Leslie LaFoy (27 page)

“Last night.”

If she had, it had been in some corner of the house where she'd been working. “I meant in your bed, Claire. When was the last time you laid down on your bed and properly slept?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away. “I don't remember.”

“Why don't you lie down and nap until the Lees get here.”

“I'm too tired to sleep lightly,” she admitted, stepping around him and picking up her dress. “If I close my eyes, I'll be lost to the world for a week.”

If she didn't lie down for even a short while, she was going to fall asleep on her feet. He reached out and gently caught her wrist. She stilled and looked at his hand for a long moment before bringing her gaze slowly up to meet his.

Taking the dress from her, he dropped it back on the foot of the bed, saying, “I'm deeply appreciative of all that you've done to make Rosewind—and me—look our best. Thank you, Claire.”

She blinked and swayed slightly on her feet. “You're welcome,” she whispered, looking away and reaching for her dress again.

He stepped closer and, in one smooth, effortless motion, lifted her into the cradle of his arms. She was light and fit against him as though she'd been molded for that single purpose.

Her own arms slipped up to loosely encircle his neck as she weakly asked, “What are you doing, Devon?”

“I'm putting you to bed,” he declared, carrying her
around to the side and tenderly depositing her atop the down coverlet. “Close your eyes and rest. I won't let you sleep overlong. I promise.”

She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. “There's work—”

“There's always work, sweetheart. But what remains to be done can wait for another day.” He pulled the far side of the cover over and carefully tucked her under it, loosening her stays as he did so. “Close your eyes.”

Her eyelids drifted downward even as she murmured, “I have to do my hair yet.”

“Your hair is perfect just the way it is,” he assured her, smoothing an errant curl off her cheek. “I'd be pleased if you'd leave it to fall free.”

“Unseemly.”

“Perhaps. But I like it. The world will just have to adapt for us.”

A tiny smile touched the corners of her mouth as she drifted off into the realm of sleep. He stood there, watching her, unable to make his feet carry him away. She was beautiful, both innocence and temptation incarnate. There wasn't a man on earth who wouldn't be drawn to her. But how many of them would see beyond her fair skin and luscious curves, beyond the full lips the color of dark, sweet cherries? How many would see the woman she really was?

His throat tightened as, deep inside, the well of his emotions rose, as a need deeper than he'd ever known took quiet, certain possession of his heart and soul. He wanted to lie with her, to take her in his arms and hold her while she slept. He wanted to cradle her head against his shoulder and burrow his cheek into the silken strands of her golden hair. Yes, hold her and pour his strength into her and make her whole, make her happy.

And God help him, he wanted her to stir in his arms, to smile up at him dreamily and draw him closer, to invite him to love her. Not just her body, but all of her.

Devon closed his eyes, swaying on his feet, his breathing ragged and his heart racing with sudden, unrelenting fear. He was on the edge of an abyss. He could feel it, a beckoning darkness from which he knew he could never return. If he stepped toward Claire, if he took her in his arms, the strangling swell of his feelings would be with him forever. He'd be a prisoner to them, his mind and his reason always subject to the tides of emotion.

No, he couldn't do it. He couldn't face the world as less than a whole man. He'd rather die. There had to be a way back from the precipice, he told himself. There had to be a way to escape, to make the fullness threatening to drown him go away; a way to make him forget that it had ever threatened him.

Darice. He'd pour his attention onto Darice. Yes, that's what he'd do. He'd forgotten all about her in recent days. There had been so much to do. But, yes, Darice was his salvation. To hell with all of his suspicions. He'd immerse himself in the safe realm of mindless, unfeeling lust, and it would sate him. It would crush the weakness that Claire stirred in him. Then she'd go away—back to England—and he'd never have to stand at the edge again. He'd be safe and whole. And the only fears he'd have to face would be those of poverty and social ruin. They had always been with him; he knew them like old friends. They were survivable, endurable. Loving Claire wasn't. It went too deep.

Devon turned and walked away. Yes, Darice. He'd let her ride him until he forgot that he'd ever known a woman named Claire Curran.

M
EG SLIPPED QUIETLY
out the door, leaving Claire standing alone before the cheval mirror, studying her
reflection and frowning. Meg's assurances aside, the bodice of the dark periwinkle damask gown was so dangerously scant and tight that the requirements of modesty precluded bending over, reaching up, or taking a deep breath. And her hips… Claire closed her eyes for a few seconds and then opened them again, hoping to see a miraculous change. She didn't; the drastically altered hoops strapped around her waist were still too full to be stylish, and the fact that the skirt fabrics had been drawn up on the sides and fixed with bows would be seen for what it was—an obvious attempt to quickly shorten the length.

She knew that she might reasonably expect the Lee brothers to pretend they didn't notice her decidedly unfashionable appearance. But they would notice; they'd have to be blind not to. Henrietta and Elsbeth would also notice. Their gracious lack of comment couldn't be counted on as surely as that of the Lees, however. Henrietta was likely to innocently blunder into an embarrassing remark. Elsbeth, on the other hand, would probably offer an observation out of pure malice. Which would bring Devon swinging into the fray.

If only there was some way to avoid going downstairs. But there wasn't and she knew it. Wyndom and the Lees would be here any minute, and the master's wife refusing to greet guests would be a social sin far more grievous than that of wearing a peculiar dress. Claire sighed and, resolving to endure the ordeal with all the dignity she could muster, turned and left the safe haven of her room.

She'd barely started down the main stairs when Mother Rivard—dressed for a ball at Buckingham Palace—sailed into the foyer, exclaiming, “They're here! They're here!” Elsbeth scurried in her wake, one hand holding her voluminous skirts high above her ankles, the other holding her towering wig in place.

Claire slowly continued down, her stomach heavy
and tight. She reached the foyer itself just as the two other women came to a skittering, skirt-swaying stop at the front door and deliberately slipped into a masquerade of unruffled, genteel calm. Then they stood there, still as statues, while Ephram came smoothly and sedately from the direction of the study, shooting his cuffs and brushing his coat sleeves with white-gloved hands. Devon followed in his wake, looking dashingly handsome and as though he were being led to his own execution.

With as deep a breath as her stays and bodice allowed, Claire moved forward to join the procession making its way to the door. Devon's attention instantly snapped to her, and his step faltered. She stopped, watching his dismal demeanor slip away as his gaze glided up and down the length of her, caressed the swells of her breasts, and then slowly lifted to meet her own. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he crossed the foyer to her.

“You look lovely, Claire,” he said quietly as he offered her his arm. “There is no fairer flower in all of Virginia.”

A blush spreading over her cheeks, she looked down at the floor and fumbled for words.

“Wyndom! What's happened to you?”

Henrietta's concern instantly called Claire's attention toward the door. Ephram stood to the side, the shiny brass handle in hand, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the opposite wall. Wyndom stood in the doorway, his left arm in a huge sling and his weight largely borne by a cane held in his right hand. His face, swollen and misshapen, was an alarming swirl of purplish red and greenish yellow.

“He's been beaten to a bloody pulp, madam,” said a tall, spare man who stepped from behind Wyndom to lay a hand on his shoulder.

Another man, slightly taller than the other and with
more flesh on his bones, stepped to Wyndom's other side to add, “We found him lying in a James City street and felt compelled to patch up the poor blighter as best we could. He was kind enough to invite us to visit in recompense for our being such good and noble Samaritans.”

Wyndom tried to smile, but the effort seemed to upset his precarious balance and he began to sway on his feet.

“You poor dear,” Henrietta crooned, quickly stepping forward to wrap her arm around her youngest son's waist. Drawing him gingerly across the threshold, she added, “You must retire to your room and do nothing but allow yourself to heal. I'll have Meg bring you something to eat and drink. You must regain your strength.”

Claire, remembering that the last time she'd seen Wyndom had been the night Devon had forcibly ejected him from the kitchen, looked up at the man standing at her side.

“I hit him twice and that was all,” Devon said quietly, seeming to read her mind without so much as glancing at her. “He didn't look like that when he left here. You can stop glaring at me like I'm a heartless felon. Someone other than me lost their patience with him this time.”

“If you will please excuse me, gentlemen,” Henrietta offered, glancing back over her shoulder at the two men left standing on the other side of the threshold. “I need to look after my son. I will be forever in your debt for having brought him back into the bosom of his family for care.”

Both men bowed and Henrietta eased Wyndom across the foyer toward the stairs, saying, “Elsbeth, please come along and assist me.”

Elsbeth clearly didn't want to leave the company of the newly arrived guests, but she managed to curtsy and turn her back to them before her smile turned into an
angry pout. Yanking her skirts up, she marched to Wyndom's left side. He winced and gasped as she roughly took his injured arm in hand. Claire cringed in empathy and then looked up at Devon, thinking to suggest that he offer to carry his brother up the stairs and spare the poor wounded man the pain of Elsbeth's resentment and his mother's kindness.

“He'll manage,” he said softly, drawing her forward. “It's not the first time he's come home battered and bruised.”

And then he lifted his chin a bit and raised his voice to a public volume to say, “Richard Henry, it's been ages. Welcome to Rosewind.” He stopped, shook the first man's hand, then turned to the other as he added, “Francis Lightfoot, it's good to see you, too. Welcome and thank you for escorting the prodigal son.”

He stepped back, turned slightly, and extended his hand to Claire, saying, “Gentlemen, may I present my wife, Lady Claire Curran Rivard.” As he genteelly gestured to the shorter and leaner of the two men, he said, “Claire, Mr. Richard Henry Lee.”

She extended her hand in feminine fashion and he took it, bowing crisply and saying, “I am charmed, madam.”

“As am I, Mr. Lee.”

“Please,” he countered, releasing her and straightening to smile. “I would be honored if you would call me Richard Henry.”

She nodded and Devon drew her slightly to her left, positioning her for an introduction to the other man

“And his brother, Mr. Francis Lightfoot Lee.”

“I'm called Francis,” he said, bending over her extended hand. He straightened, but maintained his courtly clasp as he smiled and added, “I'm delighted to make the acquaintance of such a beautiful creature. I shall always consider it my greatest misfortune that Devon met you before I did.”

She chuckled softly. “You are a shameless flatterer, sir.”

He grinned, winked, released her hand, and gave her an abbreviated bow. “So my wife frequently tells me, madam.”

She laughed outright and the dread in her melted away. “Please come in and take your ease, gentlemen,” she offered, stepping from Devon's grasp to stand on her own. “There are refreshments set out in the library. I'll leave Devon to entertain you, if you don't mind. I need to speak with Meg about seeing to Wyndom's immediate needs.”

“Of course, Lady Claire,” Francis replied, deliberately putting a doleful expression on his face. “But please don't deprive us of your lovely company for overly long. We shall pine every second you are away. Our hearts will be empty and—”

“It's his brain that's empty,” his brother interjected, rolling his eyes.

Devon laughed. “Shall we fill it with brandy and hope for an improvement?”

“Capital idea!” Francis declared, instantly brightening. “I'm utterly parched.”

“I'll bid you a good afternoon, gentlemen,” Claire said with a polite curtsy. “If you have need of anything before dinner, please have Ephram relay your request.” All three men bowed as convention demanded, and she turned away, moving across the foyer toward the rear of the house and feeling their eyes following her every step.

“They've said she's pretty, Devon,” she heard Richard Henry say quietly. “They've clearly done her an injustice. She's as beautiful and elegant as you are fortunate and wise to have made her your wife.”

She paused just inside the dining room, out of sight and shamelessly straining to hear Devon's response. It came as a low rumble, the words indistinguishable amidst the thundering rush of her heartbeat. Claire
sagged, fighting back a wave of surprisingly deep disappointment.

It was exhaustion, she assured herself as she absently resumed her course. She'd simply worked her brain into such a state of numbness that it couldn't efficiently control her strangely careening emotions. It didn't matter what Devon said to strangers about her, about their relationship. Whatever he said to others would be something polite and well within the bounds of social expectations. It was absolutely foolish to think that he might confess how the combination of physical attraction and a well-functioning household was changing his mind about his wife, that he was considering the merits of making their marriage a very real and permanent one.