Christmas Betrothals: Mistletoe Magic
Amanda McCabe
Sophia James
Marriage is a Christmas affair for these lords and ladies!Mistletoe Magic –Sophia James Could she be betrothed by Christmas? Miss Lillian Davenport must marry sensibly, although she yearns for some excitement first. Lucas Morgan is wild, dangerous and tempting. If she offers to pay for his silence, can she buy a single, passionate kiss?The Winter Queen –Amanda McCabe Innocent Lady Rosamund is sent to the infamous Elizabethan court. But she is unprepared to meet the likes of Anton Gustavson – a favourite of the Queen. Dark, brooding and mysterious, Anston is drawn to Rosamund’s ethereal beauty, but his secrets make falling in love far too dangerous!
Christmas Betrothals
Mistletoe Magic
Sophia James
The Winter Queen
Amanda McCabe
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Mistletoe Magic
Praise for Sophia James
ASHBLANE’S LADY
“An excellent tale of love, this book is more than a
romance; it pulls at the heartstrings and makes you
wish the story wouldn’t end.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
MASQUERADING MISTRESS
“Bold and tantalising, plotted like a mystery and
slowly exposing each layer of the multi-dimensional
plot and every character’s motivations, James’s novel
is a page-turner.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
HIGH SEAS TO HIGH SOCIETY
“James weaves her spell, captivating readers with
wit and wisdom, and cleverly combining humour
and poignancy with a master’s touch in this
feel-good love story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
About the Author
SOPHIA JAMES lives in Chelsea Bay on Auckland, New Zealand’s North Shore, with her husband, who is an artist, and three children. She spends her morning teaching adults English at the local migrant school and writes in the afternoon. Sophia has a degree in English and history from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed reading Georgette Heyer with her twin sister at her grandmother’s house.
Look out for Sophia James’s latestexciting novel,One Unashamed Night, available in March 2010 from Mills & Boon
Historical romance.
Author Note
Christmas is a time of family and laughter and joyousness, a time when all the good things in the world seem to come together in a crescendo of happiness.
But what happens when people have no family left or the secrets that bind them to their kin preclude the simple ability to embrace the haphazard chaos that is often Christmas?
In this story I wanted to draw in two people on the edge of loneliness and add children, pets, colour and carols. I wanted to see whether the magic of the season had its own power and whether a kiss bought under a sprig of mistletoe could change two lives forever.
I’d like to dedicate this book to my friend Jane,
whose sense of style inspired Lillian.
Prologue
Richmond, Virginia—July 1853
Lucas Clairmont found the letter by chance, wrapped in velvet and hidden in the space beneath the font in the Clairmont family chapel.
A love letter to his wife from a man he had little knowledge of and coined in a language that had him reaching for the pew behind him and sitting down.
Heavily.
He knew their marriage had been, at best, an unexceptional union, but it was the betrayal in the last few lines of the missive that was unexpected. His uncle’s land was mentioned in connection with the Baltimore Gaslight Company’s intention of developing their lines. Luc shook his head—he knew Stuart Clairmont had had no notion of such a scheme and the land, bought cheaply by Elizabeth’s lover, had been sold for a fortune only a few months later.
Loss and guilt punctuated the harder emotion of anger. Jesus! Stuart had died a broken man and a vengeful one.
‘Find the bastard, Luc,’ he had uttered in the last few hours of his life, ‘and kill him.’
At the time Luc had thought the command extreme, but now with the evidence of another truth in hand …
Screwing up the parchment, he let it slip through his fingers on to the cold stone floor, the written words still teasing him, even from a distance.
His marriage had been as much of a sham as his childhood, all show and no substance, but the love of his uncle had never wavered.
Shaking his head, he felt the sharp stab of sobriety, the taste of last night’s whisky and the few bought hours of oblivion paid for dearly this morning, as his demons whispered vengeance.
Here in the chapel though, there lay the sort of silence that only God’s dwelling could offer with the light streaming in through the stained glass window.
Jesus on the cross!
Luc’s fingers squeezed against the hard smooth wood of oak benches, thinking that his own crown of thorns was far less visible.
‘Lord, help me,’ he enunciated, catching sight of the pale blue eyes of a painted cupid, hair a strange shade of silver blonde, and white clothes falling in folds on to the skin of a nearby sinner, dazzling him with light.
A sinner just like him, Luc thought, as the last effects of moonshine wore off and a headache he’d have until tomorrow started to pound.
Elizabeth. His wife.
He’d been away too much to be the sort of husband he should have been, but the truth of her liaison was as unexpected as her death six months ago. His thoughts of grief unravelled into a sort of bone-hard wrath that shocked him. Deceit and lies were written into every word of these outpourings.
He should not care. He should consign the evidence of his wife’s infidelity to a fire, but he found that he couldn’t because a certain truth was percolating.
Revenge! One of the seven deadly sins. Today, however, it was not so damning and the ennui that had consumed him lifted slightly.
It would mean going back to England. Again.
His home once.
Perhaps he could claim it back for a while, for apart from the land there was nothing left to hold him here. Besides, Hawk and Nathaniel had asked him to come back to London repeatedly, and he felt a sudden need for the company of his two closest friends.
‘Ahhh, Stuart,’ he whispered the name and liked the echo of it. The bastard who had swindled his uncle was in London, living on the profit of his ill-gotten gains no doubt.
Daniel Davenport. The name was engraved in his mind like a brand, seared into flesh.
But to kill him? The dying glances of others he had consigned to the hereafter rose from memory.
Not again! He leaned back on the pew and breathed in, trying to determine only the exact amount of force necessary to make Elizabeth’s lover sorry.
Chapter One
London—November 1853
‘Miss Davenport is a young woman any mother would be proud of, would you not say, Sybil?’
‘Indeed, I would, for she countenances no scandal whatsoever. A reputation unsullied in each corner of her life, and a paragon of good sense, good taste and good comportment.’
Lillian Davenport listened to the compliments from her place in the little room, deciding that the two older women hadn’t a notion of her being there. To alert them of her overhearing such a private matter would now cause them only embarrassment and so she stayed silent, letting the heavy petticoats in her hands fall to her side and ironing out the creases in white shot silk with her fingers.
‘If only my Jane had the sort of grace that she has, I often say to Gerald. If only we had drilled in the importance of the social codes as Ernest Davenport did, we might have been blessed with a very different daughter.’
‘Sometimes I think you are too hard on your girl, Sybil. She has her own virtue after all and …’
They were moving away now and out of the ladies’ retiring room. Lillian heard the door close and tilted her head, the last of the sentence lost into nothingness.
One minute. She would give them that before she opened the door and took her leave.
A paragon of good sense, good taste and good comportment.
A smile began to form on her face, though she squashed it down. Pride was a sin in its own right and she had no desire to be thought of as boastful.
Still … it was hard not to be pleased with such unexpected praise and, although she frequently detected a general commendation on her manners, it was not often that the words were so direct or honest.
Washing her hands, she shook off the excess, noting how the white gold in her new birthday bracelet caught the light from above. Twenty-five yesterday. Her euphoria died a little, though she pushed the unsettled feeling down as she walked out into a salon of the Lenningtons’ townhouse and straight into some sort of fight.
‘I think you cheated, you blackguard.’ Her cousin Daniel’s tones were hardly civil and came from a very close quarter.
‘Then call me out. I am equally at home with swords or pistols.’ Another voice. Laconic. The drawl of a man new from the former colonies, the laughter in it unexpected.
‘And have you kill me?’
‘Life or death, Lord Davenport, take your choice or stop your whining.’
There was the sound of pushing and shoving and the two assailants came suddenly into view, Daniel’s head now locked in the bent elbow of a tall, dark-haired man, her cousin’s eyes bulging from the pressure and his fair hair plastered wet across his forehead.
Lillian was speechless as her glance drew upwards into the face of the assailant. Jacket unbuttoned and with cravat askew, the stranger’s jaw was heavily shadowed by dark stubble and she was transfixed by two golden eyes brushed in humour that stared now straight at her. Unrepentant. Unapologetic. Pure and raw man with blood on his lip and danger imprinted in every line of his body.
It seemed that her own throat choked with the contact, her heart slamming full into the ribs of her breast in one heavy blow, leaving her with no breath. A warmth that she had never before felt slid easily from her stomach, fusing even the tips of her fingers with heat, and with it came some other nameless thing, echoing on the edge of a knowledge as old as time. Shocking. Dreadful. She pulled her eyes from his and turned on her heels, but not before she had seen him tip his head at her, the wink he delivered licentious and untrammelled.
Mannerless, she decided, and American, and with more than a dozen other men and women looking on she knew the gossip about the fight would spread with an unstoppable haste.
Pulling the door to the retiring room open again, she returned to the same place she had left not more than a few minutes prior.
Anger consumed her.
And dread.
Who was he? She held out one hand and watched it shake before laying it down on her lap and shutting her eyes. A headache had begun to form and behind the pain came a wilder and more unwieldy longing.
‘Stop it,’ she whispered to herself, placing cold fingers across her lips to soften the sound as the door opened and other women came in, giggling this time and young.
‘I love these balls. I love the music and the colour and the gowns …’
‘And of all the gowns I love Lillian Davenport’s best. Where does she get her clothes from, I wonder? Ester Hamilton says from London, but I would wager France—a modiste from Paris, perhaps, and a milliner from Florence? With all her money she could have them brought from anywhere.’
‘Did you see her exquisite bracelet? Her father gave it to her for her birthday. Her twenty-fifth birthday!’
‘Twenty-five! Poor Lillian,’ the other espoused, ‘and no husband or children either! My God, if she does not find a groom soon …’
‘Oh, I would not go that far, Harriet. Some women like to live alone.’
‘No woman wants to live alone, you peagoose. Besides Lord Wilcox-Rice has been paying her a lot of attention tonight. Perhaps she will fall in love with him and have the wedding of the year in the spring.’
The other girl tittered as they departed, leaving Lillian speechless.
Poor Lillian!
Poor Lillian?
Paragon to poor in all of five minutes, and a stranger outside who made her heart beat in a way that worried her.
‘Mama?’ The sound came in a prayer. ‘Please, Lord, do not let me be anything like Mama.’ She pushed the thought away. She would not see this colonial ruffian again; furthermore, if his behaviour tonight was anything to go by, she doubted he would be invited into any house of repute in the future. The thought relaxed her—after all, they were the only sort of homes that she frequented!
Wiping her brow, she stood, feeling better for the thought and much more like herself. She was seldom flustered and almost never blushed and the heartbeat that had raced in her breast was an unheard-of occurrence. Perhaps it was the fight that had made her unsettled and uncertain, for she could not remember a time when she had ever heard a voice raised in such fury or men hitting out at each other. Certainly she had never seen a man in a state of such undress.
Ridiculously she hoped the stranger would have had the sense to adjust his cravat and his jacket before he entered the main salons.
No! Her rational mind rejected such a thought. Let him be thrown out into the street and away from the city. She wondered what had happened to arouse such strong emotion in the first place. Cards, probably, and drink! She had smelt it on their clothes and her cousin’s behaviour of late had been increasingly erratic, his sense of honour tarnished with a wilder anger ever since returning home to England.
Poor Lillian!
She would not think about it again. Those silly young girls had no notion of what they spoke of and she was more than happy with her life.
Lucas Clairmont draped his legs across the stool and looked into the fire burning in the grate of Nathaniel Lindsay’s town house in Mayfair.
‘My face will feel better come the morrow,’ Lucas said, raising his glass to swallow the chilled water, the bottle nestling in an ice-bucket beside him.
‘Davenport has always had a hot temper, so I’d watch your back on dark nights as you wend your way home. Especially if you are on a winning streak at the tables.’
Luc laughed. Loudly. ‘I’d like to see him try it.’
‘He is no lightweight, Luc. His family name affords him a position here that is … secure.’
‘I’ll deal with it, Nat,’ he countered, glad when his friend nodded.
‘His cousin, Miss Lillian Davenport, on the other hand is formidably scrupulous.’
‘She’s the woman I saw in the white dress?’ He had already asked Nat her name as they had walked to the waiting coach and now seemed the time to find out more, her pale blue eyes and blonde hair reminding him of the lily flowers that grew in profusion near the riverbeds in Richmond, Virginia.
‘Is she married?’
‘No. She is famous not only for her innate good manners but also for her ability to say no to marriage proposals and, believe me, there have been many.’
Luc gingerly touched his bottom lip, which was still hurting.
‘Society here is under the impression that you are a reprobate and a wild cannon, Luc. Many more tussles like tonight and you may find yourself on the outskirts of even the card games.’
Lucas shook his head. ‘I barely touched him and he only got in a punch because I wasn’t expecting it. Where does Lillian Davenport live, by the way?’
‘We’re back to her again. My God, she is as dangerous to you as her cousin and many times over more clever. A woman who all men would like to possess and who in the end wants none of them.’
Cassandra bustled into the drawing room, a steaming hot chocolate in hand.
‘Take no notice of my husband, Lucas. He speaks from his own poor experience.’
‘You were lining up, Nat, at one time?’
‘A good seven years back now. Her first coming out it was, and long before I ever set eyes upon my Cassie.’
‘And she refused you?’
‘Unconditionally. She waited until I had sent her the one and only love letter I have ever written and then gave it back.’
‘Better than keeping it, I should imagine.’
He nodded. ‘And those famous manners relegate anything personal to the “never to be discussed again” box, which one must find encouraging.’
‘So she’s not a gossip?’
‘Oh, far from it,’ Cassie took up the conversation. ‘She is the very end word in innate good breeding and perfect bearing. Every young girl who is presented at Court is reminded of her comportment and conduct and encouraged to emulate it.’
‘She sounds formidable.’
Cassandra giggled and Nathaniel interrupted his wife as she went to say more. ‘Lord, Cassie, enough.’ He caught her arm and pulled her down on to his knee. ‘Luc is only here in London until the end of December and we have much to reminisce about.’
‘I’ll drink to that, Nat.’ Raising his glass, Luc swallowed the lot, already planning his second foray into discovering the exact character of Daniel Davenport.
Lillian pulled up the sheets on her bed and lay down with a sigh. She had left her curtains slightly open and the moon shone brightly in the space between. A full moon tonight, and the beams covered her room in silver.
She felt … excited, and could not explain the feeling even to herself, the sleep she would have liked so far, far away. Her hand slid across her stomach beneath the gossamer-thin silk nightdress.
John Wilcox-Rice had been most attentive tonight, but it was another face she sought. A darker, more dangerous countenance with laughing golden eyes and a voice from another land. Her fingers traced across her skin soft and gentle, like the path of a feather.
Bringing her hands together when she realised where they lingered, she closed her eyes and summoned sleep. But the urgency was not dimmed, rather it flared in the silver moon and in the pull of something she had no control over. A single tear ran down her temple and into her hair. Wet. Real. She was twenty-five and waiting for … what?
The stranger had tipped his head to her, night-black hair caught long in the sort of leather strap that a man from past centuries would have worn. Careless of fashion!
His hands had been forceful and brown, work imbued into the very form of them. What must it be like to have a hand like that touch her body? Not soft, not smooth. Fingers that had worked the earth hard or loved a woman well!
She smiled at such a thought, but could not quite dismiss it.
‘Please …’ she whispered into the night, but the entreaty itself made her pause.
‘Let me find someone to love, someone to care for, someone to love me back.’ Not for her money or for her clothes or for the colour of her hair, which men always admired. Not those things, she thought.
‘For me. For just me.’ Words diffusing into the silence of the night as the winds of winter buffeted the house and the almost full moon disappeared behind thick rain-filled clouds.
Chapter Two
Her father was at breakfast the next morning, an occurrence that was becoming more and more rare these days with the time he spent at his clubs and his new interest in horseflesh pulling him away from London for longer and longer time-spans.
‘Good morning, Lillian,’ he said with a lilt in his voice and her puzzlement grew. ‘I have it on good authority that you had a splendid time at the Lenningtons’ last night?’
A splendid time? She could not for the life of her quite fathom his meaning.
‘Lord Wilcox-Rice called to see me yesterday afternoon to ask if he might court you with an eye to a betrothal later in the month and I had heard from Patrick that you spent much of the night at his side.’
Lillian grimaced at her youngest cousin’s penchant for telling a tale. ‘I was there as a friend.’
The words were wrung out in anger and her father’s brows lifted in astonishment.
‘Wilcox-Rice has not said anything to you yet? Perhaps the boy is shy or perhaps you did not encourage him as it may have been prudent to.’
‘I do not wish for his advances. I could not even imagine …’
‘All the best marriages begin with just that. A friendship that develops into love and lasts a lifetime.’
The unspoken words hung between them.
Like your marriage did not. Mama. A quick dalliance with an unsuitable man and then her death. Repenting it all, and an absolution never given.
‘Lord Wilcox-Rice wishes for you to become better acquainted. He wants you to spend some time with him at his estate in Kent. Chaperoned, of course, but well away from London and it may give you the chance to—’
‘No, Papa.’
Her father was still. The knife he held in his hand was carefully set down on his plate, the jam upon it as yet to be spread. ‘I think, Lillian, we have come to an impasse, you and I. You are a girl with a strong mind, but your years are mounting and the chances you may have for a family and a home of your own are diminishing with each passing birthday.’
Lillian hated this argument. Twenty-five had pounced upon her with all the weight of expectations and conjecture; an iniquitous year when women were no longer young and could not fall back upon the easy excuse of choice.
‘John Wilcox-Rice is from a good family with all the advantages of upbringing that you yourself have had. He would not wish to change you, and he would make an admirable father, something that you must be now at least thinking about.’
‘But I don’t have any feelings for him. Not ones that would naturally lead to marriage.’
With a quick flick of his fingers her father dismissed the servants gathered behind them. Left alone, Lillian could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, time marked by mounting seconds of silence.
Finally her father began. ‘I am nearing fifty, Lillian, and my health is not as it once was. I need to know that you are settled before I am too much older. I need grandchildren and the chance of an heir for Fairley Manor.’
‘You speak as if I am over thirty, Father, and I can see little wrong with the state of your health.’ She did not care for the harshness she heard in her voice.
‘Then if you cannot understand the gist of my words, I worry about you even more.’
His tone had risen, no longer the measured evenness of logic and sense, and Lillian walked across to the window to look out over Hyde Park where a few people rode their horses on the pathways. Everything was just as it should be, whereas in here….
‘I will give you till Christmas.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ She turned to face him.
‘I will give you until Christmas to find a man of your choice to marry, and if you have no other candidate by then you must promise me to consider Wilcox-Rice and without prejudice.’
His face was blotched with redness, the weight he had put on since last year somehow more worrying than before. Was he ailing? He had seen the physician last week. Perhaps he had learnt something was not right?
Regret and remorse surged simultaneously, but she did not question him. He was a man who held his secrets and seldom divulged his thoughts. Like her, she supposed, and that made her sad.
She was cornered, by parental authority and by the part in her heart that wanted to make her ageing father happy, no matter what.
‘It is not so very easy to find a man who is everything that I want.’
‘Then find one who is enough, Lillian.’ His retort came quickly. ‘With children great happiness can follow and Wilcox-Rice is a good fellow. At least give me the benefit of the wisdom old age brings.’
‘Very well, then. I will promise to consider your advice.’ When she held out her hand to his, she liked the way he did not break the contact, but kept her close.
Half an hour later she was in the morning room to one side of the town house having a cup of tea with Anne Weatherby, an old friend, and trying to feign interest in the topic of her children and family, a subject that usually took up nearly all the hours of her visit. Today, however, she had other issues to discuss.
‘There was a contretemps last night at Lenningtons’. Did you hear of it?’
Lillian’s attention was immediately caught.
‘It seems that your cousin Daniel and a stranger from America were in a scuffle of sorts. I saw him as he walked from the salon afterwards. He barely looked English, the savage ways of the backwaters imprinted on his clothes and hands and face. So dangerous and uncivilised.’ She began to smile. ‘And yet wildly good-looking.’
‘I saw nothing.’
‘Rumour has it that you did.’
‘Well, perhaps I saw the very end of it all as I came from the retiring room. It was but a trifle.’ She tried to look bored with the whole subject in the hope that Anne might change the topic, but was to have no such luck.
‘It is said that he has a reputation in America that is hardly savoury. A Virginian, I am told, whose wife died in a way that was … suspicious at the very least.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Alice, the Countess of Horsham, would say no more on the matter, but her tone of voice indicated that the fellow might have had a hand in her demise.’ She shook her head before continuing. ‘Although the gossip is all about town, the young girls seem much enamoured by his looks and are setting their caps at him in the hopes of even a smile. He has a dimple on his right cheek, something I always found attractive in a man.’ She placed her hands across her mouth and smiled through them. ‘Lord, but I am running on, and at thirty I should have a lot more sense than to be swayed by a handsome face.’
Lillian poured another cup of tea for herself, while Anne had barely sipped at hers. She hoped that her friend did not see the way the liquid slopped across the side of the cup of its own accord and dribbled on to the white-lace linen cloth beneath it. How easy it was to be tipped from this place to that one. His wife. Dead!
Her imaginings in a bed bathed in moonlight took on a less savoury feel and she pushed down disappointment.
No man had ever swept her off her feet in all the seven years she had been out and to imagine that this one had even the propensity to do so suddenly seemed silly. Of course a man who looked like this American would not be a fit companion for her with his raw and rough manner and his dangerous eyes. The promise she had made her father less than an hour ago surfaced and she shook away the ridiculous yearnings.
Betrothed by Christmas! Ah well, she thought as she guided the conversation to a more general one, if worst came to the worst, John Wilcox-Rice was at least biddable and she was past twenty-five.
She met John at a party that evening in Belgrave Square and she knew that she was in trouble as soon as she saw his face. He looked excited and nervous at the same time, his smile both protective and concerned. When he took her fingers in his own she was glad for her gloves and glad too for the ornamental shrubbery placed beside the orchestra. It gave her a chance to escape the prying eyes of others while she tried to explain it all to him.
When the cornet, violin and cello proved too much to speak over she pulled him out on to the balcony a little further away from the room, where the light was dimmer, the shadow of the shrubs throwing a kinder glow on both their faces.
‘You had my message from your father, then, about my interest—’ he began, but she allowed him no further discourse.
‘I certainly did and I thank you for the compliment, but I do not think we could possibly—’
‘Your father thinks differently,’ he returned, and a sneaking suspicion started to well in Lillian’s breast.
‘You have seen my father today?’ she began, stopping as he nodded.
‘Indeed I have and he was at pains to tell me you had agreed to at least consider my proposal.’
‘But I do not hold the sort of feelings for you that you would want, and there would be no guarantee that I ever could.’
‘I know.’ He took her hand again, this time peeling back the fine silk of her right glove, and pressing his lips to her wrist. Without meaning to she dragged her hand away, wiping it on the generous fabric of her skirt and thinking that this meeting place might not have been the wisest one after all.
‘I just want you to at least try. I want the chance to make you happy and I think that we would rub along together rather nicely.’
‘Well,’ she returned briskly, ‘I certainly value your friendship and I would indeed be very loath to lose it, but as for the rest….’
He bowed before her. ‘I understand and I am ready to give you more time to ponder over it, Lillian, for as like-minded people of a similar birth I am convinced such a union would benefit us both.’
She nodded and watched as he clicked his heels together and took his leave, a tall, thin man who was passably good looking and infinitely suitable. A husband she could indeed grow old with in a fairly satisfying relationship.
Sighing, she made her way to the edge of the balcony, the same moon as the night before mocking her in her movements, remembering.
‘Stop it!’ she admonished herself out loud.
‘Stop what?’ Another voice answered and the American walked out from the shrubs behind her, the red tip of a cheroot the only thing standing out from the black of his silhouette.
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Long enough.’
‘A gentleman would have walked away.’
He pointedly looked across the balustrade. ‘The fifteen-foot drop is somewhat of a deterrent.’
‘Or stayed quiet until I had left.’ The beat of her heart was worrying, erratic, hard. ‘Why, most Englishmen would be mortified to find themselves in this situation …’ She didn’t finish, owing to a loud laugh that rang rich in the night air.
‘Mortified?’ he repeated. ‘It has been a long while since I last felt that.’ His accent was measured tonight and at times barely heard, a different voice from the one he had affected at the Lenningtons’ with its broad Virginian drawl. She was glad she could not catch his eyes, still shaded by the greenery, though in the position she stood she knew her own to be well on show.
Perhaps he had orchestrated it so? The gold band on the ring finger of his left hand jolted her. His marriage finger! She tried not to let him see where she looked.
‘We have not even been introduced, sir. None of this can be in any way proper. You must repair inside this instant.’
Still he did not move, the dimple that Anne Weatherby had spoken of dancing in his cheek.
‘I am Lucas Clairmont from Richmond in Virginia,’ he said finally. ‘And you are Miss Davenport, a woman of manners and good taste, though I wonder at the wisdom of Wilcox-Rice as a groom?’
‘He is not that. You just heard me tell him so.’
‘He and your father seem to believe otherwise.’ Now he walked straight into the light and the golden eyes that had haunted her dreams made her pause. She swallowed heavily and held her hands hard against her thighs to stop them from shaking, though when he picked a slender stem from a pyracanthus bush behind him and handed it to her she leant forwards to take it.
‘Thank you.’ She could think of nothing else at all to say. The thorn on the stem pricked the base of her thumb.
‘I am glad I have this chance to apologise for frightening you yesterday at the Lenningtons’.’
‘Apology accepted.’ For the first time some of her tension dissipated with the simple reasoning that a criminal mind would not run to seeking any sort of amnesty. ‘I realise that my cousin can be rather trying at times.’
His teeth were white against the brown of his face and Lillian was jolted back to reality as his eyes darkened and she saw for a moment a man she barely recognised.
A dangerous man. A man who would not be moulded or conditioned by the society in which he found himself.
So unlike her. She stepped back, afraid now of a thing that she had no name for, and wondered what her cousin had done to cause such enmity.
‘Have no fear, Miss Davenport. I would not kill him because he’s not worth being hanged at Newgate for.’
Kill him? My God. To even think that he might consider it and then qualify any lack of action with a personal consequence.
I would if I could get away with it.
John Wilcox-Rice’s gentle mediocrity began to look far more appealing until Luc Clairmont reached out for her hand and took it in his own. The shock of contact left her mute, but against her will she was drawn to him.
Against her will? She could not even say that!
His finger traced the lines on her palm and then the veins that showed through in the pale skin of her wrist.
‘An old Indian woman read my hand once in Richmond. She told me that life was like a river and that we are taken by the currents to a place we are meant to be.’
His amber eyes ran across hers, the humour once again back. ‘Is this that place, Miss Davenport?’
Time seemed to stop, frozen into moonlight and want and warmth. When she snatched her hand away and almost ran inside, she could have sworn it was laughter she heard, following her from a balcony drenched in silver.
She stopped walking quite so briskly once she was back amongst others, finding a certain safety in numbers that she had never felt the need of before. Would he come again and speak to her? Would he create a fuss? The very thought had her hauling her fan from her reticule, to waft it to and fro, the breeze engendered calming her a little. She stuffed the sprig of orange berries into her velvet bag, glad to have them out of her fingers where someone might comment upon them.
‘Your colour is rather high, Lillian,’ her aunt Jean said as she joined her. ‘I do hope you are not sickening for something so close to the Yuletide season. Why, Mrs Haugh was saying to me just the other day how her daughter has contracted a bronchial complaint that just cannot be shaken and …’
But Lillian was listening no more, for Lucas Clairmont had just walked in from the balcony, a tall broad-shouldered man who made the other gentlemen here look … mealy, precious and dandified. No, she must not think like that! Concentrating instead on the mark around his bottom lip that suggested another fight, she tried to ignore the way all the women in his path watched him beneath covert hooded glances.
He was leaving with the Earl of St Auburn and a man she knew to be Lord Stephen Hawkhurst. Well-placed men with the same air of menace that he had. The fact interested her and she wondered just how it was they knew each other.
As they reached the door, however, Lucas Clairmont looked straight into her eyes, tipping his head as she had seen him do at the Lenningtons’ ball. Hating the way her heartbeat flared, Lillian spread her fan wide and hid her face from his, a breathless wonder overcoming caution as a game, of which she had no notion of the rules, was begun.
Once home herself she placed the crumpled orange pyracanthus in a single bloom vase and stood it on the small table by her bed. Both the colour and the shape clashed with everything else in her bedroom. As out of place in her life as Lucas Clairmont was, a vibrant interloper who conformed to neither position nor venue. Her finger reached out to carefully touch the hard nubs of thorn that marched down its stem. Forbidding. Protective. Unexpected in the riot of colour above it!
She wished she had left it on the balcony, discarded and cast aside, as she should be doing with the thoughts of the man who had picked it. But she had not and here it was with pride of place in a room that looked as if it held its breath with nervousness. Her eyes ran over the sheer lawn drapes about her bed, the petit-point bedcover upon it in limed cream and the lamp next to her, its chalky base topped by a faded and expensive seventeenth-century tapestry. The décor in her room was nothing like the fashion of the day with its emphasis on stripes and paisleys and the busy tones of purple and red. But she enjoyed the difference.
All had been carefully chosen and were eminently suitable, like the clothes she wore and the friends she fostered. Her life. Not haphazard or risky, neither arbitrary nor disorganised.
Once it had been, once when her mother had come home to tell them that she was leaving that very afternoon ‘to find excitement and adventure in the arms of a man who was thrilling’. The very words used still managed to make her feel slightly sick, as she remembered a young girl who had idolised her mother. She was not thrilling and so she had been left behind, an only child whose recourse to making her father happy was to be exactly the daughter he wanted. She had excelled in her lessons and in her deportment, and later still when she came out at eighteen she had been daubed an ‘original’, her sense of style and quiet stillness copied by all the younger ladies at Court.
Usually she liked that. Usually she felt a certain pride in the way she handled everything with such easy acumen. But today with the berries waving their overblown and unrestrained shapes in her room, a sense of disquiet also lingered.
Poor Lillian.
John Wilcox-Rice and his eminently sensible proposal.
Her father’s advancing age.
The pieces of her life were not quite adding up to a cohesive whole any longer, and she could pin the feeling directly to Lucas Clairmont with his easy smile and his dangerous predatory eyes.
Standing by the window, she saw an outline of herself reflected in the glass. As pale as the colours in her room, perhaps, and fading. Was she her mother’s daughter right down to the fact of finding her own ‘thrilling and unsuitable man’? She laid her palm against the glass and, on removing it, wrote her mother’s initials in the misted print Rebecca Davenport had returned in the autumn, a thinner and sadder version of the woman who had left them, and although her father had taken her back into his house he had never taken her back into his heart. No one had known of her infidelity. The extended holiday to the Davenports’ northern estate of Fairley Manor was never explained and, although people had their suspicions, the steely correctness of Ernest Davenport had meant that they were never even whispered.
Perhaps that had made things even harder, Lillian thought. The constant charade and pretence as her mother lay dying with an ague of the soul and she, a child who went between her parents with the necessary messages, seeing any respect that they had once had for each other wither with the onset of winter.
Even the funeral had been a sham, her mother’s body laid in the crypt of the Davenports with all the ceremony expected, and then left unvisited.
No, the path Rebecca had taken had alienated her from everybody and should her daughter be so foolish as to follow in those footsteps she could well see the consequences of ‘thrilling’.
John Wilcox-Rice was a man who would never break her heart. A constant man of sound morals and even sounder political persuasions. One hand threaded through her hair and she smiled unwillingly at the excitement that coursed through her. Everything seemed different. More tumultuous. Brighter. She walked across to the bed and ran a finger across the smooth orange berries, liking the fact that Lucas Clairmont had touched them just as she was now.
Silly thoughts. Girlish thoughts.
She was twenty-five, for goodness’ sake, and a woman who had always looked askance at those highly strung débutantes whose emotions seemed to rule them. The invitation to the Cholmondeley ball on the sill caught her attention and she lifted it up. Would the American be attending this tomorrow? Perhaps he might ask her to dance? Perhaps he might lift up her hand to his again?
She shook her head and turned away as a maid came to help her get ready for bed.
Chapter Three
Luc spent the morning with a lawyer from the City signing documents and hating every single signature he marked the many pages with.
The estate of Woodruff Abbey in Bedfordshire was a place he neither wanted nor deserved and his wife’s cries as she lay dying in Charlottesville, Virginia, were louder here than they had been in all the months since he had killed her.
He did not wish for the house or the chattels. He wanted to walk away and let the memories lie because recollection had the propensity to rekindle all that was gone.
Shaking away introspection, he made himself smile, a last armour against the ghosts that dragged him down.
‘Will you be going up to look the old place over, Sir?’
‘Perhaps.’ Non-committal. Evasive.
‘It is just if you wish me to accompany you, I would need to make plans.’
‘No. That will not be necessary.’ If he went, he would go alone.
‘The servants, of course, still take retainers paid for by the rental of the farming land, though in truth the place has been let go badly.’
‘I see.’ He wanted just to leave. Just to take the papers and leave.
‘Your wife’s sister’s daughters are installed in the house. Their mother died late last year and I wrote to you—’
Luc looked up. ‘I did not have any such missive.’
The lawyer rifled through a sheath of sheets and, producing a paper, handed it across to him. ‘Is this not your handwriting, sir?’ A frown covered his brow.
With his signature staring up at him, Luc could do nothing else but nod.
‘How old are these children?’
‘Eight and ten, sir, and both girls.’
‘Where is their father?’
‘He left England a good while back and never returned. He was a violent man and, if I were to guess, I would say he lies in a pauper’s grave somewhere, unmarked and uncared for. Charity and Hope are, however, the sort of girls their names suggest, and as soon as they gain their majority they will have no more claim to any favours from the Woodruff Abbey funds.’
Luc placed the paper down on the table before him. So poor-spirited, he thought, to do your duty up to a certain point and then decline further association. He had seen it time and time again in his own father, the action of being seen to have done one’s duty more important than any benefit to those actively involved.
Unexpectedly he thought of Lillian Davenport. Would she be the same? he wondered, and hoped not. Last night when he had run his fingers across the pale skin on her wrist he had felt her heartbeat accelerate markedly and seen the flush that covered her cheeks before she had turned and run from him.
Not all the ice queen then, her high moral standards twisted against his baser want. Because he had wanted her, wanted to bring his hands along the contours of her face and her breasts and her hips hidden beneath her fancy clothing and distance.
Lord, was he stupid?
He should not have made his presence known. Should not have sparred with her or held her fingers and read her palm, for Lillian Davenport was the self-styled keeper of worthiness and he needed to stay away from her.
Yet she pierced a place in him that he had long thought of as dead, the parts of himself that he used to like, the parts that the past weeks of sobriety had begun to thaw against the bone-cold guilt that had torn at his soul.
The law books lined up against the far wall dusty in today’s thin sun called him back. Horatio Thackeray was now detailing the process of the transfer of title.
Woodruff Abbey was his! He turned the gold ring on his wedding finger and pressed down hard.
Lillian enjoyed the afternoon taking tea in Regent Street with Anne Weatherby and her husband Allen. His brother Alistair had joined them, too, a tall and pleasant man.
‘I have lived in Edinburgh for a good few years now,’ he explained when she asked him why she had not met him before. ‘I have land there and prefer the quieter pace of life.’ Catching sight of a shopkeeper trying to prop up a Christmas tree in his window, he laughed. ‘Queen Victoria has certainly made the season fashionable. Do you decorate a tree, Miss Davenport?’
‘Oh, more than one, Mr Weatherby. I often have three or four in the town house.’
‘And I am certain that you would do so with great aplomb if my sister-in-law’s comments on your sense of style are to be taken into consideration.’ He smiled and moved closer. ‘If I could even be so bold as to ask for permission to accompany Anne to see these Yuletide trees next time she visits, I would be most grateful.’
The man was flirting with her, Lillian suddenly thought, and averted her eyes. Catching the glance of Anne at her side, she realised immediately that her friend was in on the plot.
Another man thrust beneath her nose. Another suitor who wanted a better acquaintance. All of a sudden she wished that it could have been just this easy. An instant attraction to a man who was suitable. The very thought made her tired. Perhaps she was never destined to be a wife or a mother.
‘You’re very quiet, Lillian?’ Anne took her hand as they walked towards the waiting coach.
‘I have a lot to think about.’
‘I hope that Alistair is one of those thoughts?’ she whispered back wickedly, laughing as Lillian made absolutely no answer. ‘Would he not do just as well as Wilcox-Rice? His holdings are substantial and Scotland is a beautiful place.’
The tree in the window was suddenly hoisted into position with the sound of cheering, a small reminder of her father’s ultimatum of choosing a groom before Christmas. Lillian placed a tight smile across her face.
‘I am not so desperate as to throw myself on a stranger, Anne, no matter how nice he is and I would prefer it if you would not meddle.’
The joy had quite gone out of the afternoon and she hated the answering annoyance in her oldest friend’s eyes. But today she could not help it. She had not been sleeping well, dreams of Virginia and the dark-haired American haunting her slumber, the remembered feel of his thumb tracing the beat on her wrist and the last sight of him tipping his head as he had left the room in the company of his friends.
To compare Lucas Clairmont to these other men was like equating the light made by tiny fireflies to that of the full-blown sun, a man whom she had never met the measure of before in making her aware that she was a woman. Breathing out heavily, she held on to her composure and answered a question Alistair asked her with all the eagerness that she could muster.
Chapter Four
The gown Lillian wore to the Cholmondeley ball was one of her favourites, a white satin dress with wide petticoats looped with tulle flowers. The train was of glacé and moiré silk, the festoons on the edge plain but beautiful. Her hair was entwined with a single strand of diamonds and these were mirrored in the quiet beading on her bodice. She seldom wore much ornamentation, preferring an understated elegance, and virtually always favoured white.
The ball was in full swing when she arrived with her father and aunt after ten; the suites of rooms on the first floor of the town house were opened up to each other and the floor in the long drawing room was polished until it shone. At the top of the chamber sat a substantial orchestra, and within it a group of guests that would have numbered well over four hundred.
‘James Cholmondeley is harking for the renommée of a crush,’ her father murmured as they made their way inside. ‘Let us hope that the champagne, at least, is of good quality.’
‘He must be of the persuasion that it is of benefit to be remembered in London, whether good or ill.’ Her aunt Jean’s voice was louder than Lillian would have liked it. ‘And I do hope that your dress is not hopelessly wrecked in such a crowd, my dear, and that the floor does not mark your satin slippers.’ She looked up as she spoke. ‘At least they have replaced the candles in the chandeliers with globe lamps so we are not to be burned.’
Lillian was not listening to her aunt’s seemingly endless list of complaints. To her the chamber looked beautiful, with its long pale-yellow banners and fresh flowers. The late-blooming roses were particularly lovely, she thought, as she scanned the room.
Was Lucas Clairmont here already? He was taller than a great deal of the other gentlemen present so he might not be too hard to find.
John Wilcox-Rice’s arm on hers made her start. ‘I have been waiting for you to come, Lillian. I thought indeed that you might have been at the MacLay ball in Mayfair.’
‘No, we went to the Manners’s place in Belgrave Square.’
‘I had toyed with the idea of going there myself, but Andrew MacLay is a special friend of mine and I had promised him my patronage.’ A burst of music from the orchestra caught his attention as the instruments were tuned. ‘The quadrille should be beginning soon. May I have the pleasure of escorting you through it?’
Her heart sank at his request, but manners forced her to smile. ‘Of course,’ she said, marking her dance card with his name.
The lead-off dance might give her the chance to look more closely at the patrons of this ball, as the pace of the thing was seldom faster than a walk and Lucas Clairmont as an untitled stranger would not be able to take his place at the top of the ballroom without offending everyone.
Her heart began to beat faster. Would he know of those rules? Would he be aware of such social ostracism should he try to invade a higher set? Lord, the things that had until tonight never worried her began to eat at her composure.
Still as yet she had not seen him, though she supposed a card room to be set up somewhere. She unfurled her fan, enjoying the cool air around her face and hoped that he would not surprise her with his presence.
The quadrille was called almost immediately and Lillian walked to the top of the room, using up some of the small talk that was the first necessity for dancing it as she went.
Holding her skirt out a little, she began the chasser, the sedate tempo of the steps allowing conversation.
‘Are you in London for the whole of the Yule season?’ Wilcox-Rice asked her, and she shook her head.
‘No, we will repair to Fairley in the first week of January and stay down till February. Papa is keen to see how his new horses race and has employed the services of a well-thought-of jockey in his quest to be included in next year’s Derby Day at Epsom. And you?’ Feeling it only polite, she asked him the same question back.
‘Your father asked me down after Twelfth Night. Did he not tell you?’
Lillian shook her head.
‘If you would rather I declined, you just need to say the word.’
She was saved answering by the complicated steps of the dance spiriting her away from him. The elderly gentleman she now faced smiled, but remained silent; taking her lead from him she was glad for the respite.
Luc watched Lillian Davenport from his place behind a colonnade at the foot of the room. He had seen her enter, seen the rush of men surround her asking for a dance and Wilcox-Rice placing his hand across hers to draw her away from them. Her father was there, too; Nat had pointed him out and an older woman whom he presumed was a family member. She seemed to be grumbling about something above her and Luc supposed it must be the lighting. Lillian looked as she always did, unapproachable and elegant. He noticed how the women around her covertly looked over her dress, a shining assortment of shades of white material cascading across a lacy petticoat.
She had worn white every single time he had seen her and the colour mirrored the paleness of her skin and hair. He smiled at his own ruminations. Lord, when had he ever noticed what a woman had worn before? The mirth died a little as he thought about the ramifications of such awareness. With determination he turned away, the quadrille and its ridiculous rules taking up the whole of the upper ballroom. British aristocracy took itself so seriously; in Virginia such unwritten social codes would be laughed about and ignored. Here, however, he did not wish for the bother of making his point. In less than two months he would be on a ship sailing back to America where the nonsensical and exclusive dances of the upper classes in London would be only a memory.
The chatter of voices around him made him turn and Nathaniel introduced two very pretty sisters to him, the elder laying her hand across his arm and showing him a card that she had, the dances named on one side and a few blank spaces that were not filled in with pencil upon the other.
‘I have a polka free still, sir. If you should like to ask me …’
Nat laughed beside him. ‘I have been fending off interested ladies since you arrived, Luc. Do me at least the courtesy of filling your night so that I have no further need of mediation and diplomacy.’
Cornered, Luc assented though it had been a long time since he had learned the steps to the thing. A complicated dance, he remembered, though not as fast as the galop. He wished he had taken better heed of his teacher’s instructions when he had been a lad, and wished also that it might have been Lillian Davenport that he partnered.
The girl’s younger sister thrust her own card at him and he was glad when they finally turned to leave.
Lord, time was beginning to run short and he did not want to be in England any longer than he had to be.
A flash of Lillian caught his eye as she finished with the quadrille and bowed to her partner. Finally it looked as though Wilcox-Rice might depart of his own accord and that he could get at least a little conversation with the most beautiful woman in the room.
But when another man claimed her for the waltz he admitted defeat and moved into the next salon to see what could be had in the way of supper.
The dancing programme was almost halfway through and Lillian was quite exhausted. She had deliberately pencilled in two waltzes with made-up initials just in case Luc Clairmont should show, but by midnight was giving up the hope of seeing him here.
Sir Richard Graham, a man who had pursued her several years earlier and one she had never warmed to, had asked her for the third galop and she had just taken her place in the circle when she felt a strange tingle along the back of her neck.
He was here, she was sure of it, the shock of connection as vivid as it had been on first seeing him outside the retiring room at the Lenningtons’.
Gritting her teeth, she took four steps forwards as her partner took her left hand in his, and when she moved back again she casually looked across her shoulder.
He was three or four couples behind them, partnering a pretty girl whom she knew to be the younger one of the Parker sisters and he looked for all the world as if he might actually be enjoying the dance. Certainly the Parker girl was, her colour high and her eyes flashing, the dimples in her cheeks easily on show.
Perhaps he had been here all night and made no effort to single her out. Perhaps this sharp knowledge she felt when he was near her was not reciprocated. Stepping forwards, she gained in ground on the couple in front of her and Graham’s hand closed upon her own, slowing her down. Concentrate, she admonished herself. Concentrate and pretend that Lucas Clairmont is not there, that you do not care for him, this reckless colonial who can only do your reputation harm.
For the next few figures in the dance she felt her confidence return, then drain away altogether as he winked at her when she caught his eyes across the small space between them. She turned away quickly, not deigning any reply, and listened to some inconsequential thing her partner was relaying to her, trying to give the impression of the free-and-fancy woman she did not feel at all. When the dance ended she curtsied and allowed Graham to take her hand and lead her back to the shelter of her aunt, a courtesy she rarely took part in.
‘You look flushed, my dear,’ Jean said as she finished off a sizeable glass of lemonade, followed by a strawberry bonbon. The first strains of a waltz filled the air and Lillian looked at her card. The initials she had written there stared back at her.
‘Your partner for this next dance is rather tardy.’ Aunt Jean looked around expectantly. ‘Ahh, here he is now.’
Lillian’s head whipped upwards as Luc Clairmont strode into view beside them, and again she was mesmerised by his reckless golden eyes.
‘Miss Davenport,’ he said before turning to her companion. ‘Ma’am.’
Her aunt’s mouth had dropped open, the red of the strawberry bonbon strangely marking her tongue.
‘Aunt Jean, let me introduce you to Mr Lucas Clairmont, from America. Mr Clairmont this is my aunt, Lady Taylor-Reid.’
Again Luc bowed his head. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’
Her aunt flushed strangely. ‘How long have you been in England, Mr Clairmont?’
‘Only a few weeks’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Indeed I do.’ He looked straight at her, the dimple in his cheek deeper than she had seen it, the gold of his eyes glinting in mirth.
The music had now begun in earnest, the dance getting underway and, excusing herself, she allowed Lucas to guide her through the throngs of people.
On the floor his hand laced around her waist and she felt the warmth of it like a burn. In England it was proper for couples to stand a good foot apart, but the American way seemed different as he brought her close, his free hand taking her fingers and clasping them tight.
‘I had thought I would have no chance for a waltz with you, Lillian. How is it that your card is empty on the best dance of them all?’
She ignored his familiar use of her name, reasoning that as no one else had heard him use it, it could do no harm.
‘It was a mix-up,’ she replied as they swirled effortlessly around the room. He was a good dancer! No wonder the Parker sister had looked so thrilled.
‘Are there other mix-ups on your card?’
She laughed, surprised by his candour. ‘Actually, I have the last waltz free …’
‘Pencil me in,’ he replied, sweeping her around the top corner of the room, her petticoat swirling to one side with the movement of it, an elation building that she had never before felt in dancing.
Safe. Strong. The outline of his muscles could be seen against the black of his jacket and felt in the hard power of his thighs. A man who had not grown up in the salons of courtly life but in a tougher place of work and need. Even his clothes mirrored a disregard for the height of fashion, his jacket not the best of cuts and his shoes a dull matt black. Just a ‘little dressed,’ she thought, his apparel of a make that held no pretension to arrogance or ornament. She saw that he had tied his neckcloth simply and that his gloves were removed.
She wished she had done the same and then she might feel the touch of his skin against her own, but the thought withered with the onslaught of his next words.
‘I am bound for Virginia before too much longer. I have passage on a ship in late December and, if the seas are kind, I may see Hampton by the middle of February.’
‘Hampton is your home?’ She tried to keep the question light and her disappointment hidden.
‘No. My place is up on the James River, near Richmond.’
‘And your family?’
When he did not answer and the light in his eyes dimmed with her words, she tried another tack. ‘I had a friend once who left London for a home in Philadelphia. Is that somewhere near?’
‘Somewhere …’ he answered, whirling her around one last time before the music stopped. Bowing to her as their hands dropped away from each other, he asked, ‘May I escort you back to your aunt? Your father does not look too happy with my dancing style.’
Lillian smiled and did not look over at her father for fear that he might beckon her back. ‘No. I have not supped yet and find myself hungry.’
The break in the music allowed him the luxury of choice. If he wanted to slip away he could, and if he wanted to accompany her to the supper room he had only to take her arm. She was pleased when he did that, allowing herself to be manoeuvred towards the refreshment room.
Once there she was at a loss as to what to say next, his admission of travelling home so soon having taken the wind from her sails. She saw the Parker girls and their friends behind him some little distance away and noticed that they watched her intently.
When he handed her a plate she thanked him, though he did not take one, helping himself to a generous drink of lemonade instead.
‘Are you in London over Christmas?’ His question was one she had been asked all the night, a conversation topic of little real value and, when compared to the communion they had enjoyed the last time of meeting, disappointing.
She nodded. ‘We usually repair to Fairley Manor, our country seat in Hertfordshire, in the first week of January.’ When he smiled all of the magic returned in a flood.
‘Nathaniel Lindsay is to give a house party at his country estate in Kent on the weekend of November the twentieth. Will you be there?’
‘The Earl of St Auburn? I do not know if I have an invite …’
‘I could send you one.’
Shock mixed with delight and ran straight through into the chambers of her heart.
‘It is not proper.’
‘But you will come anyway?’
He did not move closer or raise his voice, he did not reach out for her hand or brush his arm against her own as he so easily could here at this crowded refreshment table, and because of it, the invite was even the more clandestine. Real. A measure taken to transport her from this place to another one.
An interruption by the Countess of Horsham meant that she could not answer him, and when he excused himself from their company she let him go, fixing her glance upon the tasteless biscuit on her plate.
Alice watched him, however, and the smile on her lips was unwelcome. ‘I had heard you witnessed the fellow in a contretemps the other evening? Do you know him, Lillian, know anything of his family and his living?’
‘Just a little. He is a good friend of the Earl of St Auburn.’
‘Indeed. There are other rumours that I have heard, too. It seems he may have inherited a substantial property on the death of his wife. Some say he is here to collect that inheritance and leave again, more gold for his gambling habit and the fracas with your cousin still unresolved. Less kind folks would say that he killed the woman to get the property and that his many children out of wedlock are installed in the place.’
‘Are you warning me, Countess?
‘Do I need to, Lillian?’
‘No.’ She bit down on the lemon biscuit and washed away the dryness with chilled tea, the taste combined as bitter as the realisation that she was being watched. And watched carefully.
Of course she could not go to Kent even if she had wanted to. Pretending a headache, she excused herself from the Countess’s company, and went to find her aunt.
Luc saw her leave, the ball still having at least an hour left and the promised last dance turning to dust. The Countess of Horsham’s husband was a man he had met at the card tables and a gossip of the first order. Lord, the tale of his own poor reputation had probably reached Lillian and he doubted that she would countenance such a lack of morals. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps the ‘very good’ had a God-given inbuilt mechanism of protection that fended off people like him, a celestial safeguard that separated the chaff from the wheat.
When the oldest Parker sister obstructed his passage on the pretext of claiming him in the next dance, he made himself smile as he escorted the girl on to the floor.
Once home Lillian checked the week’s invitations scattered on the hall table. When she found none from the Earl of St Auburn, she relaxed. No problem to mull over and dither about, no temptation to answer in the affirmative and have her heart broken completely. She remembered her last sight of Lucas Clairmont flirting with the pretty Parker heiress she had seen him with earlier in the evening, the same smile he had bequeathed her wide across his face.
On gaining her room, she snatched the stupid orange pyracanthus from the vase near her bed and threw it into the fire burning brightly in the grate. A few of the berries fell off in their flight, and she picked them up, squeezing them angrily and liking the way the juice of blushed red stained her hand.
She would invite Wilcox-Rice to call on her tomorrow and make an effort to show some kindness. Such an act would please her father and allay the fears of her aunt who had regaled her all the way home on the ills of marrying improperly and the ruin that could follow.
Lillian wondered how much her father had told his only sister about the downfall of his wife and was glad, at least, that Aunt Jean had had the sense not to mention any such knowledge to her. Indeed, she needed to regain her balance, her equanimity and her tranquil demeanour and to do that she needed to stay well away from Lucas Clairmont.
Chapter Five
Woodruff Abbey, in Bedfordshire, was old, a house constructed in the days when the classical lines of architecture had been in their heyday, early seventeenth century or late sixteenth. Now it just looked tired, the colonnades in the portico chipped and rough and numerous windows boarded in places, as though the glass had been broken and was not able to be repaired. The thought puzzled him—the income of this place was well able to cover expenses towards the upkeep and day-to-day running, according to Thackeray, his lawyer. Why then had it been left to look so rundown?
At the front door he stopped and looked at the garden stretching from the house to the parkland below and the polluted business of London seemed far away. Breathing in, he smiled, and the tense anger of the past few years seemed to recede a bit, the faded elegance of the Abbey soothing in its dishevelled beauty.
The door was suddenly pulled open and a man stood there. An old man, whose hat was placed low upon his head and whose eyes held the rheumy glare of one who could in truth barely see.
‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ His cultured voice was surprising.
‘I am Lucas Clairmont. I hope that Mr Thackeray has sent you word of my coming.’
‘The lawyer? Clairmont? Lord! You are here already?’
‘I am.’ Luc waited. The man did not move from his place in the middle of the doorway, his knuckles clutching white at the lintel as though he might fall.
‘The Mr Clairmont from America?’
‘Indeed.’ He bit back a smile. Was he going to be invited into his own house or not?
‘Who is there, Jack? Who is at the door? Tell them that we need nothing.’
A woman appeared behind him, a woman every bit as old as he was, her shawl wrapped tightly across a thin frame, spectacles balancing on her nose.
‘It is Mr Clairmont, Lizzie. Mr Clairmont, this is my wife, Mrs Poole’
Her eyes widened behind the glasses and the frown that had been there when he first saw her thickened.
‘We had word, of course, but we had not thought …’
Her words petered out as she stood beside her husband, both of them now looking across at his person as if they could not quite believe he was there.
‘May I come in?’
The request sent them into a whirl of activity and as the door was thrown wide open they stepped back.
The wide central portico was open to the roof, and the oversized windows let in a generous amount of light. He noticed that the floors were well scrubbed and that the banisters and woodwork had been polished until they shone. Not an unloved house, then, but one strapped by the lack of cash.
‘We are Jack and Lizzie Poole, sir,’ the woman said once the door was again fastened, ‘and we have served this estate for nigh on a century between us.’
Luc nodded, easily believing the length of time stated.
‘And where are the other servants who help you?’
‘Other servants, sir?’ Puzzlement showed on their brows.
‘The cook and the governess, the maids and the grooms. Where are they?’
‘It’s only us, sir, and it has been for a very long time.’
‘But there are children here?’
Both their eyes lit up. ‘Indeed there are. Miss Charity and Miss Hope and good girls they are at that.’
‘Who teaches them, then? Who sees to their lessons?’
‘There is nobody else.’
‘So I am to understand that it is just you and the two girls who live here and have done so for some months?’
‘Almost twelve months, sir, since the money stopped coming and they all up and left! Not us though, we could not stand around and see the wee ones homeless.’
Luc took in a breath and he swore he would visit Thackeray the instant he returned to town in order to get to the bottom of just where the funds had gone.
‘Where are the children? Could they be brought down?’
‘Down, sir?’
‘From the nursery?’
‘Oh, goodness gracious, they are seldom there. If it is a fine day they will be down by the lake, and if it is a wet one in their hut near the trees.’
This time he did laugh. Two little girls without the weight of the English society rules upon them promised to be interesting indeed. His own childhood had been much the same, a violent father whom he saw only intermittently and a mother who was never well. Perhaps these old people would have been an improvement!
A noise from one end of the hall had them turning and a child stood there. A thin pale child with the shortest hair he had ever seen on a girl of her age and large blue eyes.
‘Charity,’ Mrs Poole said as she walked forwards. ‘You are back early. Come and meet Mr Clairmont, dear, for he is just come from London.’
The girl’s teeth worried her bottom lip and her light glance was full of anxiety, but she allowed the woman to shuffle her forwards.
‘She does not speak as such since the passing of her mother, sir, but she will certainly know you.’
Did not speak? He had had little to do with children in his life and was at a loss as to how to deal with this one. Still he tried his best. ‘I would like to see your tree house one day.’
She nodded. At least she understood him without lip reading, her eyes trained upon the floor.
‘Her sister, Hope, will not be in till after dark. Will you be staying, sir?’
He wondered what Hope did for all of the hours of daylight, but with the lack of concern on all the faces before him refrained from asking the question.
‘I have not booked passage back to London until the morrow and I think there is much to discuss about this situation.’
Lizzie Poole looked at her husband and Charity clutched the old lady’s hand tighter, Luc calculating in a second that although there was not a lot here in the way of material richness, love was apparent. For that at least he was glad.
‘Jack here will see you to your room, Mr Lucas, and I will go to the kitchen to prepare some dinner. Charity love, will you give me a hand?’
When the child smiled the sun came out, her deep dimples etched into her cheeks and blue eyes dancing with laughter. A beauty, he thought suddenly, and Lillian Davenport came to mind. This girl had her sort of timeless elegance, even dressed as she was in a gown about two sizes too small and patched everywhere. He wondered what the sister would look like as he followed Jack Poole up the solid oak staircase.
Dinner consisted of two tiny cooked carcases he presumed to be wild fowl, a bowl full of boiled potatoes and a handful of greenery that looked like the watercress farmers in Virginia grew by the James.
‘The land provideth and the Lord taketh away,’ Mrs Poole told him sagely as they sat at a table in the kitchen, the fire in the oven behind a welcome asset to keep out the cold.
Hope was still outside, he presumed, as her place was empty. Charity sat next to him, her hands folded in her lap as she waited for grace to be said. A long and complex prayer of thanks it turned out to be too, a good five minutes having passed as Lizzie Poole gave acknowledgement for all the things that God had sent them, for their health and hearth and laughter, for the fuel which fed the fire and the earth which supported them. To Luc’s mind she seemed a trifle generous in her praise, the fowl in particular looking like they had seen but three months of life and barely eaten anything in that time. Still, it was refreshing to see gratefulness in small blessings and he wondered what she might say of the overladen London tables should she ever see them.
Just as they had finished the kitchen door banged open and an older child walked in. She looked nothing like her sister, except for her thin build, her hair a wild tangle of long deep brown curls and her skin darkened by the sun.
‘I am sorry to be so late, Lizzie,’ she said, stopping as bright emerald eyes met his own. Another beauty, but of a different mould.
‘This is Mr Lucas Clairmont, Hope. He has come from London today to see you and your sister.’
Hope’s eyes went to Charity’s and a communication passed between them. A silent language of perception and accord.
‘Very pleased to meet you, sir.’ She curtsied in a way reminiscent of another age.
‘Mrs Poole tells me you spend a lot of time outdoors. What things do you do there?’
‘We fish sometimes for the dinner table, and collect this cress. If we are lucky, we bag hares or wild birds and in the spring we steal the eggs from the nests that are low in the hedgerows.’
‘So this bounty is your doing?’ he replied, gesturing to the food on the table.
‘Some of it is, sir. Winter is the most difficult time to gather, but come spring we can find all sorts of berries and mushrooms and even wild tomatoes.’
‘So your sister helps you?’
‘Of course.’ She flashed a smile and the other nodded. Tonight Charity appeared a lot more worried than she had a few hours ago but Hope picked up quickly on her fright, settling herself on the other side of the girl and again that wordless communication that excluded everyone in the room.
‘They are very close, sir. If anyone were to split them up …’
‘I have not come here to do that.’
‘This house is the only home they have ever known and were they to be thrown out …’
‘I have not come to do that, either.’
‘Their mother was perhaps a trifle wild, I realise that, but Charity and Hope have never caused us even a moment’s worry.’
Luc placed his eating utensils down and laid his hands on the table. ‘Thackeray led me to believe the girls were being looked after in the manner my late wife would have wished them to be. If I had had any notion of the lack of finance you have put up with for the last God knows how many months—’ he stopped as the old lady winced at his profanity ‘—for the last months,’ he repeated, ‘then I would have been up here a lot sooner.’
‘So we can stay?’ Hope asked the question, the same emotion as her name easily heard in her voice.
‘Indeed you can, and I will see to it as soon as I return to London.’
He left Woodruff Abbey with all of its inhabitants waving him goodbye and a handful of warm potatoes wrapped in cloth that Charity had given him.
The first thing he did when he arrived in the city was to tell the elderly Horatio Thackeray that his services as his lawyer were no longer needed, and set an investigator on to the trail of finding where the money had gone. In his stead he hired a younger and more compassionate man whose reputation had been steadily rising in the city.
‘So you wish for Woodruff Abbey to be kept in trust for the children?’ David Kennedy’s voice contained a tone in it that could most succinctly be described as incredulous.
‘That is correct.’
‘You realise of course that once the deed is filed it is binding and you would have no hope of seeing your property back should you change your mind at a later date?’
‘I do.’
‘You also wish for the monies from the estate to be placed in a fund to see to the running of the Abbey, and for a specified number of servants to be hired to help the older couple?’
‘That is right.’
‘Then if you are certain that that is what you want and you have understood the finality of such a generous gesture, you must sign here. To begin the process, you understand. I shall get back to you within the month when the deeds are written.’
A quick scrawl and it was done. Luc replaced the ink pen in its pot and gathered his hat.
‘There is one proviso, Mr Kennedy.’
The lawyer looked startled.
‘The proviso is that you tell no one of this.’
‘You do not wish others to know of your generosity?’
‘I do not.’
‘Very well, sir. Will that be all today?’
‘No, there is another thing. I am transferring funds from an account I hold here in London, which shall stay in place in case of any shortfall. Under no circumstance at all do I wish for the inhabitants of the Abbey to go without again. If indeed there is any problem at all, I expect to be contacted with as much haste as you could muster to remedy the matter.’
‘That shall be done, sir. Might I also say how pleased I am to have the chance to do business with you—’
‘Thank you,’ Luc cut him short. He had a card game he could not miss that was due to start in just over two hours and he needed to take the omnibus to Piccadilly.
Lillian tucked her diary away in the small console by her bed and told herself that she should not write of her thoughts of Lucas Clairmont.
She had heard that he had been away from London for the past five days, travelling according to Nathaniel Lindsay’s wife, Cassandra, who was the sister of Anne Weatherby. Where, she had no clue, though according to Anne he had left his lodgings and given no idea of when he expected to return.
Presumably it would be before the house party on Friday. She wondered who he knew in England to take him away for such a period and remembered the Countess of Horsham’s scandalous gossip. Lillian shook her head. Surely a man of little means and newly come from the Americas would not have the wherewithal to house any children, let alone those born out of wedlock?
Lucas Clairmont was a mystery, she thought, his accent changing each time she saw him and some dark menace in his golden eyes. Not a man to be trifled with, she decided, and not a man whom others might persuade to take any course he did not wish to, either.
She made her way down to the library on the first floor of the town house and dislodged a book on the Americas that her father had bought a few years earlier. Virginia and Hampton and the wide ragged outline of Chesapeake Bay was easily traced by her fingers and there along a blue line signifying the James River lay Richmond, surrounded by green and at the edge of long tongues of water that wound their way up towards it. What hills and dales did he know? What towns to the east and west had he visited? Charlottesville. Arlington. Williamsburg and Hopewell. All names that she had no knowledge of and only the propensity to imagine.
A knock on the door brought her from her reveries and she called an entry.
‘Lord Wilcox-Rice is here, ma’am, with his sister, Lady Eleanor. He said something of a shopping expedition.’
‘What time is it?’ Lillian asked the question in trepidation.
‘Half past three, miss. Just turned.’
Rising quickly, she was glad that her day dress was one that would not need changing and pleased, too, for the bright sky she could now see outside.
‘Of course. Would you show them through to the blue salon and let them know that I shall be but a moment whilst I fetch my bonnet and coat.’
Ellie Wilcox-Rice was one of Lillian’s favourite acquaintances; in fact, it was probably due to her influence that Lillian had allowed even the talk of an engagement to her friend’s brother to be mooted.
As they walked along Park Lane she laughed at Ellie’s rendition of her Saturday evening at a ball in Kensington, a wearying sort of affair, it seemed.
‘I should have much rather been at the crush of James Cholmondely’s ball.’ Ellie sighed. ‘Jennifer Parker said she had the most wonderful time and that she had danced with an American with whom she fell in love on the spot.’
‘Probably Mr Lucas Clairmont,’ John said, waiting as the girls looked at a shop window, beautifully decorated for the approaching Christmas season. ‘He has all the ladies’ hearts a-racing, I hear, and no one has any idea of who exactly he is.’
‘Does he have your heart a-racing, Lillian?’ Ellie’s laughter was shrill.
‘Of course he doesn’t,’ John answered for her. ‘Lillian is far too sensible to be swayed by the man.’
‘Jennifer thinks he is rich. She thinks he has land in the Americas that rival that of the Ancaster estate. Hundreds and thousands of acres.’
‘Did he say so to her?’ Lillian was intrigued by this new development.
‘No. It is just she has a penchant for Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice and imagines Lucas Clairmont in much the same mould.’
‘A peagoose, then, and more stupid than I had imagined her.’ John’s outburst was unexpected. Usually he saw the best in all people.
‘Jennifer also said that you had a waltz with this man, Lillian.’
‘Indeed I did, and he is a competent dancer, if I recall.’
‘But he made no impression upon you?’
Looking away, Lillian hated her breathlessness and her racing heart. To even talk of him here …
‘Why, speaking of the devil, I do believe that is him coming towards us now. With Lord Hawkhurst, is it not?’
His sister laid her hand upon his. ‘John, you absolutely must introduce me to him and let me make up my own mind.’
The two men walked towards them, both tall and dark, though today it appeared as though Luc Clairmont laboured in his gait and when they came up close Lillian could well see why. Today he looked little like he had last time she had met him, his left eye swollen shut and a cut across the bridge of his nose. When her glance flickered to his hands she saw that he wore gloves. To cover the damage to his knuckles, she supposed, and frowned.
‘Wilcox-Rice.’ Lord Hawkhurst bowed his head and the exchanges of names were made. When it was her turn for introduction, however, Luc Clairmont made no mention of the intimacy of their meetings so far, tipping his hat in much the same way as he did for Eleanor.
Today the light in his one good eye was dulled considerably, his glance almost bashful as she looked upon him. He barely spoke, waiting until Hawkhurst had finished and then moving along with him.
‘Well,’ said Eleanor as they went out of earshot, ‘it looks as if Jennifer’s prince has had an accident.’
‘Been in another fight, more like it,’ John interjected. ‘There was talk of a scuffle at the Lenningtons’ the other week.’
‘Really.’ Ellie turned to look back and Lillian wished that she would not.
‘Who would he fight?’
‘The gambling tables have their own complications.’ John was quick to answer his sister’s question. ‘Your cousin, by the way, Lillian, is numbered amongst those who have had more than a light dab at the faces of others.’
‘Daniel?’ Ellie questioned, grimacing at the name. ‘But he dresses far too well to fight.’
Despite herself Lillian laughed at the sheer absurdity of her friend’s statement as they made their way into Oxford Street.
‘I can well see why Jennifer Parker is so besotted. Have you ever seen a more dangerous-looking man than Lucas Clairmont?’
When John frowned heavily, they decided that it was prudent to drop the subject altogether.
Christmas decorations were beginning to appear in more of the shops and a child and an elderly woman stood by the roadside selling bunches of mistletoe from a barrow.
Ellie rushed over dragging Lillian with her, carefully separating the foliage until she found a piece that she wanted.
‘They say if you kiss a man under mistletoe you will find your one true love. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Perhaps you might kiss my brother? Here, Lillian, I will buy a sprig for you.’
Eleanor gave the woman some money and was handed two brown parcels, the greenery contained in thick paper and string. As they went to leave a young couple came up to the barrow. They were not well-to-do or dressed in anything near the latest of fashion, but when the man held the mistletoe up to the woman there was something in their eyes that simply transfixed Lillian.
Laughter and warmth and a shining intensity that was bewitching! She saw love in the way their hands brushed close as he handed her the packet and in the breathless smile the woman gave back to him as she received her gift. Only them in the world, only the small circle of their joy and happiness, for the bliss between them was tangible to everyone that watched.
Yearning overcame Lillian. Yearning for what she had just seen, the mistletoe a reminder of what she had never found and would probably never have. She glanced at John, who was castigating his sister for wasting her money on such frippery and a heavy sadness settled over her.
Christmas with its hope and promise had a way of undermining rationality and logic, replacing it with this mistletoe magic and a great dollop of hunger for something completely untenable.
‘I do hope you are not swayed by my sister’s nonsense, too?’ John said, and with the shake of her head Lillian placed the brown packet in her bag and averted her eyes from the couple now walking on the other side of the street.
Chapter Six
Her cousin Daniel was in the library the next morning when she went down to find again the book on the Americas and he did not look pleased.
‘Lillian. It has been a while since we have talked.’ His face was marked by the underlying anger she had got used to seeing there.
For the past few years Daniel had been away from England and the ease of conversation that they had at one time had was now replaced by distance. Some other more nebulous wildness was also evident.
‘Does my father know that you are here?’
‘Yes. He is just retrieving a document that my mother has asked me to find for her.’
‘I see.’
He flipped at the pages of the book on America as it lay open on the table next to him. ‘It’s a big land. I was there on the east coast. Washington, mainly, and New York.’
‘Is that where you met Mr Clairmont?’
He frowned and then realisation dawned. ‘Ah, you saw us the other night at the Lenningtons’.’
‘I met him in the street yesterday with Hawkhurst. He had the appearance of being in another fight and I thought perhaps—’ But he did not let her finish!
‘Stay away from him, Lillian, for he is trouble.’
She nodded, and, pleased to hear her father’s footsteps in the hall, excused herself.
John Wilcox-Rice arrived alone in the afternoon and he had brought her a bunch of winter cheer. Blooms that would sit well in her room and she thanked him.
Today he was dressed in a dark blue frock coat, brown trousers and a waistcoat of lighter blue. His taste was impeccable, she thought, his Hessians well polished and fashionable.
After her talk with her cousin that morning she was in a mood to just let life take her where it would. Thoughts of children and a home of her own were becoming more formed. Perhaps a life with John would be a lot more than tolerable? Her father liked him, her aunt liked him and she liked his sister very much. The young couple from yesterday came briefly to mind, but the time between then and now had dulled her sense of yearning, her more normal sensibleness taking precedence.
So when he took her hand in his she did not pull away, but savoured the feeling of gentle warmth.
‘We have known each other for a passably long time, Lillian, and I think that if we gave it the chance …’
When she nodded, he looked heartened.
‘I have asked your father if I could court you and he has given his permission. Now I need the same permission from you.’
The warning from Daniel and the Countess of Horsham’s gossip welled in her mind.
Stay away from Lucas Clairmont. Stay away from trouble.
‘It is six weeks until Christmas. Perhaps we could use this time to see if …?’ She could not finish. To see what? To see if she felt passion or fervour or frenzy?
When he drew her up with him in response she stood, and when his lips glided across her own she did try to answer him back, did attempt to summon the hope of joy and benefit.
But she felt nothing!
The shock of it hit her and she pulled away, amazed at the singular smile of ardour on John’s face.
‘I will consider that as a troth, my love, and I will treasure the beauty of it for ever.’
The sound of a maid coming with tea had him moving away and taking his place on a chair opposite her. Yet still he grinned.
A gentleman, a nice man, a good man. And a man whose kisses made her feel nothing.
She lay in bed that night and cried. Cried for her mother and her father and for herself, trapped as she was by rules and rituals and etiquette.
John’s fragrant flowers were on the table beside her bed, but she missed the ugly single orange bloom. Missed its vigour and its irreverence and its unapologetic raw colour. Missed the company of the man who had given it to her.
He had had a wife who had died quite recently according to the gossip. Lord, how had he dealt with that? Badly, by all accounts, as she thought of his gambling and his obvious lack of funds.
Closing her eyes, she brought her hand to her mouth and kissed the back of it as John Wilcox-Rice had kissed her lips today. There was something wrong with the way that he had not moved, the static stillness of the action negating all the emotion that should have been within it.
Lord, she had never in her life been kissed before and so she was hardly an expert, but a part of her brain refused to believe that that was all that it was, all that was whispered about and written of. No, there had to be more to it than what she had felt today, but with Christmas on its way and the honouring of a promise to find a spouse, she was running out of time to be able to truly discover just what it was.
A new and more daring thought struck her suddenly.
Perhaps she could find out? Perhaps if she invited Lucas Clairmont to call and offered him a sum of money for both his service and his silence, she might discover what she did not now know.
To buy a single kiss!
She smiled, imagining such a wild and dangerous scheme. Of course she could not do that! Lucas Clairmont was hardly a man to bargain with and any trust she might give him would be sorely misplaced. Or would it? He had melted into the background at the Lennington ball and she had heard no gossip of her conversation on the Belgrave Square balcony. Indeed, when she had seen him in the street yesterday he had barely acknowledged her. But was that from carefulness or just plain indifference?
She moved her hand and slanted her lips, increasing the pressure in a way that felt right. A bloom of want wound thin in her stomach, the warm promise of it bringing to mind the dangerous American.
Quickly she sat up, hard against the backboard of the bed, pulling the bedding about her shoulders to try to keep the cold at bay.
This was her only chance to find out. She had been in society for nearly eight years and not once in all that time had she lain here imagining the things she did now about any man.
Forty-two days until she would give a promise of eternal obedience and chastity to a man whose kisses left her with … nothing.
Her teeth worried her top lip as she tried to imagine the conversation preceding the experiment. It hardly seemed loyal to tell him of her reaction to John’s kiss and her need to see if others would be the same, and yet if she did not he might think her wanton. A new thought struck her. Could men kiss well if they thought that they were being compared in some way? Would it not dampen a natural tendency?
And how much should she pay him? Would he be offended by fifty pounds or thankful for it? Would he want a hundred if he kissed her twice?
The hours closed in on her, as did the fact that Luc Clairmont would be gone after Christmas. A useful knowledge that, for he would be a temporary embarrassment only, should her whole scheme founder!
The thought of Christmas turned her thoughts in another direction.
Mistletoe!
That was it. If she hung the mistletoe Ellie had bought her yesterday above the doorway and angled herself so that she stood beneath the lintel in front of him … Just an accident, a pleasant interlude that would mean nothing should his kiss rouse as little feeling in her as John’s had.
She sat up further.
Would he know of the traditions here in England? Would he even see it?
Could she mention the custom if he did not? Her brain turned this way and that, and the clock in the corner struck the hour of two. Outside the echo of the other clocks lingered.
Did Luc Clairmont hear them too? Was he awake with his swollen eye and wounded leg?
She slipped from her bed and walked to the window, pulling back her heavy cream curtains and looking out into the darkness.
Park Lane was quiet and the trees across the way were bleak against a sodden sky. Tonight the moon did not show its face, but was hidden behind low clouds of rolling greyness, gathering in the west.
A nothing kiss in a rain-filled night and the weight of twenty-five years upon her shoulders.
If she did not take this one chance, she might never know, but always wonder …
Sitting at her desk, she pulled out a piece of paper and an envelope and, dipping her pen in ink, began to write.
The letter had come a few minutes ago and Luc could make no sense of it. Lillian Davenport had something of importance to ask him and would like his company at three o’clock. The servant who had brought the message was one of Stephen’s so he presumed it to have gone to the Hawkhurst town house first. The lad also seemed to be waiting for a reply.
Scrawling an answer on a separate sheet of parchment, he reached for his seal. Out of habit, he was to think as he placed it back down, for of course he could not use it here. ‘Could you deliver this to Miss Davenport?’
The young servant nodded and hurried away, and when he had gone Luc lifted Lillian’s missive into the light and read it again.
She wanted to speak to him about something important. She hoped he would come alone. She wondered about the Christmas traditions in America and whether mistletoe and holly were plants he was familiar with.
He frowned. Though he grew trees for timber in Virginia, the subject of botany had never been his strongpoint. Holly he knew as a prickly red-berried plant but mistletoe … Was that not the sprig that young ladies liked to hang in the Yuletide salons to catch kisses? A different thought struck him. What would it be like to kiss Lillian Davenport?
He chastised himself at the very idea. Lord, she seemed to be very familiar with Wilcox-Rice and he was leaving in little more than a month.
But the thought lingered, a tantalising conjecture that lay in the memory of holding her fingers in his own and feeling the hurried beat of her heart. He guessed that Lillian Davenport was a warm and responsive woman beneath the outward composure, a lady who would be pleasantly surprised by the wonders of the flesh.
Raking his hand through his hair, he stood, wincing at the lump on the back of his head. Four men had jumped him on returning to his lodgings three nights ago and it was only his training in the army that had allowed him the ability to fend them off until help arrived.
He wished that Hawk had not persuaded him to take a walk the other day, the same walk that had brought him face to face with Lillian and her friends. Damn, he had seen in her eyes the censure he had noticed in every single one of their meetings and who could blame her?
The charade of his visit here began to press in. He would have liked to tell Lillian that he was not a bad man, that he had been a soldier and that he held great tracks of virgin land in Virginia filled with timber. But he couldn’t because there were other things about him that she would not countenance.
Still, for the first time in a long while he felt alive and excited, the inertia in Richmond replaced by a new vigour.
He came through into the small yellow downstairs salon like one of the sleek black panthers she had once seen as a statue in an antique shop in Regent Street, all restless energy and barely harnessed menace, but she also saw he limped.
‘Miss Davenport!’ Today his injured eye looked darker, the bruising worsened by time, though he neither alluded to it nor hid it from her. Her letter was in his hand, she could see her tidy neat writing from where she stood and there was a question in his stance.
‘Mr Clairmont.’
Silence stretched until she gestured him to sit, the absurdity of all she had planned, now that he was here, screaming in her consciousness. How did she begin? How did one broach such a situation with any degree of modesty and honour?
‘Thank you very much for coming. I know that you must be busy—’
‘Card games happen mostly at night,’ he interrupted and she swore she saw a glimmer of amusement in his velvet eyes.
‘And your leg is obviously painful,’ she hurried on. To that he stayed wordless.
Her eyes strayed to the door. Did she risk broaching the subject before the parlourmaid brought in the refreshments or after? Relaxing, she decided on after, reasoning she could then instruct the girl to leave them alone for the few moments it would take to conduct her … experiment.
Lord, she hated to call it that, but was at a loss as to what else to name it.
‘I hope London is treating you well …’ As soon as she said it she knew her error.
‘A few cuts and bruises, but what is that between a man and a beautiful city?’
‘Was it a fall?’
He frowned at that and grated out a ‘yes’.
‘I had an accident last year at Fairley, our family seat in Hertfordshire.’
‘Indeed?’ His brows rose significantly.
‘I fell from a horse whilst racing across the park.’
‘I trust nothing was broken?’
‘Only my pride! It was a village fair, you see, and I had entered the race on a whim.’
‘Pride is a fragile thing,’ he returned in his American drawl, and her cheeks reddened. She shifted in her seat, hating the heat that followed and fretful that her letter had indeed told him far too much. Her eyes flickered to the mistletoe she had hung secretly, a sad reminder of a plot that was quickly unravelling, and then back to his hands lying palm up in his lap.
Suddenly she knew just how to handle her request. ‘You told me once of a woman who had read your hand in the town of Richmond?’
She waited till he nodded.
‘You said that she told you life was like a river and that you are taken by it to the place that you were meant to be.’ The tone of her voice rose and she fought to keep it back.
‘The thing is, Mr Clairmont, I would hope at this moment that the place you are meant to be is here in my salon because I am going to ask you a question that might, without some sense of belief in fate, sound strange.’
‘I know very little about the properties of mistletoe or holly,’ he interrupted. ‘If it is botany that you wish to quiz me on?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your letter. You mention something of particular plants.’
Unexpectedly she began to smile and then caught the mirth back with a strong will as she shook her head.
‘No, it is not that. I had heard from … others that the state of your finances is somewhat precarious and wanted to offer you a boon to alleviate the problem.’ She knew that she had taken the wrong turn as soon as he stood, the polite façade of a moment ago submerged beneath anger.
Panic made her careless. ‘I want to buy a kiss from you.’ Blurted out with all the finesse of a ten-year-old.
‘You what …?’
‘Buy a kiss from you …’ Her hands shook as she rummaged through her bag, trying to extricate the notes she had got from the bank that very morning.
When she finally managed it he swore, and not quietly.
‘Shh, they might hear.’
‘Who might hear? Your father? Your cousin? Someone has already had one go at me this week and I would be loathe to let them have another one.’
‘Someone did that to you?’ Goodness, she had lost hold of the whole conversation and could not even think how to retrieve it.
With honesty!
Taking a breath, she buried vanity. ‘I am a twenty-five-year-old spinster, Mr Clairmont, and a woman who has been kissed only once, yesterday, by Lord Wilcox-Rice. And I need to know if what I felt was … normal.’
‘What the hell did you feel?’
She drew herself up to her tallest height, a feat that was not so intimidating given that she stood at merely five foot two, even in her shoes.
‘I felt nothing!’
The words reverberated in the ensuing silence, his anger evaporating in an instant to be replaced by laughter.
‘I realise to you that the whole thing may seem like a joke, but …’
He breathed out. Hard.
‘Nay, it is not that, Lilly, it is not that.’ She felt his hand against her cheek, a single finger stroking down the bone, a careful feather-touch with all the weight of air.
A touch that made her shiver and want, a touch that made her move towards this thing she wished for, and then vanishing as a sound came from outside in the corridor.
Luc Clairmont moved back too, towards the window, his body faced away from hers and his hand adjusting the fit of his trousers. Perhaps he was angry again? Perhaps on reflection he saw the complete and utter disregard of convention that her request had subjected him to?
She smiled wanly as a young maid entered the room and bade her leave the tea for them to pour. Question shadowed the girl’s eyes and Lillian knew that she was fast running out of minutes. It was simply not done for an unmarried lady to be sequestered alone for any length of time with a man.
At twenty-five some leeway might have been allowed, but she knew that he would need to leave before too many more seconds had passed.
Consequently when the door shut behind the servant she walked across to him.
‘I do not wish to hurry you, but—’
He did not let her finish. The hard ardour of his lips slanted across her own, opening her mouth. Rough hands framed her cheeks as the length of his body pressed against hers, asking, needing, allowing no mealy response, but the one given from the place she had hidden for so, so long.
Feeling exploded, the sharp beat of her heart, the growing warmth in her stomach, the throb of lust that ached in a region lower. As she pressed closer her hands threaded through his hair, and into the nape of his neck, moving without her volition, with a complete lack of control.
He was not gentle, not careful, the feel of his lips on her mouth, on her cheek and on the sensitive skin at her neck unrestrained.
And then stopped!
She tried to keep it going, tipping her mouth to his, but he pulled her head against his chest and held her there, against a heartbeat that sped in heavy rhythm.
‘This is not the place, Lilly …’
Reality returned, the yellow salon once again around her, the sound of servants outside, the tea on the table with its small plume of steam waiting to be drunk.
She pushed away, a new danger now in the room and much more potent than the one that had bothered her before.
Before she had been worried about his actions and now she was worried about her own, for in that kiss something had been unleashed, some wild freedom that could now not be contained.
Lucas Clairmont placed her letter on the table and gathered his hat. ‘Miss Davenport,’ he said and walked from the room.
Lord, he thought on the journey between Pall Mall and his lodgings. He should not have kissed her, not allowed her confession of feeling ‘nothing’ with Wilcox-Rice to sway his resolve.
And now where did it leave him? With a hankering for more and a woman who would hate him.
He should have stayed, should have reassured her, should have at least had the decency to admit the whole thing as his fault before he had walked out.
But she had captivated him with her pale elegance and honesty and with the fumbled bank notes pushed uncertainly at him.
To even think that she would pay him?
Absolute incredulity replaced irritation and that in turn was replaced by something … more akin to respect.
She was the one all others aspired to be like, the pinnacle of manners and deportment and it could not have been easy for her to have even asked him what she did. Hell, she had a hundred times more to lose than he, with his passage to Virginia looming near and a reputation that no amount of bad behaviour could lower.
Why on earth, then, had she picked him? She must have weighed up the odds as to what he could do with such information, the pressures of society here like a sledgehammer against any deviation from the strict codes of manners.
Why had she risked it?
The answer came easily. She did so because she was desperate, desperate to discover if what she felt for Wilcox-Rice was normal and hopeful that it was not.
Well, he thought, with the first glimmer of humour coming back. At least she had found out that!
Lillian threw herself on her bed and took the breath she had hardly taken since Lucas Clairmont had left the house.
He had been angry, the notes she had tried to give him in her fist, a coarse message of intent and failure. She rolled over and peeled each one away from the other.
Two hundred pounds! And if he had taken them it would have been worth every single penny. Turning, she looked at the ceiling, reliving each second of that kiss, her fingers reaching for the places his had been and then falling lower.
What if he had not stopped? What if he had not pulled back when he did? Would she have come to her senses? Honesty forced her to admit she would not have and the admission cost her much.
‘If you aren’t careful you will be your mother all over again, Lillian.’ Her father’s voice from the past, a warning to her as her mother lay dying, the words uttered in a despair of melancholy and sorrow. She had been thirteen and the fashions of the day had begun to be appealing, the chance to experiment and change. She blinked.
Had such advice altered the person she might have become? Was she changing back?
She shook her head and lay still, closing her eyes against the light.
The knock on the door woke her and for a second she could not work out quite where she was, for seldom did she doze in the afternoon.
Her bedroom. Lucas Clairmont. The kiss. Reality surfaced and with it a rising dread.
‘You have some flowers, Miss.’
A maid came in with a large unruly bunch of orange flowers and her breath was caught. ‘Is there a card?’
‘Indeed, miss, there is.’ The maid broke the envelope away from a string that kept it joined to the bouquet, speculation unhidden in the lines of her face.
‘That will be all, thank you,’ Lillian said, waiting until the door was shut before she slit open the card.
I FELT SOMETHING
The words were in bold capitals with no name attached.
Without meaning to, Lillian began to cry—in those three words Luc Clairmont had given her back the one thing she had not thought it possible to regain.
Her pride.
Holding the flowers close to her breast, her tears fell freely across the fragrant orange petals.
Chapter Seven
‘Mr Clairmont from America was at the club as a guest of Hawkhurst today.’ The tone in her father’s voice told her that he was not pleased. ‘The man is a scoundrel and a gambler. Why he even continues to receive invitation from people we know confounds me.’
‘And yet he seemed such a nice young man when he came to ask you to dance, Lillian, at the Cholmondely ball. How very misleading first impressions can be,’ her aunt said.
‘You have danced with this American?’ Her father’s heavy frown made her heart sink.
Danced. Touched. Kissed.
‘I have, Father. He asked for my hand in a waltz.’
‘And you did not turn him down? Surely you could see what sort of a fellow he was.’
‘Men like him pounce quickly on the unsuspecting, Ernest. It is no point in chastising Lillian, for she is blameless in it all.’
Blameless?
The bunch of orange blooms still stood by her bed, carefully tended and watered daily, but she had not seen him again, not in the park, not at the parties, not in the streets as she walked each day.
‘St Auburn is a particular friend of Clairmont’s, is he not?’
Jean shrugged her shoulders. ‘I do not know the man personally. Daniel could probably tell you much more about him.’
Lillian looked more closely at her aunt, trying to ascertain whether she knew of the wayward pursuits of her son and deciding in the smile she returned her that she probably did not.
‘I ask the question,’ her father continued, ‘because an invitation came for you yesterday, Lillian, to attend a country party of the Earl and Lady St Auburn in Kent and I should not wish for you to go should the American be there.’ He sipped at his tea, fiddling with a pair of spectacles he held in his right hand.
‘When would the party be held, Father?’ She tried to keep her voice as neutral as she could.
‘It would run from this Friday to Sunday. If you were interested, perhaps Wilcox-Rice could take you?’
‘Indeed.’ She bit into her toast and honey.
‘So you are saying that you would go?’
‘Lady St Auburn is a friend of mine. I should like to catch up with her news.’
‘Would you be able to travel down too, Jean? Lillian can hardly go unchaperoned.’
Her aunt sighed heavily, but accepted the responsibility, giving the impression of a woman who would have preferred to be saying no.
The house was beautiful, a six-columned Georgian mansion, the grounds as well manicured and fine as she had visited anywhere.
They were late. She could see that as they swept up the circular driveway, a crowd of people in a glass conservatory to the left of the house. From this distance she could not be sure that Lucas Clairmont was amongst them, but John Wilcox-Rice at her side did not look happy.
‘I cannot imagine why you should want to come to this party, Lillian. The set St Auburn hangs with are a little wild and if he did not have so much in the way of property and gold I doubt he would be so feted. Besides, the man always seems slightly unrestrained to me.’
‘Cassandra is Mrs Weatherby’s youngest sister, John, and I have a lot of fondness for her.’
‘Then you should have seen her in the city.’
‘But Kent is lovely at this time of the year. Surely you would at least say that?’
Jean stretched suddenly, waking as the carriage slowed and stopped.
‘Goodness. Are we here already? The roads south get quicker and quicker. Perhaps we should persuade your father to acquire a property here rather than in Hertfordshire, Lillian, for it is so much more convenient for London.’ She looked out of the window at the sky. ‘Have you ever seen such a clear horizon, none of the yellow smog on show?’
A group of servants milled around the coach, waiting for the party to alight, the younger boys already hauling the luggage off and listening for instructions as to where it should be taken.
The Davenport family seat of Fairley Manor came to Lillian’s mind as she saw the precision and order that accompanied their arrival. The housekeeper bowed and presented herself and the head butler was most attentive to any needs that the small group might have.
Wilcox-Rice in particular was rather grumpy, barely acknowledging the efforts of the St Auburn servants to please. He did not even want to be here, he mumbled under his breath, and Lilly wondered why she had not seen this rather irritating trait in his nature before.
But with the sun in her face and the promise of a whole weekend before her, she felt buoyed up with hope. She had pressed one of her orange flowers in a book in her travel bag to be able to show Lucas Clairmont, for she knew flowers in this season would have cost him a fortune that he did not possess and she wanted him to know, at least, that she had appreciated the gesture.
‘Lillian!’ Her name was called and she turned to see who summoned her. Cassandra St Auburn walked towards her, her bright red hair aflame and the sweetness in her face all that Lillian remembered.
‘You came! I thought perhaps that you would not.’
‘Indeed, it is such a lovely spot I should be loathe to miss out. Lady St Auburn, this is Lord Wilcox-Rice. It was noted on my invitation that I could bring a partner.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Cassie shook the outstretched hand and Lillian detected disquiet. ‘But I thought your aunt was coming …’
‘Here I am, my dear, a little late to alight, but the bones are not quite as they used to be.’ Jean thanked the servant who had helped her and turned to the house. ‘I was here when I was about your age with Leonard St Auburn.’
‘My husband’s grandfather. He is still here, though he spends much of his day now in the library.’
‘A well-read man, if I remember rightly. Very interested in the world of plants.’
Cassandra laughed and Lillian liked the sound. A happy and uncomplicated girl! Sometimes she wished she could have been more like that.
‘Most of the party are in the conservatory,’ she continued on. ‘Would you join us there after you refresh yourselves?’
‘That would be lovely,’ Lillian answered as they were ushered inside, the quickened beat of her heart steadying a little as they mounted the staircase.
Twenty minutes later they walked towards the group of guests standing around a table well stocked with food and drink.
Lucas Clairmont was nowhere in sight and part of her was annoyed that she could not have met him here informally. The Earl of St Auburn, Nathaniel, came over to join his wife. He had once rather liked her, Lillian recalled, when she had first come out, though it was such a long time ago she doubted he would remember it.
‘Miss Davenport!’ His smile was welcoming. ‘And Lord Wilcox-Rice.’ Her Aunt Jean had elected not to come downstairs, but have a rest so that she would be refreshed for dinner. ‘We are very pleased that you could both make the journey.’
He placed a strange emphasis on ‘both’ and Lillian saw a quick frown pass between the St Auburns, an unspoken warning from Cassandra, she thought were she to interpret it further. Did they already perceive her and John as a couple? She swallowed back worry.
‘You have a large number of people here. Do you expect any more?’ Her mind raced. If Lucas Clairmont did not come after sending her the invitation she would never forgive him!
‘A few of the neighbours will come tonight for dinner and Mr Clairmont will bring Lady Shelby down from London.’
‘Caroline Shelby?’ John’s voice had the same ring of masculine appreciation that she had heard in the tone of each man who had discussed the newest beauty on the London scene.
‘She couldn’t leave town any earlier so Nat asked his friend to wait and escort her.’
Lillian felt the muscles in her cheeks shake, so tight did she try to hold her smile. If Clairmont had invited her here to flirt in front of someone else … Lord, the whole weekend would be untenable and she wondered how she might return to London without causing conjecture.
No. Her resolve firmed—she would not turn tail and disappear. For five days now she had been walking on eggshells at every single social occasion just in case she should see him, her words rehearsed so as to deliver the nonchalant greeting she wanted.
She needed to thank him for the flowers and move on to the next part of her life, and if memory served her well she knew him to be off to America in merely a few weeks’ time.
Luc waited as the girl gathered her shawl and minced to the carriage. Her chaperon, a woman in her mid-forties, followed behind her. Lord, would they ever be ready to go? He looked at his watch and determined that Lillian Davenport should have already arrived in Kent.
Would Nathaniel have told her of the reason for his lateness?
Caroline Shelby placed her hand in his as she gained the carriage steps and kept it there long after the need lapsed. Extracting his fingers, he put his hands firmly by his side, sitting on the seat opposite from the two women and looking out of the window.
‘It should take an hour,’ he said with as little emotion as he could muster.
Caroline giggled, the sound filling the carriage. ‘They say the St Auburns have a beautiful house?’
‘Indeed they do.’
‘They say if you rode from one end of the estate to the other it may take all of a day.’
‘It may.’
The echo of Virginia loomed large. To go from one end of his property to the other would take a week and he missed it with an ache that surprised him.
‘I should love to see it on horseback. Do you ride?’
He nodded, hoping she did not see this affirmation as an invitation.
‘Then we must find some horses and venture out,’ she replied and his heart sank at the sentence.
‘I have some business with the Earl—’ he began but she interrupted him.
‘But you could find an hour or so for a lady who has asked you?’ Her hand closed over his and the chaperon looked away.
‘Certainly.’ Luc resolved to make a large party of this sojourn even as he removed his fingers yet again from hers.
Forty-eight long minutes later the St Auburns’ country seat came into view and the woman who sat next to Lady Shelby finally seemed to deem it time to haul the antics of her young charge in.
‘Your hat is a little crooked, dear,’ she said, deft fingers straightening the bonnet that had come askew when she had fallen forwards against him on one of the more rutted sections of the road. ‘And you really ought to replace your gloves.’
The sight of the house as they swept on to the circular drive was welcome and it seemed as if many of the houseguests still languished in the glassed-in conservatory, enjoying the last rays of the sun. He easily picked out Lillian, her pale hair entwined today into one single bunch, simple and elegant and the white gown complimenting her figure. She had not seen him, but was talking to Cassandra and next to her stood … John Wilcox-Rice.
‘Damn.’ He swore beneath his breath, glad for the chance to vacate the carriage and escape the company of the irritating Lady Shelby and her dour chaperon.
Nathaniel met him first. ‘Wilcox-Rice is here.’ A warning flinted strong.
‘I saw him.’
‘Should I stand between you?’
‘To keep the peace, you mean?’
‘He is rumoured to have offered for her hand. If you mean to pursue that gleam I can see in your eyes …’
‘Have patience, Nat. Any protection that you feel the need to give me will be relinquished in a few weeks.’
‘You think that you’ll be on that boat?’ A strange smile filled the eyes of his friend.
‘Of course I will be. My passage is booked and paid for. There is nothing to hold me here.’
‘Or no one?’
Luc laughed suddenly, seeing where it was Nathaniel was going with this line of question. ‘I tried marriage once.’ His words were bleak and he hated the tightness in them.
‘Elizabeth was a woman who would drive anyone to the bottle. God knows why you still wear her damn ring.’
Luc felt a singular shot of fury consume him. ‘I wear it because it reminds me.’
‘Reminds you of what?’
‘Never to make the same mistake twice.’ He grabbed a drink of fruit punch from the table as he moved away.
Lillian turned as Lucas Clairmont downed a large glass of punch, the lot hardly touching his throat before he helped himself to another.
He looked angry and she could not quite reconcile this man with the one who had sent her flowers and kept silent about a scandal that could easily ruin her. The bruising around his eye was largely gone and the velvet of his dangerous glance made her wary and uncertain. Caroline Shelby seemed bent on following him and Lillian could well see why she had been often named as the most beautiful girl of her Season. Wilcox-Rice beside her laid his hand beneath Lillian’s elbow in a singular message of claim and she saw Clairmont take in the movement.
Caught between convention and other people’s expectations, she could do nothing save for smile, her practised speech of thanks buried under the weight of a careful control.
‘Miss Davenport.’ When she gave him her hand he held it briefly. The warmth of his skin made her start with the recognition of his touch.
‘Mr Clairmont. It is nice to see you once again.’
He dropped contact almost immediately.
‘You two know each other?’ Cassandra was astonished.
‘A little.’ Her words.
‘Not well.’ His.
Cassie’s giggles drew the attention of Caroline Shelby as she gained their small circle.
‘What a lovely party! I knew I should have left London earlier. If it had not been for you, Mr Clairmont, I should not even be here by now. I hope that I have not missed too much, for you all seem very festive.’
‘I am certain you are quite in time, Lady Shelby,’ Lillian returned.
‘Miss Davenport. How wonderful that you should be here. I have long admired your sense of style and bearing and your dress—’ she gestured to the white moiré silk ‘—why, it is just so beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘My friend Eloise says you have your clothes made in England, but I think that cannot be true as the cut and cloth is just too wonderful and I said to my mother the other day that we should ask you about your seamstress and use her ourselves because …’
Was she nervous, Lillian thought, switching out of the constant barrage of never-ending chatter, or just frivolous? She made the mistake of glancing at Lucas Clairmont and almost laughed at the comical disbelief on his face. Lord, and he had had a whole hour of it coming down from London. No wonder he had almost leapt from the coach as soon as it had stopped.
‘Do you enjoy flowers, Miss Davenport?’ Caroline’s shrill and final question pierced her ruminations.
‘I do indeed.’
‘Is not the garden here just beautiful? All in shades of white, too. I suppose with your penchant for the paler hues you would prefer your flowers in the same sort of palette?’
Lillian smiled. Now here was an opening she could take, and easily. ‘Lately I find that I have a growing preference for orange.’
She caught the expression of puzzlement on Lucas Clairmont’s face, but with John at her side could make no further comment.
‘Orange?’ The girl opposite almost shouted the word. ‘Oh, no, Miss Davenport, surely you jest with me?’
When Cassandra St Auburn suggested that the party now retire to dress for dinner Lillian could do nothing but lift her skirts and follow, noticing with chagrin that Lucas Clairmont did not join them.
Chapter Eight
Luc took a sixteen-hand gelding from the stables of St Auburn and rode for Maygate, a village a good ten miles away. He was tired and using the last light of dusk and the first slice of moon to guide him he journeyed west.
Dinner would still be a few hours away and he felt the need to stretch his body and feel the wind on his face and freedom.
Lord, how the English enjoyed their long and complicated afternoon teas, something which in Virginia would have been thought of as ludicrous.
Virginia and a green tract of land that reached from the James to the Potomac. His land! Hewed from the blood, sweat and tears of hard labour, the timber within his first hundred acres bringing the riches to buy the rest.
A piecemeal acquisition!
He ran his thumb across the scar on his thigh, feeling the ridges of flesh badly healed. An accident when the Bank of Washington was about to foreclose on him and he had no other means of paying to get the wood out. He had dragged it alone along the James by horse, unseated as a log rose across another and his mount bolted, pushing him into the jagged end of newly hewn timber. The cut had festered badly, but still he had made it to Hopewell and the mill that would buy the load, staving off the greed of the bank for a few more months.
Hard days. Lonely days.
Not as lonely as when Elizabeth had come, though, with her needs and wants and sadness.
No, he would not think of any of that, not here, not in the mellow countryside of Kent where the boundaries of safety were a comfortable illusion.
‘Lately I find I have a growing preference for orange.’ The words drifted to him from nowhere, warming him with possibility. Was it the flowers he had given her she spoke of? He shook his head. Better for Lillian Davenport to marry Wilcox-Rice than him and have the promise of an English heritage that was easy and prudent.
He stopped in a position overlooking a stream, the shadows of night long as he ran his fingers through his hair. Such dreams were no longer for him and he had been foolish to even think they could be. He should depart again tonight for London, leaving Lilly with her enticing full lips and woman’s body to his imagination. But he could not. Already he found himself turning his horse for home.
Lillian felt like a young girl again, this dress not quite fitting and that one not quite right. She was glad for the help of her lady’s maid and glad too that her aunt Jean was still in bed, her headache having turned into a cold.
When she finally settled on a gown she liked she walked to the window and looked out. The last of the daylight was lost, the moon rising quickly in the eastern sky and the gardens of St Auburn wreathed in shadow. She was about to turn away when a lone rider caught her eye, his gait on the horse fluid. No Sunday rider this, the beat of the hooves fast and furious.
Lucas Clairmont. She knew it was him, the raw power of his thighs wrapped about the steed in easy control and the reins caught only lightly as the animal held its head and thundered on to the gravelled circle of the driveway.
Caught in the moonlight, hair streaming almost to his shoulders and without a jacket, he looked to her like the living embodiment of some ancient Grecian God. What would it be like to lie with such a man, to feel him near her, close?
Shocked, she turned away. Ladies did not ponder such fantasies and she had been warned many times of the man that he was. Yet surely a light flirtation was a harmless thing and, perhaps, if she were generous, she could place her clandestinely bought kiss into that category. But she should take it no further. To cross the line from coquetry into blowsy abandonment would be to throw away everything that she had worked hard for all her life. Stepping to the mirror, she looked at herself honestly, observed eyes full of anticipation and the smile that seemed to crouch there, waiting.
For him!
Adjusting her chemise so that a little more flesh than usual was showing, she smiled, still proper indeed, but bordering on something that was not. This wickedness that had leaked into her refined formality was freeing somehow, a part of her personality that had until lately lain dormant and unrealised.
‘Oh God, please help me.’ Spoken into the silence of her room, she wondered just exactly what it was that she was asking. For absolution of sin or for the strength to see her virtue in the way she had always tried to view it? Shaking her head, she sought for the words to cancel such a selfish prayer and found that she couldn’t. There was some impunity received, after all, in asking for celestial help and a sense of providence. Tonight she would need both.
Proceeding in to dinner on the arm of the Earl of St Auburn, Lillian was surprised when Clairmont found his seat next to hers. Status and rank almost always determined seating after the formal promenade and she was astonished to see John consigned to a place at the other end of the table and looking most displeased. Cassandra St Auburn raised her glass and Lillian wondered at the definitive twinkle in the woman’s glance. Had she planned this? Was there some communal strategy behind the reason for her invitation? Well, she thought, the usual nerve-racking worry of seating seemed to have been done away with completely and the lack of any remorse was, if anything, refreshing.
At her own dinner parties the seating arrangements were what she always hated the most in her fear of offending some personage of higher status than the next one.
Determining to think no more of it, she took a quick peek at the American. His hair was slicked back tonight, still wet from a late bath she supposed after the exercise that he had taken.
‘I saw you return from your ride.’ She spoke because she found the growing silence between them unnerving.
‘After the carriage trip I needed to blow away the cobwebs.’ A loud trill from Caroline Shelby two places away punctuated his words. ‘Need I say more?’ He smiled as she looked shocked. ‘It must be difficult to always be so virtuous, Miss Davenport.’
‘I am hardly that, Mr Clairmont.’ The kiss they had shared quivered between them, an unspoken shout. ‘You of all people should know it.’
‘Your small experiment to … determine emotion can hardly be consigned to the “fallen woman” basket. Nay, put it down instead to any adult’s healthy pursuit of knowledge.’
He was more honourable in his dismissal of her lapse than he needed to be and a great wave of relief covered her. With shaking hands she took small sips of her wine and then laced her fingers tightly together.
‘I thank you for such a congenial summary, but my actions the other day were much less than what I usually expect from myself.’
‘As a dubious consolation I can tell you that the wisdom of age dims such exacting standards. When you are as old as I am you will realise the freedom of doing just as one wills.’
‘Like fighting with my cousin at the Lenningtons’?’
‘Or sending a beautiful woman flowers.’
She was silent, the last rejoinder putting a halt to her fault-finding. Beautiful. He thought her that?
‘How old are you, Mr Clairmont?’ She hated herself for asking the question in the face of everything that had passed between them.
‘Thirty-three and judicious beyond my years, Miss Davenport.’
‘Some here might call you a gambler?’
‘Which I am.’
‘And a cheat?’
‘Which I am not.’
‘There are even rumours circulating that hint at the possibility that you have killed people.’
‘More than one?’ His eyebrows rose in a parody of an actor on the stage, though when she pulled back he laughed. ‘ “A man can smile and smile and be a villain,” ’ he quoted, a new wickedness supplanting the guile.
‘You are a puzzle, Mr Clairmont. Just when I think to understand your character you surprise me.’
‘With my knowledge of Shakespeare?’
She shook her head. ‘Nay, with your intuition on the very nature of mystery!’
‘I’ve had years of practice.’
‘And years of debauchery?’
Again he laughed, though this time the sound was less feigned. ‘Mirrors and smoke are not solely the domain of the stage, Lilly.’
‘Miss Davenport,’ she corrected him. ‘So are you telling me that what I see is not who you are?’
He tilted his drink up to the light. ‘Does not everyone have a hidden side?’
The chatter around her seemed to melt into nothingness and it was as if they were alone, just her and just him, the recognition of want making her feel almost dizzy. Clutching at her seat, she turned away, the room spinning strangely and her heartbeat much too fast.
She was pleased when a delicate pheasant soup was placed before them as it gave her a chance to pretend concentration on something other than Luc Clairmont, and the turbot with lobster and Dutch sauces that followed were delicious.
Lady Hammond, a strong-looking older woman sitting opposite, regaled them on the merits of the hunting in the shire of Somerset as the entrée and removes were served, and by the time the third course of snipes, golden plovers and wild duck came out the topic seemed to have moved on to the wealth and business advantages available in the colonies.
‘How do you see it, Mr Clairmont?’ one of the older guests asked him. ‘How do you see the opportunities in the area around Baltimore and Chesapeake Bay?’
‘Men with a little money and fewer morals can do very well there. My uncle’s land, for example, was swindled for a pittance and sold for a fortune.’
‘By fellow Americans?’
‘Nay, by an Englishman. The new industries are profitable and competition is rife.’
The sentence bought a flurry of interest from those around the table and John Wilcox-Rice was quick to add in his penny’s-worth. ‘It seems that the fibre of our society is threatened by a new generation of youth without morals.’
The Earl of Marling seconded him. ‘Integrity and honour come from breeding, and the great families are being whittled away by men who have money, but nothing else.’
Looking down at Luc Clairmont’s hand between them, Lillian noticed his knuckles were almost white where he gripped the seat of his chair. Not as nonchalant of it all as his face might show.
Wondering at his manner she was distracted only when a crashing sound made her turn! Lord Paget was drunk and his wife was trying to settle him down again in his seat, the shards from a broken glass spilling from the goblet to the tablecloth and dribbling straight into the lap of John Wilcox-Rice.
Pushing his seat back, John tried to wipe away the damage and Paget in his stupor also reached over to help him, his fingers touching parts that Wilcox-Rice was more than obviously embarrassed by. The tussle that ensued knocked the first man into a second and the tablecloth was partly dragged away from the table, bringing food and wine crashing all around them.
Luc Clairmont was on his feet now as Paget went for Wilcox-Rice.
‘Enough,’ he said simply, pulling the offender back and blocking an ill-timed punch. ‘You are drunk. If you leave with your wife now there will be little damage come morning.’
Paget’s wife looked furious, both at her husband’s poor behaviour and at Luc Clairmont’s interference, but it was Paget who retaliated.
‘Perhaps you should be getting your own house into order, Clairmont, before casting aspersions on to ours. You were, after all, expelled from Eton and many would say that you still haven’t learned your lesson.’
‘Would they now?’ His drawl was cold and measured, the gold of his eyes tonight brittle.
‘Leave him, my dear, for he is not worth it. If St Auburn wishes to make himself a laughing-stock by insisting the American is a gentleman, then let him.’ Lady Paget seemed to be supporting the stupidity of her husband, no thanks being given for the assistance she had received from the man she now railed against.
Anger seized Lillian.
‘I would say, Lady Paget, that your manners are far less exacting than the one you would pillory. From where I sit it seems that Mr Clairmont was only trying to make certain that Lord Paget’s flagrant lack of etiquette did not harm any of the other ladies present. I for one am very glad that he intervened, as your husband’s behaviour was both frightening and unnecessary.’
With a haughty stare she looked about the table, glad when the nods of the others present seemed to support her assessment. Sometimes her position as the queen of manners was an easy crown to wear and a persuasive one. She felt the anger swaying back to the Pagets and away from Luc Clairmont as the wife picked up the heaviness of her skirts and followed her husband, an angry discourse between them distinctly heard.
Lillian did not look around at Lucas Clairmont or question his silence. Nay, she was a woman who knew that if you left people to think too much about a problem then you invariably had a larger one. Consequently she swallowed back ire and began on a topic that she knew would surely interest all the ladies present.
Luc sat next to her and hated the anger that the Pagets’ stupid comments had engendered in him. England was the only place in the world, he thought, where the deeds of the past were never forgotten nor forgiven, and where misdemeanours could crawl back into the conversation almost twenty years on.
For now, though, Lilly was chattering on forever about dresses she had seen in Paris in the summer, and if he had not been so furious he might have admired her attention in remembering the detail of such an unimportant thing.
Not to the women present, however! Each one of them was drinking in her every word and as the servants scooped away shards of china and crystal, replacing the broken with the whole, it was as if there had never been a contretemps. When the dessert of preserved cherries, figs and ginger ice-cream arrived, he noticed that everyone took a generous portion.
Warmth began to spread through him. Lillian Davenport had stood up for him in front of them all, had come to his aid like an avenging angel, her good sense and fine bearing easily persuading everyone of the poor judgement the Pagets had shown.
Indeed, she was lethal, a pale and proper thunderbolt with just the right amount of ire and refinement.
No one could criticise her or slate her decorum and it was with this thought that her offered kiss was even the more remarkable. Lord, did she not realise how easily she could fall, how the inherent nature of man would make any mishap or misconduct accountable in one so loftily placed?
He worried for her, for her goodness and her vulnerability and for the sheer effort that it must take to stay at the very top.
This weekend had been his doing, his own need to see her alone and overriding every other consideration for her welfare. And she had repaid this selfishness with dignity and assurance.
Respect vied with lust and won out. He would do nothing else to bring her reputation into disrepute. That much he promised himself.
He had not come near her since the Pagets had left, the tea taken in the front salon a sedate and formal sort of an affair, with Lucas Clairmont placing himself on the sofa the furthest away from where she sat.
Indeed, after her outburst she thought he might have been a little thankful, but he made no effort at all to converse or even look at her, giving his attention instead to Caroline Shelby and her simpering friend.
Nathaniel St Auburn at her side turned to her to speak. ‘I see you had much to talk about with Mr Clairmont earlier on, Miss Davenport?’ St Auburn’s question was asked in a tone indicating manners rather than inquisitiveness. ‘He was an old school friend of mine at Eton,’ he enlarged when he saw her surprise. Lillian pondered the thought.
‘I didn’t realise that he once lived in England.’ The cameo of a younger Lucas Clairmont intriguing her. ‘He seems too … American?’
Nathaniel chuckled, but there was something in the sound that made her think. She pressed on.
‘Have you ever visited him in Virginia?’
‘I have.’
‘And you enjoyed it?’
‘I did!’
Lillian grated her teeth, wishing that his answers might be enlarged so as to give her an insight into the personality of the man sitting across the room from her.
‘Mr Clairmont says his home is near a river. The James, I think he said. Does he have family there?’ She hoped that the interest she could hear in her words was not so obvious to him.
‘His wife was from those parts, but she died in a carriage accident. A nasty thing that, because Luc blamed himself, as any gentleman of sensitivity might.’
Relief bloomed at Luc Clairmont’s innocence in his wife’s demise. After all the darker conjectures in society, Lillian was pleased to find out that the cause of the woman’s death had been an accident, though she had a strange feeling that St Auburn’s words were carefully chosen. In warning or in explanation? She could not tell which.
‘So you think him a sensitive man?’
‘Indeed I do, but I can see by your frown that you may not?’
‘I have heard things …’
He did not let her finish. ‘Give him a chance,’ he said softly and she almost thought that she hadn’t heard it before he turned away.
Give him a chance! Of what? She felt again the warmth of Lucas Clairmont’s arm against hers where they had not quite touched at the dinner table. If she had moved closer she might have felt him truly, but she had not been brave enough to try. Not there, not then, not with such hooded enquiry seen in so many eyes.
Lord, she seldom came to these country weekend parties and knew now again why she did not. She was stuck here at least till the morrow, any means of escape dubious with her aunt in tow.
John next to her interrupted, making his displeasure known. ‘Surely you can see, Lillian, just how the sort of outburst you gave at dinner is damaging? Far wiser indeed to let these small spats run their course and stay well out of it.’
‘Even if I should perceive the criticism unfair?’ she returned. His social mannerisms were becoming more and more annoying tonight with every new piece of advice that he offered her.
‘You are a lady of breeding and cultivation. It is not seemly to be defending a man who has neither.’
‘Paget was hardly in order.’
‘He was not expelled from Eton for stealing either.’
‘Stealing?’ The word caught her short.
‘Clairmont the youth took a watch from the headmaster’s study and hid it in his blankets. When it was found he admitted the theft and was sent down.’
Lillian felt her hands grip her side. Why was nothing ever easy as far as Lucas Clairmont was concerned? Why could she not find out something noble and virtuous about him instead of being plagued with a never-ending lack of moral fibre?
And why would a small boy steal a watch anyway? For money? To know the time? She could fathom neither the reason nor the risk. Why indeed had he not hidden it in a place no one would ever think to look? She took in a breath. No. She must not excuse him and take his side. Not for theft!
She was pleased when the older guests began to take their leave and was able to gladly follow, John accompanying her upstairs to her room.
‘It has been a pleasure to be in your company today, Lillian,’ he said as she opened her door, and she had the distinct impression that he was angling to kiss her again.
Consequently she sneezed three times, holding her handkerchief across her mouth and sniffing.
‘My goodness, perhaps I have caught Aunt Jean’s cold?’
‘Will I call the housekeeper and ask her for some medicine?’ The amorous look in his eyes was completely overtaken by concern.
‘No, please do not bother. If I just go to sleep early …’ She stopped and sneezed again and he moved back.
‘Well, I suppose this is goodnight?’ The words were said awkwardly and with disappointment.
‘Thank you for walking me up.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
She stepped inside and closed the door, standing still on the other side and replacing her handkerchief in her pocket. One night down and one more to go! Tomorrow she would make certain that she came up with the women in order to ensure no repeat performance of John’s eagerness in seeing her alone.
Chapter Nine
A riding expedition seemed to be the entertainment for the next afternoon and as a keen horsewoman Lillian was looking forward to the freedom of racing across the Kentish countryside, though the eastern sky was draped in black billowing cloud.
Lucas Clairmont was again distant; he had tipped his hat as he had passed her, making his way to his horse, but he neither stopped in conversation nor offered to help her mount. John on the other hand was all attentive vigilance and her heart sank. Lucas Clairmont was due to return to America at the end of December, and would not return for many a long, long year, if ever. She was running out of time, the month of December almost upon them, and her father’s demands of a Christmas engagement beginning to look more and more worrying.
Pulling her cloak around her neck to make the fur collar sit up, she ordered the horse on. A sorrel mare, it was neither fancy nor plain and its disposition as far as she could tell was pleasant. A horse much like the man who rode beside her, seeing to her every whim.
Caroline Shelby’s mount trotted between St Auburn and Luc, her laughter returning on the eddy of wind to the rear of the pack. Three other couples completed the group, the Pagets conspicuous by their absence; Lillian presumed them to have packed their things and left. She sighed, hoping her father would not meet the odious man at his club and hear the story of her defence of Mr Clairmont as only he would probably see it. She seldom made enemies of people and the fact that she had worried her.
‘Lady St Auburn has not joined us this morning.’
John’s tone was puzzled.
‘Perhaps she will later,’ Lillian ventured, though she, too, had been surprised by Cassandra’s absence. In fact, if she thought about it, she was also surprised by the closeness of the relationship between the St Auburns and Luc Clairmont. Nathaniel had said that he had been to see him in Virginia. Had Cassandra gone as well? Tonight she would make certain that she asked Cassie of the details and ask her also as to the size of any land Lucas Clairmont owned.
If only he were … what? she ventured. Rich? Well liked? Connected to the right people? Her musings took on a shallowness that she would have thought abhorrent in others. Yet she could not pursue a man whose very presence aroused such strong condemnation in those about him.
The strictures and codes that applied to everyday social life were after all there for a reason and the protection that they afforded was comforting. Even John’s own layer of conventionality heartened her, for at least she could control him.
Luc Clairmont would be raw and ungovernable. The words made her wonder. He would not be repelled by a few false sneezes as John had been last night or distracted along any lines that she might favour. He would not be cajoled or dominated or managed. She remembered his kisses and her own unrestrained reaction to them and breathed in hard.
No. No. No.
Safety lay in correct behaviour, just as ruin lurked in the narrow margins of error and she would do very well to remember it. Sighing loudly, she tipped her head to the sky and decided that his entrancement with the Shelby heiress was probably for the best, though another feeling lingering beneath propriety wanted to scratch the woman’s eyes out. Oh, she was beautiful, there was no doubt about that. But she was also more than forward, a girl who would eye up her quarry and go for it, and here her quarry was definitely Lucas Clairmont.
The clap of thunder came as they wound their way into a meadow almost at the edge of the St Auburn land, and everybody reined in their horses. Everyone, that is, except for Caroline Shelby, whose mount bolted towards a copse some few hundred yards away. Her screams this time were truly alarming, the timbre of them sending Lillian’s own heels against the flank of her steed in pursuit.
Luc Clairmont, however, was in front of her already, his stallion galloping down upon the smaller mare and catching up with each long stride.
‘Keep your head down,’ he called to the terrified girl, ‘and hold on.’
Caroline Shelby, however, seemed frozen solid, her gait unsteady and swaying. Another few yards and she would be off and if the stirrup wrapped about her boot was not freed she would also be dragged.
‘Get your boots out of the stirrups,’ Luc was now yelling. ‘Or you will be unseated and caught.’
‘I ca … aaa … aan’t.’ At least some advice seemed to be getting through even though she chose to ignore it, lying across her horse in a position that suggested pure and frozen terror.
Luc was at her side, leaning down wide from his own horse in a way that made Lillian’s heart flutter. Goodness, if he were to fall in this position he would be under the hooves of both mounts and the jagged upstanding stones that scattered the field were not helping his cause either.
She shouted to him to be careful, sheer muscle and strength now keeping him in his seat, his centre of gravity so tilted as he tried unsuccessfully to rein in Lady Shelby’s horse.
Freeing his feet from his stirrups as the edge of the copse bore down upon them, in a daring leap of faith he jumped from his horse to the other and grabbed on the reins, the bridle pulling at the horse’s mouth and bringing its head back in a jerk.
The leafy green branches of the first oaks swiped him as he stopped, Caroline Shelby’s crying now at a fever pitch as she clung to him, arms entwined about his neck as though she would never let him go.
Lillian drew her own horse up a second or so later and slid off.
‘Are you hurt, Lady Shelby?’ she asked anxiously, and caught the golden glance of Luc Clairmont.
‘Not as badly as I am,’ he drawled and extricated himself from the woman’s grasp, jumping down from the horse. Touching a bloodied cheek he smiled, but after the fear of the last few moments any humour was lost on Lillian. She almost lifted her riding crop and hit him.
‘Hurt? You could have been killed!’ She made no attempt at all to curb her shout. ‘You could have fallen and broken your head open on the stones or been trampled by the hooves of these frightened horses.’
Caroline Shelby’s cornflower-blue eyes were now upon her, her terrified shrieks silenced. Gracious, Lillian thought, I have become exactly like her with such an outpouring of words. She clamped her mouth shut and turned away, bringing her whip down against a tree branch, liking the way the brown leaves fell at the action.
She was shaking, she felt it first in her hands and then in her stomach and as she took another step in the direction of her horse, a light-headed strangeness suddenly overcame her, a dry-mouthed fear that was overwhelming. Then the ground was swallowed by blackness and she could not stop her fall.
Luc caught her as she staggered the last few paces, her soft smallness easy to lift, her pale hair undone from its tight chignon as her hat fell to the ground. Her hair tumbled silver across his chest as he placed her gently on the grass.
‘Lilly. Lilly.’ He tapped her cheek and was rewarded by her eyes opening, shadow-bruised in uncertainty as she tried to sit up.
‘Stay still. You fainted.’
‘I … never … faint,’ she returned, though a frown deepened as she realised that indeed she just had. ‘It was your foolishness that made me …’
‘I’m not hurt.’
Her thumb reached up to touch the blood on his cheek. He turned into the contact.
‘From the branches,’ he qualified, ‘and just a scratch.’
Sweat marked her upper lip now and made her skin clammy. God, he could see Wilcox-Rice bearing down and he did not look happy. Behind him came the Hammonds. Nat was last and Luc could have sworn he had a smile on his face.
‘I wanted to tell you that I felt something, too.’ Her words were softly whispered, just before John claimed her and Lady Hammond bent to his side.
The kiss. She spoke of that? He knew she did. The words on the card he had sent said the same thing. Caroline Shelby stood behind him now, looking at them strangely, gratitude mixed with shock. Had she heard? Would she say? He made much of picking his hat up and wiping it against his riding breeches.
‘It seems the world is full of damsels in distress today,’ he quipped and stepped away, hating to leave Lilly behind him with a fear of everything in her ashen face and pale eyes.
Everybody fussed over her, made her comfortable, tucked in her blankets and fluffed her pillows. Aunt Jean, Lady Hammond and Caroline Shelby. Even Cassandra St Auburn with her red hair floating about her face, and looking the picture of glowing good health. Why had she not joined her guests and could she get her alone for five minutes to ask the questions that she wanted to?
Lillian was glad in a way for this bed, glad to be sequestered in a room far away from the chance of meeting Lucas Clairmont again after her last whispered and most unwise remark.
‘I wanted to tell you that I felt something, too.’
What had she been thinking? She shut her eyes against the horror of it all and Aunt Jean’s voice was worried as she shook her arm.
‘Are you feeling poorly again, my dear? Should I send for your father?’ Her query was accompanied by a hacking cough that made Lillian draw the sheet further over her face for fear of catching it.
‘No, I am perfectly all right, Aunt.’ And perfectly stupid, she added beneath her breath.
Could she just stay hidden, pleading some illness that was inexplicable? But how then could she journey home? Gracious, if she had been in London this would have been a whole lot easier, but she was here at a country house an hour’s drive away and in close proximity to a man to whom her reaction gave her a lot to be concerned over.
She could not trust herself, she decided, doom spreading at the conclusion.
She was now a feckless and insubstantial woman who did not trust her own mind and whose opinion was forever yo-yoing between this idea and that one.
To love him!
To love him not!
A man can smile and smile and be a villain!
Lucas had said so as he had spoken of his own shadows and mirrors and alluded that she might have her secrets too. Well, she did, and it was a secret that she could never tell anybody.
She … loved … him.
And she had done from the very first second of laying her eyes upon him outside the retiring room at the Lenningtons’ ball. Loved a man with a smile in his eyes and a voice that held the promise of every single thing that she was not.
Brave. Free. Wild. Untethered.
And today with the chance of death dogging his bravery she had recognised it, her very heart pierced with the impossibility.
‘Oh, Lord God, help me, please …’
The prayer circled in her head, another petition to smite from her soul the horrible recognition of what was there.
Cassie St Auburn now sat on a chair near her bed, all the other women gone for the moment, and yet in her newly found revelation she did not dare to ask anything about Lucas Clairmont. What if he was a villain? What if he truly did inhabit the underworld of crime and gambling? What if she as a friend who knew him well warned her off?
‘I am glad to see you better, Cassandra,’ she began, at least filling the silence with something.
‘Oh, I am only ever sick at mid-day. After that I am always much recovered.’
Lillian could not quite get the gist of her illness.
‘I am pregnant,’ Cassandra St Auburn laughed. ‘Already halfway along.’
A great surge of envy overcame puzzlement. Cassie had a husband who loved her and was now awaiting her first child. With her smiles and happiness she had a life that Lillian suddenly felt was very far from her own. A solitary quiet life, her father’s daughter, and burdened with a stalwart code of behaviour that was beginning to look faintly ludicrous and infinitely lonely.
‘Lord Wilcox-Rice has been asking after you almost hourly,’ Cassie continued, ‘though I have made it clear to him that you need your rest.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nat also had the doctor look at Mr Clairmont’s injuries, but apart from a torn nail and a cut that has needed to be stitched across his cheek he is in fine form. He also asked after your health.’
‘He did?’ She tried to keep the interest from her question, but knew that she had not succeeded.
‘Indeed. He felt somehow responsible for your faint.’
Lillian nodded and looked away. ‘I thought that he might have been killed.’
‘Nathaniel says that Lucas is a man who can easily look after himself.’
‘I do not doubt it.’
‘The wound on his cheek makes him look even more unruly than he normally does.’
‘But it is not deemed dangerous to his health?’ Lillian hated the tremor of worry in her words and hoped Cassie would not detect it.
‘I doubt the doctor could have made Lucas stay in bed to rest even had the injury been worse.’
‘I believe Mr Clairmont will be returning to America at the end of December? Has he already arranged passage?’ Goodness, and she had promised herself that she would find out nothing, but Cassandra stood and looked at the time on a clock by the bedside table.
‘I must not wear you out as the doctor asked for quiet and I think it might be wise for you to sleep.’
When she was gone Lillian wondered about her quick exit. Her hostess had not wished to answer any questions about Lucas Clairmont, that much she could glean. Why ever not? Were the St Auburns in on some sort of ruse? The headache she had been pretending for the past hour suddenly became real and she closed her eyes against the growing pain.
Caroline Shelby waylaid Luc in the drawing room after dinner and he wished he had left the salon when the other men had. She looked rather excited, her colour high and her eyes bright.
‘I would like to thank you again for your help, Mr Clairmont.’
As she had already thanked him numerous times he held his counsel and waited.
‘I would also like to ask you a question.’ She looked around to make certain that there was no one behind her, eavesdropping. When she saw the coast was clear she continued, albeit a little more softly. ‘I would like to ask you of the relationship between you and Lillian Davenport?’
‘Miss Davenport?’A hammer swung against the beat of his heart. She had heard Lilly’s words and everything was dangerous. Fury leaked into caution and into that came the obvious need for sense.
‘I stopped her falling when she fainted. Something I would have done for any woman.’
‘Any woman?’ Lady Shelby looked relieved. ‘So there are no special feelings between you?’
‘There are not. I barely know her.’
‘Then would I be remiss to ask you if you might accompany me home on the morrow? I need to be back in London and would appreciate an escort.’
‘Of course,’ Luc answered. ‘I would be delighted.’
When she had left he poured himself a large cold drink of water.
Nat found him forty minutes later sitting watching the night through the opened curtains.
‘You are not in bed?’
‘I am leaving with Caroline Shelby first thing in the morning.’
‘A change of plans, then?’
‘The woman came right out and implied I had feelings for Lilly Davenport.’
‘Lilly?’
‘And I haven’t.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I would ruin her.’
‘Lord, Luc. Sometimes I think that you are too hard on yourself and Virginia is far from here.’
‘It is my home, the only one I have known.’
‘Only because you refused to ever come back.’
‘No.’ Anger was infused in the word. Real anger. ‘You do not understand …’
‘And God only knows how I wish I could, but you will not let me in! There is something you are not telling me, and if there is one person in the world who owes you a favour you are looking right at him. After Eton …’
‘None of it was your fault, Nat.’
‘It was me who stole the watch, remember, and you who took the blame.’ This confession was said with such a sense of doom that Luc began to laugh.
‘Lord, Nathaniel, it was your damn watch in the first place and the master had no right in taking it.’
‘Still, it was not one of my finest moments and I always regretted such a lapse in courage.’
‘You just wanted your property back and I was desperate to be gone. Each of us gained what we hoped for. You know that.’
‘If you had stayed in England, I could have helped you.’
‘Getting expelled from Eton saved me, because with my mother and father out of the country, I had a chance to escape them and become my own man.’
‘You were fourteen.’
‘Going on twenty.’ Luc took another sip of the water in his glass. ‘And you and Hawk were the only damn friends that I ever had there.’
‘Not much of a friend, I fear. Look at Paget bringing up the past like it was yesterday.’
‘He is a man who still has much of the boy in him.’
‘And there is the trouble of it all, Luc. People here are long on memory and short on forgiveness and without a family name to shelter behind you are open game. If we came back to town and you moved in with us …’
‘I think it wiser to keep a distance, Nat.’
‘Because of your intelligence work? You said it was over and finished. You said that you no longer worked for the army in any capacity.’
‘I don’t, but there are remnants of other things that don’t so easily fade.’
The moon suddenly came out from behind the clouds and through the open curtains the landscape around this tiny corner of Kent was bathed in light. Touching the newly stitched scar on his cheek, Luc stood and downed the last of his drink. ‘You’re a family man now, Nat, with the promise of a child come the summer. Concentrate on those things, aye.’
On the silver lawn an owl swooped, its talons catching a field mouse in full flight, taking it up into the sky, a small and struggling prey that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Like himself as a youngster, Luc thought, and unlatched the ties so that the curtains fell across the scene in a single heavy tumble of burgundy velvet.
Chapter Ten
‘There is some evil afoot, Lillian,’ her father said quietly as she lifted the first of the Christmas garlands into place around the hearth in the blue salon. ‘Lord Paget has been found dead at his house this morning.’
Lillian fastened the bough of pine before turning, trying to give herself some sense of time.
‘But he was with us at the weekend at the St Auburns.’
‘Which brings me to the very reason that I mention it. Some are saying that his death is suspicious for there was an argument, it seems, between him and Clairmont. The American has been taken in for questioning.’
‘But Mr Clairmont did not cause the argument, Father, he tried to stop it.’
‘Oh, well, no doubt the constabulary will get to the bottom of what happened and it’s hardly our problem. From all accounts the man is a renegade and why he continues to frequent the soirées of the ton eludes me. I for one would not give him the time of day.’ Standing beside her, he put his hand up to the greenery. ‘That looks lovely—will you place one on the other side too?’
Lillian nodded, though the Christmas spirit had quite gone out of her as she thought back to the weekend.
Luc Clairmont had already left when she had finally risen on the Sunday morning, accompanying Lady Caroline Shelby back to London! He had not stayed to find out more about her hastily whispered promise of feeling ‘something’ and had not tried to contact her since.
Could he have murdered the man? For an insult? Her whole world was turning upside down and she had no way of stopping it doing so.
The pile of decorations she had had the maid bring down from the attic lay before her, a job she usually enjoyed, but now … She looked over at the tin soldiers and varnished collages, the paper cornucopias all waiting to be filled and the hand-dipped candles that she had so lovingly fashioned last year. A pile of gay Christmas cards lay further afield and the dolls she used every Yuletide in the nativity scene beneath the tree were neatly packed in another box. All waiting!
When a maid came to say that there was a caller and gave her the card of Caroline Shelby, she was almost relieved to be able to put off the effort of it all.
‘Please show her up,’ she instructed the girl and Lady Shelby appeared less than a scant moment later.
‘Miss Davenport! I am so sorry to intrude, but I have come on a matter of a most delicate sort.’
Gesturing for the newcomer to sit, Lillian took the chair opposite and waited for her to begin. ‘It’s just I do not know what to do and you are so sensible and seem to know just exactly what next step to take about everything.’
Lillian smiled through surprise and felt a lot older than the young and emotional girl opposite.
‘The thing is that I have found myself becoming increasingly attracted to Mr Lucas Clairmont from Virginia and I came because I heard you talking to him when you were recovering after your faint.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Of everything Caroline Shelby might have said this was the most unforeseen, and she hoped her own rush of emotion was not staining her face.
‘At the St Auburns’. I heard you say that you felt something for him.’
Lillian made herself smile, the danger in the girl’s announcement very alarming. ‘Perhaps you have made an error, Lady Shelby, for I am about to be engaged to Lord Wilcox-Rice.’
The woman looked uncertain. ‘I had not heard that.’
‘Probably because you were too busy fabricating untruths,’ she returned. ‘John and I have been promised to each other for the past three weeks and my father has given us his blessing.’
Caroline Shelby stood, placing her bag across the crook of her arm. ‘Oh, well then, I shall say no more about any of it and ask most sincerely for your pardon of my conduct. I would also ask you, in the light of all that has been revealed, to keep the words spoken between us private. I should not wish any others to know.’
‘Of course not.’
She rang the bell and the maid came immediately.
‘I bid you good afternoon, Lady Shelby.’ Lillian could hear the coldness in her words.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Davenport.’
Once the woman had gone she sat down heavily on the couch. Gracious, could this day become any worse? She did not think that it possibly could although she was mistaken.
Half an hour later John Wilcox-Rice arrived beaming.
‘I have just seen Lady Shelby and she led me to believe that you had had second thoughts about our engagement.’
Lillian looked at him honestly for the first time in weeks. He was an ordinary man, some might even say a boring man, but he was not a murderer or a liar. Today his eyes were bright with hope and in his hands he held a copy of a book she had mentioned she would like to read whilst staying at the St Auburns’. She added ‘a thoughtful man’ to her list.
‘Perhaps we should speak to Father.’
Ernest Davenport broke open his very best bottle of champagne and poured four glasses, her aunt Jean being summoned from her rooms to partake in the joyous news.
‘I cannot tell you how delighted I am with this announcement, Lillian. John here will make you a fine husband and your property will be well managed.’
Her aunt Jean, not wishing to be outdone in gladness, clapped her hands. ‘When did you think to have the wedding, Lillian?’
‘We can decide on a date after Christmas, Aunt,’ she replied, the whole rigmarole of organising the occasion something she did not really wish to consider right now.
‘And a dress, we must find the most beautiful gown, my dear. Perhaps a trip to Paris to find it might be in order, Ernest?’
Her father laughed, a sound Lillian had not heard in many months and her anxiety settled. ‘That seems like a very good idea to me, Jean.’
John had come to stand near her, and he took her fingers in his own.
‘You have made me the happiest of fellows, my dear Lillian, the very happiest.’
My dear? Goodness, he sounded exactly like her father. What would she call him? No name at all came to mind as she went over to the drinks table and helped herself to another generous glass of champagne, turning only when Eleanor was shown in by the maid, a look of surprise on her face.
‘I have just been given the news,’ she said, ‘and so I have come immediately. Mama and Papa are returning from the country tonight so the timing could not have been better.’
With a smile she enveloped Lillian in her arms. ‘And you, sister-in-law—’ the words rolled off her tongue in an impish way ‘—I didn’t have an idea that you two were so close and you let me know nothing! Was it the sprig of mistletoe that settled it? When shall the ceremony take place? Do you already have your bridesmaids?’
Everyone laughed at the run of questions, except Lillian, who suddenly and dreadfully saw exactly what she had done. Not just she now and John, but her family and Eleanor and a group of people whom she did not wish in any way to hurt.
Taking a breath, she firmly told herself to stop this introspection and, finishing the champagne, bent to the task of answering the many questions Ellie was pounding her with.
A sensible and prudent husband …
The five words were like a mantra in the aching centre of her heart.
They had finally gone. All of them. Her father to his club and her aunt to a bridge party at an old friend’s house. Eleanor and John had returned home to see if their parents had arrived from the country.
Four days ago she had fancied herself in love with one man and today she was as good as married to another. The very notion of it made her giggle. Was this what they termed a hysterical reaction? she wondered when she found it very hard to stop. Tears followed, copious and noisy and she was glad for the sturdy lock on the door and the lateness of the hour.
Carefully she stood and walked to the book on the shelf in which she had pressed one orange bloom. The flower was almost like paper now, a dried-up version of what it once had been. Like her? She shook her head. All of this was not her fault, for goodness’ sake! She had made a choice based on facts, a choice that any woman of sound mind might have also made.
The Davenport property was a legacy, after all, one that needed to be minded by each generation for the next one. The man she would marry had to be above question, reputable and unflinchingly honest. He could not be someone who was considered a suspect in a murder case. Besides, Luc Clairmont had neither called on her in town since she had made her ridiculous confession nor tried in any way to show he reciprocated her feelings.
Her fingers tightened on the flower. She was no longer young and the proposals of marriage, once numerous, had trickled away over the past year or two.
Caroline Shelby’s exuberant youth was the embodiment of a new wave of girls, a group who had begun to make their own rules in the way they lived their lives.
Poor Lillian.
The conversation from the retiring room over three weeks’ ago returned in force.
Everything had changed in the time between then and now! A tear traced its way down her cheek, and she swiped it away. No, she would not cry. She had made the right and only choice, and if John Wilcox-Rice’s kisses did not set her heart to beating in the same way as Luc Clairmont’s did, then more fool she. Marriage was about much more than just lust, it was about respect and honour and regard and surely as the years went by these things would gain in ascendancy.
Feeling better, she placed the flower back in the book and tucked it on to the shelf. A small memento, she thought, of a time when she had almost made a silly mistake. She wondered why her hands felt so empty when the orange bloom was no longer in them.
His father’s face was above him red with anger, the strap in his hands biting into thin bare legs. Further off his mother sat, head bent over her tapestry and not looking up.
Screaming when silence was no longer possible, William Clairmont’s beating finally ceased, though the agony of his parents’ betrayal was more cutting than any slice of leather.
‘Another lesson learnt, my boy,’ his father said, trailing his fingers softly down the side of his son’s face. ‘We will say no more of this, no more of any of it. Understood?’
Luc woke up sweating, trying to fight his way out of the blankets, cursing both the darkness and the ghost of his father. If he had been here now, even in a celestial form, he would have made a fist and beaten him out of hiding, the love that most normal fathers felt for their children completely missing in his.
As fury dimmed, the room took shape and the sounds of the early morning formed, shadows passing into the promise of daylight. He hadn’t had this particular dream for years and he wondered what had brought it on. Nat’s mention, he supposed, of the Eton fiasco, and the events that had followed.
The knock on the door made him freeze.
‘Everything in order, Luc?’ Stephen Hawkhurst’s head came around the portal, the fact that he was still in his evening clothes at this time of the morning raising Luc’s eyebrows.
‘You’ve been out all night?’ The smell of fine perfume wafted in with him.
‘You refused to join me, remember? Nat had an excuse in the warm arms of his wife, but you?’ He came in to the small room and lay across the bottom of the bed, looking up. ‘Elizabeth has been dead for months and if you don’t let the guilt go soon you never will.’
‘Nathaniel’s already given me the same lecture, thanks, Hawk.’ Luc didn’t like the coldness he could hear in his own words.
‘And as you have not listened to either of us I have another solution. Leave this place and move in with me and I’ll throw the grandest ball of the Season and make certain that anyone who is anyone is there. Properly done it could bury the whispers of your past for ever, and as the guest of honour with Nat and me beside you, who would dare to question?’A smile began to form on Stephen’s face. ‘You’re a friend of Miss Davenport’s. If we can get her and her fiancé to come, then all the others will follow.’
‘She is engaged to Wilcox-Rice!’ Luc tried to keep his alarm hidden.
‘I heard it said this evening and on good authority that the wedding will be after Christmas …’
‘The devil take it!’ Luc’s curse stopped Hawkhurst in his tracks.
‘What did I miss?’
‘Nothing, Hawk,’ Luc replied, ‘you missed nothing at all, and I should have damned well known better.’
A whoop of delight made his heart sink. ‘You are enamoured by Miss Davenport? The saint and the sinner, the faultless and the blemished, the guilty and the guiltless. Lord, I could go on all night.’ Hawk was in his element now, fingers drumming against the surface of the blankets as he mulled over his options. Luc sat up against the headboard and wished to hell that he had said nothing.
‘I suppose you could always hope that Wilcox-Rice will bore her to death?’
‘I could.’ From past experience Luc knew it was better to humour him.
‘But with the wedding planned for early next year that probably won’t give you enough time.’
‘That soon?’
‘Apparently. Davenport is her cousin, you know that, don’t you, so when you wrap your arm around his neck next time, best to do it out of sight of your lady.’
‘She isn’t my lady.’
‘An attitude like that won’t effect any change.’
‘Enough, Stephen. It’s early and I am tired.’
His friend frowned. ‘Nat and I were the closest to brothers you ever had, Luc, so if you want to talk about anything …’
‘I don’t.’
‘But you would not be adverse to the ball?’
‘You were always the problem solver.’
‘Oh, and another thing. When I was out tonight I heard from a source that the police have determined Paget’s death as suicide and we both know what that means.’
‘I won’t be had up for his murder!’
‘If you stopped harassing Davenport and quit the gambling tables, you wouldn’t be a suspect and, to my mind, Daniel Davenport isn’t worth the trouble no matter what he has done to make you believe otherwise.’
‘My wife might have disagreed.’
‘Elizabeth knew him?’ Surprise coated the query.
‘If the letter Davenport sent her was any indication of the feelings between them, she knew him very well.’
‘Hell.’ Luc liked the shock in Hawk’s word, for he had begun to question his own reactions to all that he was doing.
‘If you kill him, you’ll hang. Better to do away with him on some dark night far from London’
‘Shift the blame, you mean?’ He laughed as Hawk nodded and felt the best he had done in months.
‘On reflection I don’t think it was all her fault. Towards the end I liked her as little as she did me.’ Honesty was a double-edged sword and Luc wished he could have had Hawk’s black-and-white view of the picture.
‘When did you become so equitable?’
Unexpectedly Lillian’s face came to Luc’s mind. She had tempered his anger and loneliness and despair and replaced his feeling of dislocation with a trust and belief in goodness that was … staggering and warming all at the same time.
‘It’s age, I think.’ He smiled as he said it and knew that his words were a complete lie. As the first birdsong lilted into the new morning Stephen stretched and yawned.
‘I have to go to sleep. Goodnight, Luc.’
‘Goodnight, Hawk.’
When his oldest friend simply curled up at the bottom of his bed and was soon snoring, Lucas smiled. There were definitely advantages to being back in England and Stephen was one of them.
The following morning he left Stephen still asleep in his lodgings and walked along the Thames, the winter whipping the river into grey waves that swelled up the embankment and threatened to engulf the pathway. He didn’t want to go to a club or a tavern or even to the Lindsay town house where he always felt welcome. No, today he simply walked, on past the Chelsea Hospital and down the route that the body of Wellington must had been taken during his state funeral last November. A million people had lined the streets then, it was said, and they would again at the next funeral, the next celebration, the next public function that caught the fancy of a nation.
Life went on despite a wife who had betrayed him and an uncle who had died well before his time.
Stuart Clairmont!
Even now the name was hard to say and he ground his teeth together to try to stop the sorrow that welled up over the thought. A man who had been the father his own never was. A man who had loved and nurtured a lost child newly come from England and given him back the sense of purpose and strength that had been leached away from him under the punitive regime of a father who thought punishment to be the making of character.
He still bore the scars of such bestial brutality and still hated William Clairmont with all the passion of a young boy who had never stood a chance.
Where was Lilly? he wondered, the news of her engagement angering him again. She would marry a man who was patently wrong for her, a man who neither kissed her with any skill nor fought with a scrap of dexterity. He remembered the feeble slap Wilcox-Rice had given Paget before he had intervened, the breathless sheen on his face from the effort of doing even that, pointing to a spouse who would not protect a wife from anyone.
The flaws in his argument pressed in. John Wilcox-Rice was a man who would not have enemies, his life lived in the narrow confines of an untarnished society. Why should he need to be adept at the darker arts of survival, the things that kept a man apart and guarded? As he was!
The number of differences between Lillian and him spiralled upwards as he ran for the omnibus, and as the conductor inside issued him a ticket for the cramped and smelly space he was certain that the permitted twenty-two passengers was almost twice that number.
Chapter Eleven
No one was speaking to Lucas Clairmont, Lillian saw as she walked into the Billinghurst soirée that evening and found it was divided into two distinct camps.
Oh, granted, the Earl of St Auburn and Lord Hawkhurst leaned against the columns on his side of the room, the smiles on their faces looking remarkably genuine, but nobody else went near him.
It was the death of Lord Paget, she supposed, and the fact that much was said about the card games Lucas Clairmont was involved with. Gossip that did not quite accuse him of cheating, but not falling much short either.
‘Mr Clairmont does seem to inspire strong feelings in people, doesn’t he?’
Lillian looked around quickly, trying to determine if her friend was including herself in that category.
Lucas Clairmont looked vividly handsome on the other side of the room, dressed in a formal black evening suit that he looked less than comfortable in.
‘If he is here and not languishing in a London gaol, my guess would be the police thought him to have no knowledge of Lord Paget’s death.’
Anne Weatherby at her side laughed at the summation. ‘You are becoming quite the defender of the man, Lillian. I heard it was your testimony at the St Auburns that had the Pagets fleeing in the first place.’
‘And for that I now feel guilty.’
‘Well, your husband-to-be seems to have no such thoughts. He looks positively radiant this evening.’
John crossed the room towards them, Eleanor on his arm, and indeed he did look very pleased with himself.
‘I have it on good authority that Golden Boy is set to run a cracking first at Epsom this year and as he is a steed I have a financial stake in the news is more than pleasing. Is your father here, Lillian? I must go and impart the news to him.’
Eleanor watched as her brother chased off again across the room and entwined her arm through Lillian’s.
‘I do believe that John loves your father almost as much as he loves you. He is always telling me that Ernest Davenport says this and Ernest Davenport says that. My own papa must be getting increasingly tired of having the endless comparisons, I fear, though in all honesty John hasn’t seen eye to eye with him for a very long time. The inherent competition, I suspect, between generations so closely bound. I often wonder if a spell in India or in the army might have finished my brother off well? Pity, perhaps, that that avenue is no longer available.’
Lillian tried to imagine John in the wilds of the Far East and found that she just could not. He was a man who seemed more suited to the ease of the drawing room.
Lucas Clairmont on the other hand never looked comfortable confined in the small spaces of London society. Oh, granted, he had a sort of languid unconcern written across him here as he conversed with his friends, but he never relaxed, a sense of animated vitality not quite extinguished. He also always stood with his back against the wall, a trait that gave the impression of constant guardedness. The guise of a soldier, perhaps, or something darker. She had read the stories of Colquhoun Grant and there was something in the character of Wellington’s head of intelligence that was familiar in the personality of the man who stood opposite her.
As if he sensed her looking at him, his eyes turned to meet her own, dark gold glinting with humour. Quickly she looked away and made much of adjusting the pin on her bodice. When she glanced back, he no longer watched her and she squashed the ridiculous feeling of disappointment.
Turning the ring John had given her on her betrothal finger, she tried to take courage from it as she listened to the conversation between Anne and Eleanor.
‘I hear that congratulations are in order,’ he said in a quiet tone as they met an hour later by one of the pillars in a largely deserted supper room. ‘Your groom-to-be must have made great strides in the art of kissing a woman.’
‘Indeed, Mr Clairmont,’ Lillian replied, ‘and although you may not credit it, there are, in truth, other things that are of much more importance.’
‘There are?’ His surprise made it difficult to maintain her sense of decorum.
‘A man’s reputation for one,’ she bit back, ‘is considered by a careful bride to be essential.’
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