Sharon Sobel (11 page)

He led her out onto the floor, and she followed him most willingly. Glancing around at the other couples arranging themselves into sets, Claire realized that for all he said, he could hold his head up in any company, for his fine looks matched his estimable position. His dark brown eyes watched only her, and for a moment she would believe that they were quite alone in this grand place.

“I have not yet asked something, but I fear I must,” Claire said.

“Yes, I hope you will remain Camille’s friend in London.”

She smiled at him, and blushed when she realized her actions had an almost immediate effect on him. He took a quick breath and gazed down at their feet.

“I would not have it otherwise, but that is not what I was about to ask you.”

He looked up again, somewhat wary.

“I do not know if you can dance,” Claire said.

He smiled, too, and the expression was so rare, so profound, her knees nearly gave way.

“You should have thought to ask before you agreed to dance with me. Now, as it is, I shall have to ask you to be the judge of it,” he said, just as the music started.

Chapter 5

Claire woke to a bright day, which was a particularly fine thing in the north of England, and yet buried herself in the cocoon of her sheets, wishing for the night to never end. The event that was intended to be a triumph for Lady Camille proved to be the most wonderful of Claire’s life, and not at all because she was responsible for Camille’s entrance into Middlebury society. She rather thought her friend could have managed it quite well without her, for no lady had more partners or more compliments than she.

Claire only had three partners, but one would have been quite enough. For he danced with her three times and asked for more, until she pointed out that four or more shared dances in public were as much an announcement of a betrothal as an announcement in the papers. Wentworth seemed surprised at this, but not any more than by her reassurance that he was a very fine dancer, for all his misgivings.

How was it possible such a man could be oblivious to his talents, his charms, and looks that had every lady at the Assembly fawning on him? Did his guilt make him as blind to the world as her injury made Camille?

But that was not fair—to Camille. Once the girl grasped James Cosgrove’s sturdy arm, she was as capable and comfortable as anyone in the company. She spoke to everyone, laughing along with them as if she knew them all. And with her eyelids lowered over her damaged eyes, she danced as if she were in a trance, moving gracefully to the melody. She was surely the most popular lady in attendance.

But no one attracted more interest than her brother.

He was right to think that gossip and curiosity centered upon him, but Claire rather doubted his explanation of other people’s interest was accurate. And the more he risked in society, the more likely his past would be relegated to the shadows and his company would be sought for all the right reasons. That is, as a titled, intelligent, wealthy, and very fine-looking man. Who also danced remarkably well for one who claimed to have abstained from such exercise since he was tutored by his dance master.

Claire pulled the sheets down and opened her eyes to the sunshine. How much had she dreamed of the events of last night? She stretched her legs, winced at their soreness, and guessed it was all real. But if everything about Wentworth was real, then he was too good to be true.

She considered the men she had known all her life, both as boys and as adults. They competed for her attention by bolstering their own accomplishments, and believing themselves superior to all other men. A lady did not have to be particularly discerning to see her way to the truth, although Claire had to admit her husband managed to hide a good deal from her.

But somehow present circumstances brought her to the one man who disclaimed any superiority, yet proved himself better than the rest. He labored under an immense burden of guilt, but Claire thought she might relieve him of at least some of the weight. He claimed to own no social skills, and yet was sought out by all the ladies and most of the men at the Assembly. And he told her he bore great physical scars.

But she decided she would rather like to see them for herself and offer him a lover’s assessment. She lowered her lids as she receded into the shadows of what was hitherto only the sweetest dream, and one that suddenly had the most tantalizing possibility of coming true. Weeks ago, resisting her own determined resolve, she reached out to touch this man. And even more remarkably, he answered her by reaching out to touch her, too. In that instant, something changed; something so long submerged swam to the surface and breathed in great gasps of fresh, sweet air. Every ounce of her being was suddenly alive, humming with hope and promise.

For now, Claire was certain that their tentative encounter at his brook was but a prelude for the dances they shared last night, during which his hand held hers, and their bodies folded against each other in prescribed form. To the casual observer, there would have been nothing untoward. But Claire was acutely aware when Wentworth leaned a bit too closely, when his hand held hers as if he might never let go, and when his lips briefly pressed against her forehead. She danced with a hundred men through her life, but never before did her heart stop when a partner held onto her hand for a moment too long, or when she moved into the shelter of his arms. She was certain she never woke to the dawn of a new day with the scent of a man’s soap lingering on her fingers.

Last night was, once again, a prelude for what was yet to come.

Claire opened her eyes, seeing Maxwell Brooks and her future. She was no longer a girl, for whom love and marriage was a sweet romantic fantasy. She wanted to love Maxwell Brooks as a woman loved a man, accepting the scars and bruises along with the joy of utterly sharing oneself, on equal terms and with passion. Passion.

She brushed her fingers under her nose, scenting bay rum, and imagining what her hands might do on a man’s body. And what his might do, in turn, on hers. She licked her forefinger, just above her moist lips.

But, really, the room was impossibly warm. She thought she was burning where she lay. It was past time to be up and about.

Claire rang the bell for Arista, who wanted to hear about everything, both real and imagined.

***

Max was tempted to forego breakfast with his sister and their guest this morning, for at the very least he would be a captive audience to a description of what everyone wore, what they said, and what they ate. Even worse, they might have said things about him, and he did not want to have all his doubts rekindled when he suddenly felt as if he was welcoming a new day in his life.

For once, he forgot himself and all he was and had been for so long. Instead, he found a lady who seemed indifferent to all that and made him realize how much he had been missing before she came to his home.

“I daresay Claire is taking her breakfast in her room,” Camille said. “You undoubtedly trampled her feet and the poor girl is unable to walk a step. We shall be a fine household, of the crippled and the blind.” She buttered her toast and sniffed with her nose in the air until she located the fenberry preserves.

Max looked at her and frowned. When had his helpless little sister become ironic and clever?

“It is just as well you shared your attentions with Miss Peabody and Lady Cribb, or else the neighborhood would be anticipating a wedding here, Brother,” Camille added. She was not as adept as usual this morning, and licked spots of jam off her finger. Max noticed a small bit on her dimity gown, but decided she was no longer a child to be wiped up and cleaned.

“And whose wedding might that be? If you tell me it is yours and James Cosgrove, I shall go out and shoot the man. Have you been seeing him whenever I am away from the house, in secret?”

“Oh, good heavens. You are almost never away from the house, Maxwell. Jamie and I have known each other for years. He is my best friend—and I thought he was yours as well.”

“Never mind that. He certainly did not look like your best friend last night. Have you already exchanged promises?”

“I do not think it is any business of yours. Though what did you expect, when he is the only man aside from the grooms and gardeners I have ever been allowed to meet?” Camille’s voice rose in frustration, as he never heard it before. “Though as to that, he is the son of a duke, and is respected by everyone who knows him.”

“I see. So this is your plan now, undoubtedly hatched with Lady Glastonbury. You are set to carry on with Cosgrove until I relent and agree to send you off to London. You will find a very different set of characters there, as Lady Glastonbury knows only too well. Have you ever discussed this with her?”

“I have discussed everything with her, including you. And I call her Lady Claire.”

“You have no right to talk about me,” Max said, wishing he had begged off from Armadale’s cursed ball in the first place. He wanted nothing more than to go on the way they had for so many years, just the two of them.

And then Lady Claire walked into the room and he realized he wanted nothing more than she.

“Good morning, Lord Wentworth, Lady Camille. Surely it does not seem possible that day has come so soon?” She walked over to her chair and looked at the spread on the buffet before seating herself. “I am too exhausted to serve myself.”

“It is why we have servants,” Max said, in a voice that made the servants look at him reproachfully as they scurried to Lady Claire’s side.

“Of course, Lord Wentworth,” Lady Claire said sweetly. “But I am usually quite able to get what I want for myself.”

“And what do you want?” he asked, leaning forward on his elbows.

She looked directly at him and parted her lips. Her hair was not as rigidly kept as it was the night before, and it fell about her ears in dark little ringlets in dramatic contrast to her fair skin.

“What do you have to offer, my lord?” she asked.

Dear God, she would give him a heart attack, right at his own breakfast table. A day ago he would have retorted that he had nothing to offer her but a sorry reflection of a man. But last night, even before she stood up with him for that first dance, he knew his safe world was vulnerable, perhaps already shattered. She cared nothing for his past, his guilt, his reputation. She must be able to see his scars, and somehow did not mind them. For the first time in many years, he wondered if he might have something to offer a lady after all.

But here was Camille, her nose sniffing again in the air, and he knew she searched for something sweeter and more juicy than fenberry preserves. He certainly knew what she wanted, and he was not willing to give it to her.

“We have excellent pastries this morning, Lady Glastonbury. I think you will also enjoy the smoked trout from our brook and the strawberries that grow wild along its banks.”

“Yes, that sounds excellent, my lord. I am very fond of that brook.”

“As are all of us who live here. A bit further up, near the site of . . . where we used to live, the brook has been dammed up and there is a small lake. I have not been there in some years, and I suspect it is choked with weeds, but it was the setting for many boating parties and picnics.”

“It is still possible to boat there,” Camille said, and smiled.

This situation was getting worse and worse. Is this where she met her lover? Did they wish to torment him by going where he could not bear to follow them? He turned to his sister, ready to give her a stern lecture, when their guest intervened.

“I should like to try it,” Lady Claire said. “I have always envied gentlemen who enjoy the freedom of boating on the Serpentine, while their ladies sit comfortably beneath parasols, indifferent to the exercise.”

“Do you enjoy exercise, Lady Glastonbury?” Max asked. “It is most unusual for a London lady.”

“Perhaps I am not a usual London lady, after all. I daresay you and your aunt are not getting your money’s worth in me,” she said, and smiled at the servant who brought her a tray of assorted breakfast treats.

“Are you being paid to be my friend?” Camille asked in a high voice, full of doubt.

“I am not, my dear. I only thought to have a joke, and see I did not succeed. In the future, I will be more careful what I say, for it might be terribly misunderstood,” Lady Claire said, studying him. And yet, as unpracticed as he was in the arts of flirtation, he did not think he misunderstood a thing she said now or in the days since he returned to Brook Cottage.

“Did you make new friends last night, Lady Camille?” Lady Claire continued. “I did not intend to abandon you, but you seemed to manage it all quite successfully. I would venture so far as to hail your entrance into Middlebury society a triumph.”

Camille blushed. “I am certain my new gown had much to do with it.”

“Be assured, Lady Camille, one’s gown rarely has anything to do with it,” Lady Claire said confidently.

And yet Max could not stop thinking about the vision in gold who danced with him three times until admonishing him that that was quite enough. She also looked rather splendid in the flowery thing she was wearing just now, and he very much enjoyed a lacey dress she wore several times. But perhaps she was right; it was not the gown.

“Did you also reacquaint yourself with people in the neighborhood, Lord Wentworth?” Lady Claire asked, conversationally. “I thought Mrs. Lester nearly beside herself with joy to see you. It may have had something to do with her four charming daughters.”

“I do not recall her, or them,” Max said gruffly, wondering if this was another example of misunderstanding her words.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Claire sighed. “And yet you danced with one of the poor girls. Were you so distracted you do not recall it?”

“Yes, I was, though not with her,” he answered and watched her nod her head in that thoughtful manner she had. Excellent; he could play at her game as well as she. “There was another lady who . . .”

“I did not like the man who was talking to Mrs. Lester when we first arrived,” Camille interrupted. “She told me his name is Mr. Doyle, and he is an occasional visitor to Middlebury. I sensed he was most reluctant to make my acquaintance.”

“Perhaps he is uncomfortable in the company of one who cannot see him,” Max said gently, trying to remember the man. It would be no use to ask what he looked like, of course. He looked to Lady Claire, who shook her head. “On this alone, you may decide to dislike him. Though I would urge pity for one so closed to new friendships.”

“You know very well I would not dislike him for such a reason, Maxwell. It is only that I suspect we met before, and yet he seemed most anxious to excuse himself. Indeed, I think he left the Assembly before the dancing even began.” Camille lifted her chin and drew in a deep breath. “I remembered his scent.”

“And so you knew he was no longer present,” Claire said, admiringly.

“It is more than that, Lady Claire. His scent reminds me of someone else, someone I once knew. I thought at once of Brook Hall, and how things used to be.”

Lady Claire pressed her right hand to her breast and looked stricken. But she spoke calmly. “Perhaps he uses the same soap as the gentleman you remember, Lady Camille.”