“Your point is well made, your grace.” Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat. “I shall guard against that possibility.”
Fleet’s hand fell and he straightened up in his seat. Clara breathed again, a little unevenly.
“Take me home,” she said again, and there was more than a little entreaty in her voice.
They came out from under the trees and joined the main path. A gentleman on a very frisky bay rode past, touched his hat to Clara and bowed slightly to Fleet, then pirouetted away with a fine display of horsemanship.
“Coxcomb,” Fleet said.
His face was set in grim planes, the line of his mouth hard. Clara’s sore heart shrank to see it.
The next barouche to pass them contained a gentleman and two painted ladies, who smiled and ogled in their direction, the gentleman in particular giving Clara a thorough scrutiny through his quizzing glass. Fleet cut them dead.
“Friends of yours?” Clara enquired politely.
“Not of the type that I would acknowledge when I am escorting you.” Fleet paused perforce to avoid several young blades who had deliberately blocked their path in order to pay their respects to Clara.
“Walton, Jeffers, Ancrum and Tarver,” Fleet said, when they had moved on. “I begin to see your difficulty, Miss Davencourt.” He paused. “Perhaps if people see me squiring you about, that may dissuade the gazetted fortune hunters from pursuing you.”
“I doubt that will dissuade anyone,” Clara said. “It is well known that you have no intention of marrying, your grace, so it is more likely to encourage them if they think that I am prepared to spend time with a notorious rake.”
Fleet cast her a look. “Nevertheless, Miss Davencourt,” he said slowly, “perhaps I could help you.”
Clara looked hopeful. “You have reconsidered?”
Fleet shook his head. “Not at all. I will not teach you about rakes. That would be foolhardy. But as it is only for a few weeks I will act as your escort while you remain in town and keep the gentlemen from troubling you.” He smiled. “All in the most perfect and irreproachably paternal fashion, of course.”
There was a thread of steel beneath his courteous tone, as though he would brook no refusal, and it brought Clara’s chin up in defiance.
“Pray, do not conceive it to be your duty to help me, your grace,” she said sharply. “I would detest the thought that I was a burden to you.”
Fleet smiled a challenge. “If I cannot help you in one way, why not accept my assistance in another, Miss Davencourt?” he said persuasively. “I will protect you from unwanted attention and, since you have no wish to marry, I shall not be getting in the way of any gentleman you would consider a genuine suitor.”
Clara bit her lip. In some ways it was a tempting proposition since it would free her from the odious attentions of insincere suitors. In other ways, though, his suggestion was sheer madness. To spend time in Fleet’s company would only remind her of all the things she had loved about him, all the things she could not have. The cure had been hard enough last time. To invite trouble again now was plain foolish.
“No,” she said, unequivocally.
Fleet shrugged and her heart shriveled that she meant so little to him one way or another.
“Very well, then.” His tone was careless. “I shall take you home.”
CHAPTER TWO
FLEET REFUSED to leave Clara at the door as she would have wished, but escorted her into the hall. There was high color in her face, both from the cold air and from their quarrel, and she refused to meet his eye. Her chin was raised and her whole body was stiff with haughtiness. Fleet found it amusing, provocative and downright seductive. He wanted to kiss the hauteur from her lips until her face was flushed with passion, rather than pride. He wanted to feel that voluptuous body softening, responding, under his hands. He shifted uncomfortably. He had always wanted Clara Davencourt in the most simple and fundamental way. It was unfortunate he simply could not have her and he had to learn to live with that. Under the circumstances it was probably the most foolish idea to offer her his escort and he should be grateful she had turned him down. He was uncomfortably aware that it had been the interest of Tarver and Walton and half a score others that had made him wish to keep her close. Allowing Miss Clara Davencourt to arouse his possessive instincts was a mistake. For that matter, allowing her to arouse any instincts at all was totally unsafe.
Lady Juliana Davencourt was in the hall, which broke the rather difficult silence between them. Juliana was dressed in an old striped gown and Fleet, remembering the wayward widow of the past, would never have believed she could have anything half so frumpish in her wardrobe. She was cradling a tiny baby in each arm and looked up with a smile as they came in at the door. Fleet thought she looked young and vibrant and alive with happiness. It was most odd. He had known Juliana Davencourt since she was a debutante, had once even thought that her particular brand of cynicism might be the perfect match for his, yet here she was transformed into someone he barely recognized. And why was she carrying the babies herself? Surely Davencourt was rich enough to employ a dozen nursemaids? This modern trend toward caring for one’s children oneself made him shudder.
“Sebastian. How delightful to see you again!” Juliana did not offer him her hand, for which he could only be grateful since he was certain it was not clean. She turned to Clara, drawing them both with her into the warmth of the library, where a fire burned bright in the grate. Clara removed the enveloping cloak that she had been wearing, affording Fleet the opportunity to admire the luscious curves accentuated by her fashionable gown. It was all that he could do to keep his mind on the conversation.
“Did you enjoy your drive?” Juliana asked.
“Yes, thank you, Ju,” Clara said. “I think it will snow later, though. It is most unconscionably cold. How is little Rose’s croup this morning?” She had taken one of the babies from her sister-in-law with a competence that both beguiled and appalled Fleet. He watched as the child opened its tiny pink mouth in an enormous yawn, then gave an equally enormous burp. Its eyes flew open in an expression of extreme surprise. Clara gave a delighted laugh.
“She is taking her food well enough, it seems!”
Fleet watched as Clara raised a gentle finger to trace the curve of the baby’s cheek. She was smiling now, her face pink from the nip of the chill air outside, her hair mussed up by the hood of the cloak, escaping in soft curls about her face. Fleet stared, unable to look away. Something tightly wound within him seemed to give a little. He felt very odd, almost light-headed. It was as though he was seeing Clara in a different way and yet the revelation made her appear even more seductive. Clara with her own child in her arms…
Then he realized that Juliana was addressing him, and had been doing so for some time. He had no idea what she was talking about.
“We would be very pleased, Sebastian, although if you felt that you could not we would understand…”
“Of course,” Fleet said automatically, forcing his gaze from Clara. “It will be my pleasure.”
“You will?” Juliana sounded pleased, relieved and surprised at the same time. “But that is wonderful! Martin will be delighted!”
It was her tone that helped to focus his thoughts. What had he agreed to do? Juliana sounded far too excited for this to be a simple dinner invitation. He looked up to meet Clara’s quizzical blue gaze. “You have surprised me,” she said slowly, “but I, too, am delighted, your grace.”
She gave him a smile so radiant that Fleet felt shaken and aroused. The fire seemed extremely hot and he was feeling very odd. He wondered if he had caught an ague.
Clara dropped a kiss on the baby’s forehead.
“I think it is appropriate for your new godfather to hold you now,” she murmured, moving toward him.
Understanding hit Fleet in a monstrous wave of feeling. He had just agreed to be the baby’s godfather! He cast a terrified look at the little bundle Clara was holding out to him. Juliana was appro
aching in a flanking maneuver, murmuring something about him taking a seat so he could hold both babies at once. Both babies? Had he agreed to be godfather to the pair of them? He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again, aware of the enormity of the situation in which he found himself. He could not in all conscience back out of the arrangement now. Juliana and Clara were both looking at him with shining eyes; it made him feel like a hero. He would have to wait until later—get Martin Davencourt alone over a glass of brandy, explain he had made a mistake, had thought he was being offered something much simpler, like a cup of tea or an invitation to a ball. He was certain he could sort the matter out, but in the meantime he would have to play along.
He sank into the big armchair before the fire and sat as still as a statue while the infants were placed in his arms. If he moved he might drop them. Worse, they might vomit on his coat of blue superfine. He had heard babies were prone to do such things although he had never been near one in his life.
They smelled faintly of a milky sickness that turned his stomach, and yet at the same time they were the softest and sweetest things he had ever touched. He lowered his nose gently and sniffed the top of Rose’s head. She moved a little and made a small mewing sound. The other baby opened his eyes suddenly and stared at him. He realized he did not even know the boy’s name.
“What…” His voice had come out huskily. He cleared his throat. “What is his name?”
“Rory,” Juliana said. She was smiling. “They are called Rory and Rose.”
Fleet looked down on the tiny bodies nestling close. He felt as though they had fastened their little hands about his heart and were squeezing tightly. A whole wash of emotions threatened to drown him.
He had to escape, and quickly. He looked at Juliana, then Clara, in mute appeal.
“Well, I…”
“You have done very well for a first attempt,” Clara said, sounding like his childhood nanny, “although you do look utterly terrified.”
To his inexpressible relief, she lifted Rory from his arms. Once Juliana had retrieved Rose he was free to stand, although his legs felt a little shaky. He made somewhat blindly for the door as though he could smell the fresh air and freedom.
“Thank you for the drive, your grace,” Clara called after him. “Shall we see you tonight at Lady Cardace’s Snow Ball?”
Fleet stared at her, trying to work out if he had heard the question correctly. He did not want to find himself accidentally agreeing to be godfather to yet more children or to something even more terrifying. He saw a tiny frown touch Clara’s forehead at the length of time it was taking him to answer.
“Had you not been invited?” she inquired.
“Yes.” Fleet took a grip on himself. “Yes, I shall be there.”
Clara gave him another of her melting smiles. Much more of this and he would be quite undone. Clara and the twins between them had unmanned him.
“Good,” she said. “I shall look forward to seeing you tonight.”
FLEET TURNED the horses toward home. Some of the light seemed to have gone out of the day. Clara’s vivid personality had set the air between them humming with life. Without her, everything seemed more dull and gray. He dismissed the thought as fanciful. It was simply that the weather had turned. Dark clouds were massing on the horizon, promising snow. The wind was sharper now, with a cutting edge. Despite the fact that he told himself it was just the effect of the weather, he found he missed Clara’s warmth.
He remembered the twins with a shudder. He was not cut out to be anyone’s godfather. He was scarcely an example for the younger generation. If it had simply been a matter of presenting suitably large gifts on birthdays and Christmases then he might have fulfilled the requirements, but he was depressingly aware that the role of godfather asked much more of him. It was a pity—Clara probably thought more highly of him now than she had ever done in their acquaintance. That should not be permitted to sway him, however. He did not seek her good opinion. Nevertheless, it would be a shame to lose it so swiftly.
The snow was starting to fall. In London it fell with sooty edges, to lie in a dirty slush on the streets. For a moment he recalled the pure brightness of Fleet in the snow, the way the icicles hung from the branches and the river froze over in intricate icy patterns and the snowdrifts lay ten feet deep in the lee of the hedges. He ached to be there.
The panic was rising in his throat, as it sometimes did when he thought of Fleet in the winter. He dashed the snowflakes from his eyes and tried to think of something else. The twins…No, that was a bad idea. His panic heightened. Suppose something happened to Martin and Juliana? If he did not rescind his role as godfather he could conceivably end up with the care of two small children. The images crowded his mind. Babies crying, nursemaids fussing around…By the time he turned in to the stables at Fleet House he had got as far as redecorating one of the bedrooms as a nursery. He handed the curricle over to the grooms, hurrying inside, away from his fears.
The house was warm and quiet. The day’s newspapers were waiting for him in the library. He sat down, but instead of picking up the Morning Post his hand strayed idly toward the bookcase. His eyes fell upon an ancient copy of Sterne’s Tristram Shandy and he picked it up without thought. The book fell open at the title page, where there was an inscription in childish letters:
Oliver Fleet.
He shut the book with a sudden, violent snap that raised the dust from the pages. It had been about this time of year that his brother’s accident occurred. He hated Christmas. He had never passed the holiday at Fleet since Oliver’s death.
He settled back in his chair. The silence was almost oppressive. He could hear the brush of the snow against the windowpane. It was nine hours until Lady Cardace’s rout. Then he would see Clara again. He tried not to feel too pleased and failed singularly. He liked Clara Davencourt immensely and that was his weakness; he found her hopelessly seductive and that was his danger. With her corn-gold hair, huge blue eyes and voluptuous curves, Clara was ridiculously pretty and the embodiment of every masculine fantasy in which he had ever indulged. He suspected he was not the only gentleman to have had such musings, but he was fairly certain he was the only man who admired Clara for the shrewd intelligence that lurked beneath her charming exterior. She had a sharp mind, and most men would dislike that; Seb Fleet adored it. He loved their conversations. Such admiration had proved his downfall two years before when he had nearly fallen in love with her.
He must guard against falling in love with Clara Davencourt now. He had no desire to marry and he could not have her any other way. And yet the day did seem darker without her presence. He had an unnerving feeling that he was lost in some way and Clara was the only one who could save him. Total foolishness, of course. The business with the infant Davencourt twins had affected his judgment. He would regain his calm with strong coffee and the Morning Post. And when he saw Clara Davencourt that evening she would be just another debutante. A pretty debutante, a rich debutante, but like all the other pretty little rich girls. He rang for the coffee. He reached for the paper. But he could not banish Clara from his mind.
THE SNOW WAS ALREADY a foot deep by the time the Davencourt carriage turned onto the sweep in front of Cardace House that evening. The glare of the lanterns was muted by the swirling flakes and the guests were hurrying within to escape the bracing cold.
“Our slippers will be soaked,” Juliana grumbled, gingerly accepting Martin’s hand to help her down onto the damp red carpet that led up to the door. “If it were not that this is the most important ball of the season and I am on tenterhooks to see what Lady Cardace has in store for us, I would rather be curled up in the library at home with a cup of hot chocolate and a good book!”
Clara shivered as the icy wind found its way beneath her cloak and raised goose bumps on her arms. Her evening gown was so flimsy it felt as though the wind were cutting through it like a knife. She hoped Lady Cardace’s arrangements for her guests included both a hot drink and a roar
ing fire. There was nothing worse than a cold ballroom in winter.
Lady Cardace was the leading hostess of the Little Season, and invitations to her Snow Ball were the most eagerly sought tickets of the year. Each winter she arranged something truly original and each year the lesser hostesses would copy her, driving Lady Cardace to ever more outrageous forms of entertainment the next time.
“Ah,” Martin said, looking about them as they hastened into the house, “I think this year’s theme is the traditional Christmas. How charming!”
They surrendered their coats to a footman and accepted the hot cup of negus proffered by another servant. Clara gratefully inhaled the richly alcoholic fumes and warmed her hands on the crystal glass. Lady Cardace had exceeded herself this year. Sprays of holly and mistletoe adorned the ballroom walls, the deep green of the leaves contrasting richly with the red and white berries. The ceiling was hung with clouds of white gauze and sparkling snowflakes, a huge fire glowed behind the grates at each end of the hall and the orchestra was already striking up for the first dance of the night. From the refreshment room wafted the enticing scent of a richly warming beef soup. Martin immediately headed in that direction to fetch a bowl for each of them.
Despite the festive atmosphere, Clara felt blue-devilled. It was nearing midnight and a surreptitious first—and second—scan of the ballroom told her the Duke of Fleet was not in attendance.
She glanced about her a third time, taking pains to conceal the maneuver. It seemed that every other accredited member of the ton was pressed into Lady Cardace’s mansion. The evening was a dreadful crush. But the only man Clara secretly wanted to be crushed against was absent.
She wished now that she had not written to Sebastian Fleet. She had managed perfectly well without seeing him for the past eighteen months. Now she had stirred up those old feelings once again and a part of her ached for his presence.
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