by Sophia James
Did Luc Clairmont hear them too? Was he awake with his swollen eye and wounded leg?
She slipped from her bed and walked to the window, pulling back her heavy cream curtains and looking out into the darkness.
Park Lane was quiet and the trees across the way were bleak against a sodden sky. Tonight the moon did not show its face, but was hidden behind low clouds of rolling greyness, gathering in the west.
A nothing kiss in a rain-filled night and the weight of twenty-five years upon her shoulders.
If she did not take this one chance, she might never know, but always wonder…
Sitting at her desk, she pulled out a piece of paper and an envelope and, dipping her pen in ink, began to write.
The letter had come a few minutes ago and Luc could make no sense of it. Lillian Davenport had something of importance to ask him and would like his company at three o’clock. The servant who had brought the message was one of Stephen’s so he presumed it to have gone to the Hawkhurst town house first. The lad also seemed to be waiting for a reply.
Scrawling an answer on a separate sheet of parchment, he reached for his seal. Out of habit, he was to think as he placed it back down, for of course he could not use it here. ‘Could you deliver this to Miss Davenport?’
The young servant nodded and hurried away, and when he had gone Luc lifted Lillian’s missive into the light and read it again.
She wanted to speak to him about something important. She hoped he would come alone. She wondered about the Christmas traditions in America and whether mistletoe and holly were plants he was familiar with.
He frowned. Though he grew trees for timber in Virginia, the subject of botany had never been his strongpoint. Holly he knew as a prickly red-berried plant but mistletoe…Was that not the sprig that young ladies liked to hang in the Yuletide salons to catch kisses? A different thought struck him. What would it be like to kiss Lillian Davenport?
He chastised himself at the very idea. Lord, she seemed to be very familiar with Wilcox-Rice and he was leaving in little more than a month.
But the thought lingered, a tantalising conjecture that lay in the memory of holding her fingers in his own and feeling the hurried beat of her heart. He guessed that Lillian Davenport was a warm and responsive woman beneath the outward composure, a lady who would be pleasantly surprised by the wonders of the flesh.
Raking his hand through his hair, he stood, wincing at the lump on the back of his head. Four men had jumped him on returning to his lodgings three nights ago and it was only his training in the army that had allowed him the ability to fend them off until help arrived.
He wished that Hawk had not persuaded him to take a walk the other day, the same walk that had brought him face to face with Lillian and her friends. Damn, he had seen in her eyes the censure he had noticed in every single one of their meetings and who could blame her?
The charade of his visit here began to press in. He would have liked to tell Lillian that he was not a bad man, that he had been a soldier and that he held great tracks of virgin land in Virginia filled with timber. But he couldn’t because there were other things about him that she would not countenance.
Still, for the first time in a long while he felt alive and excited, the inertia in Richmond replaced by a new vigour.
He came through into the small yellow downstairs salon like one of the sleek black panthers she had once seen as a statue in an antique shop in Regent Street, all restless energy and barely harnessed menace, but she also saw he limped.
‘Miss Davenport!’ Today his injured eye looked darker, the bruising worsened by time, though he neither alluded to it nor hid it from her. Her letter was in his hand, she could see her tidy neat writing from where she stood and there was a question in his stance.
‘Mr Clairmont.’
Silence stretched until she gestured him to sit, the absurdity of all she had planned, now that he was here, screaming in her consciousness. How did she begin? How did one broach such a situation with any degree of modesty and honour?
‘Thank you very much for coming. I know that you must be busy-’
‘Card games happen mostly at night,’ he interrupted and she swore she saw a glimmer of amusement in his velvet eyes.
‘And your leg is obviously painful,’ she hurried on. To that he stayed wordless.
Her eyes strayed to the door. Did she risk broaching the subject before the parlourmaid brought in the refreshments or after? Relaxing, she decided on after, reasoning she could then instruct the girl to leave them alone for the few moments it would take to conduct her…experiment.
Lord, she hated to call it that, but was at a loss as to what else to name it.
‘I hope London is treating you well…’ As soon as she said it she knew her error.
‘A few cuts and bruises, but what is that between a man and a beautiful city?’
‘Was it a fall?’
He frowned at that and grated out a ‘yes’.
‘I had an accident last year at Fairley, our family seat in Hertfordshire.’
‘Indeed?’ His brows rose significantly.
‘I fell from a horse whilst racing across the park.’
‘I trust nothing was broken?’
‘Only my pride! It was a village fair, you see, and I had entered the race on a whim.’
‘Pride is a fragile thing,’ he returned in his American drawl, and her cheeks reddened. She shifted in her seat, hating the heat that followed and fretful that her letter had indeed told him far too much. Her eyes flickered to the mistletoe she had hung secretly, a sad reminder of a plot that was quickly unravelling, and then back to his hands lying palm up in his lap.
Suddenly she knew just how to handle her request. ‘You told me once of a woman who had read your hand in the town of Richmond?’
She waited till he nodded.
‘You said that she told you life was like a river and that you are taken by it to the place that you were meant to be.’ The tone of her voice rose and she fought to keep it back.
‘The thing is, Mr Clairmont, I would hope at this moment that the place you are meant to be is here in my salon because I am going to ask you a question that might, without some sense of belief in fate, sound strange.’
‘I know very little about the properties of mistletoe or holly,’ he interrupted. ‘If it is botany that you wish to quiz me on?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your letter. You mention something of particular plants.’
Unexpectedly she began to smile and then caught the mirth back with a strong will as she shook her head.
‘No, it is not that. I had heard from…others that the state of your finances is somewhat precarious and wanted to offer you a boon to alleviate the problem.’ She knew that she had taken the wrong turn as soon as he stood, the polite façade of a moment ago submerged beneath anger.
Panic made her careless. ‘I want to buy a kiss from you.’ Blurted out with all the finesse of a ten-year-old.
‘You what…?’
‘Buy a kiss from you…’ Her hands shook as she rummaged through her bag, trying to extricate the notes she had got from the bank that very morning.
When she finally managed it he swore, and not quietly.
‘Shh, they might hear.’
‘Who might hear? Your father? Your cousin? Someone has already had one go at me this week and I would be loathe to let them have another one.’
‘Someone did that to you?’ Goodness, she had lost hold of the whole conversation and could not even think how to retrieve it.
With honesty!
Taking a breath, she buried vanity. ‘I am a twenty-five-year-old spinster, Mr Clairmont, and a woman who has been kissed only once, yesterday, by Lord Wilcox-Rice. And I need to know if what I felt was…normal.’
‘What the hell did you feel?’
She drew herself up to her tallest height, a feat that was not so intimidating given that she stood at merely five foot two, even in her shoes.
‘I felt nothing!’
The words reverberated in the ensuing silence, his anger evaporating in an instant to be replaced by laughter.
‘I realise to you that the whole thing may seem like a joke, but…’
He breathed out. Hard.
‘Nay, it is not that, Lilly, it is not that.’ She felt his hand against her cheek, a single finger stroking down the bone, a careful feather-touch with all the weight of air.
A touch that made her shiver and want, a touch that made her move towards this thing she wished for, and then vanishing as a sound came from outside in the corridor.
Luc Clairmont moved back too, towards the window, his body faced away from hers and his hand adjusting the fit of his trousers. Perhaps he was angry again? Perhaps on reflection he saw the complete and utter disregard of convention that her request had subjected him to?
She smiled wanly as a young maid entered the room and bade her leave the tea for them to pour. Question shadowed the girl’s eyes and Lillian knew that she was fast running out of minutes. It was simply not done for an unmarried lady to be sequestered alone for any length of time with a man.
At twenty-five some leeway might have been allowed, but she knew that he would need to leave before too many more seconds had passed.
Consequently when the door shut behind the servant she walked across to him.
‘I do not wish to hurry you, but-’
He did not let her finish. The hard ardour of his lips slanted across her own, opening her mouth. Rough hands framed her cheeks as the length of his body pressed against hers, asking, needing, allowing no mealy response, but the one given from the place she had hidden for so, so long.
Feeling exploded, the sharp beat of her heart, the growing warmth in her stomach, the throb of lust that ached in a region lower. As she pressed closer her hands threaded through his hair, and into the nape of his neck, moving without her volition, with a complete lack of control.
He was not gentle, not careful, the feel of his lips on her mouth, on her cheek and on the sensitive skin at her neck unrestrained.
And then stopped!
She tried to keep it going, tipping her mouth to his, but he pulled her head against his chest and held her there, against a heartbeat that sped in heavy rhythm.
‘This is not the place, Lilly…’
Reality returned, the yellow salon once again around her, the sound of servants outside, the tea on the table with its small plume of steam waiting to be drunk.
She pushed away, a new danger now in the room and much more potent than the one that had bothered her before.
Before she had been worried about his actions and now she was worried about her own, for in that kiss something had been unleashed, some wild freedom that could now not be contained.
Lucas Clairmont placed her letter on the table and gathered his hat. ‘Miss Davenport,’ he said and walked from the room.
Lord, he thought on the journey between Pall Mall and his lodgings. He should not have kissed her, not allowed her confession of feeling ‘nothing’ with Wilcox-Rice to sway his resolve.
And now where did it leave him? With a hankering for more and a woman who would hate him.
He should have stayed, should have reassured her, should have at least had the decency to admit the whole thing as his fault before he had walked out.
But she had captivated him with her pale elegance and honesty and with the fumbled bank notes pushed uncertainly at him.
To even think that she would pay him?
Absolute incredulity replaced irritation and that in turn was replaced by something…more akin to respect.
She was the one all others aspired to be like, the pinnacle of manners and deportment and it could not have been easy for her to have even asked him what she did. Hell, she had a hundred times more to lose than he, with his passage to Virginia looming near and a reputation that no amount of bad behaviour could lower.
Why on earth, then, had she picked him? She must have weighed up the odds as to what he could do with such information, the pressures of society here like a sledgehammer against any deviation from the strict codes of manners.
Why had she risked it?
The answer came easily. She did so because she was desperate, desperate to discover if what she felt for Wilcox-Rice was normal and hopeful that it was not.
Well, he thought, with the first glimmer of humour coming back. At least she had found out that!
Lillian threw herself on her bed and took the breath she had hardly taken since Lucas Clairmont had left the house.
He had been angry, the notes she had tried to give him in her fist, a coarse message of intent and failure. She rolled over and peeled each one away from the other.
Two hundred pounds! And if he had taken them it would have been worth every single penny. Turning, she looked at the ceiling, reliving each second of that kiss, her fingers reaching for the places his had been and then falling lower.
What if he had not stopped? What if he had not pulled back when he did? Would she have come to her senses? Honesty forced her to admit she would not have and the admission cost her much.
‘If you aren’t careful you will be your mother all over again, Lillian.’ Her father’s voice from the past, a warning to her as her mother lay dying, the words uttered in a despair of melancholy and sorrow. She had been thirteen and the fashions of the day had begun to be appealing, the chance to experiment and change. She blinked.
Had such advice altered the person she might have become? Was she changing back?
She shook her head and lay still, closing her eyes against the light.
The knock on the door woke her and for a second she could not work out quite where she was, for seldom did she doze in the afternoon.
Her bedroom. Lucas Clairmont. The kiss. Reality surfaced and with it a rising dread.
‘You have some flowers, Miss.’
A maid came in with a large unruly bunch of orange flowers and her breath was caught. ‘Is there a card?’
‘Indeed, miss, there is.’ The maid broke the envelope away from a string that kept it joined to the bouquet, speculation unhidden in the lines of her face.
‘That will be all, thank you,’ Lillian said, waiting until the door was shut before she slit open the card.
I FELT SOMETHING
The words were in bold capitals with no name attached.
Without meaning to, Lillian began to cry-in those three words Luc Clairmont had given her back the one thing she had not thought it possible to regain.
Her pride.
Holding the flowers close to her breast, her tears fell freely across the fragrant orange petals.
Chapter Seven
‘Mr Clairmont from America was at the club as a guest of Hawkhurst today.’ The tone in her father’s voice told her that he was not pleased. ‘The man is a scoundrel and a gambler. Why he even continues to receive invitation from people we know confounds me.’
‘And yet he seemed such a nice young man when he came to ask you to dance, Lillian, at the Cholmondely ball. How very misleading first impressions can be,’ her aunt said.
‘You have danced with this American?’ Her father’s heavy frown made her heart sink.
Danced. Touched. Kissed.
‘I have, Father. He asked for my hand in a waltz.’
‘And you did not turn him down? Surely you could see what sort of a fellow he was.’
‘Men like him pounce quickly on the unsuspecting, Ernest. It is no point in chastising Lillian, for she is blameless in it all.’
Blameless?
The bunch of orange blooms still stood by her bed, carefully tended and watered daily, but she had not seen him again, not in the park, not at the parties, not in the streets as she walked each day.
‘St Auburn is a particular friend of Clairmont’s, is he not?’
Jean shrugged her shoulders. ‘I do not know the man personally. Daniel could probably tell you much more about him.’
/> Lillian looked more closely at her aunt, trying to ascertain whether she knew of the wayward pursuits of her son and deciding in the smile she returned her that she probably did not.
‘I ask the question,’ her father continued, ‘because an invitation came for you yesterday, Lillian, to attend a country party of the Earl and Lady St Auburn in Kent and I should not wish for you to go should the American be there.’ He sipped at his tea, fiddling with a pair of spectacles he held in his right hand.
‘When would the party be held, Father?’ She tried to keep her voice as neutral as she could.
‘It would run from this Friday to Sunday. If you were interested, perhaps Wilcox-Rice could take you?’
‘Indeed.’ She bit into her toast and honey.
‘So you are saying that you would go?’
‘Lady St Auburn is a friend of mine. I should like to catch up with her news.’
‘Would you be able to travel down too, Jean? Lillian can hardly go unchaperoned.’
Her aunt sighed heavily, but accepted the responsibility, giving the impression of a woman who would have preferred to be saying no.
The house was beautiful, a six-columned Georgian mansion, the grounds as well manicured and fine as she had visited anywhere.
They were late. She could see that as they swept up the circular driveway, a crowd of people in a glass conservatory to the left of the house. From this distance she could not be sure that Lucas Clairmont was amongst them, but John Wilcox-Rice at her side did not look happy.
‘I cannot imagine why you should want to come to this party, Lillian. The set St Auburn hangs with are a little wild and if he did not have so much in the way of property and gold I doubt he would be so feted. Besides, the man always seems slightly unrestrained to me.’
‘Cassandra is Mrs Weatherby’s youngest sister, John, and I have a lot of fondness for her.’
‘Then you should have seen her in the city.’
‘But Kent is lovely at this time of the year. Surely you would at least say that?’
Jean stretched suddenly, waking as the carriage slowed and stopped.