скачать книгу бесплатно
He reached up over her head with one large hand, took hold of the door and pulled it easily from her grip. It shut with a click.
“We must talk,” he said.
* * *
Richard watched as Claire’s blue eyes widened. Such a pale blue, as clear and bright as the sky on a winter’s morn. And just as cold, like the heart that beat in that silk-covered chest.
“Fah, sir,” she said with an elegant wave of her long-fingered hand. “I cannot imagine what we have to say to each other.”
Couldn’t she? He’d thought of little else on the long ride from Cumberland. What did you say to the woman who’d jilted you, now that you needed her help? He’d hoped to apply to her husband first, even if he had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from planting the fellow a facer. But the few discreet questions he’d asked to locate Claire had yielded surprising news.
Lord Colton Winthrop was dead and in the ground nearly a year. And that fact made any conversation harder still.
“I came here to seek your help,” he told her. “I’ve a cousin set to make her debut, and she needs a sponsor.”
“I see.” She tilted her chin and gazed up at him. Time had been kind, but he thought she was one of those women who would only grow more beautiful with each passing year. Though how she’d tamed her soft curls into that stern bun was beyond him. The style narrowed her face, called out the line of cheekbone and chin. But her lips were as pink and appealing as they’d been when he’d first longed to steal a kiss.
“You will forgive me, sir,” she said. “I’ve been in mourning, so I am not completely au courant on the social scene. But I don’t recall your having a cousin the proper age, and certainly not a female.”
Trust her to know. She’d always been fascinated with the lineage of every one of the ten thousand individuals said to make up the bon ton. No doubt her late viscount had a title dating to the conquest. Richard’s family title was far more tenuous. He had to go carefully. His cousin Samantha could ill afford the gossip. “My uncle, Arthur, Lord Everard, has a daughter. She’s sixteen.”
“Indeed,” she replied.
He’d forgotten how she could stop conversation with a single word. If he’d had any doubts as to her feelings on the matter, the narrowing of her crystal gaze would have convinced him of her skepticism.
“But I believe I heard your uncle passed on recently,” she continued. “Surely his daughter must be in mourning.”
She would understand that as well. Her slender figure was swathed in black, from the high lace collar to the ruffled hem of her graceful skirts. And she hadn’t worn a single piece of jewelry, not even a wedding ring. He remembered a time when she’d refused to go out in anything less than pearls. She must have loved her husband a great deal to give up so much to mourn him. The thought brought less comfort than it should have.
“My uncle instructed that she forgo mourning,” he explained. “He believed in living to the fullest.”
“Yes, so I recall.” She refused to take her hand off the brass pull of the door, as if she’d throw it open and order him from the house at any moment.
Her attitude grated on his nerves, already too high for his liking. In fact, his cravat seemed to have tightened since he’d arrived in the house, and he tugged at it now. “Perhaps we could sit down.”
That oh-so-proper smile did not waver. “I fear I’ve nothing to offer you, Captain Everard, by way of seating or assistance. I’m sure you’ll find another lady far more suited to your purpose. You should go.”
So she was throwing him out. Why had he even considered asking her for help? She was more high-handed now than she’d been as a girl. Nothing he’d said back then had mattered. Why should today be any different? If I needed a lesson in humility, Lord, this is it.
“No doubt you’re right, Lady Winthrop,” he said with a bow. “As I recall, you had the annoying habit of always being right. I bid you good-day, madam.” He took the handle from her grip and swung open the door.
She sighed. It was the smallest of sounds, hardly audible, because of her own good breeding and through the noise from the busy street. But the dejected breath cut through his frustration—awakened something inside him he’d thought long dead. His foot on the step, he turned to gaze back at her.
“Are you all right, Claire?”
An emotion flickered across her oval face. Was it because he’d used her given name, or was she truly in trouble? Still, that infuriating smile remained pleasant. “Certainly, Captain Everard. I have all I need. I am quite content.”
Content? The Lady Claire he remembered had never been content. The latest fashion, the fastest carriage—she had to have them all and much sooner than half of London. She had ridden with more skill and danced with more enthusiasm than any other woman he’d ever met. He truly hadn’t been surprised when she’d chosen a wealthy, titled peer over a second son of a second son of a newly minted baron. Just crushed.
She shifted as if eager to have him leave, and he caught a clear view into the entryway. For the first time, he noticed the darker rectangles on the papered walls where paintings must have been removed, the scuffs on the parquet floor where large pieces of furniture had no doubt been scraped as they’d been carried out. A house this size ought to boast a half dozen servants at least, but no maid had attended her during her conversation with the tradesman, and no butler came hurrying to see him out now.
“You don’t have a sofa to sit on, do you?” he asked.
Her smile slipped at last. “That, sir, is none of your concern.”
He put a hand flat on the door, shoved it wide and strode back into the house. “It may not be my concern, madam, but it is to my advantage. I have a proposal for you, and I advise you to listen.”
Chapter Two
A proposal? Claire stared at him, mouth dry. No, he couldn’t mean a proposal of marriage. She’d destroyed any tender feelings he’d had for her. And her own feelings had been folded away like a favorite gown, tucked between sheets of tissue for safety. Some might say that a marriage would solve her problems, but she couldn’t believe that. And marriage to Richard Everard? Never.
But he didn’t wait for her response. He strode to the sitting room door, the slap of his brown boot heels echoing against the wood floor, and glanced inside. Apparently disliking what he saw, he stalked across the space to glare into what had been her husband’s library.
“You really don’t have a sofa,” he declared, as if that was somehow a moral deficiency.
Claire tugged down on her sleeves, careful to keep him from seeing the edge she’d so carefully patched. Her mother would never have imagined the ends to which Claire would have to put the embroidery skills she’d been taught.
“The sofas in this house were shabby pieces,” she told him. “I am well rid of them.”
He returned to her side, dark eyes narrowing. “So you’d have me believe you merely tired of all your furnishings.”
It was close to the truth; she’d tired of any number of things. Claire waved a hand. “I’ve grown weary of the whole, tedious social whirl. The town house has been sold, and I plan to leave London before Easter. I thought perhaps Bath, or Italy. I have yet to decide.”
She had hoped her tone was as breezy as her wave, but he shook his head. “The Claire I knew would have crawled to London over broken glass rather than miss the Season.”
“Then perhaps, sir, I am not the Claire you knew.”
He laughed as if she’d said something remarkably clever. He had no idea how difficult the last ten years had been, how much she’d changed, how much she’d had to mature. At least that much good has come of it, Father.
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “But I can’t keep you standing about like this. Is there nowhere in this house we can sit down?”
She thought about turning him away more forcefully, but truly, did it matter? He would say his piece, she would decline, and he would be gone. If he told anyone about her constrained circumstances, she’d be miles away before the gossip grew to any magnitude.
“We still have a table and chairs in the kitchen,” she told him. “This way.”
She led him down the corridor beside the stairs toward the little kitchen at the rear of the town house. Her right knee twinged just the slightest, protesting all this moving about. Not now, Lord. Please, keep it strong until I’m finished with him. She refused to see pity or, worse, pleasure at her pain. Though, who could blame him for thinking she deserved what she’d gotten from her marriage? She was the one who had broken her promise.
Shoving the memories aside, she pushed through the kitchen door with Richard right behind her. Mrs. Corday looked up from the potatoes she’d been peeling, hand frozen on the knife.
“This is Captain Everard,” Claire said, as if she normally entertained guests in her kitchen. “He wishes to have words with me.”
Her cook blinked bleary blue eyes wreathed in wrinkles. “And would you like me to stay, your ladyship?”
Claire glanced at Richard, who looked surprised she’d think twice about trusting herself alone with him. Claire focused on her cook. “Please go about your duties. Don’t let us disturb you.”
The cook’s snowy brows went up, but she ducked her head and set about whipping the peelings off the crusty vegetables as if her life depended on finishing.
Claire hadn’t spent a lot of time in her kitchen until the furnishings had been taken, but she’d been surprised to find it a dark and dismal place, with a gray stone fireplace that took up one entire wall and oak cabinets painted a lacquered black that had dimmed with time. The only bright spots were the copper tools hanging from the walls around the hearth and what was left of her china, creamy white with rosebuds along the edges, piled haphazardly on the sideboard for packing.
Still, she could remember how to be the proper hostess, even if she had to take the role of servant. “May I take your coat, Captain Everard?”
“Thank you.” He shrugged out of the multicaped greatcoat and folded it over one arm to hand it to her. Under it he wore tan breeches and a tailored brown wool jacket. An emerald-striped satin waistcoat peeked out through the lapels. She could find no fault in his clothing or the elegantly tied cravat at his throat. In fact, he looked every bit the gentleman.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning him to a ladder-back chair farther down the oak worktable. She went to hang his coat on a curved-arm hall tree by the kitchen door. “Would you care for some tea?”
She turned in time to see that he had pursed his lips as if he doubted she could produce the brew. “Certainly, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Meeting Claire’s gaze, Mrs. Corday jerked her head toward the fire. “Kettle’s already on the boil, your ladyship. There’s enough for a few more cups in the caddy.”
“Thank you,” Claire murmured. Fully aware that Richard’s gaze followed her every step, she went to the fireplace and took the kettle off the hook. Carrying it to the sideboard, she set about pouring the steaming water into one of her china cups.
She nearly sighed aloud when she peered into the satinwood tea caddy. This was the last of her bohea. Funny how little things had come to mean so much now. Would she be able to get the mellow tea in the little town where she hoped to retire? For, regardless of what she’d told Richard and a few close friends, her funds would never extend to Bath or Italy. She was considering a two-room cottage in the tiny village of Nether Crawley, a day’s ride from London. Of course, with no carriage or horse, the distance was immaterial. Very likely, she would never see London again.
Help me remember why I made that choice, Lord. It does no good to wish it otherwise now.
She returned with Richard’s tea and set it in front of him. Lifting the cup to his mouth, he took a cautious sip. Now, why did that smile please her so much? She’d have thought she’d played a complicated Mozart sonata in front of the king.
“Are you certain you want to leave London?” he asked as he lowered the cup.
“Quite,” she replied. She turned her back on his frown and went to pour for herself.
“What if I could give you another Season, all expenses paid?”
She could not even reach for the teapot. Stay in London? Enjoy the balls, the parties; reacquaint herself with her friends, with no thought of tomorrow?
Ah, but she’d learned there always came the time to pay the piper. Tomorrow, however much she wished otherwise, would come. He only offered a reprieve. She would have to leave London regardless, before the Season, after the Season, for the same small house at the back of beyond. In the meantime, she would have to continue to pretend that her life was perfect, that she was perfect. No, not that. Lord, You know I am so tired of that.
She poured the last of the brew, the steam curling up to her face. “I fear my mind is made up, sir.”
“Then it’s my duty to change it.”
She turned to find him regarding her, his cup sitting in front of him, his hands braced on either side of it as if he meant to keep it captive.
“Sit down, Claire,” he ordered.
Mrs. Corday’s hands were moving so fast Claire thought the potato might fly across the table and embed itself in Richard Everard’s waistcoat. She left her cup on the sideboard and went to lay a hand on her cook’s shoulder.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Corday. Our guest is a sea captain. He’s no doubt forgotten that it isn’t polite to give orders to people who are not his subordinates.”
Mrs. Corday cast Richard a quick glance. “As you say, your ladyship.”
He had the good grace to incline his head, and the light from the lamps overhead made a halo on the crown of his auburn hair. “Forgive me, Mrs. Corday. You are the captain of your kitchen. I should have asked permission to come aboard.”
The older woman’s rosy lips quirked as if she were fighting a smile. “It’s no trouble, sir. Would you care for a biscuit to go with your tea?”
“If you made it,” he said with a smile, “I’m sure I’d enjoy it.”
She set down the potato and hurried to the pantry.
So, he could be perfectly charming to the staff, but not to Claire. Well, she wasn’t going to allow him to order her about, either. She swept back to the sideboard and busied herself adding sugar to the tea. Normally she preferred three teaspoons, but she had to economize. She took a sip of the flavorful brew, even as she heard Mrs. Corday murmuring to their guest and the clink of porcelain on oak as she set the plate of the last biscuits on the table.
“Please sit down, Lady Winthrop,” Richard Everard said quietly. “I have a great deal to explain.”
Claire steeled herself, picked up her cup and turned. His smile was contrite, his face composed. She couldn’t trust what lay beneath that fair surface, but she went to join him at the table. Her cook began cutting the potatoes into a copper pot.
“I should probably start with expressing my condolences on your loss,” he continued in that gentle tone.
“And mine on yours,” she acknowledged. “Though, as I recall, you and your uncle were no longer close.”
He rubbed a long finger along the wood grain of the table. She’d always thought he should play the piano with those hands. Certainly he could have managed the octave-and-a-half reach that still eluded her. And he’d definitely had the fire to play with enthusiasm, once.
“Uncle had changed recently,” he said. “Tried to make amends, to me, my brother and cousin, as well as his daughter.”
“So he really has a daughter?” Claire could not see the pleasure-loving Lord Everard as a doting father. His exploits—from duels at daybreak to wagers at one in the morning—were legendary. “Where has she been all these years?”
“Cumberland, in an old manor house. She was raised to be a lady, Claire. You need have no worries on that score.”
She should protest the way her first name kept coming so easily to his lips, but the sound of it was sweet. With her father and husband dead, no one called her Claire anymore. “You intend to bring her out this year?”
“Right after Easter. She’ll need a coming-out ball or some such, I suppose—clothes, of course—oh, and presentation to the queen.”
So that was why he needed her. He could have found someone to cater an event, issue invitations, and certainly any dressmaker could have gowned the girl. But to be presented to the queen, Richard’s cousin needed someone who had already been presented, a lady of some social standing, a lady like Claire.
Which meant that Richard Everard needed her help, almost as badly as she needed his. Was it possible she could parlay his request into more?
Is this a door You want me to walk through, Lord?
Aloud, she murmured, “I imagine she has her heart set on this Season.”
“She’s actually a bit intimidated by the prospect,” he confessed with a fond smile. “She needs a good example.”
Now, that would be pleasant, serving as an example to a young girl, helping her avoid Claire’s mistakes. But did she really want to relive those mistakes any more than she already had?
“Perhaps you should wait a year, then,” Claire replied. “She’s only sixteen, you said. Plenty of time.”
He shifted on the chair, spine straightening, chin lifting. Sitting beside him, she could see the physical influences of his profession—the golden tan of his skin where the sun had caressed him, the lines at the corners of his eyes where he’d gazed across the horizon.
“It must be this year,” he said.
Interesting. Why was he so insistent? She’d been pushed to do her duty too many times to force it on another, particularly a girl fresh from the schoolroom. “Nonsense, sir. I assure you a maiden needs a certain level of maturity to do well in London. Would you pluck a peach before it had ripened?”
“Lady Everard is hardly a fruit.”
Claire sat taller. “Lady Everard? Then she has the title. Oh, your brother must be beside himself.”
Even with his close beard, she could see the tension in that square jaw. “My brother Jerome is delighted with the turn of events. He was married four days ago and is busy setting up his household.”
“Indeed. I must send him a note in congratulations. Who is the lucky bride?”
