Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  His remaining ribs tumbled into the pit of his stomach, the urge to lean in and kiss the incomparable woman reaching an unholy tier in his mind.

  Sturdy, tall, and unremarkable. Ever the maple, ever was Hawk, and Clara was again addressing his own description and praising it well.

  The splendor of her eyes met his, and he saw her understanding and her meaning, saw his world in her hands, saw the heart of him beating with a fervency he dared not comprehend.

  “I suppose,” he murmured, wondering that his legs and feet were still managing proper motion in escorting them both.

  He barely felt human at the present.

  Thankfully, Stafford and a few maids met them at the bottom of the stairs with cloaks, and then they were shuttled into the carriage and soon rolling along towards their destination. He sat on one side of the carriage, the ladies on the other, which was undoubtedly a safer place for them all, though the distance felt immense.

  He, for one, was content to simply stare at Clara, and, given their present positions, could do so without seeming improper, so long as he occasionally looked out of the window or at her aunt. Therefore, every count of forty, he shifted his eyes for a count of ten before bringing them back. Clara could tell, he knew that by the quirk of her lips each time his eyes returned. Which drove him mad and made him want to do it more.

  What a game they were playing with each other.

  Mrs. Daniels filled the drive with stories of balls she had attended in her youth, and her memory for detail was impressive, as was her skill in the telling of those stories. He found himself laughing along with her, despite his full attention being on Clara. He could still listen creditably and enjoy a fine tale to pass the time.

  His amusement faded when he felt a small foot gently press against his, their shapes fitting together with a perfection that robbed him of thought.

  He looked at Clara early, only having reached the count of five, and found her smile one of deep bemusement, if not delighted fascination.

  Little minx, she’d upend his world in ten minutes if he let her.

  Raising a brow, he increased the pressure against her foot, satisfaction surging as he caught a brief exhale on her part.

  Oh, what a night lay ahead of them, if such things continued.

  The carriage slowed and reached a stop far before he’d expected, making him wonder if time had a vendetta against his happiness, but he proceeded out of the carriage quickly and handed each lady out, following them into the Assembly Rooms. They handed their outerwear to the servants, then moved up the stairs to the spaces reserved for the night’s entertainments.

  Music was already underway, and, by the sound of it, so was a jig. The laughter of guests and enthusiastic clapping in time with the music echoed out to them, capturing the air of the event suitably. If one could say anything about the dances at Gadsden, they would undoubtedly say that they were full of spirit.

  Hawk didn’t care so much about that tonight as he did about one particular thing.

  “Save me two dances,” he murmured to Clara as they reached the top of the stairs and then turning, pausing before they entered.

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Which two?”

  “Any,” he told her, taking her hand subtly, Mrs. Daniels’ attention on the room ahead of them. “Whichever ones are longest.”

  Clara released a breath he understood well, and squeezed his hand, pumping his heart in the process. “They’re yours,” she whispered, her eyes bright. “A pity they will not have a waltz for us.”

  Us. The word held music in its single syllable. “I don’t need a waltz,” he said softly. “Any dance with you would hold the same pleasure.”

  She laughed once, almost as if to herself. “I was thinking the same thing. A waltz would only draw us closer, which sounds rather agreeable.” Her smile spread quickly, then her hand slipped from his as she followed her aunt into the room.

  Hawk stood out on the landing for a few heartbeats more, waiting for his lungs to engage in their proper function.

  She’d finish him in two minutes, he amended, not ten.

  His resistance was not nearly so great.

  The two sides of Clara’s mind had never been more at war, and the only thing she could say for herself was that she was distracted.

  As they had readied themselves for the night, Phoebe had encouraged her to find an opportunity to be warm and friendly with the Brownings. On the rare chance that Mr. Browning had truly been in any way prejudiced against Clara the other day, such a thing needed to be resolved, and quickly. Tomorrow, they would be at Barcliffe with the Fleets and she would be helping the girls with their art, and it would prove quite beneficial if they could maintain the invitation to explore the shore of that estate.

  Clara knew that, had been determined to find opportunity to do so once they arrived, but had been so terribly deflected by Hawk and his captivating manner.

  She wanted nothing more than to engage in two exceedingly long dances with him, and she was quite proud of herself for the wit and frankness she had managed in their conversation. Why should she hide her feelings when she was already hiding so much from him? It was so blessedly freeing to allow herself to speak in this way, to give into the heady emotions she had felt growing within her for him. If she did not check herself, she would admit to him sooner rather than later that she loved him.

  Her step paused and her eyes widened.

  She loved him.

  How could she love him? It had barely been time enough to know him.

  How could she not love him? He was everything good, noble, and true. He was charming and witty, generous and fine.

  What use was time when there was such clarity?

  She laughed to herself as she moved once more, smiling for the benefit of strangers around her. She hadn’t thought she could feel anything remotely like love after the disaster with Louis, and yet she could easily see herself giving her heart to Hawk without hesitation, reluctance, or any remnants of fear.

  Hawk had healed her from her hurts and freed her from the shackles of her past.

  And she loved him.

  “I do apologize profoundly for the rudeness of our departure the other day,” Phoebe was saying, her voice wafting back to Clara’s ears.

  Her mind’s haziness cleared as she forced herself to focus on that sound and moved quickly to Phoebe’s side, smiling with warmth as she took in the Brownings.

  They were over-trimmed in every respect, but seemed in good spirits, which was encouraging.

  “Not at all, not at all,” Mr. Browning insisted, his voice its usual volume of excess. “My lady here heard that your new hat is quite the thing to be envied, so it was a venture worth taking, I daresay.”

  Phoebe looked at Mrs. Browning in surprise. “How could you know, my dear? I have not seen you since.”

  Mrs. Browning smiled fondly. “Mrs. Guntrip saw you, and I saw her the day after. I can assure you, there are no secrets in Gadsden.”

  “Well, well,” Phoebe murmured, smiling wryly. “Then I think it a very good thing I have no intention of keeping it a secret! What a fruitless effort that would prove to be!”

  The Brownings laughed cheerfully, making Clara laugh as well, more for the ridiculousness of the sound than anything else. Was it a very great evil to join in laughing if it was not for the same purposes? She could not help it; they were such a ridiculous, mismatched couple, and the idea of them working against England still seemed equally ridiculous.

  But that would have been a perfect disguise, would it not?

  Her laughter faded as she considered that.

  Focusing on the pair of them, she smiled again. “I do so look forward to returning to Barcliffe tomorrow. As a token of gratitude, might I do a painting for you? I have very little else to offer, I know, but it would make me so happy to give you what I can.”

  Mrs. Browning gasped dramatically in apparent delight. “Oh, Miss Moore! We should dearly love a painting, would we not, my de
ar? We are so very fond of art, and if you are skilled enough to help the Fleet girls, I can only imagine how very beautiful your own work must be. Oh, what a thing to imagine! Would you paint the house? No, the coast! No, the house and the coast! Oh, I cannot decide, you may paint anything you like, and it will be perfection!”

  The rapid rambling was a bit much to take in, but Clara forced herself to remain polite and attentive, engaged in the silliness wholeheartedly. “I can hardly promise perfection,” Clara demurred, “but I shall do my very best, I can assure you.”

  “I have no doubt your best is exquisite!” Mr. Browning boomed, winking at her and smiling widely. “I shall make a place for your piece in our gallery at once.”

  Clara laughed, not having to force it so very much this time. “Mr. Browning, you should perhaps wait until you see it! It might not meet with your pleasure and satisfaction.”

  He shook his head firmly, if a bit excessively. “Nonsense! We shall adore and treasure such a gift from a sweet girl like you, shall we not, Mrs. Browning?”

  “Indeed!” she squealed in accompaniment. “Oh, indeed we shall!”

  “There you have it, Clara,” Phoebe said with a proud smile at her. “You should ever be so fortunate to have such ardent appreciators of your art.”

  Clara nodded in a show of modest demurral. “I am so very aware of my good fortune. And to have such beauty to choose from in your home and estate! How shall I decide?”

  They began to debate the merits of certain scenes and aspects, which is just as Clara had hoped, the conversation having lost interest for her. She seemed to have regained her footing there, if it ever had been lost, and she was now in a pleasant position to do as she liked upon their visit to Barcliffe.

  That was one aim done.

  Now for the rest…

  “Miss Moore.”

  A slow tingling began to ride the course of her spine, spreading into her neck and into the tip of every strand of hair on her head. She turned, barely breathing, and smiled, fearing her face might split with the intensity of it. She curtseyed politely before Hawk, allowing herself an additional depth of deference as might befit a man of his station and title. “Your Grace.”

  He bowed to match her, a twinkle in his eyes as he straightened. “Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me, Miss Moore?”

  “I would be very happy to dance the next, Your Grace,” Clara replied, taking care that her voice was clear without being loud. “I pray you will forgive any errors on my part. It has been some time since I have danced in company.”

  “Then we shall be more aptly matched,” he told her, smiling without reserve, which was quite the sight to behold. “I am no great dancer, madam, and extend the same advance apologies.”

  “Accepted, of course.” Clara took the hand he extended to her, curving her fingers over the edge of his palm instinctively.

  He nodded in acceptance, his eyes darting to Phoebe. “I’d be most grateful, Mrs. Daniels, if you would save the one following for me.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace,” she responded, her pleasure evident.

  Hawk led Clara away, and she heard his slow exhale as they left the earshot of the others. “I hope I waited long enough,” he murmured. “Much longer and I’d have gone mad.”

  Clara could not help but smile at that. “Surely not mad. The prospect could hardly—”

  “The prospect has not left my mind since breakfast, Clara,” Hawk overrode with some insistence, his thumb brushing against the edge of her hand in a maddening graze. “I’ve not been of sound mind all day because of it.”

  A faint keening sound began to emit within her mind, and it was all she could do not to give voice to it. She looked up at Hawk, almost pleading for a reprieve even as she longed to lean into him for strength. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, unsure what exactly she was apologizing for.

  One side of his mouth curved. “Don’t be. I’ve taken great pleasure in my relative insanity, and the reasoning behind it.” His thumb pointedly ran along her hand as he brought her to the line of dancers, then backed away from her to his position.

  How could a distance of a few feet suddenly seem a chasm? Her legs shook with the desire to run at him and fling her arms about him, clinging for her life and declaring her love in words without poetry or refinement.

  Luckily, decorum had a hard rein on her, and she remained in place.

  The music began, and the woman next to her crossed to Hawk in the pattern of the dance. He gave her the polite attention of a brief partner, taking her hands and turning about, as did other couples along the line.

  Even that slight exchange made Clara ache for him to come back to her.

  Utter foolishness on her part, and entirely nonsensical.

  The man next to Hawk crossed over to bow before Clara, and she managed a smile for him, taking his hands and turning about, just as the others had done, before returning to her place with a glance at Hawk.

  He looked as though he had not enjoyed their moment, either.

  Oh, heavens, what were they to do?

  They crossed to each other, brushing shoulders as they moved past, shifted around each other, which scorched a pattern exactly matching Clara’s buttons into the tender skin of her back. Then they passed each other once more on the other side, again brushing shoulders, Clara managing to catch her finger against Hawk’s hand in the process.

  His eyes were nearly black as they met hers across the lines now, and it was all she could do to take a cool breath when she turned away to pass the line of two other ladies. She swallowed hard when she rounded the second, reaching out to take his hand as they met in the middle. His grip on her hand was hard, the pressure unbearable in the best manner she had ever known.

  They parted as they returned to their original spots, then stepped forward with all dancers to take each other’s hands, Clara fearing she had stepped too close when she could feel the heat of Hawk’s breath upon her as they slowly turned about.

  He dipped his head towards her, and, for a precious half-beat of her heart, she thought he would kiss her, and she longed for it.

  “Almost,” he groaned, his fingers sliding up to her elbows before grazing all the way back down to her fingers, then parting as they returned to their places.

  Clara nearly swooned with the headiness of this dance, this moment, and what she so longed to have happen. “Almost,” she murmured, though there was no sound to her voice.

  They waited for the lead couple to proceed down the line of them, then joined hands to promenade along with the rest.

  “Am I the only one who is on the brink of death in this?” Hawk hissed beside her, his hold on both her hands firm.

  She shook her head, her throat dry. “No. You are not alone in that.”

  “You’re with me?” he asked, a rawness to his question that nearly sent her swooning again.

  She bit back a sudden impulse to blaspheme in yearning distress. “I am,” she answered, feeling the answer deep within her soul. “Can’t you tell?”

  His fingers slid to find her wrist, exactly where her pulse was thundering wildly.

  “Beautiful Clara,” he breathed, his fingers stroking against it, rendering the fabric of her gloves irrelevant. “That’s all I needed to know.”

  There was nothing she could do but sigh to that, and revel in the moment of insanity.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Your Grace! Oh, Your Grace, I had not even dreamed that you would accompany our dear Miss Moore and Mrs. Daniels to our little tea today! What a delight, what an absolute delight to have you here! Mr. Browning will be so pleased when he finds out, simply boundless in his delight. Heavens, I’m so dreadfully flustered in this!”

  Hawk tried to give the woman a sympathetic look. “Do try to calm yourself, Mrs. Browning, I beg you. I have no desire to cause any sort of fuss with my presence. I simply thought I should accompany my guests and be a better neighbor today than I have been in the past. Please, do not distress your
self on my account.”

  “You are so good, Your Grace,” Mrs. Browning gushed, clearly not taking in anything he had said. “So very good.”

  It took all of Hawk’s considerable willpower not to roll his eyes at the excesses. His neighbors were good people, but he suspected there was a reason his uncle had not been especially close with them during his life. He further suspected it was a very similar reason to the one Hawk was developing.

  Oh, for a life of seclusion…

  Were it not for Clara, he would not have even thought of coming out to Barcliffe today, but he had no desire to be where she was not, so here he was.

  Even now, with her arm looped through his, his irritation at Mrs. Browning’s behavior was minimal at best compared with what it typically would have been otherwise. Whether that was due to Clara’s influence or her presence, he could not say, but there could be no denying that she was the cause.

  “Mrs. Browning,” she greeted now, looking lovely as ever in richly printed calico of green, though presently obscured by her blue pelisse. “It is so gracious of you to have us here. Have the Fleets arrived yet?”

  Mrs. Browning took her free hand, patting it gently. “Dear girl, they arrived only minutes before you did yourself. I’ll take you through to them. We’ve set up a very pretty arrangement for you all, easels and watercolors aplenty.”

  Clara let herself be pulled from Hawk’s arm, and he mourned the loss of her as she and Mrs. Browning started on ahead. He bit back a scowl and instead offered his arm to Mrs. Daniels behind him.

  She took it at once, patting his arm sympathetically. “Your restraint is much to be admired, Kirklin.”

  He quirked a smile at her. “Noticed that, did you?”

  She scoffed softly. “Of course, but one would not have to witness your restraint to believe you possess it. I wonder very much if Mr. Browning does not speak at the volume he does simply to ensure his is the only voice heard.”

  Hawk snickered a laugh, looking away to find some sort of composure as they walked through the house. When he could, he returned his attention forward. “It is perhaps fortunate then that Mrs. Browning has sequestered Clara instead of either of us.”