During the course of the evening he had learned how to avoid the worst of the table's bumps. Even with the complication of having to bounce the object ball off the cushions, he managed to pot his last four balls to end the current game.
"It's fortunate that we're not playing for any stakes," she observed. "You would have beggared me by now."
Generous in victory, he said, "For a beginner, you're doing very well, Clare. You've narrowed the gap with every game. With practice, you could turn into a billiards sharp yourself."
She was absurdly pleased, even though it was a disgraceful kind of compliment. "Shall we play another game?"
The mantel clock began striking the hour. Glancing over to it, she said with surprise, "Eleven o'clock already." The day was almost over, and the moment of truth was at hand. Clare's relaxed mood evaporated instantly.
In the vain hope that he might not remember that he was entitled to a kiss, she said, "Time to retire. I've a great deal to do tomorrow—go into Penreith and find a cook, arrange for you to visit the pit, make sure that my friend Marged is managing all right with the school. All kinds of things."
She set her cue stick on the rack and turned toward the door. Before she could take a step, Nicholas's cue shot straight out, the hard tip banging into the wall beside her and barring her exit. He drawled, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
She flinched. "I haven't forgotten. I was hoping you had."
He was watching her with the expression of a charming predator. "Not when I've been waiting for my kiss all day."
He lowered the cue and stepped forward. When he raised his arm she skittered back, then felt like a fool when she saw that he was only returning his stick to the rack.
When he had done so, he turned a thoughtful gaze on her. "Is being kissed by me such a terrible prospect? I've never had any complaints in the past. Quite the contrary."
Her back was to the wall and she couldn't retreat any farther. "Just go ahead and do it," she said tightly.
Sudden insight lit his eyes. He put his hand under her chin and raised it so that she was looking directly at him. "Clare, have you never been kissed with... with amorous intent?"
Unable to deny the humiliating fact, she said flatly, "No man has ever wanted to."
In this, as in billiards, he was generous, not ridiculing her inexperience or her fear. "I guarantee that there are men who have dreamed of kissing you, but you intimidated them so much that none dared try." He began stroking her lips with his thumb. "Relax, Clarissima. My aim is to persuade, not terrorize."
His rhythmic movements were profoundly sensual, and the effect was even more unsettling than when he had released her hair the day before. Her lips softened and parted slightly, and instinctively she touched her tongue to his thumb. She tasted salt and maleness, then flushed in embarrassment when she recognized the forwardness of her behavior.
Ignoring her subtle withdrawal, he said, "If this is a first kiss, I'll start simply. After all, we have three months ahead of us." He placed his hands on her shoulders and bent his head.
Her face tightened as she steeled herself for his onslaught. But instead of kissing her mouth, he pressed his lips to the tender skin at the base of her throat.
Clare gasped as her pulse beat against the seductive pressure of his mouth. She had thought herself prepared, but she found that she had no defenses against this unexpected caress. Heat and a hint of moisture; melting sensations that flowed downward, weakening her and throbbing in secret, shameful places.
"Your skin is lovely," he murmured as his lips traced the sensitive junction between throat and shoulder. "Celtic silk, smooth and alluring."
She felt that she should be doing something, but had no idea what. Hesitantly she laid her hands on his waist, feeling taut muscles beneath the luxurious cambric of his shirt.
He exhaled warm, teasing breath into her ear, then lightly nipped the lobe, his teeth an erotic contrast to the gentleness of his lips. Her fingers moved restlessly over his ribs.
When he began kneading her shoulders and upper arms, her eyes closed and she drifted, flotsam in a sensuous sea, both of her hands working against him like a kitten nursing. Locks of loosened hair fell over her shoulders, brushing across her sensitized flesh with feather lightness. She felt as if she were made of wax that could be molded into any form he desired.
She felt a faint tugging behind her neck, then his hand slid lower, his open palm warming the area between her shoulder blades. With icewater shock, she realized that he had unfastened the button that secured the top of her gown. As he started to finger the next button, she spun away from him. "Isn't there a time limit to kissing?" she asked with a brittle sham of composure. "Surely this one must be over."
He made no attempt to prevent her from escaping. Perhaps his breath had quickened, but he seemed otherwise unaffected by the embrace. "A kiss has no set length," he replied mildly. "It's finished when one of the participants decides that it is."
"Very well. Today's kiss is over." She reached back and refastened the button with unsteady hands.
"Was the experience as bad as expected, Clarissima? You didn't seem to dislike it."
She would rather not have answered, but honesty compelled her to say, "I... did not dislike it."
"Are you still afraid of me?"
He touched her fallen hair with a butterfly's delicacy. She might not have noticed that touch, except that she noticed everything he did. She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and met his gaze steadily. "Aristophanes said that boys throw stones at frogs in jest, but the frogs, they die in earnest. You're going to break my life into splinters, then move on without a second thought. Yes, my lord, you terrify me."
He became very still. "Only things that are rigid can break. Perhaps your life needs to be splintered."
"That sounds very profound." Her mouth twisted. "Your life was shattered four years ago. Are you better or happier for it?"
His expression hardened. "It is definitely time to retire. I'm going into Swansea tomorrow, so I'll see you at dinner." He lifted the dusty velvet cover and tossed it over the table.
Clare took a small branch of candles from the top of the equipment cabinet and left the room at a pace that was almost a run. She didn't stop until she reached her bedchamber. There she locked the door, set down the candlestick and sank into an upholstered chair, her hands pressed to her temples.
One day, and one kiss, had passed. How on earth would she survive another ninety?
Not only had she enjoyed the embrace of a man who was not her husband and whose intentions were strictly dishonorable, but she could not prevent herself from yearning for the next day's embrace. For the sake of her soul, she should leave Aberdare immediately. The village could take care of itself. No one had asked her to sacrifice herself for Penreith; it had been strictly her own idea of duty.
The thought of leaving cooled her overheated thoughts. The earl was willing to do things that would benefit hundreds of people, and it would be madness to forfeit that because of a spinsterish attack of nerves. She was overreacting to what had been a startling new experience; tomorrow she would be less susceptible to his wiles.
After changing into her flannel nightgown and braiding her hair into a long plait, she climbed into the enormous bed and ordered herself to fall asleep. She would need all of her strength to hold her own against the Demon Earl.
* * *
Nicholas stood in front of the fireplace and gazed idly at the dying coals. The house felt less dismal with her in residence, but she was having an unsettling effect on him. Perhaps that was because he was unused to innocence. Clare's blend of inexperience and cool-eyed practicality was oddly endearing. And for a moment, before her common sense took over, she had yielded to his touch, as pliant as sun-warmed willow.
He wanted to be the one to teach her that desire was not a sin. And he wanted, dammit, to do it tonight.
Cursing the bargain that prevented him from making further attempts to seduce
her until the next day, he restlessly drummed his fingers on the marble mantel. Memories of Clare's wide eyes and silken skin were going to make it difficult to get to sleep.
Suddenly he put back his head and laughed. He might be frustrated, but he also felt more alive than he had in a long time. And the credit must go to his Methodist minx.
* * *
Quietly Clare opened the door of the school and stepped into the back of the plain, whitewashed room. Most of the students were working individually while Marged conducted a low-voiced lesson in arithmetic with the youngest children.
Heads turned at Clare's entrance, followed by whispers and giggles. Marged also glanced up. With a smile, she yielded gracefully to the inevitable. "Time for lunch. Say hello to Miss Morgan, and then it's outside with you all."
Released, the children foamed around Clare like the sea, as if she had been gone for months rather than a day and a half. After accepting their greetings and making appropriate comments ("So you've learned subtraction, Ianto. Wonderful!"), she went forward and gave Marged a hug. "How are you managing?"
Laughing, her friend perched on the edge of the battered desk. "Yesterday I didn't think I'd survive. If you had been here, I would have begged on bended knee for you to take the school back. But today is going more smoothly. In another fortnight, I think I'll have the knack of it." She fingered a lock of fair hair as she sought for words. "It's hard work, but so satisfying when I explain something and a child's face lights up with understanding. I can't begin to describe the feeling." She gave a little laugh. "Of course, you know what that's like."
With a small pang, Clare realized that though she believed passionately in education, it had been years since she had felt such pleasure in the actual act of teaching. Too often she was inwardly bored by the drills, the constant repetition. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed the challenge of dealing with Nicholas; it was a pleasure matching wits with a crafty, unpredictable adult whose intelligence was the equal of hers.
Feeling vaguely guilty about her thoughts, she said, "Lord Aberdare wants to go into the mine to see what conditions are like there, and he'd rather not do it under George Madoc's guidance. Would Owen be willing to take him through?"
Marged bit her lip. "If Madoc finds out, he might make trouble for Owen."
"I know that's a danger," Clare admitted, "but if the worst happened and he was discharged, I'm sure his lordship will find other work for him. Don't tell anyone but Owen yet, but Aberdare says he's willing to reopen and expand the slate quarry."
"So you've been successful! Clare, that's marvelous."
"It's a bit early to count our chickens, but so far, so good. He's also willing to speak with Lord Michael Kenyon about the mine, but I think he wants to see the problems for himself rather than take the word of a mere female."
"It will be good if he does go into the pit—no one can really understand who hasn't been there." Marged thought a moment. "Madoc always goes home for a two-hour meal in the middle of the day, so tomorrow should be as good a day as any to take his lordship into the pit. I'll check with Owen when he comes home tonight. If there's a problem, I'll send a message to Aberdare, but if you don't hear to the contrary, bring him over a bit after noon." That settled, she turned her bright-eyed gaze on Clare. "How are you getting along with the Demon Earl?"
"Well enough." Clare lifted a dull quill and penknife from the desk and automatically started to sharpen the pen. "He was not at all pleased that I decided to take him up on his challenge, but he has accepted my presence with good grace."
"What kind of work will you be doing there?"
The penknife jerked and almost sliced into Clare's forefinger. "It looks like I'll be a glorified housekeeper. He's given me license to hire staff and clean and rearrange the place to make it more livable."
"What does Rhys Williams think of all this?"
"I talked with him this morning before coming to Penreith, and he's delighted. It's been hard trying to care for that huge house with only two maids." She made another cut on the quill, trying for a better point. "I spent the morning in the village hiring people to work temporarily, with the possibility of permanent positions if the earl decides to keep the house open."
"I'm sure you had no trouble finding willing workers."
Clare nodded. "Not only did every single person accept, but they all went up to Aberdare as soon as we finished talking. Rhys Williams must have at least a dozen people scrubbing and dusting, and Mrs. Howell is busy in the kitchen. The house may need redecorating, but at least it will be clean soon."
"Has Lord Aberdare done anything to live up to his rakish reputation?"
The knife split the quill in half. "I'm sorry—I've ruined your pen." Clare set the penknife carefully back on the desk. "To me, he seems more lonely than rakish. Perhaps he still mourns his wife. He seems to like having me as a companion—someone to tease."
"That sounds more interesting than housekeeping."
"Oh, I almost forgot. I met the famous 'strange animals,' and they're penguins—the most fascinating creatures. Lord Aberdare said the children could come and see them."
"Splendid! Perhaps in a few weeks, when the weather is better, we can have a school picnic. We shouldn't have any trouble borrowing a couple of wagons."
From there, they drifted into talk of the school. After Clare had answered Marged's questions, she took her leave and drove back to Aberdare.
Stepping into the front hall was like entering a whirlwind. The hall and the adjacent drawing room were full of hardworking people, and since they were all Welsh, they were singing in harmony and with as much skill as enthusiasm. The music lent a festive air to the activity, and gave Clare a brief vision of what an ungloomy Aberdare might be like.
As she looked around her, bemused, Rhys Williams turned away from polishing the brass light fixtures and greeted her. She had never seen his long face so animated.
"The house is coming alive," he said proudly. "I decided to take your advice and concentrate our efforts on the hall and the drawing room, since that will make the most impact on the earl."
"It's having an impact on me." Clare shook her head in awe when she stepped into the drawing room. "It's amazing how much it helped to remove the ugliest furniture and ornaments." So much had been taken away that there were now gaps that needed filling. "His lordship said there are furnishings stored in the attic. Is anything suitable for the drawing room?"
"There are some fine pieces there. I'll take you up now." The butler hung his polishing rag over a doorknob, took Clare's bonnet and shawl away, then led her upstairs. "During these last years, when the house was so dreadfully dull, I would sometimes think what I would do with the place if it were mine. The prospects and proportions of the rooms are lovely, and with a little effort Aberdare could be magnificent. But I could do nothing without his lordship's orders."
They stopped to light lamps, then started up the last narrow flight to the attics. Clare said, "Since the earl has given permission to make changes, tell me your ideas. Perhaps we can put them into effect."
Williams led her through a forest of shadowy shapes into a smaller attic. "I would return these pieces to the drawing room, where they used to be. The furniture is old, from the middle of the last century, but beautifully made, and there's a natural elegance in the designs." He pulled a dustcover from a small sofa. "Exiled by the whims of fashion. Lady Tregar was the one who installed the crocodile-legged sofas." He gave a faint sniff. "Clear proof that good breeding and good taste don't necessarily go together."
Clare smiled. She had the best of both worlds; not only was Williams willing to accept her orders, but he still treated her with the frankness of a fellow Penreithian. Knowing she shouldn't gossip, but unable to resist the opportunity to learn more, she said, "What was Lady Tregar like?"
The butler's expression became impassive. "I really can't say, Miss Morgan. I was the underbutler then and very seldom saw her ladyship. She was very beautiful, of course." After a pau
se, he said, "Would you like to see her portrait?"
"Why, yes. I didn't know there was one."
"The old earl had it commissioned at the time of his grandson's marriage." Williams led Clare from the main attic into a smaller one. A large wooden rack divided into slots ran the length of one wall, with fabric-draped rectangles occupying most of the spaces. "I had the carpenter build this so the paintings could be stored safely."
He pulled one out and removed the sheet that covered it, then raised his lantern to light the portrait. It was a superb rendition of a young woman in the costume of a Greek nymph. She stood in a flower-strewn meadow with the wind blowing her golden hair and molding the white draperies to her lush figure.
Clare studied the flawless face, the cool green eyes and the faint smile that hinted at hidden mysteries. This was the woman who had married Nicholas and shared his bed, and now haunted his nights with grief and guilt. "I saw Lady Tregar once in the distance, but she is even lovelier than I realized."
"I have never seen her equal," Williams said simply.
"Why is the portrait here rather than downstairs?"
"I believe that the dowager countess sent the painting up here just before she closed the house and moved to London."
That would have been Emily Davies, the old earl's second wife. Had she loved her husband's unruly grandson and been jealous of Nicholas's exquisite wife? That would account for banishing the portrait to this hidden corner.
Clare's expression hardened. This house had known too many dark emotions; perhaps it was time to expose some of them to the light of day. "This portrait would look good over one of the drawing room fireplaces. Have it taken downstairs."
Williams started to protest, but changed his mind. "Very well, Miss Morgan." After a moment's thought, he suggested, "Do you want to put this one over the other fireplace? It used to hang in the drawing room. The dowager countess had it stored at the same time as the portrait of Lady Tregar."
He drew out another picture and uncovered a full-length likeness of the old earl. Though the white hair showed that it had been painted toward the end of his life, his posture had lost none of its vigor and his face was as arrogant as ever. An impressive man, but Clare knew that Nicholas wouldn't want to look at him every day. "Leave this one up here. I'll see if there's something suitable among the other paintings."
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