Someone Wanton His Way Comes

by Caldwell, Christi

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. And she hated that. Because it suggested there was something wrong with what they’d shared.

  “I recall business I have to see to.” He was already rushing for the door.

  That sprang Sylvia into movement, and she hastened after him. “Do you still intend to join our next meeting?”

  “Of course.” Clayton directed that answer to his timepiece.

  With his return into her life, she only just recalled how much joy had come from being with him. Her marriage had been so miserable and, until Vallen’s birth, her days so empty that she’d forgotten the happier times. And she would hate it forever, how that magical moment she’d longed for the whole of her adult life had become a divide between them . . .

  “Clayton . . .” She laid a hand on his sleeve, and the muscles bunched under her fingers. “Nothing has changed between us. I don’t want anything to change between us.” Please.

  He briefly closed his eyes. “Of course not, Sylvia.”

  And with that, he left.

  Chapter 15

  Upon his abrupt departure two days earlier from Sylvia’s, she’d been adamant that nothing would change between them. And that nothing need be different because of their embrace.

  She’d insisted there was no room and no place for awkwardness between them. She’d sworn none of what had transpired should result in any change in their relationship.

  Nothing has changed between us. I don’t want anything to change between us . . .

  Nay, that hadn’t been an embrace. That had been passion come alive.

  She’d been in his arms, hot and hungry, and had keened and cried his name.

  On the way out the door, he’d breathed the requisite sigh of relief that had come with her pronouncement.

  Because that had been the fear. That he, in a moment of passion fueled by lust and insanity, had altered the once comfortable ease between them. And if he were being honest with himself now, he could acknowledge that fear had likely factored in his decision to not court her—the desire to not ruin what they’d had. Yet after he’d fled, there’d been fear, too. Her assurances had been made in the immediacy of the moment. Now, braced to join her and the members of her society, he didn’t know whether those sentiments had held.

  What if he had altered the special camaraderie they’d always shared?

  For how could anything ever be the same between them?

  Climbing the steps of her household on Waverton Street, he feared he was about to have confirmation of those very worries.

  Clayton knocked and was greeted almost immediately.

  Mr. Flyaway’s expression lit when he saw him.

  “Snagged yourself an invitation, did you?” He hurriedly stepped aside to allow Clayton entry.

  “It appears that way. Unless the lady has changed her mind,” he said as the unconventional butler used the heel of his boot to push the door shut.

  Mr. Flyaway laughed.

  Alas, Clayton held off on confirming that he hadn’t in fact been kidding.

  The servant nodded to the pole in Clayton’s hand. “What have you there?” It was yet another boldness that would not be permitted in almost any other lord or lady’s household. Not Clayton’s, however. With their closeness to the lady and lack of formality, Sylvia’s staff was very much like Clayton’s household, and he was made all the more comfortable for it.

  “Ah, following our last meeting, it occurred to me it would be far easier to get you one of the geared multiplying reels. Didn’t want to send you on an almost impossible hunt for an American reel in our too-proud country,” he said, handing over the gift.

  Mr. Flyaway’s mouth moved for several moments before he at last found his voice. “For me, is it?” He accepted the fishing pole with reverent hands. “Never had a gift, I did.” While he tested the serpentine crank, the old servant angled his shoulder in a bid to conceal the tears in his eyes.

  One of the many things his parents had passed down was the understanding that life was to be lived, shared, and enjoyed. And though Clayton vehemently disagreed with his father’s and his grandfather’s and his great-grandfather’s willingness to marry for love, when they’d ultimately known the only end result was a shattered heart, he had come to appreciate sharing those items that might bring other people joy.

  “I think you’ll find this a superior reel to the Nottingham. Although”—Clayton dropped his voice—“it’s unlikely you’ll find another Englishman who’ll agree about an American fishing reel.”

  Mr. Flyaway guffawed loudly. “You forget you’re an Englishman, too, did you, my lord?”

  “Only half. Other half Scottish.” The cursed side that would smite him down in his youth. It was a sobering realization that was always with him.

  With a degree of interest to rival his fascination with the rod, the butler looked up. “Scottish, are you?”

  “Indeed. And quite proud of those roots.”

  Where most of their English family shunned those connections, the Kearsleys had been taught early on to celebrate that rebellious, strong, unconventional side.

  “Well, now it explains me liking you and all.” The butler flashed a largely toothless smile. “That and your taste in fishing. No doubt that’s why Her Ladyship likes you!” Mr. Flyaway’s eyes widened and he lowered the rod. “Her Ladyship! Distracted, I was; I forgot to tell her you’d arrived.”

  Clayton handed his cloak and hat off to a young footman who came to relieve him of those things.

  “Early you be. Her Ladyship is going to like that,” the old man said approvingly.

  “Will she?” It was a detail, likely one of many, that Clayton didn’t know about Sylvia, and it served as a reminder that with every moment spent with her, he acquired a deeper and deeper understanding of the lady and who she was. It also represented vulnerability for Clayton . . . this dangerous wanting to know even those little pieces, such as what Mr. Flyaway had revealed.

  “Oh, yes. Doesn’t much like people who can’t be bothered with respecting her time. Not that I can blame the miss.”

  No, neither could Clayton.

  A memory intruded.

  Of a different sunny spring day.

  “You’re going to be late to your own damned wedding, Norfolk. Get on with it, would you?” Clayton demanded, checking his timepiece for the fifth time that morning.

  Adjusting the diamond stickpin in his cravat, Norfolk belly-laughed and slapped Clayton on the back. “A better friend might be helping me plan my escape. And here’s you trying to get me there on time.”

  “Clayton!”

  He spun toward the voice, and any of the worries and reservations he’d had about seeing one another this day were put to rest. A wide smile wreathing her cheeks, Sylvia swept forward. “You’re early!” She glanced about.

  “I had business to attend this morning, and came from there.” It was brotherly devotion that kept him from mentioning two of the society’s four Kearsley members had still been sleeping.

  Her gaze went to the fishing rod Mr. Flyaway had returned to caressing. Her brow creased. “What is—?”

  The butler looked up. “This fine gent brought me a fishing rod, he did. An American one,” he said on a loud whisper.

  Sylvia’s gaze whipped to Clayton. “That is . . . most generous,” she said softly, and the tender glimmer in her eyes sent heat climbing up his neck.

  “Aye, not a finer fellow there is,” Mr. Flyaway declared.

  Clayton coughed into his hand. “It was nothing, really.”

  “Of course it was,” the old servant insisted. “Quite a fellow you are.” And with that, Mr. Flyaway proceeded to launch into a lengthy soliloquy praising Clayton and his generosity. Through it, Clayton felt Sylvia’s gaze upon him, and he resisted the urge to shift with the discomfort of her watching him. Because there was a warmth as she did. A claim of admiration and respect and something more . . . none of which he was deserving of.

  Not from her.

  Not w
hen he’d turned his back on her for all these years, when he’d been responsible for introducing her to the last man who’d ever been deserving or worthy of her. Not that there had ever been one who was worthy of her. He’d known that the moment she’d made her Come Out, back when they’d first met.

  “Most lords can’t be bothered with a servant,” the old butler was saying. “Not this one . . .”

  While he continued on, lavishing praise on Clayton still, Clayton clasped his hands at his back and smiled sheepishly at Sylvia, who shared his smile.

  “Some might find it peculiar,” the old butler was saying. “A gent would join a ladies’ club.”

  “Society,” Clayton and Sylvia corrected as one.

  “Aye, that. All the other gentlemen who’ve come around or written think they are better than what the misses are doing here. Not you. You are here.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” Sylvia murmured, as if more to herself, her blonde lashes slanting down as she assessed him anew.

  And for an endless moment sprung from the seeds of his own guilt, he expected she could see all the way through him to the secrets he carried, the real reason he stood before her now—atonement. It was there, and would be there, until he met whatever end awaited him.

  Clayton cleared his throat, eager to cut off that exploratory search the other man had inadvertently brought to his being here. “Forgive me for arriving early,” he said, fumbling for his late father’s timepiece and directing his focus on the numbers there.

  But he needn’t have worried . . . for rescue came from the unlikeliest source.

  A wild hammering that he knew all too well fell on the front door.

  Mr. Flyaway was already rushing over to let the guests in.

  “Surprised?” Cora asked, sticking her tongue out. “Thought we’d still be sleeping, did you?” she asked as several unfamiliar ladies streamed through the entryway.

  “Actually, I did,” he drawled. The majority of the Kearsleys were notoriously heavy sleepers. And late wakers. He’d always been of the frame of mind that if he was to be cut down too soon, he’d not have wasted his time sleeping.

  Cora’s gasp of unwarranted indignation and outrage was drowned out by the growing assembly in the foyer.

  “Oh, yes?” Brenna countered with a little smirk. “Is it that? Or were you just looking to spend a little time alone with Lady Norfolk?”

  It took a moment to process that question over the cacophony, and when he did, Clayton’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” he croaked.

  His sister gave him a peculiar look. “That’s it, isn’t it? You were looking to speak with her about today’s agenda before the rest of us. Tsk-tsk. That’s presumptuous of you to join late and expect you should be privy to that information first.”

  Clayton didn’t blink for a moment. And then a wave of relief swept over him. “Yes,” he said quickly. Too quickly, by the suspicious narrowing of Brenna’s catlike eyes. When he again spoke, Clayton made himself modulate his tone. “That is . . . you are correct. I hadn’t thought of it in that light. I wouldn’t presume to do so, again.”

  His sister continued to regard him distrustfully, and then she nodded. “See that you don’t.”

  And when she hurried off to join the ladies now headed to the parlor, Clayton fell back and waited until he was the last in line before carrying on to join his first Mismatch Society meeting.

  At the end of each meeting, the Mismatch Society drafted an agenda for the next gathering.

  The agenda was an important one. All of them were. It was at each meeting, where the women present discussed and broke down existing ideas forced upon ladies since birth, and thought about them in a new way.

  Some might argue the present discussion already taking place also represented the most important of any other to precede it. For it was at this one where they entertained the possibility each woman had been adamantly opposed to before—the prospect of marriage.

  As such, Sylvia should be attending the ladies in the midst of that most important of conversations. After all, she was only one of three existing members to have entered into that expected-of-women state.

  And yet, she wasn’t at all able to focus . . . on the meeting. On the day’s topic. Or any of the speakers.

  Instead, her gaze continued to stray away from the other ladies present, and over to the newest addition to the Mismatch Society.

  The most attentive of the group, Clayton leaned slightly forward, his brow furrowed with a deep intensity as he attended Miss Gately while she spoke about what she had previously desired in a marriage, and why she had no interest in reconsidering that uncertain state. Had she ever known a man to attend a woman so? Her own brother was usually so distracted—as if he were constantly sorting through parliamentary papers in his mind—that Sylvia was often an afterthought. After her quick courtship and then marriage, her husband had ceased to see her. It was as though she’d no longer existed as a person. He looked through her but never at her.

  Clayton listened. He attended both his sisters and the women who had been, until this moment, strangers to him, with a like intensity.

  And she didn’t know what to make of it. Just as she didn’t know what to make of his unconventional relationship with her butler, Mr. Flyaway. Earlier in the week—had it really only been a week?—when she’d come upon Clayton and the old fighter, she’d believed Clayton’s kindness and friendliness toward the servant were orchestrated by nothing more than a desire to force his way into her household. Yes, her family had been friendly with the staff, but neither had they formed intimate connections with them.

  Then he had come with a gift for Mr. Flyaway. Gruff-until-now Mr. Flyaway had all but melted under Clayton’s unexpected kindness.

  But was it really unexpected? Was it, when she’d known Clayton years ago and he’d kept company with her, treating her as though she were an equal, her gender not mattering as they’d conversed on the side of ballroom floors and formal card parties. He—

  “. . . what say you, Sylvia?”

  Oh, hell.

  All gazes swiveled her way, including that of the gentleman who’d been occupying all the corners of her brain and hadn’t allowed space for . . . whatever it was the other members now looked to Sylvia about.

  At her side, Lila’s knee discreetly nudged Sylvia’s own, and she peeked down at the notebook open on her sister’s lap.

  Lila circled a bubble around the words written there, and ever so faintly tapped her pencil against it.

  What qualities would make a woman consider or reconsider marriage?

  “My God, none!” she exclaimed.

  Miss Gately gave a pleased nod as a series of protesting murmurs came from a larger number of the ladies present.

  Sylvia had apparently delivered the response Miss Gately had sought, but also one that had been largely unpopular amongst the other members. She felt that disappointment as a livable force from the sister who sat beside her.

  “It was merely a hypothetical,” Anwen Kearsley said, pushing her loose spectacles back into place.

  “We don’t do marriage here, ladies,” Annalee drawled. “That is why we are the Mismatch Society. Not the Match Society.”

  Sylvia froze . . . her heart thumping a little harder as it came to her in absolute, stunning clarity. “What if we’ve been wrong?”

  “About marriage?” someone asked in a confusion-laden voice.

  “No!” Sylvia was quick to explain. “About our restrictive policies that exclude women who might want to marry.”

  “We don’t exclude all,” Valerie pointed out, gesturing to Clara and Lila.

  “But that is Lady Norfolk’s family,” Anwen pointed out, glaring when her sister threw her an elbow. “What? They are,” she protested on a loud whisper.

  And the other woman was not wrong. “We shouldn’t be in the habit of dissuading conversation about marriage, either.”

  The young bespectacled woman grew several inches under Sylvia’s support.

/>   Sylvia felt Clayton’s stare most keenly. Unlike the chattering group, he sat silent, his eyes probing.

  It had never been easy for Sylvia to bare herself before anyone, particularly as it pertained to her marriage. Her failed marriage. No, Polite Society didn’t know the ugliest details, ones that involved Valerie Bragger. But it had been no secret that Norman, just like nearly every other married lord in England, had a lover.

  To consider and speak aloud an answer to the question the group now put to her, required her to share that which would exist only as dreams she’d once carried for herself and the marriage she had hoped to have.

  Sylvia folded her hands, locking them at the fingers, in the dowager Countess of Waterson’s manner, instilled in Sylvia since she’d been a little girl as a way to mask emotion. “Very well . . . If I were ever to contemplate marriage”—which she wouldn’t—“the gentleman would need to be as loyal as he was loving . . .” Her gaze inadvertently drifted over to Clayton. Clayton, who sat as still as a stone. His features as concealing as the mask she’d worn to her in-laws’ masquerade the night she’d hunted down the details around her husband’s death. And she faltered. How much did Clayton know about what her marriage had been? She preferred the answer to be . . . next to nothing. For she didn’t want Norman and his treachery to be something Clayton knew about and pitied her for. “He would be a friend,” she murmured, making herself continue. “That love and loyalty and friendship would extend to my son and any children we had together.”

  “Such a father doesn’t exist,” Miss Gately muttered.

  “I must disagree.” Anwen spoke insistently. “My father was such a man.”

  In one of the first shows of agreement they’d come to in all their weeks at the Mismatch Society, the other Kearsley sisters nodded their concurrence.

  Then their family had been blessed . . . And it also explained how Clayton had come to be tolerant of his sisters’ visions and interests and accounted for the closeness that she’d come to see him share toward the ladies present, along with the littlest of his sisters.

  Warming to her talk, Sylvia continued. “To even begin to think about marrying, the gentleman would need to value both me and my opinion. I would be permitted equal say over all decision-making as it pertained to estate business and not just”—wryness brought her lips twisting—“household affairs.” Leaving that dullest task for her responsibility, which her husband had refused to take a role in. All the while never discussing any other business matters with her. “In short, I’d be a partner and not a prisoner in that institution.” She turned up her palms on the now silent room. “As such, it is something that cannot be. For men are simply incapable of it.”