Fated Folly (16 page)

‘
It was mutual,' Mrs Dearham said in gentle remonstrance.

At that Rupert turned. ‘Was it?'

Blanche's dark eyes showed sudden distress, and she rose from her seat on the sofa near the fireplace. ‘She hurt you. I never realised it.'

‘
It was mutual,' Rupert said, unable to help the sarcastic inflexion. He saw the effect of his words and put out a hand in a conciliatory gesture. ‘That was uncalled for. Forgive me, Blanche.'

She reseated herself, but her eyes were still shadowed as she searched his face. Rupert watched her fidget with the soft muslin petticoats of the plain chemise gown, worn with a half-robe over it of apple green. He wondered at her thoughts.

He had not meant to show his hurt at Meriel's defection. Her passion had burnt out before his, that was all. He had schooled himself to damp his own ardour—which, God help him, he was doing all over again with Clare! But what he remembered most from his early marriage was the violent quarrels and the incessant bickering through those last unenviable months before Meriel died.

‘
I don't mean to press you, Rupert,' Blanche said quietly, ‘but we are such old friends. Would it not help to share it a little? A problem halved, after all. And you trust me.'

‘
Of course I trust you,' he said, coming back into the room. ‘Even so, I—it feels like a—'

‘
A betrayal? You will be talking of her behind her back.'

‘
That, yes,' he agreed.

Already his conscience was troubling him, for he had come to see Blanche only to get away from Clare. If the child only knew how harrowingly difficult she was making his life. Lately she had been so innocently persistent in seeking his company. And he would not, could not, repulse her.

‘
But more than that,' he said, ‘I should be compounding what I have already done.'

Blanche smiled. ‘Dear Rupert, I cannot believe there is need for quite such high-flown drama.'

Rupert winced. ‘Do I seem to be investing it with drama?' Sighing, he came to sit beside her. ‘That seems foolish indeed when I think of her. She is very different from Meriel.'

‘
I am glad you realise it,' Blanche returned.

Why she was so tart he could not tell, but his thoughts were on Clare. ‘She is possibly the most undramatic young lady I know. Histrionics are not in her style.'

‘
What, no scenes? No tantrums?'

Rupert laughed. ‘Oh, she has a temper. And she does not much mind what she says.' A reminiscent smile curved his lips. ‘Respect for her elders, for instance, is something with which she has no patience at all.'

‘
Excellent. That must be doing you all the good in the world.'

‘
My God, she is like a breath of fresh air,' Rupert exclaimed. ‘She seems to burst on me anew time and again. And yet—' He paused, and the puzzlement he'd felt several times came back.

‘
And yet?' prompted his friend.

Rupert looked at her, wondering how to express it. ‘At times, it is almost as if—there will be all of a sudden such familiarity about her, that I feel as if I have known her all my life.'

‘
Ah, that phenomenon.'

‘
She feels it, too. I can't understand it at all. I have never experienced such a thing before.'

‘
Then, gracious heaven, Rupert, what is the hitch? You do realise that the girl is head over heels for you?'

Rupert winced again, feeling warmth creep into his cheeks.

‘
She is disposed to be fond of me, yes.'

‘
Fond?'

He smiled at the disbelieving tone, and looked at Blanche. ‘Very well, since you will have it, she cherishes a
tendre
for me and has done so from the start.'

‘
And you, Rupert? What is your feeling for Clare?'

He crushed down the instant leap at his heart. The barrier rose up, almost choking him and he was hardly aware of his own harsh tone as he grated the words.

‘
She is so
young
. She's a child, an infant. It's obscene!'

Blanche's eyes were on his, and he read in them a pure understanding of his anguish. She leaned towards him and took his hands. The clasp was comforting.

‘
Oh, my dear.'

Just then the voice of Mrs Dearham's maid broke into the charged atmosphere.

‘
Lady Wolverley, ma'am.'

As Blanche snatched her hands away, Rupert sprang up from the sofa. Too late. Framed in the doorway, Clare stood rooted to the spot, shock in her eyes.

There was a moment of frozen horror, as Rupert's mind blanked of everything but the seeming intimacy in which he'd been engaged, and how it must appear to his wife.

Then Clare let out a strangled sob, and turning, fled the room.

Rupert started forward. ‘Clare!'

‘
Oh, Lord,' said Blanche on a fretful note.

Halting after a couple of paces, Rupert felt all the hopelessness of explanations he might try to make.

‘
Rupert, go after her!'

‘
What is the use?' he asked despairingly.

‘
Oh, don't be such a ninny,' exclaimed Blanche with impatience. ‘I was afraid of this. I had an idea she thought we are something more than friends.'

Rupert turned to stare at her. ‘Why should she?'

‘
Why shouldn't she?' countered Blanche. ‘No wife likes to see her husband on quite such amicable terms with another woman. I should be suspicious myself.'

‘
But she has no reason in the world to imagine—'

‘
Has she not?' Blanche asked flatly.

The taunt got home. Rupert compressed his lips and looked away.

‘
I should not ask, of course,' she went on, ‘but if you are still...could she have got wind of it?'

Enlightenment flashed in Rupert's breast, along with instant fire.

‘
Ashendon! So that was it!'

Blanche clicked her tongue. ‘Plague take that boy! When will he have done?'

A harsh laugh escaped Rupert's throat. ‘When he has buried me!' Then the enormity of his predicament came home to him and he ran frantic hands through his hair. ‘Oh, my God, what the devil am I going to tell her?'

‘
Not the truth,' Blanche said quickly.

Rupert shook his head. ‘You don't know her, Blanche. Besides, there are other considerations where she is concerned.'

‘
Rupert, she may be an unusual girl but she cannot be as different as all that. Only a fool tells his wife about his mistress.'

‘
No, you don't see.' He sighed. ‘Can't you guess at the situation? Have you not heard the gossip?'

Blanche raised her brows. ‘I am not in the habit of paying attention to gossip. You should know that.'

‘
Very praiseworthy, Blanche, but in this case it happens to be true. I married Clare to save her from social ruin. It all came about as a result of Pippa's elopement. Clare tried to stop it and foolishly put her trust in Ashendon.'

‘
Lord!' But she smiled. ‘The gossip I heard, Rupert, was that it was a love match.'

Rupert sighed. ‘Yes, well, I have already mentioned Clare's infatuation with me. Others must have seen it too.'

‘
Infatuation? That is your name for it, is it?'

He eyed her, a faint rustle of hope sifting through him. ‘You are suggesting it is more than that? At her age?'

‘
What in the world has age to do with it?'

Rupert was tempted to pursue the question, but dared not. He could not endure to make Clare his wife in more than name, not when she looked such a child. Later he would, when she was older, when he no longer feared to sully that enchanting innocence. But time, that duplicitous villain, would not wait for him. When the moment came he was certain—almost certain—that, like Meriel, Clare would have turned her eyes elsewhere. He must not allow Blanche to offer a hope he dared not cling to.

To his combined relief and disappointment, she said nothing more.

‘
You had better go home, Rupert,' she advised instead. ‘At least absolve yourself from any involvement with me.'

There seemed no other option open to him.

‘
I'll do what I can.'

But by the time he got back to the Manor, going as he had come, on foot, quite some time had passed since the unfortunate encounter in Blanche Dearham's parlour, and Clare was wearing “Lady Wolverley” like an ill-fitting glove.

She was stiff, and proud, and defiant. So unlike herself that Rupert was daunted when he found her pacing the long gallery with her hands behind her back, for all the world like one of the formal Tudor portraits that hung there. But her eyes were puffy from crying, and his heart twisted.

Clare stood ramrod straight, staring before her, when he called her name and came towards her. But the pose gave a little when he said without preamble, ‘We need to talk.'

She looked at him, expressionless. ‘Yes.'

‘
Not here,' Rupert said.

‘
No.'

He gave an inward sigh. She was going to be difficult. Turning, he led the way down the gallery to a little antechamber at one end. It had been, originally, annexed to the bedchamber that he used. But one had no need now of so many added chambers. A dressing-room sufficed. The place was therefore little used, and had only a huge throne-like chair, which could not fit anywhere else in the house, and a footstool. There was, however, a recess at the window, and Clare chose to perch on the wooden slatting there, while Rupert closed the door.

He turned to confront her and found her waiting, all the usual animation gone from her face. He drew a steadying breath, surprised to find in himself an inward tremor.

‘
Appearances can be deceptive, Clare,' he began, ‘and in this case particularly so.'

She did not speak or move, but simply sat, maintaining her steady regard.

‘
Blanche and I are very good friends,' he continued. ‘Nothing more.'

No response.

Rupert began to feel irritated. ‘Well, don't just sit there. Weep or scream, if you wish, but say something!'

Clare swallowed, and the rigidity wavered. ‘It is none of my affair, Rupert.'

‘
Don't be ridiculous,' he snapped.

‘
I am trying,' she said, with a deliberation that cut him to the heart, ‘to keep to your terms.'

Rupert flung over to her and seized her hands. ‘Clare, forget my terms! I can't bear to see you like this.'

Her lip trembled and the rigidity melted altogether. ‘I'm s-sorry.'

‘
Don't cry,' he begged, dragging her up from the seat.

‘
I c-can't help it,' she uttered in accents so broken that his heart twisted.

Next instant she was sobbing into his chest, and he held her closely there. The sound racked him, but at least she was his own Clare again. He let her weep unrestrainedly for a few moments. But as her sobs began to subside, and she disengaged herself, groping in her sleeve for a pocket handkerchief, he drew her down to sit beside him on the window seat, and kept one arm about her.

‘
Clare, I swear to you there is nothing to which you could possibly take exception between myself and Blanche.'

She blew her nose and looked up at him. ‘But there is someone.'

He hesitated. ‘Why do you say that?'

Clare looked at him in silence for a moment. Then she jumped up. ‘Wait!'

Before he could respond, she had darted to the door and slipped out. Rupert rose from his seat and looked out into the gallery. She was disappearing into her own bedchamber. What the devil was the child up to? She came out in a moment, carrying a parchment. A sense of foreboding gripped him. God, how the devil had she come by that?

Clare followed him back into the little antechamber, closed the door, and held out the sketch. Rupert took it from her without looking at it and crossed to the window, gazing out unseeingly over the terraced lawns. Behind him, Clare spoke, a little faltering, but resolute.

‘
I know it is not my business. I know we do not yet have a—a real marriage. And even if—if we did, I know I should know nothing of this. Or at least, I should pretend.' There was a pause, before she went on in a stronger voice, ‘But I am no good at duplicity, Rupert. Oh, I play at it to get my own way, but—but not when it really matters. And having found out, I cannot pretend to know nothing. That is why I have given—that—to you.'

He still said nothing, and she moved to the door.

‘
Please let us leave it there. You don't—you don't owe me any kind of explanation.'

Clare's fingers were about the door handle when he spoke without looking round. ‘Wait, Clare!'