Claire approached and addressed the maid. “Alice, may I be of help?”
The young servant couldn’t have looked more frustrated. Her hair had escaped not only her cap but its pins as well, poking out in all directions like spokes on a wheel while her cheeks were flushed a deep red. “Oh, my lady! Yes, please. I don’t know what to do with Lady Olivia. She won’t behave.”
Claire glanced down at her niece, whose glossy blonde curls and clasped hands portrayed innocence to perfection. Olivia was only three, but Claire knew all too well how mischievous she could be. With a care for her skirts, she sank down to the little girl’s level. “What have you done, my sweet?”
“It’s pretty and I like to look at it,” Olivia proclaimed, as if that explained everything. For her, it probably did.
“It isn’t hers!” Alice interrupted. “She nicked it, and if it’s found missing I could be in trouble.”
“Will you show it to me, Olivia?” Claire asked. “I like pretty things too.” It was probably one of Emily’s baubles. Olivia always attended her mother as she dressed.
The little girl nodded, her curls bobbing up and down, and then reached into the pocket of her pinafore. Her eyes lit with pleasure as she dangled a man’s watch in front of Claire’s face. “It’s so shiny. Look here, Auntie, see all the embossings?”
Claire couldn’t contain a smile at the new word. “Yes, the carvings are beautiful.” The gold watch had a woodland scene embossed on the front. She took it from Olivia and flipped it over. Etched on the back were the words, TO EDWARD, FROM FATHER—1769. An heirloom, but whose? “Olivia, where did you get this?”
“From Uncle John’s room.”
Of course. Edward had been the name of the previous Duke of Allerton.
“Are you certain? It could be your papa’s.”
Olivia shook her head. “It is Uncle John’s. But I think it’s pretty and I want to keep it.”
“I’m afraid you cannot keep it, sweet. It must be special to Uncle John; it’s from his father.” Claire rose and held the watch out to Alice, who recoiled as if it were poisonous.
“Oh, please, can’t you see it returned to Lord John? This isn’t the first time Lady Olivia’s taken things and I’m that afraid someone will think it’s me. I need my place here.”
Absolutely not. Claire could not even imagine facing John right now. “Alice, Lord John would never think—”
Tears filled the maid’s eyes. “Please, my lady.”
“I’d rather you come with me, Auntie,” Olivia piped in.
Botheration! She hadn’t even had breakfast yet. But Claire couldn’t resist all the pleading. She pocketed the watch and said, “Very well. Alice, I will return Olivia to you in the nursery when we are finished.”
After fervently thanking Claire, Alice nearly ran down the passage toward the servants’ stairs. Olivia slipped her hand into Claire’s, and again Claire bent down toward her niece. “You must apologize to Uncle John and you must promise not to take things that don’t belong to you. I’m certain he would show you his watch, if you would only ask.”
Olivia nodded, her features set in a serious yet adorable expression. “I will promise. Let’s go find Uncle.”
“Wait,” Claire said. “First, we must go to the kitchens for some biscuits.”
“Why?” Olivia asked as Claire led her down the corridor.
“Because I am hungry. But also because I find, in these kinds of situations, it is best to come bearing a gift.” Or because it would give her time to settle her breathing into a normal rhythm and will away the blush that was undoubtedly coloring her cheeks.
Cook supplied them with a napkin full of raisin biscuits and the butler told them, when asked, that they could most likely find Lord John in the silver salon.
Claire ate a fortifying biscuit on the way back upstairs. Olivia chattered happily, asking question after question about Claire’s gown for the wedding. Fretting about the imminent meeting with John was impossible.
Olivia flew into the salon, shouting, “Uncle John!”
He was standing by the window, but he reacted quickly and swept the little girl up into his arms, as naturally as if he had done such things for years.
“We’ve brought biscuits,” Olivia continued, pointing at Claire. “So you won’t be angry.”
John smiled even as he turned slightly bemused eyes on her.
“They are a peace offering. From Olivia,” Claire added in a rush, lest he think they were from her. Though God only knew she needed a little peace where John was concerned.
As he walked toward her, she held out the biscuits, hoping to keep him from coming too close. With Olivia still in his arms, he took two, softly said, “Thank you,” and then sat on the sofa. He settled their niece in his lap and offered her one of the biscuits before saying, “Why do you need to make peace with me, Olivia?”
The girl slid down and approached Claire, her hand held out. Claire pulled the watch from her pocket and gave it over, all the while aware of John’s gaze upon her.
“I like your pretty watch, but Auntie Claire says I can’t keep it.”
John took the watch, and Claire noticed he wasn’t wearing a glove on his injured hand. More to the point, he wasn’t trying to hide it. Good. She admired his courage in showing himself, imperfections and all. There was a lesson there for her if she would only heed it.
“Thank you for returning it,” he was saying. “I couldn’t find it this morning. I usually wear it here.” He pointed to his green brocade waistcoat and then opened the watch and began counting the numerals for Olivia. She watched earnestly, her hands tucked away in her pinafore pockets.
John was so patient, not to mention forgiving. He would be as excellent a father as his brother was.
Claire turned away and ate another biscuit, wondering what kind of father Stephen would be. He was the one she was going to marry. Somehow a third biscuit found its way to her mouth. They too might have an adorable little blonde-haired girl. Or a sturdy boy with green eyes.
Claire looked down to find the rest of the biscuits crumbled in her fist. As she tidied the mess up into the napkin, John called her name.
“Yes?” she replied, too brightly.
“I think Olivia might have something else to return as well,” he said.
The little girl’s eyes grew wide as John pointed at one of her pockets.
Claire approached, thinking that Emily and Allerton would need to have a long talk with their daughter.
“Olivia,” she said sternly, “what else do you have?”
John had his hand waiting to receive the pilfered item as, ever so slowly, Olivia brought it out. But when Claire saw the tiny black and gold object she exclaimed, “My lace pin. Olivia, how could you?”
Her tone was harsher than she meant it to be, but the sight of that pin always did odd things to her.
Her niece burst into tears. Claire gathered her up, whispering an apology into her ear. While she soothed Olivia, John pulled the servants’ bell.
Finally, Olivia heaved one last sob and then settled down. Claire reminded herself how truly young her niece was and that the little girl probably had no idea of the significance of the items she had taken. As she’d already admitted, she merely thought they were pretty.
John crossed the room and took the child from Claire. “Olivia, would you be upset if your brother took your doll?”
The girl’s blonde curls bounced vigorously as she nodded. “He did! Just the other day. I hit him.”
The corner of John’s mouth twitched, but he managed to maintain a serious expression. “Well, you had every right to be angry, but you shouldn’t hit him. When you take other people’s belongings, it upsets them.”
Olivia gazed into his eyes. “I’m sorry.” When John tilted his head toward Claire, the little girl threw herself that way, John came closer and Claire took her once again.
“I’m sorry,” the girl repeated. Then her lips turned out into a pout. “But everyone else
has such shiny things!”
Claire laughed and hugged her.
A maid entered the room.
“Mary is going to take you back to the nursery, Olivia,” John said.
Claire gave the girl over reluctantly. She had wanted to return Olivia to the nursery herself, not wishing to remain here with him. Somehow she had made it this long without dwelling on the events of last night, but she didn’t know how much longer she could do so.
John returned to Claire after seeing the girl and maid out the door. Cocking his head toward the sitting area he asked, “Shall we? I asked Mary to bring up some tea. I didn’t see you at breakfast, so I thought you might want something besides biscuits.”
Times like these made her wonder how she could ever be angry with him, and her traitorous feet carried her over to the sofa where she sat with her back straight and her feet crossed at the ankles.
When John passed the sofa and lowered himself into an adjacent wing chair, Claire realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out, reminding herself that having him sit next to her would have been untenable. Yet the reprimand went unheeded when a hint of his nutty soap tickled her nose, dotting her arms with gooseflesh.
Staying here was a mistake.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Tea would be lovely.”
Beyond the niceties, she had no idea what they would discuss. How could John act so casually? He lounged in his chair, long, nankeen-covered legs stretched out in front of him, boots crossed. He had ordered tea, as if they sat down for a coze every morning. As if he hadn’t kissed her senseless last night.
The returning maid set the tray in front of Claire, who busied herself with pouring two cups. Then, as the servant left, Claire piled sandwiches and apple slices on a plate. Her stomach rumbled, rather loudly, at the mere sight of the food. She glanced at John to see if he had heard, but his attention was fixed on the window. Without further hesitation, she began eating.
“Did you hear thunder? I didn’t think it was supposed to rain today.”
His tone was contemplative and innocent, but Claire didn’t miss the devilish twinkle in his blue eyes when he turned. She shot him a quelling look, which only made him smile. That smile could so easily awaken her hunger for things besides food.
No. She couldn’t allow those feelings. How could she feel such desire for someone when she barely respected the man he had become?
John pulled something from his waistcoat pocket. Stretching out his hand, her lace pin nestled there, he asked, “Was it made in memory of your mother?”
Her mother had died when Claire was fourteen. She took the pin, willing herself not to look at John when her fingers grazed his palm. Staring at the pin’s jet stones she explained, “Emily had it made.” She pressed a finger over the glass-encased, braided blond hair and tried not to think of her mother—or her father. “After she died.”
John said nothing. As the silence stretched on, Claire could no longer resist raising her gaze.
Behind the spectacles, his blue eyes studied her thoughtfully, and when he lifted up his father’s watch, a memory from that night long ago flashed in her mind. The highwayman had wanted John’s watch. His father’s watch. His hesitation in handing it over had panicked her, making her think he valued it over her.
“Allerton gave me this upon our father’s death,” he said. “I thanked him, of course, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. I shoved it in a drawer and forgot about it.”
“How old were you?” she asked, relieved to be speaking of his father and not her parents.
“Eleven. I think I hid it away because I didn’t want any reminders. The memories were painful enough—or rather, the visions of what would never be.”
She had rarely seen him this expressive. His sad smile pulled at her, and Claire realized she had begun to reach out to him. Slowly she withdrew and smoothed her skirts with one hand.
She cleared her throat. “When did you finally start wearing it?”
He was silent for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He simply stared at the watch, rubbing his thumb over the embossed surface. Finally he replied, “When my memories of my father began to grow hazy. I found myself wanting a piece of him, something tangible to remember him by.” He flipped the watch over and held it so she could see the engraving on the back. “My grandfather gave it to him. I like to think he remembered his father when he wore it too.”
Claire blinked against a sudden sting of tears. How hard it must have been for him to have grown up without a father. Oh, she had no doubt that Allerton had stepped in and done the best he could, but still, she knew what it was like to be without a parent—or two, as absent as her father had been.
She did reach across and squeeze his hand then. Just once, quickly. His eyes, wide in surprise, cut to hers.
She raised the lace pin for John to see. “How did you know Olivia had something in her pocket? It’s so small as to be unnoticeable.” There, she was talking about the pin and, in a roundabout way, her parents.
“She kept her hand in there, fiddling with it. It wasn’t much to assume it was another of her stolen treasures.” He slid the watch back into his pocket and gestured toward her pin. “Have you ever worn it?”
Claire shook her head. Like John, she had buried the piece. Among her handkerchiefs. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Perhaps you should. It’s been nine years.”
Despite her best intentions to remain relaxed, Claire’s jaw tightened. She knew how many years it had been. She knew how much time she had lost with her mother. The muscles in her throat constricted as well. She squeezed the pin in her palm and whispered, “When I look at it, all I can think about is what he did to her and almost did to me.”
“Your father?”
She nodded and swallowed past the lump in her throat. She wasn’t going to cry. There was no point. “He died in the West Indies. Did you know that? After all his apologies and his supposed remorse over his behavior toward me, he left again just as merrily as you please. How typical. The Earl of Bradwell couldn’t even be buried in England due to his ridiculous rambles.”
No longer able to keep the tears at bay, she turned her head away, knowing one glance at John’s sympathetic face would render her incapable of speech. She hated feeling remorse over her father’s death. He didn’t deserve a moment’s thought from her.
Vision blurred, she jerked to her feet and stumbled away to let the tears fall. She hadn’t cried like this in five years, but she couldn’t stop. She prayed John would go away. Tears frightened most men, so perhaps he would slink away and leave her be.
But then warm hands cupped her shoulders, turning her around and folding her into the comfort of a solid chest and strong arms, into the place where she secretly longed to stay forever. She sobbed a while longer for her mother, who’d abandoned her first emotionally and then in death, and for her wretched father, damn him. Then she wept for herself, for she had no right to be so tenderly ensconced in John’s arms.
“Oh, Claire,” he finally said, pulling her closer still. Her arms were trapped between them, her hands fisted against his chest.
It wasn’t Oh, Claire, you poor thing, as his mother might have said. It wasn’t Oh, Claire, you know how father was, as her sister might have said. It definitely wasn’t Oh, Claire, don’t be sad. I can make you feel better, as Stephen would have said. They were two simple words, said on a sigh without judgment. Exactly what she wanted.
With all the reluctance in the world, Claire pushed away. As comforting as John’s words and embrace were, she was Stephen’s fiancée. One of them needed to maintain an air of propriety, and it didn’t appear as if John ever intended to do so.
She took the handkerchief he offered and dabbed at her eyes. “I shouldn’t have expected him to stay. He never had before.” She paced. “It was wonderful to have him here for those few weeks. He came to dinner, he played charades, and he even escorted me to a ball. I was so desperate and stupid that I was
willing to forget everything he had done. I just wanted a father, a parent. Then he was gone again.” And so were you.
She’d lain awake so many nights, berating herself for forgiving her father. What had been the point when he’d left again and then died? She was her mother all over again.
“You aren’t stupid. You deserved better from him. I’m so sorry, Claire.”
“Thank you.”
Gently, John laid a hand upon her arm, halting her continued pacing. “I’m also sorry I wasn’t here to help you through that difficult time.”
Up until then his words had been nothing but reassuring. “But you weren’t here, were you?”
“No,” he said. “I wasn’t.”
“Because you jilted me and ran off like a coward.” Astounding, how good it felt to say those words. Until she peeked up at John’s face. He looked as if she’d slapped him.
He had no right to be hurt. She was the one who’d been crushed by his swift departure.
“I tell you again, I did not jilt you,” John said as she turned to leave.
He always knew what to say to get a response from her, even if he used that soft, calm tone. She whirled around. “How can you deny it?”
“I did what was best for you.”
Her voice rose against her will. “So you call yourself noble?”
“Never.” His tone was as sharp and jagged as a saw. “You didn’t want me, Claire. I was nothing like Allerton. I was puny and timid. I couldn’t even save you from that bandit. ‘John was just as frightened as I,’ you said.”
Seldom was she stunned into silence, but her brain could barely comprehend his words.
“I wanted to marry you,” he whispered. If she had closed her eyes, she could have imagined the words were uttered with the utmost tenderness.
She found her voice at last but couldn’t help spluttering. “You thought… I didn’t… Why didn’t you ask me if I still wanted to marry you or not?”
“I didn’t want to give you a chance to reject me. I’d left my pride on the side of that road, trampled to bits.” He huffed out a breath and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I had a plan, though. To mold myself into someone you could love, someone you could be proud of. I was going to join the army. Become strong and brave, just like Allerton.”
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