Authors: Alice Duncan
Claire
sighed deeply, rapturously, and kept her eyes closed. Tom almost forgot
his objective, but not quite. It disturbed him that she didn’t rush
to answer him in the affirmative.
He
shook her shoulder lightly. “Well? You’ll stay with me, won’t
you, Claire?”
At
last she opened her eyes and looked at him. He frowned when he saw wariness
in her expression. Well, hell. She wasn’t going to equivocate at this
point, was she?
She
reached up to stroke his stubbly chin. Her fingers were long and slender
and elegant, just like the rest of her, and Tom reveled in the feel
of them against his flesh.
“I—I’m
very fond of you, Tom,” she said. “Indeed, I—well, I love you.
You already know that.”
Tom’s
heat swelled even as Claire began to look embarrassed. She’d told
him so before, but every time she said it, he felt more secure. He was,
in fact, outrageously pleased with himself. He must have done all right
last night, in spite of having completely lost control. Turning his
head, he nuzzled her palm and watched her gasp with pleasure.
“You’re
the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known, Claire,” he told her,
both because it was the truth and because it was infinitely easier to
say aloud than the “L” word.
“Thank
you.”
“So
it’s settled, then.” He began to nuzzle her neck again.
“Y-yes.
I guess.”
He
stopped nuzzling and looked at her sharply. “What do you mean, you
guess?”
“I—I
mean— Oh, heavens!” Sidling out from underneath him, Claire sat
up straight against the headboard and pulled the sheet up to her chin.
“What
is it, Claire?” Damn it all to hell and back again! Why in God’s
name was the woman wavering now? He tried to tamp down his frustration.
She
cleared her throat. “I—Oh, dear.”
He
glowered. She bowed her head and looked miserable.
“I’m
so sorry, Tom. Can you give me just a tiny bit more time? There—there
are some things you don’t know about me yet, I’m afraid.”
“Well,
for God’s sake, tell me!” Tom sat up, too, and ran his fingers through
is hair. He was no damned good at this. When Claire flinched from his
anger, he only got angrier. Hoping to calm down, he took a deep, soothing
breath.
Attempting
sweetness of tone, he tried again. “Please, Claire. We’ve told each
other so much already. Surely you can’t believe you can’t tell me
something.” Unless—good God! “You’re not married or anything,
are you?” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew them to be absurd;
she’d been a virgin, for God’s sake.
Her
head jerked up so fast that Tom felt guilty. He patted her shoulder.
“No. No, of course, you’re not. Sorry, Claire. But can’t you tell
me what the problem is? Don’t you trust me at all?”
Claire’s
expression was one of exquisite soulfulness when she said miserably,
“Of course, I trust you. It’s I who can’t be trusted.”
Oh,
good Lord. Not this again! Through gritted teeth, Tom said, “I trust
you, Claire.”
“Thank
you.”
Her
voice was so quavery that Tom decided he’d best not push the issue,
no matter how irritated he felt.
A
clattering sound came from the hallway outside Tom’s bedroom and he
saw Claire stiffen and dart a glance at the door.
“Good
Lord, that must be Sally opening the upstairs curtains. What time is
it?” The quaver was gone. In its place was alarm.
“It’s
just a little past six, Claire. You’re not late yet.”
“But
I can’t be seen here!”
She
scrambled out of bed, taking the sheet with her. Tom grinned. “Sally
won’t come in here, Claire, believe me.”
Tucking
the sheet around her, Claire sounded panicky when she said, “But she
might peek into my room, and whatever will she think?”
Tom
shook his head and guessed they’d have to deal with Claire’s latest
problem at another time. Maybe he could soften her up with another night
of lovemaking. The thought appealed greatly, particularly as he looked
at her now, wrapped up in that sheet, her cheeks blooming pink, her
bare toes peeking out.
Good
grief. He was absolutely besotted with the woman. “Don’t worry about
being seen, sweetheart. I’m the boss, and I won’t let anybody fire
you.”
“Maybe
I can tell her I went for an early-morning walk,” she muttered, sounding
distracted.
She
looked like a Greek goddess with that sheet draped around her. He wanted
to grab her, take her back to bed, and ravish her for weeks, but he
figured she’d object. A slave to duty, his Claire. Which, he reminded
himself, was one of the reasons he wanted to keep her around.
With
a gesture at her sheet, he said, “Maybe she’ll believe you and your
friend Dianthe have taken to worshiping the sun in togas.”
In
spite of Claire’s obvious morning-after embarrassment, she giggled.
“Well, make sure Sally’s through in the hall before I make a dash
to my room, if you please.”
With
another sigh, knowing he still hadn’t gotten to the root of Claire’s
strange, lingering uneasiness, Tom did as she bade. He watched her scurry
to her room, dragging the sheet, and couldn’t help smiling. He stretched
sinuously in the beams of winter sunlight, thinking of Claire’s beautiful,
slender body and laughed at himself when he realized he was fully aroused
again. Lord, what that woman did to him. And she had no idea of her
charms, either. Maybe that was her greatest charm of all.
Well,
it would be Tom’s delight to teach her how desirable she was. He looked
forward to it.
# # #
Claire
blessed her housekeeping skills as she washed up. If she hadn’t made
it a practice to think ahead, she might have had to go downstairs and
fetch water from the kitchen pump on this, the most momentous morning
of her life. This morning, as every morning, fresh water awaited her
in the pretty rose-covered porcelain pitcher on her dresser.
With
a sigh, she rinsed off the evidence of her deflowering. It hadn’t
felt like a deflowering. It had felt like a blossoming; her introduction
to womanhood; something she’d never expected to experience. Claire
had become so used to thinking of herself as an undesirable old maid—indeed,
had gone to great pains to make herself into one—that she still had
trouble believing Tom Partington had desired her enough to carry his
kisses through to their splendid consummation.
She
drew back the curtains and stared out at the pristine day. A carpet
of snow covered the meadow and crowned the trees. What perfect winter
weather; how magnanimous of Nature to have blessed them with the purity
of all that white.
The
snow stretched for as far as Claire could see, unsullied by signs of
life. Later in the day, footprints of men and beasts would chronicle
the effects of civilization on that blanket of white, but right now
Claire could pretend she and Tom were alone here in their world. She
threw the window open and breathed deeply, almost freezing her lungs
in her exuberance. She didn’t mind a whit.
She
felt wonderful. It didn’t seem quite right to feel so good when she’d
just risen from the bed of a man who wasn’t her husband. The suspicion
that her feeling of happiness was the product of her depraved upbringing
nagged at her, only to be thrust aside.
“Nonsense,”
she said roundly to the magnificent day. “My father was beastly. Neither
Tom nor I bear the remotest resemblance to my father. Why, Tom even
wants me to stay at Partington Place forever.”
She
hugged herself and twirled around her bedroom before succumbing to gooseflesh
and shutting her window. She had to don her woolen shawl before she
could get her frozen fingers to curl around her hairbrush.
As
she tweaked her new curls into a pretty cap above her brow, brushed
her longer back hair until it gleamed and twisted it into a pretty Russian
knot, her joy began to fade in spite of herself. Tom wanted her. She
wanted him. One thing and one thing only stood in the way of her being
the happiest woman on the face of the earth:
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
.
“I
have to tell him,” she whispered to her reflection, and cringed in
reaction to the truth being spoken aloud.
Nevertheless,
she knew the only honorable thing to do would be to confess. Immediately.
But
when Claire descended the grand staircase at Partington Place to find
Tom awaiting her at the foot of the stairs, the sweetest, most welcoming
smile on his face, she hesitated. When he treated her with the most
delightful deference at breakfast, selecting the prettiest hot-house
pear for her, insisting she have the last remaining cinnamon roll, and
begging her to eat some ham so she wouldn’t waste away, her firm resolve
began to waver.
Jedediah,
of course, was too besotted to notice Tom’s extraordinary behavior.
Scruggs suffered from no such affliction. Claire saw him lift his brows
in disapproval. When she visited the kitchen after breakfast to make
sure Mrs. Philpott was apprised of the rest of the day’s dining requirements,
she discovered Scruggs had not dallied in spreading his suspicions,
either.
“Is
it true, Miss Montague?” Mrs. Philpott said, her eyes wide, her apple
cheeks shining, her smile wide, and her hands clasped to her enormous
bosom. “Oh, ma’am, is it true?”
Even
though she knew the answer as she asked the question, Claire murmured,
“Is what true, Mrs. Philpott?”
“Why,
what Mr. Scruggs said, ma’am, about you and the master. I swear, I
couldn’t believe it when Sally came running down here while I was
fixing breakfast and said as to how she’d heard your voice from the
master’s bedroom.”
Claire
stopped in the act of writing a note to herself, her pen suspended,
her shopping list forgotten. “Good heavens.”
“I
boxed Sally’s ears, I did, ma’am, but I reckon I’d better apologize
now. After what Scruggs said about the master buttering your roll for
you and peeling your pear and all, I guess we’ll be hearing wedding
bells at the Place yet.”
“I
don’t believe the Place has a bell to ring, Mrs. Philpott,” Claire
said dryly. “I think you shouldn’t pay attention to idle gossip.”
The
chubby cook winked at Claire and turned back to kneading her bread dough.
“You can tease me all you like, Miss Montague, but I have eyes in
my head, too, and I’ve seen the two of you together.” Her sigh was
as huge as the rest of her. “It’s love, all right.”
Claire
escaped the kitchen soon afterwards, shooting Scruggs a terrible scowl
when she passed him in the hallway. As usual, he ignored her.
Later
on that afternoon, however, her duties done and her beloved Tom gone
to town to see if a wire had arrived from his horse breeder, Claire
chewed the end of her pen and wondered if she’d lose her audience
if Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee were to marry Miss Abigail Faithgood.
She
slept in Tom’s bed again that night. As he worked his magic on her
body, she forgot all about her audience. She forgot about Tuscaloosa
Tom Pardee and Abigail Faithgood. She forgot about everything but how
Tom’s skillful hands and lips made her body sing as he stirred her
to ecstasy.
When
Tom whispered that she was sleek and exquisite and lovely, that her
skin was like satin and her lips like wine, all else was easy to forget.
If such a thing was possible, she loved Tom even more for making her
feel beautiful. In her twenty-seven years of life, Claire had felt insignificant,
immoral, unpleasantly seductive, frightened, homely, and dull. Until
Tom Partington entered her life, she had never once felt beautiful.
Chapter 18
The
first of Tom’s Appaloosas, three mares and a stallion, arrived shortly
after the beginning of the new year. Claire had never seen a man so
excited about anything, and she thought his reaction was sweet. He didn’t
pretend sophistication or indifference; he was ecstatic.
They
were beautiful animals. Even Dianthe, invited to view them by Jedediah
Silver, who had elected to remain at Partington Place for another several
weeks, admitted they were excellent horses. Claire was so pleased she
nearly burst her bodice buttons when she and Tom stood on the balcony
that evening and watched the sun set over four of the loveliest horses
either of them had ever seen.
Tom
squeezed her tightly. She could feel his heart beating a rapid tattoo
in his chest, and she knew he was as happy as he could be. She was embarrassed
when her tears overflowed to trickle down her cheeks, but she was so
happy for Tom, she couldn’t help it.