Evan seemed to know exactly what to say next and winked at Claire. She flushed, heat pooling in that same place where the water had excited her. “And which earl?” he inquired.
Julia looked hurriedly to the left and right, as if worried about spies. “The Earl of Framingshire!”
Claire and Julia shuddered simultaneously. Evan came to a halt and openly gaped, all composure and courtly manner discarded. “The Earl of Framingshire? No!” Then he laughed, great belly laughs that made Claire want him even more, his relaxed and open state tipping a keen yearning in her from simple want to open desire. The Evan she had known all these years was right before her, eyes filled with shock and mirth, shaking his head, casual and free.
“Yes!” Julia clapped, clearly thrilled by her execution of what would prove to be the talk of the ton for the season. “Someone’s father actually agreed to marry him. And that someone is our cousin from the savage land!”
“Didn’t the earl make an offer to your father, Claire?” Evan asked, one hand suddenly clenching into a fist. She swore that he had, imperceptibly, almost reached out to touch her. Oh, how she wished he had.
She closed her eyes and bristled. “Yes,” she sighed. “Apparently, the earl’s man made an overture to every wealthy father within a fortnight’s voyage of his estate. Fortunately, like all other good fathers, Papa said no. Can you imagine being married to, to that?” She swallowed and shuddered again.
“He is quite pleasing to the eye,” Julia replied, moving her head and eyes about as if conjuring his physical memory.
“But his reputation,” Evan said, “is...far too perverted for any decent woman.”
“Are you calling my cousin ’indecent’?” Claire asked archly. Oh, good. A reason to be angry with him. Now she could work with this, could get her mind off that mouth, those hands, and her mind’s torment of imagining them on her body here, and there, and oh, yes, here.
“Oh, no, that is not what I...” Julia and Claire glared him down. “But ladies, I did not mean to imply...”
“No. You did not imply. You stated it outright, Sir,” Claire retorted. She was enjoying her anger now. Something tangible, with fangs, a feeling she could control with reins and a bridle of fury. It was so much easier to be his nemesis and not his object of desire, to view him with contempt instead of passion.
“But he has been with three women! At once! What sort of father would accept that in a man? And what sort of woman...” He fumbled for words and she lit into him.
“Women have no choice in the men they marry, Mr. Michaelson. You, of all people, should be quite well acquainted with that fact!” she nearly shouted. Passersby began to slow their walking to a slug’s pace, ears turned to catch as much of the scene as possible, fuel for gossip sessions at tomorrow’s tea. Julia arched her eyebrows, shrewd eyes picking out all of the undertones as she watched them, Claire now two feet from Evan, facing him directly, so aroused with anger and passion that she’d as likely slap him as kiss him.
He arched his eyebrows, the expression making him more attractive, her stomach tightening with the pain of rejection. “And you, Lady Claire, should know that the same holds true for many men.”
“What do you mean?” asked Julia. Evan let out a sound of disbelief. Julia looked at him quizzically, then at Claire, and then her mouth opened slightly and she nodded once, as if to acknowledge the deeper implications.
“Men cannot choose their wives? You are equating the role of women and men in courtship, Mr. Michaelson? Are you certain you did not injure more than your leg at war? Your thinking seems impaired,” Claire blurted. She was breathing hard, her clothing oppressive, her body angry and smothered by so many layers.
So many rules.
He reached for her gloved hand and startled her, bending slightly, his lips pressing against the cloth, murmurs creating small vibrations that seemed centered on the tender flesh of her belly. “Forgive me. I have clearly offended you.”
Anything but this. Claire could handle being angry with him. Could manage any condescension he might inflict. Could even muddle through watching him dance with another.
But right this very moment, his apology and the view of his lips on her hand made her light up with passion and pain, the blend so flurried she needed an escape.
“And furthermore!” Claire added. “If you are going to besmirch my family’s reputation, my sweet cousin’s honor, please kindly do it in the manner of polite company – with whispers behind fans at soirees and in salons, hisses and moans in a lover’s ear on country visits – and not in the middle of Hyde Park in broad daylight.” And with that she hooked her arm in Julia’s and the two women stormed off, her sister now joining her in the art of angry offense, leaving Evan to stand there sputtering apologies that were a balm for Claire’s aggrieved heart and body. The buzzing faded as she stepped further from him, though the abatement was temporary.
She knew she would not rest for as long as she lived if she could not be with Evan. Yet why, oh why, had he not fought for her? Papa’s words stung.
Thank goodness Papa had not paired her with the Earl of Framingshire. However, a worse thought invaded – she truly had no choice. Papa could pick someone far worse than Framingshire, and she, like her cousin Ana, could be judged for the pairing.
Ah, her heart hurt.
What just happened? Evan felt as if he had just been beaten about the face and neck by fists of words, all administered from Claire Hanscombe’s sensual, delicate, lovely mouth.
He was bruised in his mind, pained in his heart.
And tight everywhere.
Worse, yet, was the news that Framingshire had managed to wed one of the Hanscombe cousins. Framingshire! The weaselly rake of the ton! The admirably promiscuous earl of proclivities so notoriously libertine in their spirit that the man was considered a walking disease.
How the Viceroy of New Granada had possibly considered Framingshire a good match for one of his daughters was beyond Evan’s comprehension. He had heard the stories from his mother about the scandal caused by Lady Katherine’s marriage to the swarthy Spaniard a generation ago, when King George III had been on the throne, as the New England colonies rebelled. His mother had fixated on the story so much that, now that Evan had aged a bit, he wondered whether jealousy, as much as pure enjoyment of repeating the tale, were part of what fueled his own mother’s outrage.
“That Manuel de Vargas had his eyes set on Georgina Harper, he did, you know,” his mother had sniffed. “But she chose the earl instead, and could you blame her? An earl or a no-name Spanish army officer. Any woman in her right mind would have made the same choice.” His mother’s eyes had become unfocused and a bit dreamy as she recounted details from five and twenty years past.
“So Lady Katherine was not in her right mind?” he had teased when most recently she brought up the matter.
“Oh, hush.” She had shaken her head. “She must have been besotted, the fool, to tear off into the jungles with him. And then to have triplets! I thought that Lady Felicia’s twins were quite the feat, but triplets! As if it were a competition and she had to best her own sister.” She had clutched her belly in memory of something too impolite to mention and Evan had left the conversation with an invented meeting.
And now one of those famous triplets, from deep in the bowels of hell on earth (to hear the ladies of the ton describe the Spanish colonies), was marrying the very son of the woman who had spurned the viceroy. The connections made Evan’s head hurt. Framingshire was the male whore of the House of Lords.
(Not that he would use those words in polite company).
Yet he, Evan Michaelson, the son of one of England’s most famous solicitors and a decorated war hero in his own right, could not marry the woman he adored. If he were a bit younger he would rail against the unfairness of it all. Instead, he pondered. Fantasized about Claire. Walked a bit, hoping inspiration would strike.
All that struck him, sadly, was a bird unleashing a burden from above. He mutt
ered a light curse as he extracted a cloth from his coat pocket and attempted to clean the mess created by another.
Something more churned under Claire’s anger. His words about her cousin and Framingshire had not been the source of so much fury; that much he knew. Distancing him from her with barbs and insults might have been her way to mourn, to convince herself that whatever pairing her father made would have to be good enough, and that Evan would be relegated to some distant memory, an almost-fiance whom she narrowly escaped as she made her way to the throne of some country no one had heard of. Or cared to know.
He knew that as a man of honor he should approach the earl and fight for the right to marry Claire. That had been his intention last week, in fact, before his own father had stopped him. Women in town commented on how similar Evan and his father, Sebastian, were in appearance. Both had the darker Irish look, both had bright blue eyes, but the elder Michaelson had not only the difference of an additional six and twenty years on the planet, enough to pepper his hair with gray and make his skin sag a bit from age and exposure, but his features were altogether different.
A bit ratlike. Evan himself saw it, especially after overhearing a particularly caustic gossip session at Sir Tetley’s ball many years ago, when Evan was barely out of childhood. His father had sent him into the library to find a butler for some small, nonsense issue and he’d opened the door just enough to realize someone was in there, but not so much that he’d been spotted.
“The women sure like him,” Lord Landsdown had commented, smoking some sort of cigar that smelled of clove and spices from India. His tone of voice had made Evan freeze; Father always said that gathering and saving every piece of information was like carefully collecting pennies one finds: eventually, they add up to something more substantial.
And, often, valuable.
“But he looks like what’s really inside,” Tetley had replied. “Ever noticed how his features are all just a bit too close?” The slur in the host’s words had told Evan he was drunk. Spying a drunk via voice was an acquired skill, one Evan had been forced to hone by the age of ten, given his father’s choice of company and ambitions that extended to accepting every party, ball, soiree or gathering at which he might be able to slip himself into.
“Mmmm, perhaps.” Landsdown wasn’t drunk. Evan had sensed that the earl wanted the other man drunk, for some reason he didn’t understand.
“I think he’s part rat, somewhere deep inside,” Tetley had chortled. “Have to be, with some of the clients he manages. Can’t be a solicitor without a bit of rodent in you.”
And with that, Evan realized they were talking about his father.
To Landsdown’s credit, he’d not said any malicious or negative words against Evan’s father. The incident left a sour taste in his mouth, though, but also a valuable piece of information he collected, like pennies in a cup.
When Landsdown ended the possibility of engagement to Claire, his father had said plenty bad about the earl, so in Evan’s mind, they were a bit even. And when Evan had suggested he appeal directly, his father had shot him down, hard.
“Not worth the bother!” Sebastian Michaelson had thrust his hands into his hair and shoved back so hard Evan was certain the scalp would begin to bleed. “I have tried, and tried, and the...the cur will not speak with me!”
“Father!”
“Oh, stop. You’ve heard the words before. You’ve been to war, for God’s sake.”
“I went to war for my sake, not God’s.”
“Well, right now Landsdown thinks he is God. Or, at any rate, a Queenmaker. He truly believes he will have three daughters as queens and grandsons as kings! Mad!” Sebastian had smacked the heel of his hand against the edge of his thick oak desk.
“Let me talk with him,” Evan had pleaded. Why had he asked permission? He should have just gone. The spell Father had over him sometimes made him question his own judgment. Leading men in battle had been no problem. Making instant decisions that led to lives being sacrificed had not made him falter.
Here? Now? He felt like a ten year old.
Extinguishing that feeling was critical as the seconds passed and his father pondered. A slow dawning peeled back Evan’s hesitation. Being at war hadn’t made him a man. This moment, though, would.
“No! I still manage some of his money. Losing his daughter is a sad, infuriating turn of events. Losing his money – that would put me into mourning.”
Had Evan actually opened his mouth and responded instantly, profanity worse than any sailor’s would have spewed out of his mouth like vomit. Instead, he waited, watching the clock over Father’s head as it ticked off fifteen seconds.
Finally, he spoke. “I will speak with Landsdown, Father. Just because you failed does not mean that the same fate holds true for me.”
As he left and heard his father’s angry mutterings, he was grateful for his own paper-thin restraint.
On the ride to the Hanscombe estate, though, the horse heard what was meant for his father, seeming to take the insults personally as he sputtered and walked along slowly, maliciously obeying his master – but on his own terms.
“Bavaria? What is Bavaria? It sounds like a disease a cow might contract,” Claire declared, crinkling her nose in disgust.
“It is a kingdom,” her father puffed. “While quite new, and just established a few years ago, the king has a son who shall rise to be king himself one day. And you, my dear, would make a perfect Queen of Bavaria.”
“I should sooner be Queen of the Fairies, father, and eat their droppings on my morning toast.”
“Claire!” he shouted.
She had let her mouth get the better of her and bowed her head in deference. “I apologize, Papa.”
His lips pressed together in anger, he nodded curtly. A cold dread seeped into her bones; this was real. Papa had sent inquiries. Bavaria? Was that even in Europe?
As if reading her mind, Papa said, “It is south of Prussia. A perfectly fine state. Maxmillian I is the current king and his son, Ludwig, seeks a wife. You might find him to be a good match,” he sniffed, as if she had said otherwise.
Truth be told, she didn’t care if Ludwig was seven feet tall and made of gold. She wanted Evan, sweet, tempting Evan, and being married off to some new prince wasn’t going to get her closer to her true love.
“When will you hear more, Papa?” she asked, keeping her head bowed.
Dismissive wave. “Weeks, my dear. I will keep you informed.” His clipped tone told her to leave; she slipped out of the library and fairly ran to her rooms, flinging herself on the bed. Supper had passed and the day slipped away as dusk emerged, soaking up the light and making the evening chill seem as cold as deep winter’s weather.
“Miss?” Bridie entered the room, standing near Claire’s sobbing body, hands clasped before her in an eternal gesture of patience and deference. “Can I help you with your dress?” Ever polite, Bridie was a steady presence, nearly as wide as she was tall, with a smile that seemed to stretch all the way around the world. Her apple-red cheeks, flaming hair, and freckles that never ended made her seem friendly, open, and more of a comfort than any other person in Claire’s life. While not quite a friend, Bridie was more than a maid, and right now her companionship was sorely appreciated.
Claire turned her back to her maid, a gesture not of shunning but one of practicality, for the young Irish girl worked the complicated buttons until Claire was free. Bridie had been with her since they were children, one of the many young, poor girls who came to England in search of a home and a job. Claire knew little of Bridie’s home life but gathered from the way she flinched when any man raised his voice that she had not fared well in her early years. Hired at the house at age thirteen, Bridie was barely two years older than her lady; her sister Mary was just eleven months older than Bridie, and had worked at the estate as Sara’s maid.
Claire sighed as she undressed down to her chemise, reaching for her evening robe and pulling it on. “A cup of tea?” Bridie
asked, hanging Claire’s clothes carefully, smoothing the wrinkles with her hands, then turning to her own, simple, gray cotton frock, smoothing it across the swell of her hips. Stomach clenched and slightly sour, Claire didn’t want tea, but nodded. She suddenly needed some peace, and Bridie would have to go into the kitchen to fetch the tray, leaving Claire a bit of breathing space.
The maid stopped at the threshold and paused. “Yes, Bridie?” Claire asked.
Reaching into her pocket, Bridie pulled out an envelope. “If it pleases you, Miss, would you kindly read this to me?” The envelope she handed Claire was of a familiar paper. Sara’s. please read this to me?” The envelope she handed Claire was of a familiar paper. Sara’s.
“So your sister has written you?” Claire smiled.
Bridie sighed, a great whoosh of relief. Her face brightened. “Yes, Miss. Someone did the writing for her, of course, but I can’t read it. Could you, please? I don’t want to ask just anyone, for he might learn of it.” Her face twisted with the word he.
Claire knew full well why; he was the reason the sisters were apart.
Mary’s husband.
It had taken a tremendous amount of work, and not a small amount of disapproval from Papa, to convince him to help Mary. Steven, Mary’s husband, worked in the stables at the Michaelson’s estate, whipping horses into shape and breaking their will. Applying those same techniques to Mary had meant the girl came to work with bruises, scratches, and wounds – injuries she stayed quiet about, lying when asked what had happened.
By the third, “Oh, Miss Claire, I fell. I’m so clumsy!” in response to a question about a black eye so profound that the individual knuckles of the inflicter could be seen in the bruise itself, Claire had finally insisted Mary tell her the truth. Instead, the maid had fled, off to Sara’s rooms to hide with her own lady.
Her twin had been as repulsed and confused as Claire. When Sara’s betrothal to her prince was announced, Bridie had come to Claire with a plan.
The Water's Kiss Page 3