Sharon Sobel
Authors: The Eyes of Lady Claire (v5.0) (epub)
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THE EYES OF LADY CLAIRE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / March 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Sharon Sobel.
Excerpt from
Lady Larkspur Declines
copyright © 2001 by Sharon Sobel.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-59541-1
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For
Allison Sobel and Ron Valenzuela,
Bride and Groom,
Whose Next Chapter Begins
Where Most Romance Novels End
Chapter 1
“You really are quite good at it,” Marissa said to Claire. The two friends sat close to each other in Lady Armadale’s crowded ballroom, punctuating their conversation with brief nods to passing acquaintances.
“Yes, I believe I can register dismissal with nothing more than a vacuous smile and lowering my eyelids,” Claire said.
“But, by all reports, you are quite enthusiastic, and they simply adore you.”
Claire turned her head to study her friend. Marissa was one of the most beautiful ladies of the
ton
, a legend in her long-ago season when she turned down a least ten proposals of marriage. That she at last accepted Lord Fayreweather, a quiet gentleman who often disappeared whilst standing against the wallpaper, was one of the more intriguing things about her reputation. Even now, Lord Fayreweather remained in Spain, and Marissa plucked idly at a necklace of pearls Claire had never seen before.
“About whom are you speaking, my dear?” Claire asked.
“Why, your little girls at the orphanage, of course. Mrs. Maybelle tells me they talk of little else but you, and spend the week between your visits imitating your speech, your manners, and your way of walking. Several of them have affected that little habit you have of nodding your head before speaking, as if you consider your words before coming out with them.”
“I certainly do no such thing,” Claire protested, realizing she nodded as she did so. “That is, there is nothing unusual about any of my mannerisms.”
Marissa grinned, revealing luminescent teeth that rivaled her pearls. “They are certainly unusual if you have known nothing but indifferent treatment and slovenly habits, as was the case for many of these children before Mrs. Maybelle picked them off the street. You are not only edifying the girls with the words you read, but with the very manner in which you read them. It is quite admirable.”
Claire blushed. “I am sure that any other lady here could do the same.”
“But that is just the point. I believe very few have your talent. Mrs. Maybelle tells me that the characters come alive through your reading and that you are really quite an actress.” Marissa paused to nod at Lord Compton, a gentleman who clearly did not hold a grudge for her onetime rejection of him. “She did not mean that as an insult, of course. But she thinks you would rival Mrs. Siddons on the stage.”
“Oh, good heavens. If I had any talent at acting, I might have done a better job of keeping my husband interested in me.”
“Not even Mrs. Siddons could have acted her way through that role, my dear. Glastonbury liked his hunting dogs and his wine from Portugal and those strange little pieces of rocks with shells in them.”
“Fossils,” said Claire. “It is why he always wished to travel to Brighton, so he might hammer away at the rock cliff.”
“Well, I did not imagine it was to visit the prince in that dreadful palace. But I suppose rocks are not much better.”
“Really, Marissa, they are rather interesting. One finds endearing little sea creatures and plants unlike anything we see along the shore today.”
“Please, Claire,” Marissa said, shaking her head. “Do tell me again why you married him?”
Claire often wondered the same thing herself. Her parents encouraged the match, to be sure, but did not absolutely insist on it. Leland Marchant was many years older than she, quite wealthy, and was married briefly to a lady who had the misfortune to die after having delivered a son. The earl’s interest in a nineteen-year-old daughter of a baronet was generally understood, for he surely wished for the chance to have more sons, should something happen to the only direct heir to his title and estates. Claire once thought she might have a very pleasant life with him, for she also liked hunting dogs and
vinho verde
, and found his fossils rather intriguing. She had thought she might even come to love the earl, in time.
But he did not love her. He did not even like her. He raged at her questions, ignored her company, and visited her bed once before complaining that any physical relationship between them was out of the question. She learned, however, that he meant physical relations of a certain sort, for he hit her when words failed him, and twice blackened her eyes.
Thus she came to understand how the perception of a marriage could be drastically different from the truth of it. Most of their acquaintances assumed that she and Glastonbury were happy with each other and in the years since he died, spoke to her of her tragic loss in hushed tones of sympathy. Marissa was among the very few who guessed Claire’s true feelings about the matter, and how solitary a lady she remained. Balls and dinners were excellent diversions, and friendship accounted for a good deal, but Claire’s social life scarcely compensated for the idle restlessness of her days.
“I married him because I thought I might love him and that he might love me,” Claire said, not wishing to dwell on her enduring sadness on a grand night such as this. “That is the only truth of it.”
“You do not mourn him.” It was statement, not a question.
“I only mourn what might have been. On the day his horse returned riderless to Glaston House, I felt only relief. And, as it appears he drank two full bottles of wine before he went out, he might have sought some relief from me, as well.” Claire sighed. “But that is all in the past, and I have come to accept that my chance for marital happiness was an ill-placed gamble. It was no one’s fault but my own, and now I know that what might have been will never be.”
“You are twenty-eight years old,” Marissa pointed out. “There is still time to forget about mourning the loss of your girlish hopes, and instead anticipate a future with someone else. There are many eligible gentlemen here tonight.”
“Not you, too, Marissa,” Claire sighed. “My mother never fails to remind me of that fact on the rare occasions when we see each other, and my brother fears I will someday turn to him in need. But I really am quite comfortable, in all ways.”
“Would you be comfortable dancing with Lord Cheviot? He is coming this way.”
“Oh, horrors. He always wants to talk about fishing in Scotland,” said Claire, though she was of a mind to take some exercise this night, and she would have none by sitting by the window with her friend.
“Then you should have much to talk about. Just steer the conversation around to
Rob Roy
and he will never realize you prefer your fish filleted and served with orange sauce, rather than on the end of a hook.” Marissa tucked one of Claire’s curls behind her ear. “There now, Lady Glastonbury. Do give us an excellent performance.”
“I shall do my best,” Claire said softly. “Lord Cheviot! Are you back so soon from Inverness?”
And she accepted his proffered hand.
***
A tall gentleman stood in the shadow of a Corinthian column, one of eight lining the Armadale ballroom. Though the classical architecture was generally most appreciated by couples seeking a stolen moment of privacy, this man stood quite alone as he watched the dancers waltz past. He seemed an excellent classical specimen himself, for his features were finely wrought and his face the color of ivory. He did not acknowledge anyone in the crowd, neither blinking nor smiling to the dancers, and if anyone recognized him, they gave no indication of it.
“I spent some time at Urquhart Castle whilst I was there,” Lord Cheviot said, a bit too loudly. “On Loch Ness, you know.”
Claire did not know, but it would be most ungracious of her to admit it. “Ah yes, I understand it is a lovely place. And right on the Loch? How splendid. I am unfamiliar with the family, however.”
“That does not surprise me, my lady, as they are long dead. Urquhart is a splendid ruin, not one of those trumped-up follies so popular these days. It is the genuine thing.” Cheviot paused as he nodded his head to a passing lady. “I mention it only because your late husband once explored the ruins, looking for some evidence of the strange sea monster. But his quest was unsuccessful.”
“I would image he might have bettered his chances if he searched the water, rather than the soil,” said Claire. The gentleman at the column stepped away as a lady came up to him, and he bowed very low so he could hear what she was saying.
“How clever you are, Lady Claire,” Lord Cheviot said. “And of course it is a bit of a joke that you say you do not know the Urquharts, because it is generally acknowledged that you know everyone.”
“Truly?” Claire asked, thinking it somewhat ironic that even with such a reputation she so often felt achingly lonely. The woman at the column walked away before Claire could see her face, and the man continued his perusal of the dance floor. “And yet I do not even know everyone who is here amongst us tonight.”
“I do not mean the servants, my lady.”
“No, I did not think you did. But, for example, there is a very serious gentleman just over there, by the third column, whom I have never seen before.”
Cheviot turned them around gracefully, without missing a step. “Mr. Gannon, of the surprising red buttons?”
“Of course I know Mr. Gannon, even without his charming accessories. I am speaking of that tall man, with the very dark hair. Just now he is removing his gloves.”
They turned again.
“That is Maxwell Brooks, the Marquis Wentworth. I wonder at his presence here, but I understand he is distantly related to Lord Armadale. It is ironic that such a noble war hero as our host should number a murderer among his relations, but even more extraordinary that Wentworth would show his face.”
“A murderer, truly?” Claire was mystified. How could such a tidbit of gossip have escaped her attention? “He does not look like one.”
“My dear lady, murderers hardly wear a badge on their sleeves. But in the case of Wentworth, I understand he bears the scars of the fatal episode. He has dreadful burns from the fire he caused, and is quite disfigured.”
The marquis hid his scars well, for there was no evidence of injury. And if Claire could see nothing, how would Lord Cheviot know about it? Increasingly intrigued, she continued to study the stranger until his eyes met hers and, embarrassed, she looked away.
“But I was interested in the fishing, of course,” Lord Cheviot rambled on, more concerned with sport than the fear that a fire starter was present in a very crowded ballroom populated by women in flowing silks.
“Of course, my lord. And did you manage to catch the monster?” Claire murmured. With lowered lids, she casually looked to the column, but the murderous marquis was gone.
“The monster? I doubt I would be here to tell the story if I came even close to such a feat. It is as large as a hundred elephants, they say. Do you know what an elephant looks like, my lady?”
Claire smiled, happy to return to the nonsense of social niceties. “Oh, indeed I do. I sketched one after a recent visit to the Menagerie.”
“And, like everything else you do, the sketch must have been most excellent.”
Mercifully, the dance was coming to an end. “Please continue to believe that, my lord, and I will tell you no different,” Claire said, and allowed him to lead her off the floor. Wentworth was nowhere in sight, but Marissa waited for her, making some absurd gesture that seemed to suggest she was fishing.
***
Maxwell Brooks was an English marquis with an excellent lineage, but he was a foreigner in London society, and had been nearly all his life. If not for the matters of business imposed upon him by his famous cousin, he would happily be in his library at Brookside Cottage, enjoying the society of his sister, and reading to her from the works of the Roman philosophers. It is what he loved best, and he supposed she loved it as well. He never actually asked her, but she seemed pleased enough to spend the evening in his company and listen to his words. Every so often, she would interrupt, asking for clarification on one term or place or character, and Maxwell was happy for the diversion. He was working on a book himself, and sometimes thought through scenes and events as he described them to Camille.
***
Camille could not read, a fact that would burden Maxwell through the end of his days, for he was the cause of the accident that blinded her when she was a child. And when the end of his days came, he was sufficiently prepared for damnation in hell, for he had already been there, surrounded by flames and the screams of the tormented.
Camille could not read, and she could not be trusted with a bow and arrow, but she was, in all other ways, surprisingly competent. She played the pianoforte and sang movingly of love and longing, and managed to walk through the woods without falling into the brook from which their home derived its name. While he was in town, and now likely to be away from her for some time, she dictated letters to him and had others read his to her. If the letters were sometimes written with a masculine hand, it did not signify, for Camille’s distinctive voice always came through. And Maxwell did not bother to think about the man behind that masculine hand, for he doubted his sister would ever find a gentleman who would marry her.
Maxwell was her protector, and thus it was all the more frustrating that Armadale desired his assistance on a particularly irksome mission to Portugal, which required some time away from their home in Yorkshire. Camille was surrounded by people who loved her and would see to her every need, but she did confide to him that she would desperately miss their reading time together, and she was not sure who else would give such life to the ancient Romans. An ordinary man might feel extraordinary guilt at such sentiments, but Maxwell long knew his cup of guilt had runneth over.
And so, he was determined not to enjoy himself while away from her, though his cousin tried to engage him in London’s glittering social life, and introduced him to every single lady who lived in the vast city. But, as lovely as they were, none interested him—until he glimpsed an angel poised in another man’s arms this night.
He, so ready for hell, suddenly wondered at the promises of heaven. And yet, she surely was not the ethereal and pale creature of popular imagination, but a very real beauty of great contrasts. Her hair was as black as that of the ladies of Spain, but her skin was so pale he wondered if she ever went outdoors. Her eyes, which twice found his, were of the brightest blue and tilted upwards at the corners, making her look very wise.