Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology
Page 82
Tentatively, he returned the kiss. “Flavian. Flavian,” she said, kissing him harder.
Beneath her hands, his muscles tightened, growing hard and unyielding. And then he broke—his body surging toward her in a flood of heat and desperation. With powerful arms he clutched her to him and covered her mouth with his own. He devoured her, forced his tongue past her teeth, and explored her mouth like a thief searching for gold.
The blue sky narrowed to a patch as he lowered her into the grass. Eyes closed, the sweet salt of his mouth on hers, she pushed fingers through his curls, traced the outline of his ears, then down his neck to his shoulders where her hands gripped the blades, sharp and alive, beneath the layers of his coat.
A rush of triumph rumbled inside her. Am I afraid? Am I ashamed? She could have laughed because the answer roared through her body with such force that she wondered how any woman in history had preserved her maidenhood.
Unable to stop herself, Claire lifted her breasts against his him, longing to feel his naked flesh against hers. The cool of his hand entered her bodice. Her mouth opened wider, she closed her eyes, and the last patch of blue sky went black.
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Five
As they walked back toward Bingham Hall, Flavian commanded his blood to cool. When Claire turned, laughing and throwing wild flowers at him, he caught them and tucked them out of sight in his pocket. He did not throw flowers back. He did not allow her smile to glow in his breast, or permit the shape of her ankles, revealed by an unexpected zephyr, to move him.
Lancelot had left the estate in crushing debt, Arabella was desperately ill, and, and more. More… that was the one thing that would make him a man she couldn’t marry. Even if she did, this was no life for Claire. He could not permit himself to destroy her happiness.
By the time the manor came into view, a crease had formed in Claire’s brow, the animation in her eyes had fled, and the confidence she’d displayed kissing him in the meadow had disappeared behind lowered lashes.
He’d made her sad and ashamed, and he could kick himself clear to Africa for causing her pain. But it was better, far better, that she learn not to love him, now, before a life with him filled her with regret.
* * *
“Ah ducklings,” chirruped Mrs. Gower, as Claire entered the conservatory with Flavian a step behind, “What a fine time you must have had. The roses are blooming in my charge’s cheeks, my lord.”
Claire’s face went hot, and Flavian’s expression grew darker.
He shifted away from her. “Lady Claire and I collected herbs to help my ward— nothing more.”
His words sank like shards of glass through her heart. Stupid, stupid girl. Why did I follow stupid Mrs. Gower’s advice and kiss him?
With the hope of disguising all emotion, she said in a gray monotone, “We found St. John’s wort.”
Mrs. Gower pursed her lips. “Is she about that doctoring again?” Turning on Claire, the chaperone added, “Did I not tell you to leave off making those remedies?”
Dropping the basket bursting with herbs at Flavian’s feet, Claire smoothed her skirt. “If he hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have come.”
Alarmed, Mrs. Gower drew close to Flavian. “She can do a lot more than stir potions, my lord. Clutching his arm, she pulled him a little aside. “The apothecary in Exeter makes a marvelous elixir. One spoonful and my nerves are calm as a dull day in the country. Send away for that, my lord. It works miracles.”
“That elixir is pure whisky, Mrs. Gower, and not very good whisky at that,” Claire blurted, with more vehemence than the topic deserved.
“It’s nothing of the sort. There’s good solid science in every bottle.”
Hands fisted, Claire bit out the words, “You dosed yourself with a quart of it before the Baskenwicks’ assembly and slept through the whole dance.”
Flavian came between them. “I think my ward needn’t be subdued to that extent. We’ll give that basket of greenery a try, eh?” He nudged Mrs. Gower with an elbow and winked. “Let’s see what Lady Claire’s spells and incantations can do.”
As Mrs. Gower emitted a peal of relieved giggles, he passed Claire a stiffly formal nod. Her gut twisted, and she longed to pick up the basket and whack him, but at that moment Arabella drifted in. She was a vision in white muslin, her black curls dangling in corkscrews about her face and every hint of madness hidden in her liquid eyes. “What the fun I’m missing?”
“Oh they’ve a special treat for you,” Mrs. Gower said, shaking a finger. “Beware—the cauldron bubbles.”
Arabella’s eyes widened. “Cauldron?”
Flavian rushed to the girl’s side. “It’s nothing, Bella. Just a little joke.”
“A joking of me?”
Watching him hover over Arabella, Claire realized her nails were digging holes in her palms. “Don’t worry,” she said, pasting a generous smile on her face. “I’m very good at healing.”
* * *
What’s come over me? Claire wondered as she cut roots and dead leaves from the herbs she’d collected. Since there wasn’t a still room at Bingham Hall, Apple Bess, the cook, had cleared a place for Claire in the kitchen under a window too high to see out of. It made sense that Flavian had told Mrs. Gower nothing happened in the meadow, but after the way he’d kissed her, to say, “We collected herbs, nothing more.” How those words rankled! And his icy demeanor—ugh, it was enough to make her want to leave by morning.
Her sisters Ellie, Peggity and Snap were all given to emotional outbursts. Claire prided herself on her reserve, but she couldn’t seem to hold back her galloping anger. “Take a deep breath,” she told herself.
“What’s that?” asked a red-faced scullery maid.
Claire whirled around. “Nothing.”
The girl blinked. “Well, if you need some’at, just ask.”
“Thank you.”
Turning back to her herbs, she found she’d thrown them all, trimmed and untrimmed, into the large pot Apple Bess had provided. She hauled them out, tipped the heavy vessel on its side, and began wiping it clean with her apron.
“Could I be of assistance?” a deep, familiar voice said behind her.
She stiffened. No, she thought, I’ll not make a show of temper. If he wants to apologize, I shall accept it graciously. Swallowing, she said, without looking up, “What brings you to the kitchen, Lord Monroe?” She stressed his name to remind him that a short time ago, he’d begged her to call him Flavian.
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to see how things were coming.”
“Well, I’m cleaning the herbs now,” she said.
“I thought you were cleaning the pot.”
“Humm.” She gave the cauldron a last swipe and righted it on the counter. Finally allowing herself a sideways peek at him, she noticed contrition in his looks, but it was laced with raw hunger and salted with guarded composure. Recalling his reaction to the smell of valerian, she took a fistful and pinched the stems off the root. As she’d hoped, he backed away.
“Awful stuff. Can anyone actually drink it?” he asked.
“Persuading Arabella is your job. Brewing the concoction is mine.”
“Can you sweeten it at all?”
“You’ve plenty of sugar in this house. She may use some of that.”
Silence prevailed. Had he left? What a relief if he had. If she never looked into his green-flecked, slate-gray eyes again, her joy would be boundless. She slapped another wad of valerian on the counter and yanked at the stems.
“How are you fixing it?” he said.
She turned on him, unable to contain herself a moment longer. “Fixing it? I’m fixing it in the usual way. By letting it dry out and die.”
He gave her a steady look. “I thought St. John’s wort went fresh into a tea.”
Hands on her hips, she glared back at him. “Valerian root needs to be prepared. In fact, it needs months of preparation. It was foolish of us to go hunting for it in the first place.”
> “Then what shall we do about Arabella?” he asked.
“You’ve got a quill and ink—order morphine.”
* * *
Flavian watched Claire hurl a clod of dirt-covered roots into the pot. Even cross, she looked tempting as a pear tart. He shouldn’t have kissed her in the meadow. But how could he help himself if she was going to peck him on the lips first? Still, he shouldn’t have. She was angry, and she had every right to be. He’d come to apologize. To apologize and leave… but the words weren’t coming.
Apron strings hung straight down her back, accentuating the cleft between her . . . His pulse quickened, so he tore his eyes away and pinched his thigh to distract himself. In London, she would find a better husband than he could ever be.
Should he mention that she’d just torn some straw from the basket and dumped it in with the herbs? “Did you want that in your potion?”
Her shoulders drooped and she leaned against the wooden counter. After a few breaths, she picked the straw out and threw it on the floor. “Well, silly me.” Then with a whack, she brought the knife down on some stems and sawed through. “We’re going to wash and then dry the valerian so when I’m gone, you’ll have something to feed Arabella. In the meanwhile, I’ll make her St. John’s wort tea.”
As she spoke, the knife drew closer to her fingers. He caught her wrist just as the blade grazed a knuckle. “Careful.”
A thin red line formed on the side of her index finger. She looked at the wound with such sorrow that the dagger end of guilt pierced him to the quick. “Too late,” she said. “Care should have been taken long ago.”
* * *
At the formidable door to Lady Monroe’s rooms, Claire hesitated. Should she bother the dowager? Was it even appropriate to ask about her son? As much as she’d love to scamper off somewhere safe, if she didn’t ask, she’d never know. And leaving for London to marry someone else, and all the while, not knowing… Well, that would be awful. Tentatively, she gave the wood a light tap. Nothing stirred. Mustering her courage, she knocked harder, and was rewarded with the sound of footsteps.
A bolt slid, a chain rattled and at last, a ladies’ maid cracked the door, poking her well-worn face into the hall. “May I help you, milady?”
“I’d like to speak with the dowager, if she has a moment.”
“Wait here.” The door closed, and oddly, the bolt scraped back into its metal groove.
Moments passed during which Claire, with nothing else to do, stared at the blank walls shadowed with the imprint of paintings that had been removed.
The bolt slid, and the maid gestured her in. As she passed over the threshold, Claire faltered in shock. The sizeable room was packed with fine furniture. Peninsulas of stacked paintings jutted into the floor, and hundreds of decorative pieces—vases, clocks, china figurines, trays, bowls, wood carvings, urns, and glassware were displayed neatly in floor-to-ceiling shelves. Within in these walls, apparently, were harbored all the treasures that must have once adorned Bingham Hall.
“Are you surprised?” said a voice from somewhere in the confusion. Claire located Lady Monroe sitting in a wingback chair, dressed in an elegant amethyst morning gown.
“Why yes,” Claire stuttered. “More than a little.”
With a wave of her hand, the dowager directed her to a nearby sofa. “Please come sit, my dear. We’ll have chocolate,” she told the maid. With a nod, the servant left, locking the door behind her.
Settling her graceful hands in her lap, Lady Monroe tilted her head slightly and said, “I think I know why you’ve come, and I won’t ask for anything but your ear and your understanding.” Before Claire could respond, she continued. “There are many things about this house and my son that are probably a mystery to you.”
Relieved she wouldn’t have to pump the dowager for answers, Claire leaned forward slightly, letting her shawl slip to her seat. “It is difficult to comprehend.”
With a cluck of sympathy, Lady Monroe said, “I will do my best to explain, though some things about my son are a puzzle even to me. It’s important you know that the rightful heir to this estate, Lancelot, lacked character. I adored that child. He was entertaining, and dashing, and a complete social success—everything a mother would want. But the moment the viscountancy became his, he engaged in an avalanche of greed, ill will, and poor decision making.” The dowager let out a slow breath. “And then that beautiful young man challenged the best shot in London to a duel.” Her eyes misted, and she reached for Claire’s hand. “I believe he did it to save us and Bingham Hall… as a final, noble act.” The dowager’s eyes reddened, and she squeezed Claire’s fingers a moment before letting go. “But the man who concerns you, my Flavian, has always been a serious boy. He studied his lessons without complaint, and went into the navy with scarcely a whimper.
“Men are changed in battle, Lady Claire. My child was thirteen years old when the admiral had him enlisted.” She studied her hands, slightly lifting her long fingers. “When he returned…” On the last word, her voice rasped with emotion, which she covered by coughing softly into an embroidered handkerchief. “At any rate, the captain should have known better than to put a child in charge of a boat in the midst of a skirmish.”
“It was inexcusable,” Claire agreed, “but two years ago, when I met him he was different. Something’s happened since then… toward me. And I think it has to do with Arabella.”
“That girl . . .” An edge crept into the dowager’s voice, “With our first glance at one another, I knew there would be no peace. The very day she arrived, she broke a sixteenth century nautilus cup set in silver gilt. My favorite heirloom, passed down through generations of my family. With one seemingly careless gesture, she destroyed it.” Lady Monroe stared across the room with black intensity. “It’s over there,” she added, her mouth a straight, grim line. Claire craned to see over the mass of furniture, and spied a row of bent and broken objects on a bottom shelf. Among them was a chalice without a cup—its beautifully wrought silver setting empty and twisted.
“I raised three energetic boys, and yet nothing has ever made me more furious, because, you see, I believe she deliberately damaged that cup. And somehow, I think she knew how precious it was to me. That was her way of sending a warning—I see that now.”
Claire felt chilled. “A warning?”
Outraged eyes fixed on Claire. “She wants him for herself. She wants to keep him from everyone, even his own mother.”
The hair rose on the back of Claire’s neck, and goosebumps lifted on her arms.
“You’re keeping your door locked, I hope?” the dowager asked.
“Perhaps I should be more diligent.”
“For the sake of everything you hold dear, I promise you, you must. I moved all of our valuables into my apartments, this vault, where I’ve stood guard over the Monroe family assets ever since.” For a moment, her delicate features turned fierce, lifting her chin and glaring as if challenging Claire to question her decision.
With a swallow, Claire moved deeper into the sofa and pulled the shawl back around her shoulders. “What I don’t understand is why Arabella is so important to him.” Her throat closed, but she forced the words through. “We seemed, two years ago, to have an, an understanding.”
Before the dowager could respond, a key scraped in the door. The lady’s maid entered, followed by Acker, the tallest of the footmen, who carried a silver tray. Weaving down the narrow path through the furniture, he rested the tray on a gilt table within reaching distance.
“Thank you, I’ll serve,” Lady Monroe told Acker, dismissing both servants. When she tried to pour the chocolate, however, her hands shook. Mustering her dignity, she put the pot down and rested her hands in her lap. “He says he owes a debt of gratitude to Hernando for saving his life, though how that would justify taking in a madwoman and making a virtual prisoner of your mother, I simply don’t know.”
It was noble, Claire supposed, that Flavian refused to forget his debt to a friend, b
ut seeing how his mother suffered while Arabella ranged throughout Bingham Hall seemed selfish and stubborn, too.
“I’d like to apologize for my son’s behavior toward you. Moreover, I’d loveto gie you a reason why this girl has such a hold over him, but I don’t understand it myself.”
A lump formed in Claire’s throat, and, unable to speak, she gazed helplessly into the woman’s pale eyes. Tears started to well.
Looking away out of politeness, the dowager made a second attempt at pouring the chocolate. But the pot rattled so violently that she put it down again. A tear spilled onto Claire’s cheek. She wiped it away, but another tracked behind.
Silently, the former viscountess passed her the embroidered handkerchief. “If it’s any comfort, my son spoke of nothing but you when he returned from the house party at the Davenport estate. Every subject—the weather, politics, the state of the crops—eventually came around to you.” Though her hands remained neatly folded on her lap, her fingers flexed with suppressed emotion. “That girl is destroying everything… Both my son and our home.”
Nothing moved but the tears rolling down Claire’s face. Lady Monroe glanced up, and a bright drop lit the corner of her eye as well. It followed a wrinkled path down her cheek. In a voice gruff with emotion, the older woman added, “It’s a great favor to ask, but please don’t give up on him.”
* * *
“Would you post this letter for me?” Claire said, handing the missive to Marlow.
“Of course, milady.” He studied the address a moment. “Would it be advisable to have a footman deliver it instead? Private schooners can’t be relied on to stay in port long.”
“Lord Bigalow always docks in Exeter this time of year, but perhaps you’re right. Can you spare someone?”
Marlow’s chest puffed slightly. “I’ll see that it’s done, milady.”