Tonight it seemed more the face of a stranger staring back at her.
She turned her head from left to right, critically examining her skin, her eyes, her hair. She found nothing lacking. Nothing, that was, except the obviousness of family.
Clare breathed in deeply. Who was she? Why didn’t she have blond hair and blue eyes? Why were her features small and delicate, her chin heart-shaped, whereas Geoffrey and Lucy had broad faces and upturned noses, like Father? She supposed there might be something of Mother in her chin, in the slope of her brow, but of Father there was nary a trace.
She felt ill to consider the possibilities. Her future, which had once seemed a brilliantly drawn still life, now felt smeared and stained.
Outside, she could just hear the opening strains of Le Nozze di Figaro. She should probably return to the ballroom and find a proper seat, or else locate her mother and haul her away from the punch bowl. But just as she had almost convinced herself of the need to move, the sound of excited whispers pulled her attention to the doorway. She had barely enough presence of mind to slide her reticule over the cover of the book before Sophie and Rose glided in.
The maid rose from her chair. “Do you need assistance, miss?”
“Could you run and fetch me a cool cloth for my head?” Sophie purred to the servant, her voice as sweet as treacle. “And please, take your time about it.”
“A quarter hour, at least,” Rose added.
Clare stayed silent as the maid hurried out. She was still unsure of her former friends’ intentions. Perhaps they were simply in need of a quiet moment themselves.
But then Sophie moved forward, a cat stalking its wounded prey. “You appear to be spending a good deal of time in the retiring room this evening,” she observed, stepping to Clare’s left in a puff of perfume-scented air. “We used to laugh about the wallflowers retreating here, their tails tucked between their legs. Have your opinions on such things changed?” Sophie preened in the mirror, lifting a gloved hand to her dark, perfectly arranged curls. “Or perhaps it is more that you have become a wallflower yourself?”
Clare’s first instinct was to leave. An easy enough solution, and one most young women would have seized, facing the wrath of Sophie’s chameleon smile.
But she knew a retreat now would only seal her fate. “I have no reason to hide.”
Sophie raised a dark brow. “Haven’t you?”
Rose leaned in on Clare’s right. “We thought perhaps you were in here because of the rumor.” Both girls paused in their preening to stare at expectantly at Clare.
“Which rumor would that be?” Clare asked through the sudden lurch of her heart.
Her mother’s indiscretion in the library?
Her unhealthy obsession with a lowly doctor?
Her questionable parentage?
Truly, there were so many that could apply. Just two weeks ago she’d floated through life in a haze of cautious surety, her life and her future mapped out, her image cultivated beyond reproach. And yet here she was, cornered in a retiring room by her former best friends, frozen in fear over which terrible, life-altering secret might impale her first.
Sophie’s lips curved upward. “The rumor about you and Mr. Alban, of course.”
Clare felt a surge relief to hear the hinted rumor was not, in fact, one of her more significant unvoiced fears. In fact, it came closer to the sort of whispers that had once comprised her hopes and dreams. “Oh?”
“Is it true he’s come to call on you twice this month?” Rose asked.
“Yes,” Clare admitted, seeing no cause to deny it. Presumably Alban had even mentioned it himself, when he’d spoken with them earlier this evening.
“And he hasn’t spoken to your father about an arrangement yet?” Sophie leaned closer to the mirror and ran a practiced finger over an already immaculate brow. “That seems a bit suspicious, don’t you think? Most gentlemen would have asked for an audience by now.”
Clare glanced toward the room’s door. The soprano sounded as though she could hit her stride at any moment. She should be out there with everyone else, eyes lifted to the makeshift stage. “The Season is still early yet,” she said, wanting only to escape this nightmare.
“Not so early,” Rose pointed out. “We are nearly four weeks in now.” She tittered into her glove. “Of course, I keep forgetting you’ve missed two of them. So much has happened during your absence, you know.”
Clare’s irritation flared. She wished they’d just get on with whatever this was. She had enough experience with this pair to sense they were leading her down a dark and twisting pathway, at the end of which probably awaited her own personal bogeyman. “Well, do either of you have a proposal in hand yet?” she retorted, though she knew they did not. The Times would have announced any significant betrothals, and she’d been sure to keep up on the news on that front. At their silence, she snatched up her gloves and reticule, keeping the book carefully hidden beneath. She was more than ready to quit the room and this fiasco of a friendship. “I didn’t imagine so,” she muttered.
Sophie placed a firm hand on her arm. “We only tell you this because you’re our friend.”
“Are you my friend?” Clare shook off Sophie’s hand. “Because I was given the distinct impression earlier this evening that you cared little enough for that history when you gave me the direct cut.”
For a moment Clare felt like cheering at their shocked expressions. After all, the value of the cut was the refusal to speak of it. Most girls suffered the humiliation in silence. By calling them out, she had snatched away a degree of the power they had tried to claim.
But then Sophie’s lips firmed. “It wouldn’t have done to have you join our little group and be hurt by what Mr. Alban was saying.”
“How,” Clare asked, incredulous now, “would Mr. Alban saying he had called on me be something that would hurt me?”
“Because it made it obvious to everyone,” Rose piped up.
“Made what obvious?” Clare snapped.
Sophie shrugged. “He doesn’t want you as a wife.”
“Then what is his interest?” Clare wondered if she ought to bring out Cousin Bette after all and slam it down over both their heads. “Why would he have come to call on me, not once, but twice?”
Sophie’s laugh held the stamp of authority. “That is the question, isn’t it?”
Clare glared at her. Sophie’s particular brand of battle specialized in the long, drawn-out siege, and this one had all the makings of a blockade to rival even Carthage. Something dark and feral loosened in her chest as she contemplated Sophie’s motives. This was nothing close to a little petty jealousy. Sophie knew she had her sights set on Alban, and had apparently decided to thwart her. The odd thing was, Clare wasn’t even sure she wanted to marry Mr. Alban anymore.
But she was quite sure she didn’t want Sophie to have him either.
“I am beginning to suspect,” she said slowly, “your obsession with this topic has less to do with Alban’s interest in me and more his lack of interest in you.”
Sophie smiled, making the fine hairs on the back of Clare’s neck prick to attention. “Honestly, Clare, are you really that naive? So sweetly innocent of what is being said about you in halls more hallowed than Eton?” Her eyes sparkled. “Oh yes, I’ve known since the start of the Season, but it seemed a secret worth keeping until the right time.”
The floor felt uneven beneath Clare’s feet, and the pulse she had worked so hard to calm began to thump in her ears. “Peter . . . is your brother, I presume?”
At her friend’s triumphant nod, she finally realized the full truth. Sophie had known about this rumor. Possibly even started it herself.
Worse, Sophie had enthusiastically encouraged her interest in Mr. Alban—the ton’s most exciting and eligible new bachelor—since the first event of the Season, no doubt because the higher Clare aimed, the more entertaining her fall.
It was unfathomable.
And it was pure, vintage Sophie.<
br />
“You may as well accept your lot in life, Clare.” Her upper lip curled, and Clare recognized the gesture well. It was the smile Sophie used exclusively for cringing wallflowers and sons of marquesses—a category in which Clare could see she now fit, thanks to the malicious gossip.
“What lot?” she choked out, though in truth she had a fair idea.
“Alban could only be interested in you for less honorable reasons than a betrothal now.” Sophie gathered her skirts and motioned for Rose to follow with a sharp tilt of her chin. “After all, for a girl with your questionable origins, being offered a position as a wealthy man’s mistress might even be considered a boon.”
Chapter 22
Daniel nearly collided with two young ladies pouring from the retiring room door. Choked as they were with unbecoming laughter, he didn’t immediately recognize them, but then again, most of the women in attendance at these events seemed to blur into a big colorful knot, one he had no hope of unraveling.
Clare, it seemed, was the notable exception.
When he’d first met her, he considered her plumage to be identical to these preening birds. Now he found himself unable to even stand at a refreshment table and see anything or anyone but her.
The girls froze in mid-flight, staring up at him in surprise. The slighter blonde gave an admiring squeak that kindled a faint sense of recognition. The brunette tilted her head, and he couldn’t help but feel she was calculating the perfect angle to best display the column of her neck. But he felt not even a flicker of interest in the girl.
How could he, when his thoughts were so squarely focused on Clare?
“Dr. Merial, I believe?” the brunette said, her voice like rich cream.
“Have we been introduced?” he asked distractedly.
A pout claimed the girl’s full lips. “Never say you don’t recall. We were introduced at Lord Cardwell’s house.”
He searched his memory. “Ah, yes.” Though their names escaped him, these were Clare’s so-called friends. The ones who’d thought him a footman.
He inclined his head in a slight acknowledgment. “I am, in fact, looking for Miss Westmore. Lady Austerley said she wasn’t feeling well and might require medical assistance. Is she perchance in the retiring room?”
The two girls exchanged glances. “She is . . . ah . . . just inside,” the blonde said.
The brunette smiled, the gesture all the more suspicious for its lack of warmth. “I am sure it would be all right if you went inside.” She tugged on her friend’s arm. “Come, Rose.”
They clipped down the hallway without speaking further, but he could hear the staccato burst of giggles that followed them as they turned the corner. He frowned and took a step toward the retiring room door. No matter the taller girl’s assurance it would be all right, such places were forbidden to the male members of the species. He had a bone-deep certainty Clare’s friends had been up to no good, but he was less certain what to do about it.
Should he call out to her? Step inside?
In the end his deliberations proved unnecessary. Clare emerged from the room of her own accord, her head down and a book clutched tightly in her hands.
She stopped dead still when she saw him, her breath a faint hiccup in her throat. “Dr. Merial.” She looked from right to left down the empty hallway, as if searching for co-conspirators or onlookers, but all souls save themselves were firmly in the hands of the soprano. “What are you doing here?”
“Lady Austerley said you seemed ill and suggested I check on you in the retiring room. And if not there, the library.” His gaze fell to the book. “By the looks of things, I must presume you’ve not yet made it to the library.”
“I am fine.” She tried on a smile, but to Daniel’s eye, it didn’t quite fit. “Although how thoughtful of Lady Austerley to tell you not only of my discomposure, but also so specifically where you might find me. I am beginning to suspect the countess has meddlesome thoughts where we are concerned.”
He did not disagree—but that did not mean he hadn’t seized the opportunity.
“I must go.” She swept by him, her skirts rustling with the threat of her imminent departure.
“There is no need to hurry back,” Daniel said, just loud enough to be heard over the muted noise from the distant ballroom. “As you can hear, the music has already started, and the guests’ attention will be firmly anchored elsewhere.”
“Nonetheless, Mother will be looking for me.”
“Your mother was with me when Lady Austerley asked me to check in on you. She trusts you will be safe with me.”
She paused in mid-step, her shoulders stiff with disbelief. “Safe. With you?” Her harsh laugh bounced off the hallway’s high ceiling, and the candles seemed to flicker their agreement.
She swung around to face him.
“Clare—”
She flinched. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t call me that. Not in public.”
He took a step toward her, and then another, until he was close enough to trail a finger along the ridge of those pale, stiff shoulders, should he want to. No matter the overwhelming urge to touch her, to comfort her, he kept his fingers sensibly harnessed by his side. Now that he was closer, he could see how pale she was—paler, even, than she’d been the night of Lady Austerley’s ball, and he’d thought her anemic then. “Is your ankle bothering you again?”
She shook her head mutely.
He studied her a moment, this girl he could not have, but could neither forget. She was wearing a gown of gold lace that hugged new, softer curves he couldn’t help but notice a little too well. She was still slim, still exquisitely wrought.
It just didn’t hurt his clinical sensibilities to stare at her angles anymore.
Outwardly, she seemed composed. Her chin was up, her eyes focused. But by now he knew this woman well enough that her usual physical reaction to emotion or embarrassment was a lovely high color, and her current pallor bespoke a deeper concern. But even with that evidence, it was the wrinkle between her brows that really gave her away.
She was anything but fine.
“You look as though you may still need a moment to compose yourself,” he said, still trying to dissect the source of her discomfort. “Do you wish to return to the retiring room?”
She shook her head. “I’d prefer to not be cornered in there again, thank you very much.”
Ah. So her friends had been up to mischief. Daniel felt a simmering anger toward the two young ladies, though he had little idea what had been said. He could imagine, though, recalling the barbed undercurrents of conversation he’d heard during the ball two weeks ago. Still, Clare had a spine of steel, no matter that she sometimes covered it with witless giggles and expensive gowns. Surely she could withstand a bit of mean-spirited banter from her friends.
“The library, then?” He gestured to the second hallway, a journey he well remembered from the night of Lady Austerley’s ball. “It has a door with a lock, if I recall.”
She looked pensively in the direction he indicated.
“And you do have a book,” he pointed out. “You do not have to worry about your friends returning to bother you. I will wait here for you, and stand guard in the hallway until you feel well enough to return to the musicale.”
She shook her head. “I would not force you to miss the music, Daniel.”
He chuckled as the soprano reached for—and just missed—a high C note. “I assure you, it is a price I am willing to pay.”
The groove between her brows deepened. “Why must you always be so kind?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “So perfect.”
Daniel winced. “I am neither of those things.” He knew full well it was neither kindness nor perfection that engendered these protective feelings when he was around her. Kindness was a mild emotion. And a perfect gentleman would limit himself to its banality and acknowledge this simmering attraction between them for the danger it was.
The hazel eyes that haunted his dreams lifted t
o meet his, hanging on a beat of hesitation. “What if . . . I don’t want you to wait in the hallway?”
Ah. So this was it. “Is it to be good-bye, then?” he asked softly. Again.
She swayed in place, and Daniel reflexively stretched out a hand to steady her arm. At that single touch, need arced through him and every good intention he possessed disintegrated in a cloud of greedy want.
“What if I don’t wish you to say good-bye, either?” she said softly.
Daniel sucked in a surprised breath. If not good-bye, what was she asking for? But he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to redefine the question, because she was turning away from him and taking a first hesitant step toward the waiting library.
“Clare,” he began, “I don’t think—”
But any objection he might have summoned became silenced by her second step.
He followed her, of course. He didn’t just follow, he bloody well chased her, his heart jumping with an eagerness that ought to have scared them both.
And as they stepped through the open library door, he barely had enough sense to kick it closed and turn the key before she threw herself in his arms.
Chapter 23
Clare pressed her face against the cheap wool of Daniel’s coat and simply breathed.
It was dark as sin in the library, no more than a few embers burning in the fireplace to illuminate their folly. As his arms tightened around her, the monsters outside the door began to recede. He didn’t speak, just stood like the rock he had somehow become in her life, holding her. His fingers cupped the back of her head, and she shuddered into the gratifying feel of his hands. No doubt he was loosening a legion of hairpins, destroying the efforts of her maid.
She found she didn’t care.
She blindly lifted her chin, seeking . . . something.
Diary of an Accidental Wallflower Page 22