Her sharp motherly gaze penetrated his defenses like no other. “Are you in financial straits, John? Is this why you want an heiress?”
No, he wanted Claire.
Stubborn brain. “No, Mother, my pockets are fine.” The inheritance bequeathed him by his father sat untouched, for the salary from the Foreign Office covered whatever meager expenses he’d encountered while on the road. “I was merely teasing about the heiress part.”
He adjusted his spectacles and looked around the room. Claire leaned against the wall, gazing out the bow window and looking anything but happy and blissful, as his mother had described her. Her father had died shortly after their debacle, a much more likely cause for her low spirits back then than his departure.
“Excuse me, Mother.” Whatever she wasn’t, Claire was family.
Left arm tucked behind his back, he approached the window and said her name softly. Then, “I wanted to offer my condolences on your father’s passing. I know your feelings for him were conflicted, but I should have sent a note at the time.”
She glanced up and murmured, “Thank you for the polite thought, but as I’m sure you can imagine not many mourned my father.”
Lord Bradwell had been an egregious old fellow. However, Allerton had opened his eyes after their precipitous run for Scotland. The man had sobered and come to regret trying to marry Claire off to Lord Landry once he learned the truth.
Not wanting her to bend her neck looking up at him, John gestured toward the window seat. She sat, not even bothering to arrange her skirts. Lowering himself to the cushion, John kept his hand behind his back though the position was awkward. “He expressed to me his deep sorrow for his actions.”
Claire’s brown eyes flashed. “Yes, when he was sober he begged my forgiveness. It all meant naught, though, as he returned to his cups and sailed off again. I am merely thankful he saw fit to make Allerton my guardian before he cocked up his toes.” She stared out at the setting sun, her lips stretched thin. “My father is long dead and buried. Could we please discuss something else?”
“My apologies,” John mumbled. “Might I wish you felicitations on your betrothal?” Her marriage was the last thing he wanted to discuss, but he wanted to see her delight for himself. He only wanted to see her smile. Especially that small and dreamy smile she had let escape at the dinner table.
Her features remained drawn. “You may. I am thrilled to be engaged to Lord Kensworth.”
She looked ill. This was not the romantic seventeen-year-old he’d known.
He wanted to reach out and smooth the lines from her face. He wanted to kiss away her sorrows. But she sat there with her spine as straight as a broomstick and her jaw so tight that John made a concession. “He seems like a fine fellow. You met him while living at Bellemere?”
Her face lost a bit of its pinched look. “Yes. Of course Emily and Allerton invited him to dinner when he moved into the neighborhood. Before I knew it, two years had passed. Now we are to be married.”
John tried not to let his words sound bitter, but he seemed to have absorbed her prickly tension. “I hope he courted you as you deserved to be courted.”
Her eyes settled on his face for the first time since they had begun to talk. Emotions swirled through the chocolate-brown irises, bewilderment chief among them. “I…well, it wasn’t a traditional courtship. He… We were the best of friends and then he suddenly asked me to marry him.”
Interesting. But obviously not more suddenly than John had proposed.
“But I care for Kensworth,” Claire continued, looking back out the window. “He’s made me very happy. I especially look forward to being neighbors with Emily and Allerton.”
Of course. Her sister was everything to her. And Allerton? Did she still think so highly of him? It hadn’t escaped John’s notice how similar in looks and build Allerton and Kensworth were.
His smile was rueful, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Then I wish you my sincerest congratulations and much happiness on your wedding day. And beyond.” He could dream about the early demise of Kensworth all he wanted, but the robust viscount was undoubtedly long for this earth. Anyway, Claire deserved happiness, and if Kensworth was the man who could give her that…
She nodded, and John was pleased to note she no longer looked so beleaguered. Her tawny skin—no pale porcelain flesh for her—had softened, and her eyes had lost their gloomy veneer. So, he had made progress if his true goal was to see her happy. Best to quit while he was ahead and bid her goodnight.
He rose and, out of habit, flexed his remaining fingers. “Claire—”
“Oh, John. I had no idea of the nature of your injury.” She stood and redirected her gaze from his hand to his face. “Are you—? Are you still in pain?”
Her genuine concern overrode his frustration with himself for letting his guard down. Could her compassion stretch far enough to accept his disfigured hand? Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Claire was promised to another.
“No, it doesn’t usually pain me. I may have returned from the Continent with two less digits, but Allerton says I gained a sense of humor so I suppose it all evens out in the end.”
The tiniest hint of a smile shadowed her mouth, and her shoulders eased down another fraction. “You always had a sense of humor, if one listened closely.”
She had. He’d made her laugh a number of times he recalled, and he’d stupidly felt like the king of the world.
The satin of her sapphire gown shimmered in the light, providing a brilliant contrast to the muted golden skin of her bosom. In truth the dress she wore seemed more suitable for a ball, but John wouldn’t argue with her decision to wear it. The supple material draped her curves in the most enticing way.
She fingered the locket around her neck. Hungry desire shot straight to his groin, and despite knowing she couldn’t be his, he ached to touch her. He didn’t realize he had reached for her with his good hand until their fingertips connected and a lightning bolt of awareness shot up his arm.
“Don’t touch me!” she whispered harshly, yanking her hand away. “You gave up the right to do so five years ago, and I am ever so glad you did. I cannot fathom being married to you.”
She rushed away, stopping briefly to say goodnight to the others, and John watched her go. Whatever he might feel, Claire had spoken the truth earlier. She’d never cared for him.
Chapter Seven
Claire stayed abed the next morning until she knew she was nearly in danger of missing breakfast. While it would always behoove her to miss a meal or two, she could not tolerate an empty stomach so early in the day.
Her maid helped her dress in a petal green striped muslin and she glanced at the mantel. Half past ten. Someone as serious as John had probably been up for hours now and he no doubt would be long gone from the breakfast room.
As she made her way downstairs, she reflected on her obnoxious behavior of the night before. She’d never meant to be so rude to John, but his surprise return had thoroughly disconcerted her, sparking an anger she’d long ago locked away, and his sympathy regarding her father’s death had not helped matters. Every other family member knew better than to broach that subject with her. She had buried all memories of her father—and John—in a deep recess of her mind and never thought about either of them. Still, she hoped she would hold up better today, though she hadn’t slept well. She was no longer an immature girl of seventeen. It was time her behavior reflected that fact.
After filling her plate in the empty breakfast room and murmuring a thank-you to the footman who held her chair, she delved into her toast, eggs and ham. Then, though a certain black-haired, blue-eyed face intruded on her thoughts like a child seeking attention, she firmly steered her musings to the upcoming wedding.
Before yesterday she’d been full of anticipation and eager to discuss every detail. Now…now she wanted the thing over and done with. It was time to get on with her life.
“Good morning, Claire.”
Despite the marm
alade slathered atop it, a bite of her toast caught in her throat as John sauntered through the doorway and over to the sideboard. Ire welled up within her. She’d put her breakfast off two hours for nothing?
She closed her eyes. Civility. This situation, like so many others in society, called for good manners.
“Good morning, Lord John.” Yes, civility and formality, these two would be her bosom friends for the next month.
He finished heaping food upon his plate and dropped into the seat catty-corner from her. Claire stared at her food as the almond and clove scent of him assailed her nose. As in the past, simply being near him set her blood humming.
She ate faster.
The footman removed a few dishes and exited. The awkward silence expanded by the moment until finally John cleared his throat, drawing Claire’s gaze.
“Did you rest well?”
He could never be as outwardly charming as Allerton or Stephen; it wasn’t within his personality. But Claire always had the feeling he asked questions not only to be polite but also because he truly cared about the answers, and the sincerity in his fathomless blue eyes made it difficult for her to deny that she had slept restlessly, spending much of the night cursing his poorly timed arrival. But she smiled civilly and did just that.
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“I haven’t slept so well in years. I’d completely forgotten the comfort of a feather mattress and soft linens…” His voice trailed away as Claire stared at him, unable to shake the image of John stretched across the mattress, the bed linens tangled, his eyes sleepy.
She looked away and lifted a forkful of ham to her mouth. She was a despicable creature who didn’t deserve Stephen—or any other man on earth. To be unfaithful in her thoughts to the man who planned to wed her…
“I owe you an apology. I never meant my return to be so ill-timed.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she muttered into her teacup before taking a sip.
If she weren’t so hungry she would have excused herself by now. She was overly warm and could use a bit of fresh air. Sitting this close to John, where she could smell him, almost touch him, was…nothing. It had no effect on her.
She spied two tiny scars on his face that hadn’t been there before: one on his forehead, over his right eye, one just below his lower lip. Perhaps traveling the Continent had been dangerous. But Claire suppressed her smirk as her gaze fell upon his left hand. This morning it was gloved again. Dangerous indeed if he’d lost two fingers. What on earth had he been doing over there?
His fork clinked loudly against his plate, startling Claire, and he slipped his gloved hand off the table. She’d been staring. Her gaze flew to his face, where his lips were stretched thin, and behind his spectacles the brightness in his eyes had dimmed. Claire opened her mouth to say something, anything.
“Will you tell me how it happened?”
“Perhaps someday.”
She could understand his reticence in that regard, so she searched out another topic. “You said that during the war years you ‘went farther afield.’ Where exactly did you go?” Last evening her anger had prompted most of her questions. Now it was embarrassment, and perhaps a bit of suspicion thrown in.
He shrugged. “I found my way to a Greek island. The community there was welcoming. So, I settled in and spent my time reading at the beach and soaking up the sun.” He turned his attention back to his breakfast.
Claire stared at his glossy black hair as he ate. He expected her to believe he’d been lounging around an island? She couldn’t see John doing any such thing. He might not be an adventure seeker or a sporting man, but he was hardworking and principled, not given to aimlessness like her father. Certainly he liked to read, but he couldn’t have carted a whole library all the way to the Mediterranean. Not to mention his skin was anything but sun-browned.
She sipped her tea and watched him. What was he hiding? He glanced up at her once, gave a half-smile at her scrutiny, and then went back to eating. There was more to this.
“Why did you quit the Foreign Office? I thought you liked translating.”
“It grew old after a while.”
“Allerton said advancement was yours for the taking,” she countered. “Why didn’t you simply put in for a different position?” She remembered what he’d said the night before. “Or, why didn’t you return to the Foreign Office once the army turned you away?”
He tipped his head back, smiling like the king’s favorite jester. “I’m the second son, remember? I don’t have responsibilities like Allerton or Kensworth and so I’m able to follow my dreams, as inconsequential as they may seem.”
While his genuine smile might be a thing to behold, this idiotic stretching of his lips made her cringe. Her eyebrows inched up and she said, “You never mentioned your life’s dream was to loll about on a Greek island. Greek isn’t even one of the languages you speak.”
“It is now,” he answered cheekily. “I wanted time alone to see the world and experience a carefree life. I rather enjoyed myself, whether you approve or not.”
“I can’t say I do approve, not when England was fighting for her soul.” Not after knowing what Stephen, a captain in the army, had endured during the war. She waved a hand in front of John and snapped, “This is not the man I used to know.” Indeed, she could easily be watching a play, for he seemed to be immersed in some role she couldn’t fathom.
“You barely knew me and clearly misjudged my character.”
Could she have been so wrong?
“I don’t think I did. Your story is highly unbelievable. Where were you, John?”
He rose quickly, almost toppling his chair. “Do you call me a liar then? Thanks very much, Claire. Good day.”
He was gone before she could even blink. Claire sat there, unmoving, her gaze unfocused for the longest time, finally acknowledging to herself that he did have a right to be upset. She’d as much as declared him a liar, though she hadn’t meant to.
Bother! Just what she needed, guilt piled atop all the other emotions that were burning a hole through her stomach.
She groaned in frustration and rose from the table. Suspicious or not, John and his actions all those years ago should not be the center of her thoughts. She would, however, apologize as soon as an opportunity presented itself. Until then, perhaps his anger with her would serve to put some distance between them.
She needed to see Stephen.
Not only did he reside with his brothers, Robert and David, but also Robert’s wife. So Claire could, and often did, use the pretext of calling on Mrs. Cahill to visit him. After finding the butler and ordering a carriage, she went upstairs to ready herself for going out, and eventually she was on her way, driving through the rain, not contemplating John, the hurt look on his face, or where he had really spent the last few years.
***
Mrs. Robert Cahill was a long time coming, and when she finally entered the parlor it was apparent to Claire that the other woman did not appreciate being called upon before noon.
“Have you some news, Lady Claire?” she asked as she dropped onto the well-worn rose damask sofa. “Are you here to discuss those political issues again? A lady should have more to do than worry over dreadful things like slavery and…what was that other? Something about suffering?”
“Suffrage. Voting rights.” For once Claire couldn’t blame her soon-to-be sister-in-law for being irritated; clearly it was her day to ruin the start of everyone else’s. She sank down beside the large-boned brunette. “I apologize for calling so early. I left the house in a rush and didn’t stop to think of the time.”
Mrs. Cahill waved a limp hand in the air. “Please call for tea. I am famished.”
Usually the woman resented any presumption on Claire’s part that she would be mistress here someday, but Claire wasn’t going to let slip the opportunity to ask for Stephen. She leapt up and pulled the bell then waited by the door for the footman. When he arrived, she ordered tea and biscuits in a low voi
ce, slipping in a request to inform his master of her presence.
Pacing around the room, Claire again noticed the threadbare condition of the carpets and upholstery. The room hadn’t been redecorated in over thirty years. The previous viscount, Stephen’s distant cousin, had rarely left his estate and obviously not seen fit to spend money on a house he never used.
“Stephen says Allerton’s brother has returned after a long absence.” Mrs. Cahill’s last words disappeared into a yawn as she laid her head against the sofa and closed her eyes.
“Yes, Lord John is back.” Claire sighed. Even here, she couldn’t get away from him. But she could change the subject. “I was surprised to hear you had come to Town.”
Mrs. Cahill popped up, smoothing back her golden brown locks. “The Season is about to begin. Mr. Cahill and I didn’t want to miss the fun. Stephen was such a killjoy last year, claiming we must remain in mourning for that old codger we didn’t even know.”
“Stephen’s decision was most respectful. Lord Kensworth, from whom he inherited the title, had only died a few months prior.” Mrs. Cahill knew this, but she insisted on bringing it up every chance she got. “David came as well?”
“Yes, though he only intends to stay a few days.” Mrs. Cahill examined her fingernails. “You know he much prefers the rough society of Wakebourne.”
David, the youngest of the brothers at twenty-one, did enjoy the country pursuits of hunting, fishing and riding above all else, but Claire wouldn’t call the neighborhood around Wakebourne, Stephen’s Hertfordshire estate, rough. He had made many friends and oftentimes stayed away from the estate for days at a time. Still, Claire preferred his rustic yet enthusiastic company to the cold rudeness of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Cahill.
The tea and Stephen arrived at the same time. “Ah, two of my favorite things, refreshments and pretty ladies!”
He bowed toward both of them, but Mrs. Cahill paid him scant attention. She had already descended upon the biscuits. Claire smiled at Stephen and waited for Mrs. Cahill to pour.
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