his arm, and they strode on ahead of the other couple. He let her precede him down the winding dirt path from the clifftop to the large rocks and smaller stones at the top of the sandy beach. She half ran down, tripping along the path rather like a fawn, he thought. If he did not know her and had never seen her face, he would have thought during the descent that she was a mere girl. He smiled and remembered his first impression of the prim Miss Ward just two days before.
“This could be ruinous on Hessian boots, you know,” he said when they were at the bottom and scrambling over the rocks toward the beach. “And I shudder to think what the sand is going to do to them. My valet’s wrath will be a terror to behold, Claire.”
She laughed gaily and he looked up into sparkling eyes and at rosy cheeks and untidy wisps of windblown hair beneath her bonnet. “Then you must set them outside your door and hide from him,” she said.
“Now that would be a fine ducal thing to do,” he said, laughing and catching at her hand to run—actually to run—down the beach with her toward the incoming tide. If she looked like a girl, he thought, then he felt remarkably like a boy.
“We used to stand at the water’s edge,” she said, “seeing how close we could come without getting our shoes wet. Oh, dear, that led to much scolding when we returned to our parents.”
“And I suppose,” he said, “you intend to do it again, Claire. My valet will be handing in his notice. And then what am I to do?”
“Well,” she said, “you might try cleaning your boots yourself.”
He looked at her in mock horror. “What?” he said. “Or more to the point—how?”