Leslie LaFoy (34 page)

“Listen to me carefully,” Hannah began, her tone stern, her words obviously well considered. “It was a long,
long
winter. And Mr. Devon is a man, not a saint. And, being a man, he doesn't always think things through with his brain. And mind you that he's not the only man in this part of Virginia to have accepted that woman's invitation.

“But he swears to me that he's done with her and has been for some time. I believe him. And you should know right here and now, Lady Claire, that even when his thinking was impaired, it never once crossed his mind to marry that woman. Not once. If she's telling you that Mr. Devon's set to walk her up the aisle of the Bruton Parish Church, she's lying to you through her teeth.”

She so desperately wanted to believe Hannah. Claire swallowed the lump of bread and said, “She's an absolutely hideous person.”

“Yes, she is,” the cook agreed. “And God will judge her harshly for her many, many sins.”

“But gettin' to God takes too long,” Meg complained, bringing the teapot from the hearth. “An' then we don't get the satisfaction of bein' there to watch an' cheer.”

“How true,” Claire agreed, putting the biscuit down
on the table. Moving to the shelves for cups and saucers, she added, “And it just galls me to know that Darice Lytton even thinks that she's… she's won.”

Hannah waited until she'd returned to the table with the china before asking, “Won what, Lady Claire?”

“Devon,” she replied while none too gently pairing the cups with their saucers. “She thinks she's beaten me in a contest for Devon.”

As Meg poured, Hannah tilted her head to the side and considered Claire with slightly narrowed eyes. “Let me ask you a question,” she said slowly. “And you think hard before you answer. Do you want Mr. Devon because that Darice Lytton woman wants him? Or do you want Mr. Devon because
you
want him?”

The anger and indignation that had consumed her was instantly gone, leaving her weak in the knees. Clutching the edge of the table to steady herself, Claire suddenly understood why Darice Lytton had been able to rile her so easily. The woman's manner was only a very small part of it. The more fundamental truth was that Darice posed a threat to a deeply buried hope, a fragile, impossible hope that Claire hadn't known she was harboring. Fear crept in to fill the void left by her outrage. “Because I want him,” she whispered.

“Ye love him, don't ye?”

Her heart swelled and twisted. “God help me, I think I do.”

Hannah passed her a cup of tea, saying crisply, “The good Lord helps those who help themselves.”

“So I should help myself to Devon?” she asked, feeling shaky and acutely desperate. “Do I use a spoon or a fork?”

“A knife, I'm thinkin',” Meg briskly answered, taking up her own cup. “Ye hold it to his throat till he sees the wisdom of lettin' ye have yer way with him.”

Claire didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. “This is impossible.”

“Nah, ye just hold yer ground an' he'll surrender. Shouldn't take more than a second. Two at the most. Smitten to the core with ye already, he is.”

Smitten? Claire shook her head.

Hannah took a sip of her tea and then gently pressed, “What's impossible, Lady Claire?”

“Everything,” she answered, suddenly so frustrated that she wanted to scream. “Devon desperately needs money and I don't have any. If we annul the marriage as we've planned, he'd be free to find a woman who could save Rosewind for him.”

“Money isn't—never has been and never will be— the salvation of anyone or anything.” Hannah countered. “Mr. Devon needs much more than what can be bought or sold for shillings and pounds. And there's nothing at Rosewind that can't be mended with care and time.”

“He's willing to go to war for colonial rights,” Claire went on, her pulse racing wildly. “He could be killed or hanged as a traitor.”

“ 'Tis true enough,” Meg granted, nodding. “But trip o'er his own feet this afternoon, he could. An' fall down the stairs an' be dead of a broken neck 'fore he hits the foyer floor. Life is full o' risks, Lady Claire. Ye can't throw away the good to avoid the bad an' have a life that's worth livin'.”

“We have significant philosophical differences. On slavery. On the rights of women. On the necessity of armed rebellion.”

“Oh dear,” Meg said softly, casting a glance at Hannah.

The older woman met Claire's gaze. After a long silence, she said with granite resolution, “For men and women of good character and kind hearts, there is no difference that can't be bridged by honesty and a genuine willingness to hear. Life is about compromise, Lady Claire. It's about knowing what's important and what
isn't. If you and Mr. Devon haven't set yourselves down and had a good talk about what you both, in your heart of hearts, want from your lives, then it's high time that you did.”

Meg nodded enthusiastically and Hannah went on, adding, “I'd suggest you start that conversation by asking Mr. Devon about a law he tried to get passed two years ago.”

“What law?”

“Ask Mr. Devon. And listen to his answer with both your heart and your mind.”

“He's a good man,” Meg offered. “Kind an' fair. An' if'n ye were to reach out, sure I am that he'd be willin' to do the same.”

Meg was right; Devon had not only been willing to hear her opinions, but had encouraged her to express them. As for Hannah's belief that their differences could be bridged… only time and effort would tell. But assuming that they could find a common ground…

“That issue aside,” Claire said, gathering her courage, “as much as I am absolutely loathe to admit it, Darice Lytton is right. I'm an innocent. I know how to fend men off. I've had vast experience doing that. But I don't have the foggiest notion how to go about seducing a man. Much less how to actually please him.”

With a snort, Meg assured her, “Men don't have to be seduced. They're perfectly willin' to do it fer ye. All ye have to do is step up an' say yer wonderin' what bed-din' 'em would be like. Once ye've done that, all that's left to do is hang on an' enjoy the ride.”

“And men,” Claire asked skeptically, “derive pleasure out of simply providing… the ride?”

Meg nodded emphatically. Hannah took a sip of her tea.

“Darice led me to believe that it required a female
with considerable artistic talent. Let's not forget experience, either.”

“For that Widow Lytton woman, it most likely does,” Hannah said quietly, settling her cup gently back in the saucer. “She doesn't have a heart to put into the loving. Giving your body doesn't mean anything if you hold back your heart and soul, Lady Claire. That's the difference between lovers and whores. Lovers give everything they have. Freely and without thought. That's where the pleasure comes from. For the both of you.”

Giving voice to her greatest fears, Claire wondered aloud, “What if Devon can't bring himself to love me heart and soul? What if we can't find a common philosophical ground?”

“Then ye give him up an' count yerself blessed to be rid of a man too stupid to be worth havin'.”

“Meg's right,” Hannah said. “If he can't love you or bend for you, then you let that Lytton woman have him. And gladly. They'd deserve each other.”

But did she deserve Devon more? Was she what he needed? Did she have the strength to weather the rebuilding of Rosewind and then to gracefully endure the loss of both the estate and Devon if rebellion came? Was she willing to give up the chance of ever returning to England, to Crossbridge and a life of her own making? Was she willing to give up being an Englishwoman? There were no answers lurking in the wake of the hard questions, only an overwhelming sense of being adrift in a vast ocean of uncertainty.

“I have a great deal to think about and to decide, don't I?” she ventured, suddenly wanting only to be alone. “Perhaps I can start while I pick some tulips for the library. Thank you both for listening to my ranting and for sharing your wisdom with me. I appreciate it more than I can ever express.”

“Just don't be wastin' it, Lady Claire. Good advice does ye no good if'n ye don't use it.”

“I'll remember that,” she promised, already moving toward the kitchen door and the solitary haven of the gardens beyond. She stopped outside and allowed her shoulders to sag. Yes, she and Devon should probably have a serious conversation regarding their dreams and life goals. And before she could ask him to do that, she needed to decide just what hers were.

If anyone had asked her to define them a month ago, she would have had a ready and certain answer: She wanted the quiet, familiar simplicity of life at Crossbridge. But today… so much had happened. And all of it seemed to have melded her into someone she didn't know, someone with entirely new hopes and dreams. The change had been wholly unexpected and she couldn't help but wonder if life might bring yet another completely different set of them. Would the mere sight of Devon always make her heart race? Would his rakish smile always make her blood warm and excite her carnal imagination?

Claire smiled. God, she hoped so.

D
EVON EASED HIS
mount into a trot as he eyed from a distance the black carriage sitting in the drive at the front of the house. More damn guests, he silently groused. Guests who would expect—in the grandest of Virginia traditions—to eat, drink, and be entertained until merry. Claire had undoubtedly welcomed them graciously and invited them to consider Rosewind their home. She was a far better hostess than he was host. Truth be told, she was a far better person in general than he was. Claire didn't have a selfish bone in her body. No one would ever say the same about him.

Wondering who had invaded his home this time, he considered the carriage again. There was a coat of arms on the door, and he narrowed his eyes to bring it into sharper focus. And his heart rolled over in his chest.

F THERE WAS A
G
OD
, Devon feverishly thought as he tied off his horse, Ephram and the Lee brothers had returned before Darice's arrival and were keeping her occupied. And if that God was feeling just the tiniest bit kind, he hadn't allowed Darice a chance to corner Claire alone. A truly benevolent God would have seen that the two women hadn't even had a chance to meet.

Wracking his brain to recall anything he'd recently done that might be considered of sufficient merit to be worth divine intervention, Devon bounded up the front steps and flung open the door. The foyer was empty and he listened hard, praying that he'd catch the low rumble of male voices. He didn't, and with dread filling his bones, he made his way down the hall toward the parlor.

Halfway there, the soft sounds of feminine chatter came to his ears, and he slowed, straining to identify the occupants of the room. He heard his aunt Elsbeth clearly; the woman never paused to so much as take a breath. But where Elsbeth went, so did his mother. It
was a given she was in there as well. And Darice had to be, too. Good manners required that she be entertained by the ladies of Rosewind. Which would include Claire. Unless—
please dear God
—she'd managed to find an excuse and beg out of it.