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Clara crossed her arms and trilled her fingers on them as she turned to Anne. ‘So much for no one remembering that unfortunate incident from the last time I was here.’
‘Well, if anyone was going to bring up what happened, you know it would be Lady Pariston.’
‘I doubt she’ll be the only one.’ Clara nodded to where Lady Fulton in her lace-cuffed dress that did little to contain her large chest and slender Lord Westbook with his sharp nose and slicked-back dark hair stood whispering together, each of them throwing Clara sidelong glances and then casually strolling away when it was clear that they’d been seen. Clara was certain they were not discussing the size of her diamond earrings. ‘What was it that Lady Fulton called me? A plain country mouse?’
‘And you are no longer that any more. Chin up, my dear Marchioness. There are tarts to eat.’
They strolled to the dining room, their progress slowed by more greetings, and Clara tried to shake her irritation at Lady Fulton and Lord Westbook. Their catty remarks had made a bad situation much worse six years ago and, unlike Lady Pariston’s silly and innocent reminder of Clara’s past, she knew anything they said was designed to inflict the most damage. The two of them were notorious gossips and Clara’s story must have greatly amused them, and who knew how many other country families six years ago.
As if to add insult to injury, it was then that she and Anne passed the small hallway leading to the ballroom. A sprig of mistletoe hung from the chandelier in the centre of the hallway, just as it did every year. Clara paused, noticing the white berries adorning the branch, and the memory of that Christmas Eve six years rushed back to her...
‘We should probably return to the ballroom,’ Hugh had suggested, rocking back on his heels before planting himself firmly in front of her.
‘Yes, we wouldn’t want people to notice our absence and talk.’
She didn’t care if they did. She yearned to stay there in the hallway beneath the mistletoe alone with him. He must desire it, too, for neither of them made a move to return to the dancing and she enjoyed this rush of boldness, the first one she’d ever experienced in a man’s presence.
He stepped forward and clasped her hands in his.
She straightened, struggling to stand still against the excitement coursing through her at the press of his fingers against hers.
His pulse flickered beneath her grasp and a shiver of excitement made her tremble. She wished to feel not just his fingertips against her skin but the entirety of him and everything promised by the longing in his eyes.
He wanted her as much as she wanted him, not in the sordid way spoken of in gossip, but in a deep and binding union of their lives...
Until the next morning, Clara thought wryly, the memory of crushing the berry he’d plucked for her from the mistletoe beneath her boot heel in the drive the next morning equally potent. Hugh might not have asked for her hand in so many words, but it had been there in every look he’d cast her that night and across the table and sitting rooms of the days before. The ones everyone in the house had seen, too. How people like Lady Fulton had sneered at her when Hugh had left to marry another. Despite his kiss and everything they’d shared that week, she’d been nothing more to him than a way to pass the time until someone more lucrative had come along and she’d been too much of a simple country girl to see it.
Clara swept off to follow Anne into the dining room. I’m not that naïve girl any more.
And she would make sure that people like Lady Fulton recognised it.
‘Oh, Clara, Lady Tillman has set out her mincemeat tarts.’ Anne eyed Lady Worth’s small china plate as she passed them. ‘I must have one before they’re all gone for it isn’t the start of the Christmas season until I’ve eaten one.’
‘Don’t you wish to greet your husband?’ Clara was somewhat curious to venture into the billiards room and see what men were in attendance, almost ashamed to admit she did hold out some hope for this party. After all, it was the season of miracles and she could do with one.
‘Adam can wait. The tarts will not.’ Anne took a tart from the magnificent selection of treats arranged on the long table and enjoyed a large bite, sighing at the sweet taste and the aromatic holiday spices.
‘You’re right.’ Clara took a bite of her selection, savouring the cinnamon-laced confection. ‘It isn’t Christmas until I’ve had one of these.’
Anne dabbed the sides of her mouth with a small napkin, then set it on the tray of a passing footman. ‘No, it isn’t. Oh, there’s Adam. I must tell him that I brought his cufflinks and will have my maid send them to his valet. I’ll be right back.’
She rushed off to take care of this domestic matter, leaving Clara to enjoy more tarts. While she finished her last treat, her stays already growing tight from the bounty of delights, she noticed the open door to Lord Tillman’s library across the hall from the dining room. Through the white-corniced frame, she could see the warm fire burning in the grate, its light glistening off the many gold-tooled titles of the books lining the walls. If there was one other Christmas tradition she could not do without, it was perusing Lord Tillman’s illuminated manuscript outlining the Nativity, the one he set out every year for his guests to enjoy. The last time she’d admired the Nativity had been six years ago when Hugh had glanced at her from across the wide pages, his fingers brushing hers when he’d turned the aged parchment. It had been the place where Hugh had first become more to her than her elder brother’s long-time friend and sometime houseguest at Winsome Manor and everything between them had changed.
No, I will not think about that, but of better times.
She left the bright dining room and crossed the hall to the library. It was just as she remembered it, with the shelves filled with antique manuscripts and more recent novels. The heaviness of the wood bookshelves and mouldings and the dark leather of the furniture made the room much darker than any of the others in the house, but with a large fire burning in the grate and the medieval illuminated manuscript perched on the tall bookstand by the window, it was one of the cosiest places in Stonedown. Lord Tillman was generous with his collection, making everything in it available to his guests. She’d spent many hours in this room with her father during the Christmases when he’d been alive, with him helping her to puzzle through the Latin text of the manuscript or to select a novel to read while she was here. She would take the book up to her room and every night before falling asleep she’d devour a few pages, relaxing after the excitement of the festive days. The next day at breakfast, she and her father would discuss the story, for he always urged her to choose ones he’d already read and he would make her guess how it might end. She used to beg him to tell her, but he never would spoil the story no matter how well he knew it or whether or not it was one of his favourites.
Taking a deep breath of the smoke-tinged air flavoured with the faint must of old paper, she closed her eyes and almost forgot for a moment that her father and mother were gone, and that she’d spent too many of the last eight years missing people the most at this time of year.
She opened her eyes and crossed the room to the illuminated manuscript. The sunlight coming in from outside, despite being muted by passing clouds, still sparkled in the glittering gold of the chorus of singing angels’ halos and in the fine calligraphy of the first letter of the page. The book was in Latin and she peered at it, trying to make out what words she could remember from her lessons with Adam and their father so long ago. Unlike her brother, she’d never mastered the old language, but a few words and phrases were familiar and she worked them out in a whisper, her effort making the noise and chatter in the hallway and rooms outside fade away until one voice rang out above them, stopping her cold in her reading.
‘Lady Kingston, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’
Clara’s finger froze over the red calligraphy, her pulse pounding in her ears. She took a deep breath and turned slowly around to find Hugh Almstead, Fifth Marquess of Delamare, standing at the bookshelf in the corner holding an open book. He didn’t flinch at the sight of her, but his confidence was betrayed by the subtle shifting of his weight on his feet. In her eagerness to view the manuscript and to remember everything she used to love about being in this room with her father, she’d walked right past him, unaware this entire time that he’d been watching her from the shadows.
He closed the book and stood up a touch straighter. He’d gained some height and his chest had grown wider along with his shoulders since the last time she’d seen him. His dark blue coat highlighted the darker strands in his sandy brown hair and made the copper flecks in his light brown eyes stand out. He appeared more like a man than the boy who’d courted her six years ago before abandoning her for a richer woman.
She worked hard to swallow down the old anger while she straightened the line of brass buttons on the front of the spencer covering the top of her London-made mauve dress. The entire time she prayed that the shock and agitation of seeing him again didn’t show on her face. No one had thought to tell her that he would be here. With so many other memories and feelings already leaving her raw, she didn’t need his presence conjuring up more for her to struggle with. ‘Lord Delamare, what a surprise to see you.’
If he was shocked by her presence, he hid it well, his piercing brown eyes taking her in with an earnestness she couldn’t read. ‘I find myself in need of some Christmas joy. I always remembered finding it here at Stonedown, especially in the people.’
He traced the leather corner of the book with a weariness she knew well. She’d lost interest in so many things after Alfred’s death and now faced the challenge of rediscovering life instead of wallowing in sorrow. Then, when she was on the verge of reclaiming the simple pleasures of a house party at Christmas, here was Lord Delamare to remind her of more unpleasant times and the awkward young woman she’d once been who’d fallen for his deceptive charms.
She ceased her fiddling with the buttons and dropped her hands to her sides, striking as confident and regal a pose as she could muster. ‘One would think London would hold more joy for a lord of your reputation than the woodlands of Kent.’
She tried to sound light, but the remark came off as sharp as the pop of sap on the logs in the fire. Given the tales she’d heard of him and his preference for London actresses in the last three years since his wife’s death, he’d appeared more bent on emulating his grandfather’s vices than his level-headed father’s virtues.
‘Not any more.’ He slapped the book against his palm, chafing at the remark before regaining his former composure. ‘My condolences on the passing of Lord Kingston. I met him a number of times in the House of Lords. He was one of the few men there who kept his word. He gained an admirable reputation because of it.’
‘Yes, he was a very trustworthy and loyal man.’ She fixed him with a pointed look. ‘If only all lords possessed such integrity.’
He shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. ‘Sometimes, life has a way of beating the integrity out of a person.’
‘It didn’t beat it out of Alfred.’
‘Then he was a fortunate man, for many reasons.’
She wondered if he included her in those reasons, but she doubted it. He’d made his decision and not looked back—neither should she. She reined in her irritation, determined to be cordial and polite. It would be a long week if she didn’t master that skill and her tongue in Hugh’s presence. ‘I’m very sorry about Lady Delamare, to be stolen away so young is a tragedy.’
He laced his fingers in front of him, running his thumb over the empty place where his wedding ring must have once been, the loss in his expression striking a chord deep inside Clara. ‘Thank you.’
A log in the fireplace collapsed, sending up a sea of sparks. The scent of burning oak permeated the heavy air between them.
‘My brother is here,’ she offered, trying to lighten the mood with the kind of small talk she preferred to engage in with Lord Worth or any of the other guests. Except she’d never imagined she’d be chatting with Hugh of all people.
‘I know.’ Hugh faced her with the same stern countenance he’d worn when she’d first turned to see him. ‘He wrote to me and told me that he and you would be here.’
This made her stiffen with surprise more than his having interrupted her private moment.
‘Did he now?’ She needed to end this conversation and have a very much needed other one with Adam and Anne as to why she hadn’t merited the same warning.
‘It was his letter that gave me a reason to come.’ The tender yearning in his eyes struck her as hard as a well-packed snowball, but it didn’t stun her enough to make her take leave of her senses.
He hadn’t really loved her years ago. That he held a candle for anything more than perhaps her inheritance, which was now even more substantial than it had been before, was preposterous. Perhaps, having run through all the actresses in London, he was here for other, more lucrative amusements. The anger his grief had pushed aside slipped slowly back to her and she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘In search of another heiress to help fill the family coffers? Or did you think a widow would serve you better?’
That wiped the tenderness off his face. She’d insulted him and she was glad, for the mistakes of six years ago along with Lord Westbook’s and Lady Fulton’s snide whispers were not experiences she wished to repeat. ‘My motives for being here are not as base as you believe.’
‘I’m sure they’re not as noble as you’ve convinced others to believe either.’ She marched up to him, fingers closed into fists at her sides. The humiliation of standing before him in this very room years ago while he’d told her he’d decided to marry another instead of asking for her hand was made sharper by the rich scent of his bergamot shaving soap and his stance. He didn’t so much as step back or flinch, but stood there, taking her disdain with irksome stoicism. She didn’t expect him to crumble in shame, but at least he could have the temerity to blush or look away in guilt. ‘Whatever your true reasons for coming here, be perfectly clear, they will not include me. Good day, Lord Delamare.’
Clara stepped around him and out of the room, pausing in the hallway to drag in a deep breath and settle the nervous tremors coursing through her. It wasn’t like her to lob insults at people, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. Nor was it like her to reveal to anyone so bluntly the depths of the injury they’d inflicted, but Hugh must see that she was no weak widow all too ready to run into his arms and surrender her fortune and her person to his control. The sooner he recognised the futility of coming here, the sooner he might leave and she could enjoy her week in peace. Until then, there was the matter of Lady Tillman’s guests list to discuss with Anne.
Clara marched into the dining room and up to Anne. She laid a stern hand on Anne’s arm, stopping her from taking another bite of her holiday delicacy. ‘Lord Delamare is here.’
Anne peered at Clara from across the pastry before slowly lowering it to her plate. ‘Is he now?’
Her surprise wasn’t convincing.
‘You knew he’d be here, didn’t you?’ Clara pulled her out of the dining room and down the hall to a secluded alcove adorned with a large vase filled with fragrant hothouse flowers.
Ann hesitated, giving Clara her answer before she even managed to stammer out a few weak lies. ‘Well, no, not exactly. Adam told me Lady Tillman had said she’d invited him, but she gave him no indication that he’d accepted.’
Clara glanced down the hall to make sure no one, including Hugh or anyone else, was listening. ‘You’re lying. I can always tell because your cheeks go red.’
With Anne’s fair complexion and blonde hair it was difficult for her to hide even the slightest of blushes.
‘Yes, we knew,’ Anne mumbled, suddenly very interested in the button on her spencer. ‘Lady Tillman wrote to us about it a week ago, wanting to make sure there would be nothing awkward between the two of you. I assured her there wouldn’t be.’
‘Without consulting me first?’
‘I was afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t come and I wanted you to. I see the way you are at Winsome, and how lonely and sad you appear sometimes, especially while watching the children or when you think no one is looking, and it breaks my heart. I want you to be as happy as Adam and I are and to have children of your own and all the things you lost when Alfred died. You won’t find them sitting in your room at home, but here with people.’
Clara swallowed hard. Only Anne could stop Clara from being angry at her when she should be steaming. She thought she’d been better about hiding her grief, but she hadn’t if Anne and Adam had gone to such lengths to make sure she came to this house party. Anne was right. Clara had travelled to Stonedown to take her first steps towards finding a new life. She’d already seen a number of new faces among the usual guests. Perhaps one of them would be someone like Alfred with caring eyes and a trustworthy heart, the kind of man who’d readily comfort a grieving and rejected young woman one Christmas morning instead of laughing at her. That man was not Hugh.
‘I realise Lord Delamare being here might be a little awkward,’ Anne continued, ‘but what happened between the two of you was a long time ago and since then he was happily married and so were you. There’s no reason why you can’t be polite and cordial to one another and no reason why his being here should spoil your week.’
Except Clara had already been less than cordial to him because he’d reminded her of the worst embarrassment she’d ever endured. This wasn’t at all how she’d imagined this house party beginning. ‘Even if we can be cordial to one another, more people than Lady Pariston are bound to remember what happened and bring it up, especially Lord Westbook and Lady Fulton and you know how cutting they can be. I told you what they said about me the last time we were here once the entire household heard of what happened.’
‘And a great deal has changed since then.’ Anne laid her hands on Clara’s shoulders. ‘There’s no reason why they and everyone won’t see anything but the confident woman before me.’
Clara wasn’t so generous in her perception of what people would see when they looked at her. She hoped it was a mature marchioness, but she feared, especially with Lord Delamare present to remind them, that they’d see nothing but the awkward young girl she’d once been. No, she was no longer an easily tricked country heiress, but a woman of experience and sophistication who would not have the wool pulled over her eyes by a scheming man and she would prove it to everyone, including Hugh. ‘Yes, you’re right. Just because he’s here doesn’t mean I have to speak with him or give him more than a curtsy and any required manners. In fact, if I can avoid speaking to him entirely, I will.’
‘Except that because of precedence, you’ll be sitting next to him at every dinner,’ Anne reminded, dropping her voice so as not to be heard by the gentlemen and ladies passing them as they went from the dining room to the billiards room.
Clara let out a frustrated sigh. If the footman hadn’t already dragged her travelling trunk up the stairs to her room, and if Mary, her lady’s maid, wasn’t already busy arranging dresses in the wardrobe, Clara would order her clothes packed up and the trunk put back on the carriage so she could return home. Except there was nothing for her at home except more nights alone, more days spent in reading and solitude or watching James and Lillie play and regretting that she had no child to play with them. She could leave and allow the melancholy to claim her or stay and remain on this path to being out in the world and open to the possibility of love and a better life. That, and proving that she’d changed, was why she was here and she wouldn’t allow Hugh to steal this from her the way he’d tried to steal her faith in herself six years ago. She intended to enjoy the season and she would. What Hugh did was immaterial to any of that.
* * *
Hugh examined the pages of the illuminated manuscript, trying to concentrate on the beautifully drawn and painted figures, but all he could see was Clara. The moment she’d entered the room, the only thing he’d been able to think about was the Christmas Eve ball when he’d held her in his arms. Her petite body had been languid against his when she’d curved into him with sighs as tender as her fingertips against his neck. Beneath the silk of her gown he’d been able to feel the press of her hips against his and when he’d caressed the line of her back, the sweep of his fingertips over the bare skin above the line of her bodice had made her shiver.
He’d sat across the table from her at Adam’s family home over the years, paying her no more heed than he would the younger sibling of any of his friends. It wasn’t until she’d entered Lady Tillman’s sitting room at the beginning of that fateful Christmas house party, her dark blonde hair done up in ringlets and secured with red ribbons, the plain cut of her dress unable to hide her curving hips or the fullness of her breasts, that he’d viewed her as a woman. Even when dressed in the simplest of fashions, she’d taken his breath way and he’d struggled not to stare at the womanly changes that had come over her while she’d spoken about the falling wheat prices and how they plagued the major landowners. Her girlish interests had changed as much as her figure. In those few moments she’d transformed from the gangling young sister of his closest friend into a lady he couldn’t take his eyes off, one worthy to become mistress of Everburgh Manor.
There hadn’t been any trace of that smitten woman in the one who’d turned to face him today, her full lips opening with surprise before she’d pressed them tight together in disgust. Marriage and loss had changed her as much as it had changed him. The simple young woman he’d fallen for had matured, her plain country styles exchanged for the elegance of London fashion, her once-adoring looks now cutting, but he deserved her anger. It was the grief he’d seen when she’d pored over the vellum that she didn’t deserve.
He turned the manuscript pages until he reached the one of the women crying at the foot of the cross. The mournful looks on their faces reminded him of how Clara had appeared when he’d watched her from across the room, hesitant to interrupt the private moment or to intrude on a sadness he was all too familiar with. While he’d watched her, the anguish and torment he’d suffered after he’d received the Christmas Eve letter six years ago informing him that Lord Matthews had finally agreed to Hugh’s requests for his daughter’s dowry, and that Hugh and Lady Hermione Matthews’s engagement could proceed, had rushed back to him. Along with it had come the regret that had tortured him in the carriage that Christmas morning when he’d ridden away from Stonedown and Clara. The memory of her distraught face when she’d faced him in this very room had torn at him along with the same accusation she’d thrown at him moments ago.
‘Fortune hunter. Bollocks.’ He slapped the book stand, making it rock before it righted itself. He hadn’t married Hermione simply for money, but out of duty to his family. The cold winters at Everburgh when his parents used to struggle to heat even a few rooms while his grandfather had squandered the family fortune on his actress second wife still haunted him, as did the strained and worried faces of his parents. After his grandfather’s hard living had finally killed him, the massive debts had fallen to his father to pay and their quality of life, which had never been high, had declined even further. Although his parents had done everything they could to shield Hugh from the reality of their situation, there was nothing their stories of knights and dragons could do to stave off the cold or place more food on the table. Then, when they’d been on the verge of leaving those days behind them for good, Hugh’s father’s heart had given out, worn down by years of struggles. At his funeral, Hugh had vowed that he would do everything he could to make sure that his mother would one day experience the comfort and ease that a marchioness deserved. His marriage to Hermione had given him the chance to do that and he’d never regretted his decision. He still didn’t. It was his youthful indiscretion at not being more cautious with Clara’s feelings that he lamented, especially today, but there was nothing he could do to change the past, not his one with her or the last three years. He could only move forward and he would.
Hugh left the library in search of Adam and society, needing both more than solitude and regret. Solitude and the constant torment of remorse had already led him to make too many mistakes in London after Hermione’s death, ones he’d have to work twice as hard to overcome if Clara’s reaction to him offered any indication of how people currently regarded him. She and they had heard the stories about his behaviour in London. Most of the tales weren’t even true, or they were exaggerated far beyond recognition, but it didn’t matter. Until recently, he hadn’t worked to check them and enough of them were true to give credence to the rest. At one time he’d been admired as much for himself as his old title and had been known to everyone as an honourable and respectable marquess who hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s taste for ruin. It’d taken a lifetime to build that reputation and three years to throw it all away and make everyone believe he was no better than his grandfather, but he was and he would prove it again.
Striding down the hall, he found Adam in the billiards room with a number of other gentlemen. They bent over the table to examine the shots, change the score on the marker or watch the game, each of them carrying glasses of brandy and sipping them between bits of conversation and breaks in the play. A gaggle of children ran through the room, swarming around the table before running out the opposite door, their noisy chatter barely breaking the conversation of the lords who were willing to tolerate their antics in this season of forgiveness. Hugh hoped everyone was willing to forgive more adult mishaps, especially his.
‘Delamare, good to see you.’ Adam clapped him on the back, then moved to hand him a glass of brandy from a nearby footman’s tray before remembering and setting it back on the salver for someone else to enjoy. ‘Sorry, I forgot you’d given it up.’
‘There are times when I think that might have been a mistake.’ He glanced at the brandy, tempted to throw back a good portion of it and savour the burning in his throat. It was a pain he deserved, but he wasn’t a man to go back on his promises, at least not any more.
Adam tilted his head to one side in scrutiny. ‘I assume you’ve seen Clara, then?’
‘I have. She wasn’t pleased to see me.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ He didn’t look at Hugh, but swirled his brandy in his snifter before taking a generous drink. ‘She didn’t know you would be here.’
‘You didn’t tell her?’ He wanted to take the snifter and break it over his friend’s head. ‘The entire reason I wrote to you was so you could warn her in the hopes it might ease any tension between us.’ The tension that had dominated every word that had passed between them in the library.
‘If I’d told her you’d be here, she wouldn’t have come. You know how it is, no one likes to be reminded of past mistakes and such.’
No, they didn’t. Not Hugh, not Clara, no one.
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now,’ Adam continued. ‘You’re both here and now you’ve got your awkward first meeting out of the way, I’m sure the two of you will get on splendidly.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism.’
‘Well, the season of miracles and all that.’ He rapped Hugh on the arm and took up his cue stick and bent over the table to take his shot, the conversation about Clara and Hugh being here together over. Hugh allowed it to drop. Adam was one of the few friends from his past who saw the better in Hugh even when he couldn’t see it in himself. Hugh owed it to him to be respectful, especially of Clara. Adam, having inherited young, knew well the responsibilities of a titled man, but for all of his patience and understanding of Hugh’s mistakes, and the family duty that had forced him to marry another, Adam would draw the line at intentional injury to those he loved.
‘Marvellous shot, Exton,’ Lord Tillman muttered through his bushy moustache, one hand on his round belly, the other clutching his brandy. He was tall with spindly legs and long thin arms, his full head of hair a striking contrast to his less-than-robust form. An earl from a long line, he didn’t lord his title over anyone, taking it all in stride. He and his wife were two of the most congenial hosts that Hugh had ever known and the most forgiving. Neither of them had baulked at inviting him after he’d placed a gentle request with Lady Tillman when they’d met at the theatre at the end of last Season. He was thankful for their support and this chance to take his first steps towards redeeming himself with good society. If Clara’s reaction to him was any gauge, he had a great deal of work to do.
Hugh tried not to sigh in weariness while he watched the game. He intended to some day hold a house party like this at Everburgh, but with no Lady Delamare to help him welcome his guests and no children to run with the guests’ children, he would have to live once again off someone else’s generosity. It was yet another dream that was on the verge of never coming true, especially if the court ruled against him in the last case concerning Everburgh.
He glanced at the brandy, wanting to knock the drinks to the floor, but he maintained his self-control. He’d done all that duty had required of him when he’d become the Fifth Marquess, paying off the last of the debts with Hermione’s money, using Lord Matthew’s connections to woo influential lords and hire expensive barristers to settle remaining court cases in his favour or on better terms, but still it hadn’t been enough. The estate was in danger once again from a Scottish lord who claimed that Hugh’s grandfather had signed over Everburgh to him in exchange for a life annuity and the payment of some debts. The Scotsman had a few letters indicating some sort of deal between him and Hugh’s grandfather, and receipts of payment to his grandfather, but he had yet to produce the signed contract. If he did produce it, it would become a matter for a judge to decide. If the court ruled against Hugh, then everything that Hugh, his parents and Hermione had done to save the estate would mean nothing.
Hugh stood up straight and greeted Sir Nathaniel with a hearty welcome, determined to remain polite and solicitous. He would face this unexpected challenge with the fortitude his parents had always shown during their trials, the one he’d demonstrated, too, until Hermione’s death had sent him into a dark spiral, but those days were over. He’d made a number of mistakes since Hermione’s death, but they and the damage they’d done would soon be behind him. He would enjoy the respect and esteem of these men again, and, if given the opportunity, Clara’s, as well. He was the Marquess of Delamare and he would bring dignity to the title and himself once again.
Chapter Two (#uf6785a65-3673-5f67-a5bd-bf7a6515685b)
‘My dear, are you sure that’s the dress you wish to wear tonight?’ Anne asked, entering Clara’s room to collect her for dinner. In a short while, everyone would line up according to precedence on the main staircase before going into the dining room. Clara prayed someone had arrived to outrank her, a dowager duchess or a dowager marchioness with an older title than hers who would bump her back a place or two in the line away from Hugh. As much as part of her wanted to be at the head of the line where everyone might see her, she didn’t wish to be there beside Hugh.
Given that this wasn’t likely to happen, she’d dressed as she would for any other dinner at Lord and Lady Tillman’s, careful to pay no special heed to her attire. She didn’t wish Hugh to think she’d changed her manner of dress simply because they happened to be beneath the same roof. If Anne’s half-frown were any indication, Clara had succeeded a little too well in her desire to under-dress. ‘What’s wrong with my dress?’
‘Nothing, except it’s a tad dark.’
‘It’s winter.’ Clara opened her arms and looked down at the black velvet dress devoid of any decoration, trying to sound sensible and failing.
‘But the season is so cheerful and you don’t want to come across as dour. Perhaps your green dress would be better. You want people to speak with you, not offer consolations.’
Clara dropped her arms in defeat, her desire to be seen as a refined and chic lady fading in the face of her current wardrobe. This dress might be fine and of excellent material but it bore the hallmarks of her grief, as did most of the dresses she’d brought with her. The bright gowns she’d worn before Alfred’s death were still packed away in trunks at Winsome Manor. She wished she hadn’t left them behind.
‘You’re right. I appear as if I’m going to a memorial, not preparing for a festive week. I’ll wear the green dress.’ She waved for Mary to undo the buttons on the back so Clara could change. ‘I don’t want to scare whomever I’m paired with for the week’s events or give them the impression that they’ll be stuck with a stick in the mud.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Anne laid a finger on her cheek, her frown drawing up to one side in a smile that made Clara suspicious. ‘Especially since you’re sure to be seated beside Lord Delamare.’
